THE BLAZING GLEN
BY
MARINA OLIVER
Janet Mackay dislikes all Englishmen, especially the Marquess of Sutherland who intends to evict them from their croft to make way for sheep. So when handsome Alastair Fenton arrives, she is far from friendly.
Then, after they are made to leave their croft, her grandmother Mary dies. Janet is free to go to Canada to join her brother, who fled after the Forty-five.
On the journey to Glasgow, however, disaster strikes. Janet has to accept Alastair's help, unwilling to turn to her old friend Murdo who wants to marry her.
The Blazing Glen
By Marina Oliver
Copyright © 2011 Marina Oliver
Smashwords Edition
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover Design by Debbie Oliver
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
First published by My Weekly Story Collection and Linford large print.
See details of other books by Marina Oliver at http://www.marina-oliver.net
Author note.
I wrote two much longer novels set in Scotland (now also ebooks), and became engrossed in the tragedy of the Highland Clearances. This short novella of lives disrupted by the greed of landlords was the result.
THE BLAZING GLEN
BY MARINA OLIVER
Chapter 1
She saw him coming from a great distance, for the air was clear. A gentle breeze blew in from the sea some miles away, bringing with it a faint tang of salt and fish. The path from the south was in full view as it descended the gentle slope. The turf, with morning dew long dried, shone with new growth, a pale bright green in the sunlight, then black as the slope rose into the rocky shadows of Ben Kilbreck, silhouetted against a pale blue sky. Automatically Janet assessed the few fluffy clouds, and decided there would be no storms today. Since living here she'd become aware of the weather as never before.
He was riding a good horse, a bright chestnut which stood out against the grass, far superior to the few rough-coated ponies the local people had for their needs. That she could tell from the size of it, the way it pranced, the nervous sidling as a sheep, disturbed, bounded out of its way. He would no doubt be visiting a Minister, or a tacksman further along the Strathnaver. No one else of wealth or importance lived in this part of Sutherland.
She turned away, losing interest in someone who could have no business with her, or any of the crofters in the small township down by the loch. Slowly she moved further up the hillside searching for the herbs and plants she needed, ingredients to ease the aches in her grandmother's crippled joints and wasted, twisted body.
'Your pardon, Mistress.' A soft, southern voice made her start in alarm and almost drop the basket into which she was placing the herbs. She'd heard no sound of his approach.
'What do you want?' Surprise, and a quiver of alarm made her curt as she turned to face him. They saw few strangers here, and those who had come of late had been unwelcome. He'd left his horse tethered to a spindly tree lower down the slope, and his soft leather boots had made no sound on the springy turf, cropped close by the roaming cattle.
'I frightened you. I'm sorry. I'm for Syre, but it's so long since I saw any habitations I thought I was lost. It's a vast country, and lonely. I tried to take a short cut, but am afraid I may have missed the way. My name's Alastair Fenton. Am I in the right way?'
'I'm Janet Mackay,' she replied automatically, and brushed the strands of hair which had escaped from beneath her kerchief out of her eyes. He was tall, more so than her brother Iain, who had been tall even for a Highlander. Where was Iain now? It was months since they'd heard from him, apart from that one brief letter, and months before that since he'd had to flee the glen. At least he'd been safe when he wrote that.
'Well, Janet Mackay, am I riding in the right direction? Are you unwilling, or unable to help the benighted traveller?'
She shook her head to clear it of thoughts of Iain, for dwelling on his fate served no purpose, and concentrated on the stranger. He had dark brown hair with a hint of auburn. His clothes were of good quality, rich materials, not the homespun most men wore, and excellently tailored. He looked Scottish, somehow, but his name and his voice were English. What was he doing here? She'd come to fear and distrust the English even more in the past few months.
'You can follow the loch and then the river, and Syre's no more than an hour's ride,' she said abruptly, pointing to where the waters of the loch gleamed dark and mysterious in the glen.
He smiled, and she took a step backwards. He was handsome, she realised suddenly, with his dark, deep-set eyes, hair which had a slight rebellious curl, and regular features, and his smile seemed to show he was fully, even arrogantly aware of it. His cravat was a brilliant white, starched and folded to perfection, in an intricate style rarely seen outside the drawing rooms of fashionable society. The dark blue riding coat did little to disguise his athletic figure. and his breeches were close-fitting, his legs long and muscular.
She swallowed. She'd never seen such a handsome man, so smooth-faced, clean-shaven and fine-skinned. He was tanned, but not like the men of the glen who had complexions weathered by the sun and the wind, hands roughened by hard work, and often beards to help keep out the cold of the Highland winters. Apart from that tan he reminded her of the men she'd once known in Edinburgh, who had no idea what it meant to carve an existence out of unforgiving land, men who lived soft lives, spent their time in gaming and frivolity, and expected others to serve them and provide for their every need.
'You live nearby? I see no houses,' he said, and Janet, though she knew this hillside as well as she'd known her father's garden, glanced round as if to look for what she knew could not be there.
The hillside was deserted of people other than the two of them, there were just a few black cattle grazing on the lower slopes, and sheep and goats. In the distance she thought she saw a fully-antlered stag emerge for a moment from the shelter of some trees, but it was so fleeting an appearance she couldn't be sure.
'I live down by the loch,' she told him briefly. 'The houses are hidden amongst those trees.'
'You needn't fear me,' he said softly.
Janet gasped. She hadn't been aware of her tenseness, her clenched hands and the fluttering of butterflies in her stomach until he mentioned fear, but suddenly she knew that she was wary of him. There was no other soul within sight or hearing, and he had such a confident air about him.
'Why should I fear you?' she demanded angrily, and turned abruptly away. 'I bid you farewell, Mr Fenton,' she said over her shoulder, the training of her governesses forcing her to be polite.
He laughed. 'No reason. Please, sit for a while with me and tell me about yourself, how the people live. Though my mother comes from Scotland I live in England, near a town called Stafford, and it's my first time so far north.'
She knew then why he was here, and the knowledge did nothing to comfort her. Instead she was consumed with a bitter rage. There had been other English visitors, lured by the thought of vast acres to rent, and fortunes to be made from populating the hills with
sheep, while driving out the people who had lived and farmed here for centuries.
'So you want our land?' she said furiously. 'The land we've tended for generations past! You, from Stafford, where the Marquis who married our Countess has his English estates, are not content with what you have in England! You must ruin us too!'
'Wait,' he snapped, and reaching out grasped her arm before she thought to move out of reach. 'I'm not looking to ruin anyone.'
'Let me go!'
She struggled to free herself but his grasp tightened. 'Listen to me, will you?'
'Why are you here?' she gasped.
'I'm not your enemy,' he began, but she shook her head and impetuously interrupted him.
'I said let me go! All the Englishmen who come here are wanting only to drive us away. I don't want to listen to your excuses!'
'Just like a woman, always talking and never listening. But you will,' he said, and laughed. His eyes glinted with amusement, and Janet renewed her struggles. As well as attacking her he was mocking her, which made her even more angry. 'I'll have to change that,' he went on. 'This is a confounded nuisance,' he added lightly, and calmly removed the basket from her hand to set it down behind him. Then he laid a hand on her lips.
That infuriated Janet still more, but before she could reply she became tinglingly aware that he was pulling her closer towards him. She bit his fingers, tried to kick him, and began to struggle in earnest. Freeing one hand for a moment, she swung her arm back and dealt him a stinging slap on the cheek.
He paused, startled, and then his expression hardened. She didn't like the gleam she saw in his eyes. It no longer indicated simple amusement, but promised retribution, and something more she couldn't interpret. Fear and fury struggled for supremacy in her mind.
'Wild cat!' he hissed. 'Your temper matches that fiery hair of yours!'
He pulled her closer still, and managed to imprison both her arms so that she was powerless to move away. She breathed deeply and twisted aside. His hand came up and dragged off the kerchief she had tied round her head. Her long hair, unbound, fell over his hand and down her back.
'Silky, and as lovely as your face,' he murmured, stroking it, and then, as she took a deep breath and opened her mouth to scream, even though she knew it was useless, his mouth came down to cover hers and silenced her.
It seemed hours before he lifted his head, and she was able to draw in a shuddering breath.
His tone had changed. Now it was gentle, not angry. 'And they always say green eyes mean passion.'
He let her go and Janet moved unsteadily away, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. They were bruised, and she felt as though her bones had liquified. She wanted to run, but knew she'd collapse within yards. How dared he treat her so!
She hated all Englishmen, for the misery and devastation they'd brought to the Highlands after Culloden, killing so many people and causing the lairds to lose hope, and neglect their kinsfolk. Her own grandfather had been killed then, nearly seventy years ago. He'd left his young and pregnant wife to scrape a living as best she could, with the child who'd been born sickly. Her father had only survived because of her grandmother's skill with medicines, a skill she was teaching Janet.
And still it went on, their own Countess Elizabeth's English husband, the Marquess of Stafford, was turning people off the land they'd farmed for generations past recall. Soon it would be their turn, for they'd received notices to quit by May.
That was just a couple of weeks away and Janet was dreading the time coming. She doubted whether her grandmother, old and ill, could endure the lengthy journey to Thurso. At least she had somewhere to go if she survived the journey. Her sister was willing to take her in.
Now she had a focus for her hated, this arrogant Englishman who came and treated her like a common tavern wench.
To her relief, for she had no strength to resist him, he turned away and took a few hasty steps.
'I can't say I'm sorry,' he said, and gave a snort of laughter. 'It was a delightful experience. But if I am to resist further temptation I had best be on my way. Goodbye, fair Janet.'
She sank onto the ground, trembling, and watched as he strode down the hill, collected his horse, vaulted into the saddle, and kicked the animal into a canter.
She'd been kissed before. Murdo Mackay, a distant cousin who lived further along the glen in the next township, had been paying her special attentions ever since she came here three years ago, when she was only fifteen. Devastated by the deaths, within a few days of each other, of her parents, she had turned to the only other young person around, apart from her brother, and Murdo had assumed they would marry soon. She'd accepted his kisses at first, but they had been nothing like that bruising, searing, astonishing kiss from the strange Englishman.
Her lips still felt warm, and she ran her tongue slowly over them, then touched them with her fingers. Why? Why had he done it? And why had she permitted it? It was no good telling herself that she'd had little choice, or been too shocked to move. She could have struggled more. She wished she'd been able to reach the dirk she carried at her girdle. Then she'd have shown him how unwise it was to take from her what she had no wish to give.
But she'd been unable to resist, and she wondered, feeling a wave of embarrassed shame, whether she'd truly wanted to resist. Had she really not wished to have that kiss, once the initial shock of it was over?
It did no good to brood. She stood up and collected her basket, from which, miraculously, she had dropped none of the herbs. Though she kept a better lookout than she'd been doing before, she was nervous for the rest of the time she spent on the hillside. When she was ready to go back to the croft and milk their cow she felt a strange sense of relief.
Her grandmother, old Mary, was sitting on the bench outside the croft, relishing the spring sunshine which, she said, warmed her bones.
'You look hot,' she said, peering up at Janet, and Janet nodded, trying to behave normally.
'It is a hot day,' she agreed, and went into the small cottage, just the two rooms with the byre at one end. She sorted the herbs, hanging them to dry in bunches from the roof trusses, then picked up the milking pail. Though her grandmother always rejected any suggestion that she had second sight, she was uncannily perceptive, and for some reason Janet had no wish to mention the encounter with the Englishman, not even just to report his presence. One stranger more or less made no difference to them.
She couldn't forget him, though. Throughout the night she lay sleepless on her pallet, stuffed with heather, trying not to disturb her grandmother who at least had the comfort of a feather mattress and a proper bed, the bed her husband had made for her when they were wed, but which they had shared for so pitifully short a time.
Her thoughts drifted to her father. He'd been taught well by the Minister, and had gone to make his fortune in Edinburgh. It hadn't been easy, but he'd become a man of business, and at the age of forty, rich and respected, he'd taken a wife. Iain had been born a year later, but they had given up hope of further children for several years before Janet had been born. He'd wanted his mother to join him in Edinburgh, but she had refused, saying she could not endure the thought of living in a town.
'You'll soon be able to follow Iain, my love,' Mary's voice came out of the darkness. 'I've not long to wait before I join my own Jamie.'
'You're to stay with me as long as you can,' Janet said fiercely. 'I don't want to lose you too. We've the cart and pony, and when the weather is warmer we'll get to Thurso.'
'I'm well over eighty, and that's a good age. I'm ready to go. My one regret will be leaving you, lass, but I'd rather die here where I was once happy than in a strange bed.'
'Well, I'm not ready to let you! And old Donald at Rossal is a hundred.'
Mary chuckled. 'And look at the life he leads, never able to leave his bed. I can still hobble outside to the bench to sit in the sun, but do you think I'd want to stay on if even that was denied me? I don't want to leave you, but you'll be better off
with Iain in Nova Scotia.'
She fell silent, and soon Janet was certain she was asleep. Her thoughts drifted to her brother. At least he'd survived the difficult journey, they had that to be thankful for. So many did not. They'd had one letter sent from Halifax, written after the voyage, to say he was travelling further, to Montreal, with other emigrants who'd been forced to leave their own land and seek a new life far away across the sea. He'd told her of a man she could contact in Halifax, who would be able to tell her where he was.
She would follow him when Mary died. That had been agreed, and he had left money for her passage, a purse with enough gold to keep her until she could rejoin him. He'd needed the rest of their father's fortune to buy good land in Canada. Mary had wanted her to go with Iain, but she had insisted she preferred to remain and look after the frail old woman.
Her emotions were so tangled. She dreaded the inevitable death of the old lady who'd become so close during the last few years, taking the place of both mother and father, and then, when Iain had been forced to flee, of him too. She was all the family they had left. But it was true, she had not many more years to live, and then Janet too would face the hazardous crossing of the seas to follow her brother. Life in Canada was hard, she'd heard, but at least they could hope to prosper from hard work, and not, as here in Scotland, lose it all on the whim of the lairds.
She was milking the cow next morning, leaning her head against the soft, warm flank and trying to stifle her yawns, when Murdo strode into the byre.
'What's this about you and that Englishman?' he demanded.
'Englishman?' Janet asked, surprised.
'Aye, a painted popinjay who's never done an honest day's work in his life, and who's having the nerve to ask about you, who you are, where you live, your age, your family. He's one of Sellar's men, no doubt, looking at the land they've leased, our land by right! When did ye meet him?'
'Murdo, I don't know what you're talking about!' Janet said, her heart beating so loudly in her breast she thought he must hear it.
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