Wild Catriona

by Oliver, Marina

  'You sleep here? On your own?' He sounded more apprehensive than startled. 'But you're only a child.'

  'I'm sixteen, almost seventeen,' she retorted. Her blonde curls seem to convince everyone she was both young and incompetent. 'Women who look after sheep often live alone during the summer, when the sheep are taken to the higher grazing.'

  'I saw no sheep. That's odd, there seem to be new flocks whenever I ride in this direction, but there are none round about.'

  'Landowners find them more profitable than crops and cattle. But so far the laird of this glen hasn't turned out his crofters to make room for them. This bothy hasn't been used like that for years, but I come here for a few days, when I have time to.'

  'Is there no one else here?'

  'I enjoy the peace and solitude.' And, she thought, suppressing a twinge of anguish, she could escape constant reminders from her mother and uncle of her father's disappearance.

  'Solitude which I am disturbing. This is your bed!' He yawned. 'Where can you sleep?'

  'Don't be concerned, it's only a pile of heather. I can soon cut some more and make up another bed for myself.'

  He drifted off to sleep as the potion took effect. Catriona spread his cloak over him, then went outside to feed the small fire she kept alight within a stone hearth a few yards from the bothy. She poked two potatoes into the embers, and positioned a sharpened stick, a makeshift spit, on a frame of branches. The haunches of two rabbits were speared on it. It was still bright sunshine, and she retrieved her satchel from where she'd dropped it by the small doorway to the bothy.

  His wig was very elegant, black, smoothly waved, and tied at the nape with a narrow velvet ribbon. A few strands of hair had escaped, and she stroked them back into place. Then, with a flourish, she pulled her own hair back, perched the wig on her head, and placed the tricorne hat trimmed with lace on top.

  'Your servant, my lady,' she declaimed, executing an elegant bow, and laughed. Who was the man, and did he frequent society drawing rooms? His clothes were of good quality, well made, of the best materials. His coat and breeches were of finely-woven, dark blue woollen cloth, and his waistcoat was heavily embroidered. His boots were of supple leather, highly polished, and his shirt of good-quality cotton. He looked like a city dweller. A merchant, perhaps? Or a lawyer? Or perhaps he had money and did no work.

  She frowned. Perhaps it was her cousin Thomas's example, but she did not favour men who lived only for pleasure. Laughing at herself, for what could it possibly matter to her what a chance-met stranger did with his time, she abandoned speculation and sat down on the springy turf where she could tend the fire and give an occasional turn to the spit. Pulling out her drawing pad and a stick of charcoal, she set to work.

  Some while later a shadow fell on the paper and she glanced up to see the stranger standing behind her.

  'How did you get out here? You mustn't walk, Mr – I don't know your name!'

  'Rory Napier,' he said curtly.

  'You'll make your ankle worse, Mr Napier,' she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet and taking a step towards him.

  'I found this to help me,' he replied, and she saw that he was leaning heavily on the crooked stick the last shepherd had abandoned. Absently he picked up the wig she'd laid down beside her and put it on, then clapped the hat on top. 'That's the same drawing as the pattern on your gown,' he said, gesturing towards the pad in her hand.

  'No it isn't, not quite. You'll prolong the injury if you don't rest,' she told him, irritated.

  'There are some things I cannot permit a strange female to do for me,' he retorted.

  Catriona grinned. 'If you had two broken legs you'd have to forget your modesty.' She knelt again to turn the spit over the fire.

  He glared at her. 'You're a shameless hussy. And I have one slightly sprained ankle, a trifle.'

  'I see you cannot yet get your boot on,' she murmured provocatively.

  He ignored the remark. 'Did you paint that heather on your gown?'

  She glanced down at it and frowned. 'It's not accurate. I wasn't very skilled last year. I was drawing some sprigs of heather when you fell over me, trying to see why it's wrong.'

  With a grunt he lowered himself beside her and took the drawing pad out of her hand. After a moment's study he picked up a fold of her skirt and held it close to the pad.

  'You've made them flat, all the flowers, but really they spring out from the stem in different directions. You have it in the drawing. You need to show some overlapping others.'

  Catriona looked at him with interest. 'You can see that? But it's why I can't get it properly onto the fabric.'

  'How do you do it?' he asked, turning up the hem of the skirt so that he could examine the inside. 'It's dyed, but the patterns are repeated exactly. Every one is the same.'

  'I print the pattern. I started with carved potatoes when I was small, but they wear out too quickly, so now I use wood. I'm not very quick at carving them yet, though I'm getting better, and it needs lots of different blocks, with very precise carving, especially for delicate things like flowers.'

  'How do you fix the colours? Can it be washed?'

  'The dyes are fast. My grandmother taught me her skills. I can overprint with several colours.'

  'You have some of your carvings, your blocks here? Will you show me?'

  Catriona nodded, and rose to her feet. 'I have a few, but our supper's ready. I'll show you afterwards. I have a workshop up here. That's one reason I come. I can do my designs and try them out in greater peace than at home.'

  *****

  Chapter 2

  It was late afternoon when Rory reached Matthew Ogilvie's house on the banks of the Dee between Braemar and Ballater. His shoulder ached abominably, but otherwise did not hamper his movements. His ankle only troubled him when he put too much weight on it. And his wig hid the cut on his head. Catriona's ministrations had been effective.

  He had thought about her for most of his journey. She was a talented designer, despite her youth. She was managing, impertinent, and too confident of her own capabilities. But somehow, with her impish grin, and her passionate interest in her craft, she was rather like an importunate puppy. He'd been tempted to pat her on the head, or ruffle her blonde curls.

  After they had eaten she had produced a dozen or more wooden blocks, all carved with meticulous pictures of wild flowers, leaves, and berries. Each block was only a partial picture, for one colour, but together, overlaid in the right sequence with the appropriate colours, they formed an intricate pattern. She had shown him two lengths of fabric she was working on, both decorated with these pictures, in delicate shades of pink and lilac, pale browns and mossy greens, created from dyes she made herself from the flowers and berries around her.

  This, he thought as he rode along, might be the answer to his problems, if he could persuade Uncle Matthew not to sell. He was determined, though, not to be bribed by his uncle with vague promises of a share in the business. It was something the old man had hinted at the last time they'd had a major battle and he'd threatened to walk away and leave his uncle to sort out his own problems. Apart from Matthew's noted capriciousness in keeping promises, he did not wish to be tied to the business for the rest of his life. When John came home he would be free to do as he wished.

  The big stone house, not quite a castle, still had turrets at each corner, and a tall watchtower above the entrance. It was surrounded by a belt of trees which loomed up in front of him. Rory found it gloomy, and did not understand why his uncle had chosen to retire here, so remote from Glasgow. It was far too large for one old man, who to Rory's knowledge rarely left it, or entertained, or took any interest in the small estate surrounding it. He could not imagine John, who'd always craved excitement and lively company, appreciating it when it became his.

  Yet from what his father had told him, it had not always been gloomy. Once it had been a different house. It was here Charles Napier had met Elizabeth Ogilvie. His family had owned a small lodge where they stayed
each summer for the deer hunting and the grouse shooting.

  It was at Braemar where, in 1715, the Jacobites, disenchanted with the Union with England, and Hanoverian rule, had first raised their flag. Charles, too young to join them, had watched enviously as the small band, the first of many to enlist, had marched away to support the Earl of Mar.

  Rory dragged his mind back to the present. There were advantages, he admitted, in having his uncle live in so remote a spot rather than in Glasgow. From such a distance he could not easily interfere with Rory's management. He still had to be consulted, however, as the owner.

  Rory's mother, Matthew's sister, had died when he was a baby, and his father had only distant cousins who had no interest in his son. When his father had died in the '45 Rising, his uncle had given him a home. His cousin John had joined the army, and needing a younger man he could trust, one with family loyalties, Matthew had taught him the business, but until these last few months had resisted all the changes Rory had urged him to make. Eventually he'd put Rory in nominal charge, retreated to his Highland fastness, and appeared to have lost interest. It would not take much, Rory suspected, to rouse him once more if he decided not to sell. The merest suggestion of profit to be made, or the prospect of a loss, would see Matthew goaded into furious activity.

  Dismounting, Rory hitched the reins over a hook beside the huge oak door. Reinforced with iron bands, it had been built in more turbulent days, constructed to withstand attack. He gave the bell pull a tug. Old Clem, his uncle's manservant, eventually opened the door a scant few inches.

  'Master Rory? Is it you?' he asked, peering suspiciously through the crack. 'No one said ye were coming.'

  He was about as welcoming as Uncle Matthew, Rory thought, grinning.

  'I didn't know you wanted advance warning for my visit, but if it's inconvenient I'll go and see whether Margaret MacDonald at the inn can give me a bed for the night,' Rory said sharply. Clem and the innkeeper had conducted a running feud for as long as he could remember. 'Is my uncle at home?'

  'Nay need for talkin' rough,' Clem said, aggrieved. 'Ye know there's plenty o' beds, but they aren't kept ready fer visitors, so yours won't be aired.'

  'It can't be worse than a bed of heather in a turf hut,' Rory said softly as he finally entered his uncle's home. He smiled at the recollection. Despite his injuries he'd slept remarkably well the previous night. 'Is there anyone to see to the horse, or shall I take him round to the stables myself?' he added more loudly.

  'I'll send young Iain along, if ye can trust a young lad to treat yon beast well enough for ye?' Clem grumbled. 'The master's in the morning room.'

  Where he seemed to spend all his time, Rory thought, making his way along the gloomy, ill-lit passageway to the room which was the smallest in the house, apart from some of the bedrooms. His parsimonious uncle preferred it, he said, because it was the easiest to keep warm when a fire was essential, and as it faced south, no fire was necessary when the sun shone.

  He knocked and heard muttered curses from within, which he took to be an invitation to enter. His uncle was seated in a large chair beside the window. Once a large, florid man, over the years he seemed to have shrunk. His skin was shrivelled, his cheek and mouth fallen in as he lost his teeth, but his eyes were still keen and his wits sharp. He clung to the large wigs of his youth, and Rory doubted if he had bought any new clothes for the last two decades.

  Matthew Ogilvie had, by the glazed look on his face, been half asleep. He sat up abruptly at the sight of Rory, however, and glared furiously at him.

  'What brings you here? Why are you not looking after my business in Glasgow?'

  'Thank you for your kind welcome, Uncle Matthew. You're just as welcoming as you ever were, I see. It is on your business that I come. I'd not subject myself to your ill-humour otherwise.'

  The old man cackled. 'Sit down, boy. At least your tongue hasn't grown any softer.'

  'I had you for a teacher.'

  'Well?'

  Rory strolled across to stare out of the window. 'Thank you, Uncle, a glass of whisky would be very welcome after my long ride.'

  'You'd drink away my profits, would you? I hope you're making some for me at last. Oh, help yourself to a dram, and sit down, boy! Tell me why you've come.'

  Rory took his time pouring himself a whisky, and refilling the glass his uncle held out to him. Then he sat down opposite Matthew. What he had to say would banish even this fragile amiability.

  'I spoke with Angus Mackenzie last week,' he said, sipping the whisky appreciatively. The old man always had the best, and this was as smooth as honey. 'To be more accurate, he sought me out.'

  'Why the devil did you do that? Haven't you sense enough to keep out of that fool's way?'

  'That fool,' Rory said drily, 'wishes to make you an offer for the business. It was a pitiful sum, but I forced him to raise his price to what's more reasonable, and I believe he will go still higher.'

  His uncle went puce, spluttering with fury and unable to get out the words he wanted. Rory waited, handing the old man the glass of whisky which Matthew had set down on a small table beside him.

  'No! I'll never sell, you know that! I'll not sell to any fool, least of all that scoundrel Mackenzie! Why didn't you send him about his business, and not bother me with the nonsense?'

  Rory shrugged. 'I don't own any of the business, I have no power to turn away such an offer. My duty as your manager constrains me at least to tell you of it, however ungrateful you might be for my efforts on your behalf.'

  'Well, you've told me, and now you can go and tell that rogue of a Tory to keep his long nose out of my affairs and go and plague someone else.'

  'It's a better price than you might get in a year or so,' Rory told him. He might as well reveal all the bad news tonight.

  The older man looked sharply at him. 'Why? What else is happening?'

  'Profits are down. There wasn't enough in any case to dig new trenches and clear the old ones in the bleaching fields. They're not efficient for the finer cloth, and I need to send it to Holland, which is expensive. It's worse since Mackenzie enticed some of our best weavers away from us, and charges lower prices for his linen. We've not been able to make as much, and it's been more difficult to sell.'

  'You'll not drop the prices! Nor pay the damned weavers more to work for us. If you start that they'll bid you and Mackenzie up until neither of you is making any profit!'

  'I'm aware of that, and I don't mean to play that game.'

  'Why can't you be stronger with them? John would have known how to deal with such fools!'

  'John is in India. He preferred to run away and join the army!' Rory said coldly. 'He had no interest in making linen.'

  'You'll not abuse him for serving his country! One day he'll come home, and I won't have you waste his inheritance with your puling weakness!'

  'I've run the business for you these past few months, since you retired. It wasn't to be for ever. I agreed to do it just until John could obtain his discharge. I've increased the profits until now. It would serve you right if I left and you had to deal with it!'

  'Ah, Rory, you know I depend on you,' the old man said, his fury turning to pleading, his eyes filling with tears. 'You're the only other family I have, and you're so like your mother.'

  'And you know I won't leave, unless you drive me to it,' Rory said, relenting as he always did when his uncle showed this uncharacteristic weakness. 'This is what I suggest we do.'

  He drew a few sheets of paper from his pocket and spread them out on a small table. An hour later his uncle sat back, sighing, and spoke.

  'It might work,' he said reluctantly. 'Try it for a while. I want John to have a thriving business when he decides to leave the army. It's his birthright.'

  *****

  Watching her unexpected guest ride away, Catriona absently stroked her cheek where he had dropped a gentle kiss as he thanked her. His shoulder had been stiff, but his ankle, tightly bound, scarcely incommoded him, and much as
she wanted to discover more about him, and talk about her designs with someone who seemed to understand what she was attempting to do, she had no reason for persuading him to delay his departure. He'd looked well after his sleep, and had been more friendly, less suspicious. He'd even permitted her to rebind his ankle without protest.

  'My wildcat,' he'd said softly. 'I found you surrounded by heather, you draw it endlessly, your hair even smells of it. I'll think of you when I'm back in Glasgow.'

  She wanted to see Glasgow, to hear more about it from the man who lived there. Even here they heard all about the wide streets and big open spaces made after the fire which had virtually destroyed Glasgow in 1677. She'd heard so much about the Tobacco Lords, the wealthy merchants who'd made vast fortunes from imported tobacco, their huge mansions, and their flamboyant dress, and wanted to see it all for herself.

  She had, after all, been born in the town, but they'd moved to the east coast when her father had begun sailing from Aberdeen. Even though she'd crossed the North Sea twice in her father's ship, once to Holland, once to Flanders, and stayed with her Dutch grandmother's family there, she had never been further south than Perth since her babyhood. She felt amazingly ignorant about her native land.

  Shrugging, she turned away and took a few steps back towards the bothy before she saw the man standing watching her.

  'So you entertain men here in your hideaway?' he asked, his tone angry. He was dark, with glittering black eyes, an aquiline nose and beautifully shaped lips. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, even when he was frowning so fiercely.

  'What I do is my affair, Thomas Menzies,' she snapped, and tried to move past him.

  He caught her arm in so tight a grasp she was unable to break free.

  'It could be the Kirk Sessions' affair if anyone complained about your behaviour,' he warned.