Wild Catriona

by Oliver, Marina

  Catriona looked at him in amazement and laughed. 'They don't presume to challenge people like us, the gentry,' she said. 'Besides, I've done nothing wrong.'

  He grinned. 'And I'd confirm your virtue. I might even go so far as to admit my efforts to test it. But it's no wonder they call you wildcat! What is there for you in the glen? Will you spend all your life playing with your fabrics and patterns? It's not a fitting occupation for a well-born lass, my own cousin.'

  'I suppose you'd rather I sat at home making insipid conversation! No, Thomas, that's not for me. It will be different when my father's ship returns.'

  'You know he'd have been back in Scotland months ago if all was well, Cat. By hoping for his return all this while you're deluding yourself.'

  She sighed. 'I fear you're right, but that hope is all that keeps my mother alive.'

  'And when she abandons hope?' he asked, pulling her to him and bending his head, lips pouted invitingly. 'I've missed you, Cat. It's been two whole weeks since I've seen you, and when I come home from Edinburgh you're not there.'

  Catriona moved her head so that his kiss landed on her ear. Taking her hair in his hand he forced her to face him. 'Who was he?' he asked again.

  'Just a traveller who'd strayed from the path,' she replied. 'Let me go, Thomas!'

  'Not before you kiss me. So that I won't tell my father, and make trouble for you.'

  Sighing, she closed her eyes and turned up her face to his. Until she humoured him they would get no further. Soon, she hoped, he'd forget that for the past few months he had chosen to make her the object of his gallantries.

  'Show some enthusiasm,' Thomas said, briefly lifting his mouth from hers. 'You're like a dead fish.'

  'I feel like one,' she replied angrily, and winced as he pulled her hard against him and ground his mouth on hers so that his teeth bruised her lips.

  'He came from the direction of the bothy,' Thomas said when he finally released her.

  'I said he was lost,' Catriona said curtly, moving away and rubbing her mouth. 'I'm coming home today, anyway, as soon as I've seen to the new dyes.'

  Thomas could be vindictive, and if she didn't appease him so that he forgot Rory Napier, he would be capable of spreading the story of a strange man sleeping in her bothy, the two of them alone all night. In his mouth all sorts of speculations would be spread abroad, and what little reputation she had left would be further damaged. She didn't care for herself, but her mother fretted. The fact that she'd spent so much time during the summer months at the deserted bothy was matter enough for speculation amongst their neighbours.

  She didn't believe the Kirk elders, who passed judgement on sinners, would challenge her. No one could provide any proof, and she'd never heard of gentlefolk being summoned to appear before them. Nonetheless, the mere thought of their punishments, penitential appearances in the Kirk, made her shiver with disgust.

  She did not truly belong to the glen. Her father was not a Menzies, he was a seaman, and spent most of his time away from home, leaving his womenfolk to manage their own lives. It was only after he'd been missing for a long period that her mother, a few months ago, unable to bear the constant sight of the sea and the ships which did return, had left Aberdeen to stay with her brother, the laird Colin Menzies.

  Thomas looked hard at her, then shrugged. 'You would be wise to come home. But I'll soon discover who he is,' he said, swinging on his heel and striding to where he had tethered his horse to a small spindly birch tree.

  'Tell me too, if you discover it,' she called after him. Apart from knowing the intriguing stranger came from Glasgow, and knew a lot about methods of weaving, she knew only his name. Rory Napier. She liked it. She would never see him again, though. Life would resume its old ways. Her mother would be hoping against hope that her father would return one day soon, and Catriona would watch her mother grow sicker, losing the will to live when no news came.

  *****

  Rory, back at work in Glasgow, looked up from his desk as the door opened.

  'Joshua? I didn't expect you back so soon.'

  'Aye, well, Mr Rory, ye'll soon see why,' the elderly, grizzled man said as he entered the office. He tossed a bundle he'd been carrying onto a big square table to one side.

  'Bad, is it?' Rory asked, frowning, and rose to move across to where Joshua Cameron was removing the sacking which protected the bundle's contents.

  Joshua threw aside the sacking and unrolled a length of cloth for inspection. 'It won't work, laddie. They're weavers, not artists.'

  Rory stared down at the linen. Instead of the plain white fabric he normally produced, this was printed with a simple, geometric pattern of triangles in two different colours, brown and yellow.

  Joshua silently pointed to places where one colour had been overlaid with the other, instead of being separate. Most of the edges were blurred instead of being straight, and Joshua traced these with his finger.

  'It's inexperience using the blocks,' Rory declared, trying to make himself believe that was all.

  Joshua shook his head. 'The dye won't hold, it's not fast. See how it runs? And look,' he added, pulling up a corner of the fabric. 'This bit got wet before I packed it up.'

  The end of the piece was smeared and streaked with the colours. Rory fingered it, bringing his hand away smudged with the dye.

  'We just need to find the right mordant to make it fast,' he said, wiping his hand on a piece of rag and walking back to the desk. 'This was just a first try. Besides, the linen's not the best quality,' he added. 'It hasn't been bleached properly. That's why we experimented on it. But perhaps it's the unevenness poor bleaching causes which affects the fastness of the dyes.'

  Joshua grunted. 'If only it were so easy.'

  Rory refused to admit defeat so quickly, disappointed though he was with the result. Joshua had been doubtful from the start, but he always resisted changes. He was bound to be pessimistic.

  'Ye need a dyer, and an artist. People who know what they're doing. No one in their right minds would buy linen wi' a few bits o' shapes printed on it.'

  'I may go and see the printing works at Pollokshaw,' Rory said.

  Joshua looked doubtful. 'That's a big concern, and it's been going for fifteen or more years.'

  'We'll have to start small. As I said, this was a first try to see whether the weavers can do it. If we can teach them it would be ideal. I'm not setting up a separate workshop or having more blocks made unless it's necessary to engage more men to do the work here.'

  He couldn't afford to. In the few weeks since he'd visited his uncle Angus Mackenzie had enticed more of his spinners and weavers away with promises of higher rates for their work. Ogilvie linen was still selling, but there was less of it unless he found more workers. Finding good spinners who could produce smooth yarn from the difficult flax was not easy. And trying to keep pace with Mackenzie's lower prices meant no profit at all.

  Joshua shrugged. 'The rest of the cloth's being unloaded from the ponies. There isn't much, that's why I'm back early. And three more of the weavers said they didn't want more work, they're being given all they can do by Mackenzie.'

  Rory frowned. 'He's using all the money he inherited from his mother, standing the loss with his high wages and low prices, just to drive me out. He knows we can't afford to compete. Did you tell the weavers their wages would no doubt drop if we're finished?'

  'Aye, but they don't believe me. Most of 'em can't see past the ends of their noses. A bit more money coming into their cottages now, and they'll take no thought for next year.'

  'Well, I won't be driven out by that fellow! I'll use my own money if necessary. If I can get the bleaching field right that will save money in the end.'

  'It's not your business, Mr Rory. Ye'll not see any of your money back if ye put it with Ogilvie's.'

  Even Joshua, who'd worked for Matthew all his life, and was now the most loyal of his helpers, didn't believe he'd receive thanks from his uncle, Rory noticed. He wasn't going to be deterred
by this first setback, though.

  'I will if I succeed with this new idea.'

  'The British Linen Company advances loans, so I hear. They would lend ye some. After all, they were set up ten years back to support the industry, and they give help to Scotsmen too.'

  'They might to Uncle Matthew, but they'd not lend to me without his backing, which I wouldn't have. And he doesn't really care any longer. Did you find any new weavers for me?'

  'No. We already have some of the best, those who haven't deserted us, and many of the others are finding work in the towns, where the pay is better.'

  ''What about the bleaching fields?' Rory asked. 'Are they doing it properly now?

  'No.' Joshua was scathing. 'The Minister ranted against Sabbath working, and though they know full well the linen has to be sprinkled wi' water several times a day, every day, they wouldna disobey him. The overseer's a poor rabbit of a man, not bold enough to insist.'

  'Then we must push ahead with my scheme. If we can charge more for what we have, the business will recover. Can you ask that dyer you mentioned to come and see me, as soon as possible?'

  'Aye, if Mackenzie hasn't got wind of what ye're doing, and asked him first,' Joshua said gloomily. 'I'd best see to the other bales, put them into store and hope by next spring the fields will be ready for them. We can't afford for any that's fit to sell to be spoilt.'

  *****

  Chapter 3

  June 1758

  Catriona spooned the chicken broth into her mother's mouth. 'Try to have a little,' she urged. 'You'll never grow strong again if you don't eat.'

  Her mother swallowed a spoonful obediently, then turned her head away. 'It's no use, Cat, it makes me feel sick.'

  'Is there anything I can fetch you?'

  Catriona looked worriedly at her mother. She was as pale as the fine linen sheet. Her dark hair, which had been so thick and lustrous, was lank and thin, rapidly greying, even though she was still under forty years old. She was no longer the beautiful woman she had been. In the past few months she had visibly aged, lost weight, and spent increasingly longer spells in bed. The intensity of her grief had grown until Catriona found it painful to watch her.

  She herself had given up hope for her father long ago, and done her grieving during the solitary days up in the bothy. With acceptance had come a measure of calm, but her mother's torment had revived her own feelings of loss. She had to summon up all her courage to remain calm and cheerful, to try to encourage her mother to hope, where she knew there was no hope to be had.

  Mary Duncan shook her head. 'Your father is dead, I know it. And soon I'll be going to join him. The only thing I have to live for is to see you settled.'

  'You must not be concerned about me. All I want is to see you well again. Then we might go to Aberdeen, perhaps, and seek news there,' Catriona said, trying to sound more optimistic than she felt. 'Surely some of the other captains will have some news.'

  'If any know the truth, they would have sent word to me. Cat, where is Thomas?'

  'In Edinburgh,' Catriona replied, surprised. Even when her cousin was at home he rarely visited his aunt, saying that sickrooms upset him too much, he could not endure to witness the pain and suffering. Her mother had not been downstairs at all during his last two visits, and Catriona had wondered whether she even knew he'd been at home. Often her mind seemed to wander, and she confused the days.

  'He wants to wed you.'

  Catriona blinked. 'I – he – hasn't said so,' she stuttered. She had a fair idea of what it was Thomas wanted of her, and it wasn't marriage. But she could hardly tell her mother that.

  'I know he does. I've seen the way he looks at you, and it would be so suitable. You'd be provided for. Colin is wealthy, and has no more children. Thomas will inherit it all. He's the right age for you, just a few years older, old enough to have got over a young man's wildness. I could die knowing you were safe.'

  'Don't talk of dying. You'll be better soon. But it's not fitting to even think of such matters while you are so ill. Mayhap, when you get better, you can come downstairs and talk to him the next time he comes here. You could judge whether he wants to wed me for yourself,' Catriona said, recklessly ignoring Thomas's likely reaction to such a proposal. If the notion did help her mother to regain some strength, she could warn Thomas and, she thought with a gleam of malice, he could explain his own behaviour.

  'But you like him, you could grow to love him,' Mary went on, grasping Catriona's hand. 'He's a fine man, handsome, and he'd be kind to you.'

  Catriona had doubts on all except the handsomeness. 'I would always hope to love my husband, whoever he might be,' she said evasively. She'd never be able to love Thomas, or any man so self-absorbed.

  An image of the stranger she'd rescued floated before her eyes. It was odd how she couldn't forget Rory Napier, even though they'd only spent a few hours together. She often wondered whether he'd reached his destination safely.

  Her mother was speaking quietly. Catriona had to bend close to catch the faint words.

  'Sometimes I wonder if the sort of love I had for your father, so overwhelming, is wise. I'd have done anything to be with him, even sailed with him if he'd permitted it. Then I'd be with him now, wherever he is. It causes such pain too,' she sighed. 'Let me sleep now.'

  Catriona tucked the blanket round her mother's wasted form, added another small log to the fire, which was kept burning even though it was high summer, and went out of the room.

  Aunt Joan was standing just outside the door. She was twisting her handkerchief between restless fingers, almost tearing the fine cotton to shreds.

  'I heard her talking. How is she? Any better?'

  'No, and she would drink only a spoonful of broth. Aunt Joan, what can we do?'

  'There's little we can do, child, except try to make her comfortable. When a body loses the will to live, it's useless to hope. Go and walk in the garden for a while, the sun is not too hot now, and you've been with your mother all day.'

  Catriona obediently went through the kitchens and into the garden which surrounded her uncle's house. There was a small herb garden, which her aunt tended, and she walked there, sniffing the aromatic perfumes of mint and feverfew, lavender and thyme. She wished she knew a great deal more about the medicinal qualities of herbs, instead of just the simple remedies everyone used. If she knew as much as she did of their uses in dyeing cloth, she might be able to tempt her mother's appetite and restore her failing health.

  *****

  'Where's the damned rascal?'

  Matthew Ogilvie glared at Clem, flung the much-creased letter he'd been reading yet again back on the table, then swung on his heel and stalked across the room to stare out of the window. He had abandoned the morning room, and spent the past week in the musty spendour and cold dampness of the large, ornately furnished drawing room. Gloomy and oppressive, it had not been altered since his grandmother had redecorated and refurnished it eighty years or so before. Only one pair of the heavy brocade curtains had been opened, and Matthew's impatient jerk had split the rotten fabric so that they hung askew. He detested the room, but felt that some greater formality than normal was called for in this situation.

  'There's not been time for the messenger to get to Glasgow and back,' Clem said, and tried, when his master's back was turned, to place another log on the pitifully small fire which did no more than warm the air close to it.

  'Stop that!' Matthew roared, making Clem jump and drop the log. Sparks flew, and the old man was kept busy patting his kilt to make sure none had set him alight.

  'Ye'll catch your death in this cold,' Clem said gruffly. 'This room's never warm, even on hot days.'

  'Why should that matter, now? If I did catch my death, you wouldn't mourn me.'

  'Would ye want the lawyer to find you frozen into a block of ice, dripping all over your best turkey carpet?'

  'Oh, get out of my sight!'

  Matthew swung round and strode across to the window again. He stared out at
the dank trees which grew close to the house and prevented much light from penetrating the windows. Damn the boy! Why had he been so stubborn, wanting the life of a soldier? His place was here in Scotland, looking after his inheritance, working in the business and marrying a suitable lass like the MacNab chit, and giving him grandchildren to carry on the name.

  Not that Matthew would want to see any such grandchildren, he admitted. He'd always detested young children. They could keep out of his sight and hearing. The only reason for them, he considered, was to know his line would continue.

  Where was he? When he summoned his lawyer he expected him to come immediately. A full week, it was now, since he'd been sent for, and dusk was falling. If he had to wait another night he'd go mad. He'd drunk himself senseless each night since he'd heard, and Clem, grumbling, had put him to bed. But he had to keep a clear head tonight, in case Mr Drummond finally arrived.

  His patience was almost gone, and he had succumbed, downing two glasses of whisky almost as rapidly as he could pour them, when he heard the sound of hoofbeats on the gravel outside.

  'Is that you?' he demanded, hurrying out into the hallway, dim with only the light of one candle throwing shadows. Clem was dragging the heavy bolts aside. 'Drummond, is that you?'

  'I'm here, Mr Ogilvie. What's the hurry?'

  The man was elderly, thin and stooped, his complexion pale. He looked exhausted, as though he'd ridden through the previous nights as well as the days.

  'Come in.'

  Matthew turned and led the way back into the drawing room, flinging himself down into a chair beside the slightly improved fire. Clem followed and began to light more candles. The visitor, still wearing his heavy overcoat, pulled off his gauntlets and stood to warm his thin, veined hands at the flames.

  'It's cold when the sun goes down,' he said apologetically. 'What is it you called me for?'

  Matthew shook his head, speechless for a moment. 'It's John,' he managed at last. 'My son. The wretched boy has let those damned heathens kill him!'

  'John? Dead? When did you hear? Was it in a battle? Mr Ogilvie, my deepest commiserations. What a calamity, indeed. When did you hear? Is it certain?'