Wild Catriona

by Oliver, Marina

  *****

  'We're getting there, Joshua,' Rory said with a sigh of relief as he and Joshua ate dinner together. 'This batch is far better than anything we've had before.'

  Joshua grunted. 'Better, but not perfect yet. I went out to the bleaching fields yesterday. The man's not even begun to start clearing the trenches, and he told me half the ladles were broken, so they couldn't get on as fast as he wanted.' He snorted in disgust.

  'I'll dismiss him. I suppose I'd better ride out tomorrow. The linen we've had there this year is ruined by now, so the rest of the useless lot might as well go too. There's no point in paying for shoddy work, when no amount of sun and water next year will improve it.'

  'Ye might as well leave it,' Joshua advised. 'It's not as though we'll have as much as usual to put out next year, what with having fewer weavers.'

  'I suppose it might get slightly better, if the frost doesn't ruin it,' Rory said, determined, he felt ruefully, to see the worst side of everything. It was the thought of his uncle being once more in Glasgow which made him tetchy.

  'Best hire a reliable watchman,' Joshua warned. 'I didn't like the way some of the men there were acting. They might decide the linen is theirs, or that they might as well ruin it completely.'

  Rory nodded. Problems seemed to be piling up, and only the glimmer of hope that at last his printing was beginning to show possibilities kept him willing to struggle on.

  *****

  By the end of the first full day, Catriona did not mind the lumpy straw palliasse which was her bed. She had no energy to try and shake it into a more comfortable shape. From before dawn until after midnight she had been hard at work, making beds and cleaning the bedrooms when the guests were out, carrying jugs of water, hods of coal for the fires, emptying slops, and while the guests were peacefully sleeping helping in the linen room to iron the sheets, mend torn ones, and fold them ready for use.

  After a week she was tempted to abandon all her scruples, sell the ponies, and risk an encounter with Thomas by going to Edinburgh. No, she told herself wearily, that wasn't right. The ponies would help get her there. She could sell them when she'd secured a passage on a ship.

  She forced her weary legs to move, aware that though it was supper time, she still had more tasks to complete after she'd carried up new hods of coal.

  Entering the last bedroom she heard the occupant, an elderly, irascible gentleman, talking in the adjoining sitting room. He'd left the connecting door open, so she moved with extra caution as she put a few lumps of coal on the fire. She had no wish to disturb him and whoever was with him.

  It was impossible to avoid hearing what he said, and to realise that he was growing more and more angry.

  'You're an ungrateful young pup! You take after your damned father. He'd no better sense than to go off chasing a daft young man who thought he could just walk onto the English throne! And what good did it do him? None! Instead of looking after his own affairs, he squanders most of his fortune and leaves you penniless, dependent on my charity!'

  Catriona began to edge towards the door. He'd be even more angry if he caught her eavesdropping. And she knew such a choleric man would accuse her of such, even though she had duties to perform in the room, and it was he who had left the connecting door open. The next words, though, halted her abruptly.

  'I have sufficient money to keep me, and as soon as my father was dead you put me to work for you!'

  It was Rory Napier. Catriona, treading carefully so as not to cause the floorboards to squeak, moved to the partly open door and tried to see through it. All that was visible, however, was the corner of a table laid for supper. Both speakers were out of view.

  'And how do you repay me?' the other man demanded. 'You try to ruin my business with your footling ideas of printing stupid pictures on good, plain linen! Who wants silly coloured shapes staring up at them from their tablecloths and bedsheets? You pay my weavers more than they're worth, and they're doing less than before!'

  'If I don't, Angus Mackenzie will take them and you'll have nothing left of your business!'

  'Pah! There's dozens of weavers out there, desperate for jobs. You're too damned lazy to go and find them.'

  'Dozens of incompetent weavers I won't employ, perhaps,' Rory replied, and Catriona could hear the effort in his voice as he strove to keep calm.

  'Fiddlesticks! In any case, you could afford to pay the best weavers double the price if only you'd offer for the MacNab wench. She's hot for you, Lord knows why, when you're such a ninny, and Silas is eager to put money into the business, and he'd know how to run it a damn sight better than you do!'

  'I'll run it my way or not at all. You are welcome to appoint another manager if you wish.'

  'Ah, now, Rory, don't be like that! I don't mean it, you know my tongue's rough,' the older man said, his tone suddenly wheedling. 'You wouldn't leave me, would you? Not now, not so soon after John's death.'

  'That's part of the problem, Uncle Matthew, you know I wouldn't! Not unless you drive me to it.'

  'Can you get these weavers to do what you want? I'll give you a few more weeks, provided you promise, if it's still not come right, to offer for the wench.'

  'I won't have Silas MacNab interfering with the business. Either I run it, or he does. We couldn't work together.'

  'I'll make sure of that. I know Silas of old. What's the main problem with the printing?'

  'They're careless. I think we've taught them the way to do it, to get the patterns straight, fitting together in a straight line, but one piece Joshua brought back yesterday was ruined because half way through the silly fellow had picked up the block the wrong way round, and so the pattern changed.'

  'Is that all? They don't pay attention? Tell them you won't pay for anything that's not perfect.'

  'And lose them to Mackenzie? I need to try more two-colour printing, too, but so far that's been a disaster. Either they don't get the two patterns overlapping correctly, or they don't wait long enough and try to put on the second before the first has dried. But they will learn, as I am learning.'

  His chair scraped back, and Catriona saw him as he paced the room. He looked far more elegant than she'd ever seen him. Before, even when dining with her aunt and uncle, he'd worn riding clothes, neat but plain and serviceable. He'd apologised then for not having more suitable clothes with him, saying he'd not expected to be invited to dine at a gentleman's house. Now, over black knee breeches, he wore a long-skirted satin coat, in a shade of green which suited his dark complexion admirably. He sported discreet gold buttons and gold thread embroidery, his wig was bigger and more elaborate than the one she'd seen before, powdered and curled, and on his hand he wore a large ring with a green stone she thought must be an emerald.

  Afraid of being seen, she drew back out of sight and crept to the door, letting herself out as carefully as she could. She was thinking furiously, and leaned against the wall outside while various plans surged through her mind.

  At last she smiled and clasped her hands together. This might serve. Not only could it improve her own position, and help her to get to Holland more quickly, it would give her an opportunity of furthering her acquaintance with the man she hadn't been able to stop thinking about since that first meeting several months ago.

  *****

  Chapter 10

  Catriona whisked down the narrow back stairs, all her weariness forgotten. She slid cautiously through the kitchen. It would ruin everything if she were stopped now, called back for some other duty. Luckily the landlord was busy elsewhere. She sped across the yard, skirted a coach newly arrived, with passengers descending and the horses being unhitched and taken to their stalls. Recollecting just in time that her hands were probably dirty with coal dust, she veered towards the pump, and gave it a hasty jerk, holding her hands to catch some water, and splashing it over her face. She shook herself, dried her hands on her apron, and almost without having paused continued to the end of the stable block.

  The stairs to her dormit
ory were narrow, made of stone, and clung to the outside wall of the stables. A single flare in a sconce lit the uneven treads, and the maids whose beds were there always had to be careful. Catriona wanted to hurry, but dared not. She was dragging off her neat apron and mob cap as she went, and once inside flung them down on her bed, pulled off the black skirt and bodice all the maids had to wear, and delved into the saddlebag which held all her other possessions.

  Dragging out the two printed gowns she had brought with her to Glasgow, she selected the one Rory Napier had not seen, and thrust the other back. For a moment she wondered whether it was vanity that made her even consider this, then dismissed the thought. She needed to convince him of her plan, and what better way was there than showing him more examples of her skills. She pulled it over her head, and hastily fastened the many buttons. It hung loosely, she noticed absently. She must have lost weight because of all the hard work she'd done at the inn. On more than one evening she'd been too tired to eat any supper, and had preferred to collapse into bed for a few extra minutes of sleep.

  Worrying for fear she was taking too long, she snatched up the brush which rested on top of the saddlebag. Thanks to being confined all day under the cap, her hair was still unruffled, but she shook it loose and brushed it with swift strokes. Then, snatching her cloak from the peg on the door, she went carefully down the stairs and through the narrow archway into the road.

  Had he left? She could hardly ask the porter. She had to wait and hope. If he had, she consoled herself, she knew his name, and his business, and it would not be impossible to find him on the following day. She was impatient, though, and didn't think she could bear to delay.

  Keeping in the shadow of the wall, she hoped he would not be long. She'd seen women hanging about near hotels, hoping to entice lonely travelling men, or citizens eating or drinking there, into their clutches. She had no wish to be thought one of their company.

  At last, when she'd almost given up hope, Rory Napier appeared. Should she approach him now? Only if he looked likely to vanish into a carriage, she decided. To her relief he set off at a rapid pace towards the High Street, and then turned north towards the Cathedral. With a sigh of satisfaction she followed. It would be far simpler to explain what she wanted if she could induce him to invite her into his house.

  He looked angry, and she wondered whether it was wise to approach him so precipitously. Then she told herself not to be so timid, his anger might actually benefit her. Once he saw what she could do he would not regret it.

  She almost had to run to keep up with him, his strides were so long. Luckily, he did not have far to go, and was soon letting himself into a tall stone house, one of a terrace. She waited, and a few minutes later crossed the road and hammered on the door.

  *****

  'A girl? To speak with me? At this time of night?' Rory demanded incredulously. After the evening spent arguing with his uncle all he wanted was a glass of whisky and his bed. What business any girl could have with him, he could not imagine. If she'd brought a message, she'd have said so, or proffered a note.

  His landlady sniffed. She was a woman of stern moral principles, and as such would be bound to place the worst possible interpretation on such a visit.

  'I told her it was unseemly, but she's not the kind to take no for an answer, young as she is. She's well-spoken, too, seems like a lady despite her flighty behaviour.'

  Rory was frantically trying to think which of his young female acquaintances would have such an urgent need to speak with him they came to his lodgings late at night. For a brief moment he wondered if it could be Susannah, but immediately dismissed the idea. She was both too well behaved and too timid for such an adventure.

  'What's her name?'

  'She declined to say.'

  'Send her away then.'

  The landlady shrugged. 'If you say so, sir.'

  'I do. Well, why are you waiting?'

  'She said to tell you it was very important, and if you didn't care to see her, she'd go to Mr MacNab instead.'

  Rory stared at her, but she looked back unblinkingly. Did everyone in Glasgow know his business as well as he did himself? Better, sometimes, it seemed. But what the devil did this mean?

  'And?'

  'I thought, seeing as how you and Mr MacNab are such friends, and you know Miss MacNab well, I'd better ask what you wanted me to do. I'll get my husband to throw her out if that's what you want, but when I suggested it she said she'd stand in the street and make a noise. She said she'd stay there all night if need be. I've never in all my life seen a lass so young be so determined and shameless. She'll stay, have no doubt of it. Until the watch take her away, I suppose. They wouldn't stand for such a disturbance in a respectable district like this one.'

  And heaven only knew what the wretched girl would accuse him of, Rory thought with an inward shudder. If she was as young as his landlady said, it couldn't be any of the ladies who occasionally entertained him in their boudoirs. He was careful to choose for these light liaisons women who were married, who wished to remain wed to their wealthy if unappreciative husbands, who knew the rules of light dalliance, and who would never cause him trouble or behave so brazenly. But if some crazy female wished to accuse him, perhaps even try to foist a bastard on him, and this was not unknown, how could he prove his innocence?

  Rory sighed. 'I'd better see her, or you'll be plagued with her for half the night. May I use the drawing room?'

  His landlady looked more disapproving than ever. 'That's where I've put her. And my man's keeping an eye on her, to make sure she doesn't run off with any of the trinkets. You could scarcely entertain a young female in your own rooms, at this hour.'

  'Or any other,' Rory murmured, and smiled at her as he picked up his discarded coat and shrugged himself into it.

  He followed her downstairs and into the drawing room. The landlady's husband was standing awkwardly in front of the fireplace, where the fire had been banked up for the night. He looked embarrassed, and immediately began to sidle towards the door. A woman, swathed in a dark cloak, was standing by the window, holding the curtains aside and looking out over the street. As his landlady coughed loudly she swung round eagerly, and on seeing Rory smiled tremulously and took a few rapid paces towards him, pushing aside the hood of her cloak with an impatient flick of her hand.

  'Rory! Mr Napier, thank you for seeing me. I'm sorry I had to be so insistent, but I have to speak with you, urgently!'

  She held out her hands imploringly, and then, as though embarrassed at the gesture, dropped them and held them rigidly at her sides.

  'Cat – my heather girl, what on earth are you doing here in Glasgow?' he demanded, smiling broadly. He strode across the room and clasped her hands in his, pulling her towards him. He felt her hands tremble. Surely she was not nervous? Not this girl!

  He'd never expected to see her again. The printing was improving, he no longer needed her help, and there would be no further cause for him to seek her out. But the sight of her bright blue eyes and gleaming blonde hair raised his spirits. She was even more delightful than he had remembered. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his landlady relax, and a moment later the door clicked to. What wild speculations would she be indulging in now, he wondered, grinning. Not the most charitable, of that he could be certain.

  'I'll explain,' Catriona said, 'but that's not important. Well, I suppose it is, but not right at this moment. This is about your business.'

  'My business? What have you to do with that? Something about the printing, you mean? But why is it so important you have to come here so late at night? And how did you know where I lived? Oh, I do beg your pardon. My wits have gone begging. Please, will you sit down? And can I take your cloak? It's not very cold in here, even though there's so little fire left.'

  'Yes, it is late. I'm sorry, but I felt that if I didn't seize this opportunity, I might never have another.'

  She took off her cloak and Rory placed it over the arm of a chair, then led her to the
one closest to the fire. She sat down, breathing deeply, and he pulled up another chair to sit beside her.

  Catriona held out her hands to the slight warmth, and shivered. 'I got cold waiting for you outside the hotel, but you walked so fast I had to run to keep up with you. That ought to have warmed me, but suddenly I feel chilled again.'

  Rory took her hands in his. They were icy, and he began to chafe them gently. 'Opportunity for what?' he asked.

  'To save your business. To make the printing accurate, so that you can make a profit and please your uncle. Rory, Mr Napier, I can help you do that if only you'll listen to me.'

  *****

  Rory sat in his office the following morning, wondering whether it had all been a dream. Catriona had made some astounding proposals, and had seemed ready to talk all night, despite valiant attempts to conceal her increasingly frequent yawns. Eventually, by promising to see her here this morning, he had persuaded her to allow him to take her back to the hotel. They'd walked back through the empty streets and he'd waited in the stable yard watching her climb the outside staircase to her dormitory.

  She'd explained briefly how she came to be in Glasgow, dismissing his attempts to offer sympathy on her mother's death, being more intent on explaining how she knew about his difficulties with the printing and his uncle. She'd promised to be here early, but Rory, unable to sleep for the speculations churning through his head, had risen at dawn and arrived well before anyone else.

  Would she come? Surely it had not all been a dream? But he could still feel her hands in his as he'd warmed them, catch the scent of heather which lingered in her gown, and see the intricate, multi-coloured pattern of leaves on the fabric. They were not dreams. Nor was the curious glance of his landlady that morning, when, leaving the house so early, he had met her sweeping the tiles in the hallway.

  She'd wished him good morning, trusted the visitor had not kept him from his bed for too long – he grinned, appreciating her choice of words – and remarked on his unusually early rising.