Full Mackintosh

by Deb Kemper

  Full Mackintosh

  A Scottish Yarn

  Deb Kemper

  debkemper.com

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise – without prior written permission of the author except as provided by United States of America copyright law and except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters to people, living or dead, is unintentional.

  Historical facts are correct.

  Copyright © 2013 Deb Kemper

  All rights reserved.

  Chapter 1

  The Raid and the Rabbi’s Daughter

  August 1714 Aberdeen, Scotland’s quay

  Amalie’s nose wrinkled at the stench of coarse stalls near the quay.

  She grasped her youngest brother’s arm, stepping into the filthy street, across a stream of refuse.

  Shouting over the noise, she turned. “Asa, let’s get back now the rain’s stopped. A strange feeling plagues this market, far worse than rotten fish.”

  Asa grimaced when the man behind stumbled into him. “I’ll be glad to start home tomorrow.” The tall twelve-year-old faltered. Another mariner pushed him.

  She smiled and called back to him. “I know, lad.”

  They turned the corner into the main thoroughfare. Stunned, their steps froze. A mob of wailing children charged into them.

  The press of humanity behind had them penned.

  Hysterical women dashed amongst the throng, desperate to grab their offspring.

  Caught in the melee, Asa and Amalie’s hold on each other failed. The expanding tempest captured them.

  “Och! Asa, where are you?” Amalie panicked.

  Her market basket slipped off her arm, smashing to pieces underfoot. She spun, battered on every side. Disoriented, she stretched to see over the crowd of hundreds, hunting, in vain, for her brother.

  “Asa!” She cried, lost her balance, and fell forward.

  She scrambled, regaining her feet, before the swarm trampled her.

  “Asa!” She reeled through the multitude of fear-sodden bodies into a side street.

  A rough seafaring man with a baton blocked her way. He slapped the heavy stick on his palm, grinning as his cleft tongue flicked over his crusted lips.

  Horrified, she fled back into the youngsters streaming toward the waterfront.

  Amalie staggered into a small lean-to. She tied a kertch over her brilliant russet hair, stooped, and eased back through the opening. Desperately she combed the horde of boys and young men, searching for Asa’s dark red hair.

  British soldiers, side by side, moved forward to corral the swelling mob. The only option—board the waiting ships. All other avenues were blocked.

  Slave transports! God, I’ve heard tales of these nightmares but never dreamed to witness such depravity!

  Men with whips stood by to keep the mass together.

  Ten feet from her refuge, a lad, no more than six summers, ducked and made a break for freedom.

  She tried to tear her eyes away as a soldier raised his musket.

  He fired on the boy’s retreating back.

  She stuffed her fist against her mouth to quell an outcry.

  The small form hurled to the ground amidst massive hemorrhaging. Intestines scattered to pillow the soft blonde curls of his head, stirring in the sea breeze.

  He gasped a single breath, his bright blue eyes wide.

  Dumb silence struck the horde.

  A scream frayed nerves, as a young blond haired woman threw herself across the small lifeless body.

  Amalie stumbled backward, propped against the wall of the shed, and vomited, splattering the skirt of her dress. She took a deep breath and wiped her hand across her mouth. She pushed the scene from her mind.

  Please, God! I must find Asa!

  She leaned out again and searched the knot of boys nearby.

  A familiar movement, in the midst of them caught her eye.

  She hunched to disguise her height and inched her way to him.

  “Asa!” she hissed. “Come away, now!” He ducked and followed her to the shed holding the back of her yellow dress clenched in both hands.

  She lifted the lid off a large wooden barrel that stank of fetid grease. “Get in. Don’t come out until everyone’s gone, no matter how long it takes. Be quiet and still. Your life depends on it!”

  She stole out the doorway and around the corner. After dark I’ll go back for him. Surely there’s a place nearby to hide, until the ships load. She glanced behind her.

  A strong, rough hand grabbed her arms.

  The assailant swung her over his shoulder.

  Her screams went unheeded amidst the panicked throng.

  Chapter 2

  The Mackintosh

  Garth Mackintosh swaggered through stalls in the marketplace of Inverness approaching the auction house. His long stride and scowl kept vendors from accosting him. His dark blonde hair swung past his broad shoulders, hazel eyes squinting into the bright sunlight.

  “What’ll ye bid for this fine lassie?” shouted Tavish, the auctioneer, as he passed a calloused hand over his matted beard.

  The young woman beside him kept her eyes cast down, one scuffed ivory shoulder exposed through a tear in her grimy yellow dress. Her curly auburn hair glistened in the bright sunlight, despite being a disheveled mess, peppered with moldy straw.

  Garth turned to catch a glimpse of the beauty. The one red-haired lass I knew was more than this braw lad could handle.

  He couldn’t pass. He joined the rear of the gathering as the auctioneer read off a list of her attributes. “She can read and write Gaelic, French, and English.”

  “Ah….” A murmur swept the crowd. Speculation began in earnest.

  Tavish spotted Garth. “Milord, you need help with yer wee lasses? Here’s a choice tidbit…I mean a fine lady. Cleaned up she’d be a looker, eh?” The auctioneer chuckled.

  The crowd cautiously joined him in amusement.

  “How come she to be on the auction block?” A man near Garth shouted.

  “Sold by her da to settle a debt. Celt by birth.”

  I can’t escape fast enough! Garth turned away.

  “Can I get a pound for this…?” The voice faded as he put distance between himself and the market.

  He felt a strange stirring in his belly and relented, taking a half dozen steps to return.

  “Garth!” A familiar voice called out over the crowd.

  He spied his cousin. “Quentin, where ye been, lad? I’d all but given up on ye.”

  “The auctioneer’s stall. Do ye see the red-haired woman? Old man McGowan’s the highest bidder fer her. Too beautiful to waste on a mongrel, she is.” His raven black hair glistened in the bright light, blue eyes narrowed in the glare.

  “What’s he bid?” Where did that come from?

  Quentin Aitkenson grinned. “Two shillings when I come away to tell ye I’m here.”

  Garth considered his options. What’ll I do with her? My daughters need instruction. Mary wished it for them. His gut rolled at the thought of his wife, lost in childbirth.

  He pulled his sporran from his belt, tossing it to Quentin. “Here, go back and outbid that devil. Don’t let him at her. If ye need more, sign a note. I’ll make it good. I must get to the assembly. Go on then!”

  Amalie groaned inwardly. The old man bidding for her moved within sight of her downcast eyes. He smacked his lips and chuckled as he perused her body, scratching himself through filthy trews.

  “One pound!” A shout off to her ri
ght brightened hope.

  The old man grimaced and searched the crowd for the opposition. He muttered, “Looks like one of the Mackintosh clan—bloody bastads.”

  “And a shillin’,” McGowan responded. He resumed his study of the Irish lass.

  “Two pounds!” The voice grew louder as Quentin edged closer.

  “Rrrr, damnation!” McGowan growled and ran his eyes over her again. “Three pounds!”

  The sound of the competition’s voice rang nearer the platform. “Five pounds!”

  Amalie ventured a peek at him. A handsome lad, but can any outcome rate as high as freedom? Her dark eyes returned to the weathered boards beneath her feet.

  “Arggh!” The old man snarled, then shouted. “Ye can have her then! She ain’t worth half that. Wha’ do I nee’ wit’ a educated woman?” He glared at her. “Ye coulda had a real man tonight.”

  She glowered down at him. “My loss I’m sure, sir.”

  The tall, dark-haired Scotsman elbowed his way through patrons towards his cousin’s purchase. He looked up and smiled at Amalie, his voice kind. “What’re ye called, miss?”

  She watched him pay the auctioneer before she answered. “Amalie.”

  Tavish cut away her bonds. She massaged her wrists and tugged her sleeves down.

  The handsome young man offered his hand. “Amalie, my name’s Quentin Aitkenson. I’m the Mackintosh champion. I’ll escort ye from this wretched place.” He took her hand and kept it as she stepped down. “We’ll buy ye a cloak and be on our way home.”

  Chapter 3

  The Castle in Badenoch

  Amalie entered a bedroom behind the housekeeper. “Here be yer rooms, miss. Water’s heatin’ fer yer tub. I’ll find ye some clothes to wear. Ye’re only a little taller than I.” She sniffed and left the young woman with no doubt she needed bathing.

  “Thank you very much, ma’am. I washed off a bit when we stopped but a real bath would be welcome.”

  The older lady glanced up at the cultured voice. “Ye’re Irish?”

  “Aye, ma’am.” Amalie held her gaze.

  A smile crept onto the well-lined face. “As am I, lass. My name’s Mildred Douglas. I’m the chatelaine. My husband runs the stable in the barmekin. Ye may call me Millie. Everyone does. How’d ye come to look like ye do, rough travel?”

  “My brothers and I visited our aunt in Aberdeen. Her housekeeper took ill. I, with my youngest brother, went to market for her. Four days ago, while we were there, a raid began.

  “Hundreds of seamen and soldiers rushed through the streets grabbin’ boys. I followed closely and managed to snatch my brother back. I hid him well and made him promise to run home as soon as everyone left the wharf. I was nabbed and thrown aboard a ship for two days; then found myself at market in Inverness. Yer master purchased me. I don’t know why.” She shook her head sadly, relieved to have a confidant at last.

  “Have ye met The Mackintosh, then?” Millie inquired with a frown.

  “Nay, his cousin fed, clothed, and brought me here.” Amalie viewed the room, simple, but well furnished.

  Millie nodded. “Laird Garth will want to speak with ye when he arrives. After yer bath, come down the back stairs, as ye came in, and find me. I’ll take ye to him.”

  A knock at the door startled Amalie. She caught her hand to her racing heart.

  Millie reached over and squeezed her arm. “It’s jest Gerty and the lads with your water. Ye’ve nothing to fear in this place, child.” Millie opened the door to a young woman followed by three healthy lads, each hoisting copper kettles of warm water.

  “Here we are, then.” The maid led them to the next room. They filled her tub and left. “Miss, I laid out yer towel. Shall I help ye bathe?” She worked as she spoke, fluffing pillows on the bed, smoothing the quilt on top.

  Millie smiled and shook her head. “Amalie, this is Gerty. Gerty, this is yer new charge. Come along with me, I’ll get ye clothes for the miss.” She nodded and left the room.

  Amalie turned to Gerty. “I thank you for your offer but I can manage.”

  “All right then, I’ll be back with garments directly, ma’am.” She curtsied and left Amalie alone.

  After the luxurious bath, she brushed out her long auburn hair, still damp from washing, braided, and wrapped it into a bun. As she pinned it back, wispy, stray curls slipped her clasp. She ran her hands down the front of her borrowed dark grey skirt and straightened the high collar on the white blouse.

  At least the sleeves are long enough….Presentable for a slave to meet her master?

  She heard a tap on the door and Gerty stuck her blond head in with a smile. “Ye ready, miss?”

  “I am.” Amalie swallowed her nervousness.

  “Millie sent me fer ye. Master’s home and wants a word with ye before dinner. Come on, then. Ye look right smart cleaned up. I’ll take care of yer dress and have it back to ye by morn.” Gerty grinned as she led her down the hall to the front staircase.

  “Thank you, Gerty. I appreciate your help.”

  Substantial oak newel posts anchored thick balusters, blackened by centuries of soot and hundreds of hands. She followed Gerty down the curved stone stairs as they entered the gallery and foyer.

  I have to be mindful I’m in Scotland. The Highlanders have been a rough lot for centuries, not nearly as refined as my Irish kin.

  Gerty led her to a tall, broad oak door and paused, lowering her voice. “Don’t be fearful of him. He’s a kind man, mostly.” She knocked, turned the latch, and pushed her way in, bowing her head as she entered. Amalie followed her.

  “Miss Amalie, sir.” Gerty glanced up at Garth Mackintosh as he rose to his full six-and-a-half feet. She backed out of the room, pulling the door with her.

  Amalie stood just inside, unsure what to do next, but tried to appear composed.

  “Come in.” The Mackintosh indicated a chair by the fire. His dark blonde, wavy hair swayed across his wide shoulders. “Please, sit here where it’s warm.” He laid a large leather satchel aside and waited as she made her way across the dim room.

  Stone walls, darkened through the centuries, absorbed light from three lamps. Heavy, dusky fabric draped a large window before it puddled on a wool rug overlaying the stone floor.

  “Thank you kindly.” She kept her gaze low, had trouble meeting his eyes when she dared look up. She perched ramrod straight on the edge of the seat.

  “So, yer name’s Amalie?” He sat back in his chair.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Please look at me, lass.” He spoke gently.

  She smiled as she found courage to honor his request. “Hardly a lass, sir. Twenty-five summers have passed since my first breath.”

  He smiled with delight. “Ye look, to me, not much older than my daughter, Mallow. Might we try again?” He extended his large hand to her. “I’m Garth Mackintosh, laird of the castle, keep, and lands two days’ ride in all directions beyond.”

  She hesitantly reached out her hand; felt it lost in his grasp. “Amalie Rebekah… Sullivan…lately sold as a slave to you.” Her eyes narrowed as she waited for his response.

  His grip continued. “I keep no slaves here. I redeemed ye. Ye’ll be in my house because ye want to be or I’ll send ye home. Where’re ye from?” He awkwardly released her soft hand.

  “My aunt’s in Aberdeen, sir. I’m from Dublin.” She dropped her gaze again, finding it difficult to maintain her courage after the past few days of turmoil.

  “Millie shared yer story with me. I’ve no time, at present, to return ye to yer people, but I’ll take ye soon as harvest’s done. But if ye write a letter, I’ll see it posted. Yer family needs to know ye’re safe.”

  “Thank you, sir. It’s very kind of you.” She frowned up into his deep-set hazel eyes, took note of his hard planed, sun-darkened face and an old scar along his left cheek.

  “I ken ye’re a teacher?” He leaned his huge arms on his knees. The green and red breacan of his kilt brightened his white linen shirt
in the dark room.

  Her eyes fell on curly hair spilling out the top of his open neckline. She blinked and looked away.

  “Yes, sir. I teach Gaelic, French, and English, also sums, science, and music.”

  “Might ye take some time with my girls? Mallow’s almost twelve summers, Jessica four.”

  Amalie’s dark eyes gleamed. “I’d be delighted. I owe you three month’s wage for my purchase. To be able to cancel the debt would mean a great deal to me.”

  Garth nodded with a smile. “We’ve a bargain, then. Ye report to me daily in eventide, say nine o’clock?”

  “Aye, laird. How may I meet your daughters?”

  “Gerty tends their needs. She’ll take ye through on the morrow. May I see ye to dinner now?” He stood.

  She followed suit.

  “I’d be honored.” Amalie blushed as he tucked her hand into the bend of his arm and led her to the door. His great size made her height feel insignificant. Her head barely reached his shoulder.

  They crossed the gallery. She glimpsed portraits of long dead clan leaders, beneath laid two large Scotch Collies, studying their progress.

  At the immense double door to the dining hall Garth hesitated. “Family’s here. We dine in the smaller hall evens when there’re no other guests. Don’t worry about names. Ye’ll meet ’em as ye get round to it.” He released her hand and opened the door.

  She stepped through. All but two women at the end of the table stood for their entry. Wooden chair legs dragged harshly over the rough stone floor.

  The first person she saw was Quentin. He grinned and nodded her direction.

  Garth pulled out her chair. “This is Miss Amalie. She’s here to instruct the girls.” He turned to her. “Amalie, my family.”

  She took a deep breath and dared to look beyond Quentin. Seven young men bowed acknowledgement to her as she took her seat.

  The dowager occupied the upper end of the vast oak table. As they exchanged glances, the handsome woman dipped her head once, her eyes cold.