The Scottish Witch

by Cathy Maxwell

  “I pray you do.”

  He sidled over to Portia, lowering his voice. “I don’t believe Lady Emma is happy you are here. Your sister is too attractive.”

  Portia frowned. “Lady Emma has no grudge against us,” she said, knowing that was not true. “And Lady Emma is attractive as well.”

  “But not as lovely as Miss Minerva. It is embarrassing how headstrong and jealous my employer’s daughter is. She is also his one weakness. He cannot deny her anything. There has been talk since you all arrived in the kirk that Miss Minerva outshines Lady Emma.”

  Portia was aware of this. “But my sister is no threat to her. Her affection is fixed on Mr. Tolliver.”

  “That’s not the word being bandied about in the valley. They say your sister rejected Mr. Tolliver. There are many hard feelings toward your family. Mr. Tolliver is very well respected, and, pardon my saying this, Miss Portia, you are English. We expect the English to be fickle.”

  “Minnie is not fickle,” Portia shot back at him in an angry whisper. This is what her mother’s meddling had wrought. “ ‘They’ are wrong in what they say. My sister is steadfast in her character and her affections and you can tell them that. As for your rent, tell the duke he shall be paid.”

  “When?”

  Portia hated that word, especially from landlords.

  “May I have two weeks? We are expecting funds from family members. I don’t know what has delayed the mail,” she lied, suspecting Uncle Ned had not sent a shilling. “It will arrive any day.”

  “Portia, is everything all right?” Minnie asked from the doorway.

  Portia looked at her lovely sister, whose brow was furrowed in concern. “All is well, dear.” She turned back to Mr. Buchanan and gave him a ferocious frown. “Two weeks?” she demanded.

  “One,” Mr. Buchanan answered. “I value my position and can’t have too many questions asked. Contact your relatives. Sell something. Do what you must. The duke will hold off Lady Emma’s demands if you are right with him.”

  “I shall be.”

  “I did not mean to be a burden to you, Miss Portia.”

  “I understand.” She found it difficult to unbend toward him. He was speaking out of kindness and with the truth. It didn’t make his message any more palatable.

  “I shall say good day to you then.” Mr. Buchanan left the room.

  Minnie saw him out and then returned to the sitting room. “We need money, don’t we?”

  “Oh yes. It seems the duke’s daughter is jealous of your beauty.”

  “My beauty?” Minnie scoffed. “What nonsense. I’ve seen Lady Emma. She’s lovely.”

  “But you are lovelier, dear, because you are beautiful inside as well. Lady Emma would like you banished from anyplace near her.”

  “You are jesting.”

  “I’m not.”

  Minnie’s face had gone pale. “I can’t leave. I can’t leave Ollie.”

  “I believe there is something else I must tell you,” Portia said. Owl was wrong. Minnie needed to know. She drew her sister over to the settee. As gently as Portia could, she explained what their mother had done.

  Predictably, Minnie did not take Mr. Tolliver’s defection lightly. She burst into tears and then tore up the stairs to confront their mother. In the sitting room, Portia could hear the angry argument. Moments later, her sister still noisily crying, she slammed the door on the way out of their mother’s room and then slammed her own bedroom door.

  Lady Maclean came downstairs. She was still wearing her lace dressing gown. She stopped in the doorway when she saw Portia, and smiled, pleased with herself, before turning and climbing the stairs for the haven of her room.

  Owl jumped up on the settee beside Portia.

  Portia ran her hand over the animal’s silky fur. “You warned me not to tell her,” she confessed to the animal. “But she had a right to know. She was waiting for him, Owl. She loves him.” She paused and asked, “Why isn’t life easier, Owl? Why must Minnie and I always be the ones who wait. I just wish something would happen. I’m so weary with all this worry about money and Mother and Minnie’s happiness. I can’t continue like this. I don’t want to.”

  The sting of tears in her eyes surprised her. She angrily brushed them away, frowned at her cat, and confessed, “I just wish life held something more. I can’t believe this is all there is, one day just like another . . .”

  Owl nudged her hand with her pink nose as if in commiseration.

  “I know, I shouldn’t wallow in pity. It’s just sometimes, Owl, I wish my life wasn’t the way it is. Maybe sometimes, I wish there was a man by my side who could deal with Mother and Mr. Buchanan and Uncle Ned. A man with heart and courage and kindness, but not too gentle. Not like Mr. Tolliver. He is sometimes fastidious. But I’d want a man of a more robust measure. Someone exciting.” She shook her head at her silliness. “I’m being foolish, but yes, there are times I long for someone. Times I’m lonely.” She pushed the bridge of her spectacles. “I’m old. I’m what I am. This is my life.”

  She looked around the bleak room with its worn furniture and bare floor. “It is not so bad.” She stroked the cat’s back. “It’s good actually. All is good,” she repeated to convince herself.

  Owl arched her back, wanting to enjoy every inch of Portia’s pat.

  “I should be like you and savor each moment as it is, shouldn’t I? The best thing to do right now is carry on . . . and write my uncle.” Portia put all her frustration about the situation in that last word. He was far from a loving relative.

  She rose and walked over to the writing table. She hated begging. Hated it. But what else could be done?

  Her letter to her uncle was not a newsy, pleasant one. She’d written those before to no avail. This time, she was direct. She let him know the family was in desperate straits and reminded him of the sum of fifty pounds a year he’d promised them when last they had a serious discussion. It should be enough for them to live in Scotland. Otherwise, we may need to return to London and become a burden to your household, she penned thinking that might be threat enough for her bachelor uncle.

  Portia took a coin to frank the letter, put on her cloak, and went out the door to walk to the Glenfinnan House to post the letter. The clouds in the sky had grown heavier. There would be rain, but after so many months in Scotland, Portia never let the weather stop her from doing anything. Owl followed her to the end of the drive before disappearing into the woods.

  There wasn’t much to Glenfinnan other than the Glenfinnan House, the home of Laird Macdonald. However, the Scots in the River Finnan Valley around Loch Shiel considered it a village, and so Portia had come to think such as well. The community itself was spread over the countryside. The Christmas Assembly would be held in Borrodale’s barn. Portia had never seen the building but had been informed it was a fine structure and unlike any barn she could imagine.

  Portia had also discovered, after so many years of living in town, that she liked country life. Yes, Scotland was damp and cold, but the air was clean and there was freedom here as well. She’d not be able to walk the road unescorted in London, even considering her age. She also liked that the Scots didn’t stand on ceremony. Clan alliances were more important than titles, and so the children of Jack Maclean had been, albeit somewhat tepidly, welcomed even though they spoke with English voices.

  Exercise and fresh air heartened her spirits.

  A plan of action began to form in her mind. She would find a way to contact Mr. Tolliver and convince him of Minnie’s love. And Uncle Ned would honor his pledge and send money. She just had to think positively—

  The sound of a galloping horse interrupted her thoughts mere seconds before the animal came charging around the bend. A huge, dark beast with hooves the size of mallets, and it was right upon her.

  Portia barely had time to blink, let alone move. Indeed, her fee
t had suddenly grown roots to the ground.

  The rider was a man in a greatcoat, the brim of his hat pulled low over his face as protection against the wind. He rode as if driven by some unseen power. Both he and the horse noticed her at the last possible moment, and there didn’t seem time to save her from being run over.

  Chapter Two

  Portia threw her hands up in the air to protect herself . . . but the accident did not happen. Hard hooves did not strike her.

  The rider pulled back with all his might, heaving the giant horse away from her. The steed reared and twisted midair. The flailing of hooves was so close to Portia’s head she could feel their movement in the air and smell the sweat of the beast.

  Then, out of sheer athleticism, the horse turned away. It started to slide, losing its balance on the muddy road, but regained his footing.

  The man never lost his seat. Indeed, he barely moved. He rode as if he and the horse were one.

  She lowered her arms, amazed she was safe.

  The horse pranced in place, the white of its eyes rolling. The rider’s scowl was so deep and angry it was more frightening than the near accident.

  “Don’t you have sense to stay out of the road?” he demanded in a harsh voice that could have belonged to the devil himself.

  He didn’t wait for her defense but put heels to flank and went riding away in a flurry of hooves and dirt, the hem of his greatcoat flying behind him like a cape.

  Portia watched him go . . . and then came as close as she ever had in her life to fainting.

  “Miss Maclean,” she heard a man shout. “Are you all right?”

  Dazed, Portia turned toward the sound to see Laird Macdonald’s gardener Robbie running toward her.

  “I saw what happened,” Robbie said in his brogue. “I was thinking for certain you were going to be trampled.”

  “I was as well,” Portia said. Her legs had begun to shake.

  “Here, miss, take me arm.”

  Gratefully, Portia did as suggested. He led her toward the stone manse that served as Laird Alexander Macdonald’s seat as well as an inn since the laird proudly honored the Highland custom of an open house.

  Laird Macdonald was a young man and had great plans for Glenfinnan. These included the building of a proper inn and a monument to his ancestors who had served the Jacobite call. It appeared almost complete. The tower and building overlooked the loch and could be seen from the house.

  Portia thought it rather silly of the laird to build such a tower. Yes, she had Scottish roots but held English loyalties—and the ’45 uprising was not something she thought a prudent man should commemorate. Of course, her opinion was not shared by most of the valley and she kept it to herself.

  Then again, no one had ever accused Laird Alexander Macdonald of Glenalladale of being prudent. He was a rake through and through, a man who owed everyone money, including the Bishop of Lismore. Fortunately for Portia’s peace of mind, the laird had been spending the majority of his time in Edinburgh, or else, such was his reputation, they would have had to lock up Minnie.

  Mrs. Margaret Macdonald, the laird’s housekeeper, held the door open for them. She was a robust woman with a frizz of strawberry curls beneath her mob cap. “I saw what happened. I was looking out the window and I saw that bounder almost bowl you over. Here, come in, Miss Maclean. A bit of whiskey will make you feel right,” she promised in her lilting accent.

  Before Portia could blink, she’d been gently set in a chair before the fire in the sitting room, and a dram of amber whiskey had been pushed into her hand. “Drink,” Mrs. Macdonald ordered. She and Robbie had poured a dram for themselves as well.

  Portia took a tentative sip. Whiskey drinking was not a habit she’d cultivated yet. It seemed to her that everyone, man, woman and child across the countryside, indulged in whiskey a wee bit too much. However, this time the whiskey was appreciated. The smoky flavor of it did not put her off, and the warmth that spread to her limbs helped restore her frayed nerves. Her legs stopped shaking and she found breathing easier.

  “Who was that man?” she asked the servants.

  “A Chattan,” Robbie answered, spitting the word out.

  “A Chattan?” Portia repeated.

  “Yes, he’s Colonel Harry Chattan. And they are not all bad, Robbie,” Mrs. Macdonald said. “There is a good line of them.”

  “Aye, the Scottish ones. Fought alongside us in ’45. But he’s of English line. Traitors all,” Robbie said, spitting in actuality this time, aiming for the hearth. Portia was surprised Mrs. Macdonald didn’t want his hide for spitting in her clean house.

  The rain threatening all morning finally came. The sound of it made this meeting in the sitting room more intimate, and slightly more sinister.

  “What would an English Chattan be doing in Glenfinnan?” Portia asked.

  “He’s witch hunting,” Mrs. Macdonald said.

  For a second, Portia wasn’t certain she’d heard her correctly. She almost laughed until she realized the Scots were serious.

  Robbie had taken a seat on a footstool close to Portia’s chair. He placed a knowing finger against the side of his nose. “And well he should.”

  “Has he found any?” Portia had to ask, expecting the answer to be no. There was no such thing as a witch.

  “We steered him to Crazy Lizzy, but he wasn’t satisfied,” Mrs. Macdonald answered.

  “Lizzy is not a witch,” Portia said. “Granted she’s not all there, either.” Crazy Lizzy was an old woman who lived in a hut in the woods. She spent the day talking to herself but she was harmless. Portia tried to take a food basket to her at least once a week, and she wasn’t the only one. Mrs. Macdonald was known to send loaves of bread to the poor soul.

  “I know that,” Mrs. Macdonald said, “but the man was offering three hundred pounds sterling. I thought it worth the effort.”

  Portia almost fell from the chair. “Three hundred pounds.” With three hundred pounds, the rent would be paid and they wouldn’t have to worry about money for years. No more worries, no more debtors, no more struggle.

  “Why is he looking for a witch?” Portia asked.

  “Because he is cursed,” Robbie answered, sitting back on the stool and crossing both arms and legs.

  “Cursed?” This time Portia did laugh. Neither Robbie nor Mrs. Macdonald joined her.

  “You can make light of it, Miss Maclean, but be certain the English Chattans don’t. ’Tis all Charles Chattan’s fault. He handfasted himself to a Scottish lass but betrayed her love when he and his kin went running to England to marry him to an English heiress.”

  “When did this happen?” Portia asked.

  “Hundreds of years ago,” Robbie answered.

  “Then why does it matter?”

  Robbie stared at her as if she was a fool. “It has never stopped mattering,” he said. “The Scottish lass took her own life. Everyone knows the story.”

  Mrs. Macdonald nodded agreement.

  “I don’t know it,” Portia said.

  A gleam came to Robbie’s eyes. He had the Highlanders’ love of a good tale. He uncrossed his legs and leaned toward her. “The Scottish lass’s love was true and when Chattan betrayed her, she threw herself from a tower.”

  “Aye, sad thing it was, the poor little dear,” Mrs. Macdonald said.

  “Did this happen here?” Portia asked.

  “No one is certain,” Robbie answered. “The lass was known as Rose of the Macnachtan, and a bonny lass she was. They say she was the most lovely flower in Scotland and had a gift.”

  Portia frowned. “A gift?”

  “For the sight,” Robbie answered. “For things that we mere mortals cannot imagine. Her mother was a witch and a powerful one, they say. She had her daughter’s beautiful body burned on a shore of a loch and she stood on a rock overlooking the funeral pyre. On t
hat rock, she cursed the English Chattans before she leaped from that rock onto her daughter’s own burning body.”

  No image could be more horrifying to Portia’s always active imagination. The room had seemed to darken. The flames in the hearth leaped and danced as if saying, Yes, it is so.

  “How are they cursed?” Portia asked Robbie.

  “When a Chattan falls in love, he is struck dead. The witch wanted to curse them good. She wanted them to suffer for all time in the way she suffered.”

  Logic scoffed at the story. This could not be true.

  And yet, here, in this room, with Mrs. Macdonald’s head nodding to the particulars of Robbie’s story, Portia would not be human if she didn’t feel a shiver of foreboding.

  “Did the faithless lover, this Charles, die?” Portia wanted to know.

  “He did,” Robbie assured her.

  “And are the Chattans still dying?” Portia wondered.

  Robbie smiled with ghoulish delight. “Chattan is here looking for a witch, isn’t he?” He sat back, reaching for his whiskey. “We used to have many Chattans in these parts. We lost a good number of them in ’15 and in ’45. Almost wiped out the clan. They were puny fighters. A good number left with John Macdonald when he went to the colonies. Of course, the English Chattans don’t care. They’ve been living the good life in London and beyond, counting their money and the days they have left.” He cackled his pleasure.

  But Portia’s mind was no longer focused on the curse. Perhaps it was the whiskey, or maybe the rain and the telling of the story, or perhaps it was her own desperate circumstances . . . but an idea began to form, an idea so daring, it shocked her.

  “And this Chattan almost ran me over because he couldn’t find a witch?” Portia heard herself asking.

  “I don’t know, Miss Maclean,” Mrs. Macdonald said. “The post left a letter for him here. He read it, crumpled it in his hand, stormed out of the house, and went tearing away as if no one else in the world mattered. Oh, foul of mood he was, and that’s why he almost ran you down.”