The Scottish Witch

by Cathy Maxwell

  But at this moment, she was feeling, well, rebellious—and she didn’t understand why.

  What had changed?

  “Yes, it is true I was alone,” their mother said, “when your father was away in the service of his country.”

  “He was away spending his money on his own happiness without a thought or care for us,” Portia said. “You may pretend it was something else, but I won’t. We struggled to put food on our table even when he was alive. He’s only been dead three years but I’ve barely noticed a change in our lives.”

  “Except I’m a widow,” their mother declared.

  “If I’d been his wife, I would have been a widow much sooner, such as the first time he stepped out of line,” Portia announced, a declaration that earned a scream of horror from her parent, but Portia was in the mood to be ruthless. “In fact, you should encourage General Montheath, Mother. Then you will have a man who would truly take care of you.”

  For a second, Lady Maclean appeared ready for an attack of apoplexy.

  “Mother, Mother, please, you are upsetting yourself,” Minnie said, but the words were directed at Portia as a command for her to ease off their parent.

  Lady Maclean punctuated Minnie’s chastisement by breaking into tears. “I don’t understand what has happened to my girls. Minerva has contracted a marriage, announcing it in front of everyone without so much as a by-your-leave from me—”

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” Minnie said, sounding as if she meant the words. Such was the power of their mother’s tears on her youngest.

  “And Portia is trying to push me in a direction I do not wish to go. Why, you may ask? Because, apparently, she’s tired of comforting me in my dotage. She wants to rid herself of me.”

  “You are far from your dotage,” Minnie hastened to say. “And you will always have a place at Oliver’s and my table.”

  But those promises didn’t offer solace. Directing her comments to Portia, Lady Maclean said, “I know your father wasn’t a good husband, but what could be done? I’d married him. I tried to make the best of things but I’m not like you, Portia. You don’t need a man. You will survive one way or the other.”

  “Yes, I will,” Portia agreed, her jaw tightening with determination, even as she wondered—She didn’t need a man? Where had that idea come from?

  “And that is the worst,” their mother said, “because it is not natural. A woman should be submissive and you are not in the least bit docile.”

  Portia pulled back on the reins so hard, Honey’s front feet left the ground. She turned to her mother, stunned by the accusation. “I am perfectly fine.”

  “Oh please,” Lady Maclean said. “If you were fine, you would want a husband and a family—”

  “I’m trying to keep this family together,” Portia answered.

  “Which is my original point. You are the child who will stay and take care of me in my declining years.” And then she had the audacity to smile, because she’d neatly maneuvered Portia to where she wanted her.

  And Portia realized the whole purpose of the argument had been lost. She really had only herself to blame. Why hadn’t she tossed aside all worries for family years ago and encouraged one of those young men who had courted her?

  Because she hadn’t wanted either of them. Her gentleman callers had not pleased her. She’d thought them boring and had preferred being alone than with one of them. Perhaps she was unnatural.

  The idea was unsettling. Almost as unsettling as her realization that Minnie didn’t speak up to counter their mother’s accusation. Did she believe Portia was unnatural as well?

  Portia snapped the reins and trotted Honey home.

  When they reached their front door, Portia broke her silence with a terse, “We’re home.”

  “Yes, please don’t be too long seeing to the animals,” Lady Maclean said, rising and opening the door of the pony cart.

  “Do you need some help?” Minnie asked.

  Portia swiveled in her seat to glare as hard as she could at her sister who had not stepped up to defend her. It felt good to have a focus for her own discontent.

  “Do you?” Minnie repeated, apparently unmoved by the glare.

  “It won’t take but a moment,” Portia replied through clenched teeth.

  Minnie ignored her ill temper. “Then I shall help Mother. I’ll see you inside.” Minnie hopped out of the cart.

  “Yes, go help Mother,” Portia echoed. Minnie waved off her mockery.

  Portia steamed with anger as she drove Honey around to the stables. The pony, a milk cow, and two goats were stabled here. On the side of the barn was a coop for Minnie’s chickens and geese.

  Portia wasted no time putting Honey up for the night. In fact, she threw the hay into the stall.

  But as she worked, her temper cooled, to be replaced by hurt.

  Hadn’t her mother seen her dancing with Colonel Chattan? Of course, he had a motive for asking her to dance, but her mother didn’t know that. Mr. Longacre had asked her as well. There, that was two men who hadn’t seen her as too old for interest . . . although Mr. Longacre was very elderly himself.

  Yes, she was over five and twenty. Yes, she had a sharp tongue. But, no, she wasn’t ready to be tucked away and ignored.

  And she’d just realized that tonight.

  Owl came into the barn with a meow of greeting. She jumped up on a keg barrel turned upside down.

  “Is it wrong to want something more?” Portia asked the cat as she gave her a pet.

  Purring, Owl arched her back and seemed to shake her head no.

  Portia had to laugh. She gave the cat human qualities far too often.

  But on this point, Owl might be wrong. Colonel Chattan’s face rose in Portia’s mind. He’d even smelled good. His shaving soap had some sandalwood in it but there was a masculine air about him as well. Handsome, intense, intelligent . . . and a man on a quest. Could there be a combination of qualities in a man more devastating to the female heart?

  Or should she say hearts? He had created quite a stir with the women at the Assembly and she’d be wise to remember that some things were beyond her reach.

  Portia left the barn and walked to the house, Owl trailing behind her.

  It was a long time before she fell asleep, and when she did, she dreamed of dancing . . . in Colonel Chattan’s arms. It was a silly dream. An impossible one.

  Portia overslept the next morning. She wasn’t the only one. Her mother and Minnie were still abed. She made quick work of her toilette, weaving her unruly curls into one long braid and scrubbing her face. She reached for her glasses and then remembered her mother had not returned them the night before. She would ask for them back once her mother woke, and then wear them every day just to spite her.

  Downstairs, Glennis was busy cooking and cleaning. “The day is half over, miss. I’ve not known you to hug your pillow.”

  “It was a late night,” Portia murmured.

  “And an eventful one. I hear you have news.”

  Portia smiled. “Yes, my sister has accepted Mr. Tolliver’s proposal for her hand.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “Yes, he is,” Portia said, buttering a slice of Glennis’s fresh bread for her breakfast.

  “Now we need to find a husband for you who is just as good.”

  Portia almost laughed. At least there was one person who didn’t see her as completely on the shelf. “You’d best start on that task, Glennis,” she teased. “It might take you most of your life.”

  “Och, it won’t be that hard.”

  “We shall see,” Portia said, and slipped out of the kitchen. She threw on her cloak and went to the stable. There was a chill in the air but the sky was blue with only a few clouds, and Portia felt her spirits lift.

  Honey was ready to be turned out into her pasture, the goats trot
ting right alongside her. Glennis always milked the cow when she first arrived and before she left.

  Portia took down the pitchfork to muck out the stalls. It wasn’t unpleasant work. She enjoyed the fresh air and even the smell of hay and the animals.

  Because the day was so fair, she started doing a bit of cleaning and tidying up, and it was at this task Lady Emma discovered her.

  Portia heard the hoofbeats coming up the drive. They rarely had visitors. She was surprised to see their visitor was none other than Lady Emma, accompanied by a groom. The girl was dressed in a silver gray riding outfit with a sophisticated, brimmed hat, decorated with a white ostrich plume that would have made her mother proud.

  Now if Portia envied anything, it would be Lady Emma’s horse. The mare was a dainty dappled gray that made Honey appear a lumbering ox. She had a kind eye, big ears, and a smooth gait.

  Instead of going to Camber Hall’s front door, Lady Emma had spied Portia and came trotting up to the paddock. “Good morning, Miss Maclean.”

  “Good morning, Lady Emma,” Portia said, feeling at a disadvantage with her hair curling wildly around her head in spite of the braid and her person covered in dust and straw.

  She and Lady Emma rarely spoke other than a passing nod of acquaintance. Then again, Portia was nine years older than the girl and as far from society as one could be—especially wearing her work shoes and mucking out the paddock.

  “I was out for my morning ride and thought it would be nice to call,” Lady Emma said.

  Camber Hall wasn’t anywhere close to the duke’s sprawling estate. Lady Emma had ridden out of her way to visit, and Portia’s suspicions were confirmed by how lathered Her Ladyship’s horse was.

  Noting the direction of Portia’s gaze, Lady Emma said, “Yes, he does need to be walked out. Marvin,” she called to the groom, “help me down and then walk my horse.”

  The groom, a dark, brooding sort who wasn’t much older than Portia, jumped to do Her Ladyship’s bidding. Having helped Lady Emma dismount, he took the horses off to walk up and down the drive.

  Alone, Lady Emma glanced over to Honey with a critical eye. “What is it?”

  “She’s a pony.”

  “What sort?”

  Portia’s earlier good mood started to vanish. There was only one reason she could think of why Lady Emma would be here—the back rent. But why would the girl bypass Mr. Buchanan, who knew the rent was coming?

  “She’s of undetermined lineage,” Portia said, resting the pitchfork she’d been holding on the ground, hoping that Lady Emma’s appearance didn’t portend bad news. “May I offer you refreshment?”

  “I don’t have time to linger.” She faced Portia, her smile hardening on her face. No, this wasn’t a social call. She still carried her crop, a feminine thing with a beribboned handle.

  “Is there something the matter, Lady Emma?” Portia dared to ask.

  “Yes, there is. I don’t want you to have anything to do with Colonel Chattan.”

  Portia almost laughed. A duke’s daughter believed Portia was competition?

  “You need not worry, my lady,” Portia said.

  “But I do,” Lady Emma said. She had the softest voice and liked to smile as she spoke as if she was being pleasant, but Portia sensed behind that smile were sharp, tiny teeth. “We all noticed his marked attention to you last night.”

  “Marked attention?”

  “He searched you out. You were seen talking to him . . . outside.”

  “It is not what it appeared,” Portia said.

  “The colonel took his leave from the Assembly right after you left,” Lady Emma said, an accusatory note in her voice.

  Portia shrugged. “I have no idea why he chose to depart when he did, but it certainly wasn’t because of me.”

  Lady Emma studied her a moment. She hit the palm of her leather-gloved hand softly with her crop. “You may be right.” She smiled. She did have small, sharp teeth. “I, um, well, we are fortunate to finally have a man who has everything I’ve been searching for in a husband pay his respects to us in the valley.”

  “And what is everything?” Portia asked, curious, especially in light of her own wonderings.

  “Handsome, well connected, wealthy, handsome—”

  “You said handsome once,” Portia pointed out.

  “It is worth repeating,” Lady Emma answered, and this time her smile was genuine.

  Portia felt herself relax. “Well, he is all those things,” she agreed.

  “Yes, and perhaps I shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Lady Emma said. “I mean, you are almost as old as he is. Why would he be flirting with you?”

  Portia tried to smile, but was thinking perhaps she preferred the suspicious Lady Emma over the friendly one. “He was being polite,” she said.

  “Of course.” There was an awkward silence. “Well, I’d best be going. Father will worry if I am gone too long.”

  “I can understand that,” Portia murmured.

  Lady Emma turned to signal her groom to bring over her horse—but two riders coming up Camber Hall’s winding drive caught her eye.

  Portia stepped forward, once more surprised by visitors. Then again, hadn’t Mr. Tolliver promised to call?

  But it wasn’t Oliver Tolliver.

  It was General Montheath . . . and Colonel Chattan.

  Lady Emma slapped her crop against her palm, this time with more force. “It appears you have a caller, Miss Maclean,” Lady Emma said. Her eyes had grown as sharp and pointed as her teeth. “I believe I will accept your invitation for refreshment.”

  Chapter Seven

  Harry was not impressed with Miss Maclean’s home.

  The stone house was a bit shabby. Someone had attempted to bring order to the front shrubberies, but the rest of the grounds were overgrown. The drive itself had more than a few holes that Ajax disdainfully stepped over. There had been some painting done to the house’s sashes but slates were missing on the roof. Harry wasn’t a very skilled workman but even he could tell the roof had to leak, and it made him angry. The landlord should take better care of an abode housing three women alone.

  He had convinced Monty that if he truly wanted to woo his ladylove, he must call on her. No more waiting for the fair damsel to come to him. Monty must go to the damsel.

  Of course, Monty was scared witless at the prospect, so Harry had thought it wise to accompany him. Harry also found himself eager to spend some time with Miss Portia Maclean again. Their moment of verbal sparring and plain speaking had been the last thing he’d thought about before he’d drifted off to sleep. She was quite possibly the most contrary female of his acquaintance. There was something about her that he could not define, something that drew him to her.

  Besides, he told himself, it was a good day for a ride.

  And so, here he was, dressed for a casual call and an easy ride, while Monty wore a full dress uniform with his gold braid gleaming in the winter sun. Harry had suggested his friend was a tad overdressed. Monty had shaken his head.

  “If I’m going to do this,” he informed Harry, “it’s going to be a full-on attack. I’ve always rigged myself out before going into battle. I am laying siege to Ariana’s heart. I am going to give her my best until she sees we were meant for each other.”

  His best had included the intention of bringing all his dogs with him. The whole pack of them, large and small.

  Harry understood that, in Monty’s mind, the dogs were his clan, his trusted troops, but he had strongly suggested the general leave them behind. Monty had argued and they had compromised and brought one, Jasper, leaving the others penned in horse stalls lest they follow. They had howled their disappointment.

  Jasper was not Harry’s favorite dog. He was a long-legged hound with an overeager, rambunctious personality. Harry couldn’t understand why Monty always wanted the do
g close at hand. He owned better-behaved dogs—all right, they were just barely better-behaved—but he always made allowances for Jasper.

  Of course, the dog had run ahead of them, as wild and bounding as an antelope, his ears flapping and his tongue hanging. Jasper noticed the activity by the barn before Harry and went racing over there first. He gleefully circled the groom holding the horses, ignoring the servant’s air of bored insolence.

  One of Jasper’s favorite tricks to earn attention was to nip at a horse’s heels. Ajax had put him in his place with a well-aimed kick.

  Now, the dog attempted to nip at the gray the groom held. The mare snorted a protest and shifted away, revealing that her body had been blocking the view of the person of Lady Emma.

  Harry cursed under his breath. The duke’s daughter had wanted him to call on her today, something he was determined not to do. He knew better than to play with innocents, especially those related to dukes. They were marriage bait.

  And then he saw that Lady Emma was talking to Miss Portia Maclean, who appeared to be masquerading as barn help, although she did make a charming sight. She wore heavy boots and had flipped her cloak over her shoulders to reveal a sensible dress of forest green. Her curly hair created a halo around her head and her cheeks were rosy from fresh air and good work.

  Harry just naturally directed Ajax toward her.

  “I say, Chattan. Let’s go to the door,” Monty said.

  “One moment,” Harry murmured, and trotted over to the barn.

  Both women watched him approach.

  But before he could reach them, the front door to the house opened. The other Miss Maclean, Miss Portia’s sister, came out on the step. He nodded to her.

  “General Montheath and Colonel Chattan,” she said in greeting. “Have you come to call?”

  “We have indeed, Miss Maclean,” Harry responded, and jumped from his horse. He tied Ajax at the post. Lady Emma had started walking toward him from the barn, a smile on her lips, and her fist tight on her crop. She was not pleased.