The Scottish Witch

by Cathy Maxwell

  “I don’t know how Owl will like living with all those dogs.”

  Her mother’s brows came together. “Owl?”

  “She’s a cat I found, Mother,” Portia confessed. “I’ve been hiding her from you.”

  Lady Maclean started to speak and then stopped as if she thought better of it before plowing ahead. “Portia, Minnie told me about your ‘cat’ many weeks ago. Please, you must no longer talk about Owl.”

  “Is she all right?”

  Her mother looked away.

  “Tell me,” Portia ordered.

  Lady Maclean swung around to face Portia, taking her hand. “You truly believe there is a cat, don’t you?”

  “I know there is a cat.”

  Her expression concerned, her mother slowly shook her head no. She went to the door and called for Minnie.

  After a few minutes, Minnie came to the room. Her face broke out into a smile when she saw Portia sitting by the window. “Are you feeling better? We were all so worried. Ollie debated whether or not he should examine you. He believed we should wait and see how you felt when you woke. You are all right, aren’t you, Portia?”

  “I’m fine,” she answered. “But Mother insists I am imagining my cat Owl.”

  The smile died on Minnie’s face. She looked to their mother, who nodded as if urging her to admit what she knew. “You are,” she told Portia. “There is no cat.”

  Portia came to her feet. “There is a cat. Her name is Owl. You were in the sitting room the day I found her in the attic.”

  Minnie had clasped her hands in front of her. She appeared ready to cry.

  “We set out a bowl of cream for her every night,” Portia said. “You do it for me when I am busy.”

  “I do it to help you,” Minnie said.

  “Because we have a cat,” Portia was close to shouting.

  Minnie shook her head. “No, dear, we don’t. You imagine the cat.”

  If she had said the sky was as green as grass, Portia could not be more surprised. “Minnie, are you daft? Of course we have a cat. Why, the cream is gone from the bowl every evening.”

  “Because I pour it out,” Minnie answered. ”I understand why you would imagine a pet that you could confide in. I’ve explained to Ollie that you’ve carried the weight of this family on your shoulders. It has been challenging.”

  Portia took a step away from her mother and her sister. Were they trying to tell her that Owl didn’t exist? How could that be true when she’d held that cat and petted her? She’d felt Owl’s weight, slight as she was, in her arms.

  Their mother spoke. “We would have been fine letting you pretend. However, our family’s circumstances are about to change. I haven’t said a word about your pet to Alastair.”

  “Ollie understands your need for an imaginary pet,” Minnie chimed in. “He’s had patients who have imagined all sorts of things in order to manage their lives. Such as Crazy Lizzy and those dolls she calls babies.”

  “However,” Lady Maclean continued, “if you are going to live under my roof, you can’t keep carrying on about the cat. You must give the cat up.”

  For a moment, Portia doubted her own sanity. And then she thought of Harry. “Colonel Chattan has seen the cat. He knows Owl exists.”

  “Alastair told me that the colonel claimed to have seen a cat, but there are so many about,” her mother said, “who is to say if it is your cat or not? And, Portia, if you wish to secretly pretend you still have the cat, then that is fine. Just please be prudent. Not everyone will understand you the way your sister and I do.”

  “I even put the cream out last night,” Minnie said proudly.

  Portia had witnessed Owl drinking the cream . . . or had she?

  “No cat?” she said, looking to these two people who loved her more than anyone else in the world.

  They both shook their heads.

  “May I have a moment alone?” Portia said. “I need to polish my teeth—” She was going to cry, and here she had not thought she had tears left.

  “Of course,” her mother said, heading toward the door as if relieved an unpleasant interview was over.

  Minnie was right behind her. “Glennis has fresh buns for breakfast. Shall I bring up a tray? Or will you come downstairs?”

  “I’ll be down.”

  “It’s going to be fine,” Minnie said as if to reassure herself. “In fact, Mother and I were talking about a pet for you. A real cat.”

  Portia didn’t want a real cat. She wanted Owl.

  When she didn’t answer, Minnie excused herself and left. Portia’s first action was to get down on her hands and knees to search for Fenella’s book and then remembered it wasn’t there, and hadn’t been for almost two weeks. Harry had it. How could she have forgotten?

  She pressed her palms against her temples. She mustn’t think this way.

  The book existed. Owl existed. The curse was real.

  She knew of only one person besides Harry who could tell her if she was mad or not. She climbed to her feet and flew through her toilette. She dared not tell her mother and Minnie where she was going. After the disastrous escapades of the past weeks, she didn’t think it wise to tell them she was going out again.

  And they would certainly believe her a lunatic if she told them why she needed to see Lizzy. The crone might be able to help her make sense of all this. Lizzy had known of Fenella. And Lizzy had predicted Portia would be the source of Harry’s death.

  So Portia stole out of the house one more time.

  Crazy Lizzy was sitting on her stool beside her door when Portia arrived.

  “Why, Miss Maclean, what a pleasure. Did you bring some treats for me?” She spoke as if there had not been a scene days before. As if all was well.

  Portia approached and went down on one knee so that they were eye level. “No, Lizzy, I didn’t. I shall remember you tomorrow.”

  “Christmas Day,” Lizzy said as if pleased with herself for remembering.

  Her reminder surprised Portia. Her world had been spinning like a top and she’d not stopped to realize the passage of time. Her mother and General Montheath were to have a dinner. “I’ll bring a basket of something special.”

  Lizzy smiled her approval.

  “Do you remember my being here?” Portia asked.

  “I do. You had the Chattan with you.”

  This was a good sign. Portia leaned toward the crone. “You spoke of Fenella.”

  Again, Lizzy nodded.

  “I’m so grateful you remember. I feared I was going mad.”

  “You made a wise decision, Miss Maclean,” Lizzy whispered. “Stay away from the Chattan.”

  “And what if I can’t?” Portia asked, thinking of the child she knew she carried.

  “Then Fenella will have her way. Much power she has, does Fenella.”

  “Is there any way to stop her?”

  “None that I know.”

  Portia closed her eyes and realized that a part of her had hoped that if she had imagined Owl, then she had imagined all the rest.

  “The Chattan shall die,” Lizzy said, reading her mind.

  “He can’t, Lizzy. He mustn’t.” She couldn’t bear thinking of him dying. She would rather give him up.

  “It’s too late,” was the whispered reply. “You were meant to be here.”

  Meant to be here.

  Portia came to her feet. She backed away from Lizzy as if putting more distance between them would serve to weaken her words. “Are you saying there is no way to change what is to be?”

  “Is there ever?” Lizzy asked, her smile as innocent as a child’s.

  Portia would not accept that prediction. She couldn’t. Just the thought of it sent the pain of despair ripping through her—and then she realized, this was some of what Rose had felt.

  Rose, who
had stood on her tower, knowing her love was lost to her.

  Just as Harry was lost to Portia. And her son growing within her would bear this curse as well.

  She had to believe there was a way out of this madness. There must be. “What part do I play, Lizzy?”

  “How should I know, mum?” was the reply.

  Frustrated, Portia walked back to Camber Hall, her mind working furiously. She’d been destined to play a part in this. Hadn’t Lizzy said she was to be here? But how did one escape her fate?

  She kept her eye out for Owl . . . but she did not see her. The cat had disappeared.

  Or perhaps she had never existed.

  Portia managed to sneak into the house without her mother or Minnie being the wiser.

  For the rest of the day, she stayed in her room. She read her Bible. She opened and shut one book after another in her meager library, searching for anything that could free Harry of this curse, and she found nothing. If she was supposed to be here for Harry, then what role did she play? Why was she not here to save him?

  He called. He sat in the sitting room for hours waiting for her. She did not go down to meet him. Instead, she pushed herself into a corner of her room, sitting with her knees up and her head down, aching to run to him and knowing she couldn’t.

  Minnie came several times to her room, begging her to see him. “He’s remorseful,” she said. “I’ve never seen a man of his stature struck so low.”

  Portia would huddle deeper in her corner and refuse to go. No good could come of it.

  And then Minnie informed her that he had left the house. “He is gone. You are free.” Her words were etched in bitterness.

  Portia ran to a window overlooking the front drive then and watched him ride away. She pressed her hand against the glass as if she could pull him back.

  But she must not.

  Nor did she halt her quest to find some hope for both him and herself.

  It wasn’t until midnight that she finally gave up. That’s when she found herself on her knees praying. “Dear God, please help Harry. Please keep him safe. Know that I love him.”

  She studied her clasped hands a bit and then added, “I once wished for something more in my life without knowing for what I was asking. I now know what was missing was love, and I thank you for sending Harry if you are the one who brought him to me. Now protect him. Please. And please, give Rose peace. I understand now why she felt as if her world had come to an end. I shall not take my life, Lord, but please help me be brave enough to continue living without him.”

  As is too often the case, the response was Divine silence.

  Portia climbed into bed, exhausted, knowing she had done all she could.

  Christmas dawned on what promised to be an excellent day. It was also Sunday and services were definitely in order.

  “You don’t have to go, if you wish to stay home,” Lady Maclean offered.

  “Do you wish me to stay home?” Portia asked. She was wearing the dress she’d worn to the Christmas Assembly. She’d combed her hair out and wore it curling and loose.

  “I wish you to do what makes you comfortable,” her mother answered, taking a moment to straighten Portia’s spectacles on her nose.

  “I won’t be comfortable until I go out in society the first time. I must be done with it. At least in church, Reverend Ogilvy can remind the others that gossip is a sin.”

  “Is it?” her mother asked, and then reached for her hand. “You are very strong.”

  “I’m only doing what must be done,” Portia said. “Besides, I plan on being a guest at your dinner.”

  Her mother smiled, tucking her hand in her arm. “And so you shall.”

  Portia hooked up the pony cart and drove them to the chapel. She squared her shoulders as she caught sight of the crowd gathered there. Since it was Christmas morning, well, of course more people than usual would be in attendance.

  She noticed that her mother and Minnie squared their shoulders as well. The Maclean women were not short on pride and they held hands as they went forward.

  Their appearance created a bit of a stir, a sign that they were the topic of discussion. People tried not to stare and smiles grew forced.

  One person who avoided Portia’s eyes was Mr. Buchanan. He stood beside the Duke of Montcrieffe and Lady Emma, whose open hostility in her expression would undoubtedly fuel more gossip. The duke’s man would probably be paying them a visit sooner or later to evict them because Lady Emma would want Portia gone. Her pride would demand it.

  Of course, that no longer mattered, not now that her mother and her sister would be married women. Both General Montheath and Mr. Oliver Tolliver had been anticipating their arrival. The two gentlemen fell into step beside them, flanking them as if to gallantly ward off any attacks.

  And then Mrs. Macdonald and Robbie, the gardener, joined them. “Good Christmas to you,” Mrs. Macdonald said.

  Her words were echoed from all around the Maclean women, the greetings coming from even the Scots who had usually kept their distance. “Good Christmas,” they said in greeting. “Happy Christmas.”

  They gathered around the women to escort them to the chapel doors, and Portia realized they were protecting her. Was she still considered English? Yes, probably, but she was also one of them and they were letting her know it.

  Still, Portia was relieved when they’d taken their seats in the pews. General Montheath sat at the end of the pew, her mother beside him, then Portia, Minnie, and Mr. Tolliver.

  Portia bowed her head, letting the opening words of the service flow over her. She studied her hands folded in her lap and remembered her midnight prayer—

  “Stop this service.”

  Harry’s voice rang out over the congregation, interrupting Reverend Ogilvy’s reading from the Gospel.

  Harry. Portia closed her eyes. He could not be here. She was too fragile to resist him. Too emotionally drained.

  Heads turned to the back of the church. Minnie reached over and squeezed Portia’s gloved hand.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Reverend Ogilvy said, “but this is a place of worship. You are welcome to sit and join us but your outburst is not acceptable.”

  “Yes, I know,” Harry said. He’d been in the back of the church. He now marched forward. “And I apologize, but what I have to say can’t wait.”

  He stopped when he reached Portia’s pew. She could feel him, smell him, almost hear the wild beating of his heart.

  “Portia Maclean, I love you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Time seemed to stop.

  No one moved, made a sound, or even seemed to breathe in the close confines of the chapel. They were all waiting for Portia’s response.

  She released her hand from Minnie’s and crossed her arms as if she could protect herself from his words. Love was so wrong, so dangerous for them both.

  “You can’t not hear me,” Harry said to her. “You know I love you as well as I know how deeply you care for me.”

  She did know his feelings. That was what she’d been hiding from. He had pretended a distance, but she’d known in her woman’s soul that he loved her. She could see all of that clearly now.

  “Say something,” he ordered. “Call me every vile name, deny me, refuse me—but say something.”

  Portia stood, faced him. She was taken aback at how reckless he appeared. A day’s growth of beard darkened his jaw. The intensity in his eyes almost broke her resolve.

  “We can’t,” she said. “We mustn’t.”

  “We already have,” he answered. “I love you. I thought never to say those words to anyone. And yet, from the moment we met, there was something about you that was different from anyone else I’d ever known.”

  “It’s the curse, Harry. The curse is doing this. The witch wants you.”

  Was everyone in the c
hurch listening? Did it matter?

  “She can have me,” Harry answered, “because my life is not worth living without you. I realized that from almost the moment you walked away from me.”

  His words filled her with both joy and fear. “Oh, Harry, don’t say that.”

  “I plan on shouting it from the rooftops. I tried to pretend you didn’t matter, that you were just another bed partner. That I didn’t need you in my life. I was wrong. When you refused to let me pretend I was doing what was noble, I was forced to question my motives. And I realized I could no longer hide from what I felt. I love you. Please, Portia, be my wife.”

  It was so tempting. And then she remembered Lizzy’s warning. “I can’t. I don’t want to watch you die.”

  His eyes took on sympathy. “I know, my love, but the truth is that not one of us will go on forever. And I want to make the days of my life meaningful. I’m a flawed man, Portia. I’ve made many mistakes and usually from my own hubris. You prod me to be better than what I am. You bring me peace. You’ve taught me to accept not only myself, but my fate.”

  “I don’t want that fate for you,” Portia said, imploring him to understand. “I don’t want Fenella to win.”

  “She won’t win,” Harry said, “not as long as we love. I now understand my brother, Neal. I understand why he has embraced loving Thea. While those on the outside of our family feel we Chattans are being punished for love, we know in our hearts we are the victors. We choose to love, and that will always be more powerful than Fenella’s evil.” He held out his hand. “Come to me, my love.”

  Still, she didn’t move. “If you die, I die. I love you that much. The pain would kill me. I must protect you.”

  “It’s too late,” he said. He’d offered her his left hand. He now bent the fingers. “Do you think that marriage is necessary for love? I felt the first pain last week. Then the other night, it was stronger. The curse knew what was in my heart even as I was denying my feelings for you. I will deny them no longer, Portia. You can go your way, but I will not stop loving you. Come, be with me for the time we have together. Live in the moment.”

  Live in the moment. Fear left her. She reached for his hand, the fear left her. Yes, this was where she belonged.