The Young Pretender

by Sheila Simonson

  Jean shook hands, smiling too. Mrs. Showers greeted the newcomers in a voice that suggested she came from Edinburgh, though the accent was modified by residence in England. It was an educated voice, and it turned out that she was the widow of a professor of medicine at the university. She was living with her sister, Miss Grant, who had been governess to an influential county family but was now retired. They shared a small grace and favour house in Chacton. Both ladies knew Charles Wharton who had brought them in his carriage. Charles had studied medicine in Edinburgh.

  Charles gave Jean a friendly grin and assured her his latest child was flourishing. He held a chair for her, and from then on the introductions were done correctly, with Sholto bringing the others to Jean, though in no particular order.

  The grizzled man who looked to be in his sixties was a Major Johnson, retired from the Scots Greys to his late wife's property near Grantham. The major wore the Stewart kilt and spoke Lallands but not impenetrably. Sholto also made her known to Edward McKay, a man perhaps ten years younger than Johnson, another Scot. McKay was steward to the Robarts of Chacton, a prominent county family. He and Major Johnson shared an interest in birds, though neither hunted.

  Miss Grant and Miss Bluestone had plunged into schoolroom talk, so Jean gave herself over to the comfort of greeting the people she already knew. Mrs. Moore beamed at her and pulled her son over for greetings, and Mr. Tidmarsh brought her Mary Wharton, of all people. Mary looked almost pretty in a new grey silk gown and a dashing cap that tied under one ear. She was full of news of Cecilia and Cecy's baby, so the Scottishness of the occasion sank beneath a wave of cheerful English talk. Mr. Sholto turned away to consult a waiter.

  Sholto was not wearing a kilt. Indeed, Major Johnson was the only man who was. Jean was disappointed. In her opinion, almost any man looked good in a kilt, even fat men or men with shrunk shanks. However, she bore up under the sight of Sholto in proper evening rig. There was nothing wrong with his figure. She wondered if he wore evening dress when he entertained cottagers.

  That was an unkind thought. She was sure he would not do anything so mean-minded. However, she was also a little disappointed at the smothering gentility of the company. Had he supposed she would be offended to meet his neighbours? Then she shook her head to clear it. The cottagers were not Scots. Indeed only half this company was. At least Charles Wharton had a Scottish connexion.

  Gradually everyone drifted to the table and the musicians began to play the kind of music people can ignore whilst eating.

  Jean was directed to sit at Sholto's right hand. Again, very proper. It was a shame that her other partner was Robert Moore rather than one of the Scots. At least she would be able to speak a few words to Sholto. Mrs. Moore sat on his left hand and Mr. Tidmarsh one down from her. It was almost a repeat of the Moore dinner. Jean began to wish for some wild eruption of foreignness.

  When everyone was seated, Sholto stood and greeted his guests. He had, he said, assembled as many Scots as he could find in the area to celebrate the life and works of the Ayrshire poet, Robert Burns, a man who enjoyed good company. In deference to their English guests, they would speak in the southron way except when reciting the bard's works. Mr. Tidmarsh of St. Ewold's had agreed to offer grace.

  Mr. Tidmarsh gave him a mischievous smile and cleared his throat. "Some hae meat and canna eat And some wad eat that want it," he said with relish, his deep baritone ringing out, "But we hae meat and we can eat And sae the Lord be thankit. Amen."

  The Selkirk grace set the tone. Water glasses had already been filled. A solemn waiter began to pour a dram into a much smaller glass at each place whilst another waiter brought the soup. When the small glasses had been serviced and the soup ladled out, Sholto rose again. "At this point in a Burns dinner, it's the custom for one of the guests to speak of the man we are honouring. Are ye ready, then, sir?"

  Major Johnson rose. As the diners spooned soup, he rambled on in his soft Lallands voice, describing the poet's life and early death, naming some of his better-known works. His own favourite, he said, because his late wife's name was Mary, was the short poem for Mary Morison, "Oh, Mary, at thy window be." And with no further ado, he launched into recitation. He said the words with such tenderness Jean's eyes stung. By the time he reached the end, she was convinced he was speaking English the way it ought to be spoken. Perhaps that was the idea.

  "And now," he said, "will you raise your wee glass to the memory of Robert Burns? In the poet's own words, 'And if, as I'm informed weel, Ye hate as ill's the vera Deil The flinty heart that canna feel--Come, sir, here's tae you! Hae, there's my haun, I wiss ye weel, An' Gude be wi' you.'" He lifted his dram and tossed it off without a blink.

  Jean knew better. Not for nothing was her mother a Scot. She took a ladylike sip. Warmth slid down her throat all the way to her stomach and radiated from there. Mrs. Moore coughed. Sholto handed her a handkerchief.

  The cockaleekie soup was cooling, so everyone drank it down. Jean sneaked another sip of whisky as the waiters began removing the bowls. The fish course--smoked haddock at that season--passed swiftly. Sholto amused her with his difficulties in finding Scots to invite. Robert Moore told her of young Bobby's first triumphant steps. When the table was clear and the whisky replenished, a strange buzzing, wheezing noise sounded outside in the hall. Jean's heart sank. They were piping in the haggis.

  She had not thought to warn Miss Bluestone of the treat in store for her.

  The piper burst into "All the Bluebonnets Are over the Border" as the gleaming mound was borne into the room by two sweating waiters.

  "Not a tactful choice for an audience of Sassenachs," she muttered.

  "What's that?" Sholto's eyebrow quirked.

  "The music," she roared over the bagpipe's tweedle.

  He laughed. "I fancy that's the only tune the fiddler can play on the pipes."

  Fortunately few of the guests seemed to recognize it.

  Sholto rose as the haggis was set before him. It was his turn to shine. "Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain of the puddin' race..." he declaimed in ringing tones and went on to recite the entire diatribe word-perfect from memory, which now Jean thought of it was exactly his kind of joke. Mrs. Moore, half-hidden beyond the mound, had turned rather green.

  It was not as terrible as it looked. Sholto carved, and the waiters dealt out the laden plates like a giant hand of whist. When everyone was served and they had taken the remains to a side table, he made a wide gesture. "'Tis always accompanied by mashed taties and neeps, freends. Think of it as sausage."

  "A wee sausage," Jean said, dulcet.

  Mr. Robert choked.

  "You're reprehensible," Jean said to Sholto. He contrived to look penitent. She contrived not to laugh.

  In fact, everything he had done and said was in the tradition of the Burns dinners Jean had heard of. He had served peasant food because Burns was a peasant, a ploughboy poet. The only oddity was that half Sholto's congregation were not Scots. And none were peasants. Except perhaps Mr. Sholto.

  She picked up her knife and fork and ate haggis.

  The next course was a soufflé which the English guests hailed with vocal relief whilst the musicians played airs associated with Burns's songs. Conversation flourished, and that course was succeeded, without pain, by fruit and nuts. Jean talked with Robert Moore. Finally Sholto turned away from Mrs. Moore, whom he seemed to be soothing.

  "Time for the ladies to withdraw?" Jean asked.

  "We dinna follow English customs."

  "Ah," Jean said. "Time for the toasts?"

  He grinned. "I believe you like the water of life."

  "In extreme moderation."

  He stood and waited for the talk at table to die away. "Robert Burns is best known in England for his songs. It's remarkable the number of lasses he swore eternal fealty to. Mary and Meg, Peggy, Nannie and Annie and Nancy, a Lesley, innumerable Jeans, and even, I think, one Bell."

  "Probably an Isobel," Mr. McKay said amid ge
neral laughter.

  Innumerable Jeans, Jean huffed, but to herself.

  "Lest you doubt his sincerity, ladies, the Scots among us would like to sing a song for you that expresses his viewpoint with perfect clarity." Glass in hand, he strolled to the other end of the table and stood behind Major Johnson.

  Johnson rose and so did Mr. McKay. They looked at each other a moment, then burst into a rollicking version of "Green Grow the Rashes O" in close harmony. It was a charming song, and they sang it with gusto. When the applause had died, Sholto raised his glass. "To the lassies." All the gentlemen raised their glasses and drank.

  Sholto returned to his place, and Robert Moore stood. "We English cannot allow the Scots to sweep the field. This is a Mary song." He smiled at Mary Wharton. "But we shall let Mary stand for every lady here."

  He had a fine tenor, as Jean recalled from the Moores' dinner, and sang without accompaniment. He sang "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton," which was so well known south of the Tweed that she had forgot it was a Burns song. As his voice lingered on the high notes, she could feel the mood change. The evening was winding down. She would be sorry when it was over.

  Mrs. Showers had been delegated to return the toast with another toast--to the men. She remained seated but spoke with composure, thanking her host and Charles Wharton and her kind friends at Earl's Brecon for a memorable haggis and some fine songs. She recited "John Anderson My Jo" in a clear sad voice, and gave herself a little shake. "I believe Miss Bluestone will speak for the ladies."

  Miss Bluestone stood. She was not a tall woman, and she sat on Jean's side of the table, so Jean couldn't read her expression. She hoped her beloved governess would not recite "To a Louse."

  Miss Bluestone did not. However, she was in instructional mode and spoke of the importance of Burns's political writing. He had lived at the time of the revolution in North America, and it was clear that his sympathies lay with the rebels, though at least one of his poems chided the Jacobites for threatening civil war in the Scottish countryside. He did not like the union of Scotland and England, and predicted that his country would become a mere province of England.

  However, she said sternly, his strongest political passion was the idea of the worth of all men. She took a long, fortifying breath and recited "A Man's a Man for A' That" in her earnest, very English accent. And raised her glass when she was done. To the men.

  Everyone drank. Major Johnson had a coughing fit.

  Jean was stunned. When she caught her own breath and looked around, she could see that the others were equally nonplussed. She glanced at Sholto. He was staring down the table as if he had seen a vision.

  "What?" she said under cover of the murmur of response.

  He cleared his throat. "And to think I stifled the urge to recite 'Scots Wha' Hae Wi' Wallace Bled.' She's a firebrand, is she no'?"

  Mr. McKay had risen to propose a vote of thanks to their host, which signaled the close of the evening. The dinner had lasted almost three hours. Under the applause and murmurs of "hear him, hear him," Jean scrambled for something to say to Sholto.

  "I don't believe she is a firebrand," she said into a moment of quiet. "She has strong opinions and expresses them openly, but she never ever bullied us into agreeing with her. She has been reading Burns's poetry all week. I think she was moved by the piece and wanted to share it. It's a splendid poem."

  At that point the musicians struck up "Auld Lang Syne," a song of which everyone knew the chorus and no one the verses. So they all sang the chorus three times, and then the guests stirred and rose to go. The musicians packed up their instruments. Jean wanted to stay and talk, but that was not possible. The dinner had raised more questions than answers for her, not least new questions for Miss Bluestone.

  Durbin drove home slowly because of the muddy road. At first Miss Bluestone and Jean sat silent. Presently, the governess stirred in her seat.

  They both spoke together and laughed at themselves. "You first, my lady," Miss Bluestone said.

  "Did you recite that poem for me?"

  She paused as if to marshal her thoughts. "No, certainly not. I said it for Mr. Sholto."

  "Why?"

  "To give him courage."

  "Miss Bluestone!"

  "You are in love with him, are you not?"

  "Oh, heavens." Relief and chagrin in equal measure brought Jean to tears. She jabbed at her eyes. "Am I so transparent? I thought I was being discreet."

  "Yes, excessively."

  She blew her nose. "You must think me mad."

  "I think you have good taste."

  "My sister Kitty will not say so."

  "Lady Kinnaird's opinion need not concern you." Another pause ensued. "It's Mr. Sholto's opinion you ought to worry about."

  "He's indifferent to me?"

  "I don't know what he feels, Jean. Both of you are discreet to the point of rigidity. He has a great deal of pride, and he is devoted to Lord Clanross's interests."

  Jean frowned. She wasn't sure where Miss Bluestone's train of thought led. "I know he's a good steward."

  "Rather more than that." The carriage jolted, and Miss Bluestone grasped the strap to avoid falling on the floor. "Did you know that the elder Mr. Moore suffered two strokes?"

  "I know he died of a stroke."

  "Almost five years before that, when Mr. Sholto was three and twenty, Mr. Moore had a stroke that left him unable to move from the house. His speech was not affected, fortunately, but he could not visit the estate or the manors, and that was bound to influence his judgment."

  "We were in France then, I think." By we, Jean meant herself, Elizabeth, and Tom. Jean subtracted the years. The three of them had spent most of that spring and summer in the south of France with Lizzie's twins, the twins' nursemaid, and Liz's second-best telescope.

  "Mr. Moore should have resigned," Miss Bluestone said. "He placed Mr. Sholto in a very awkward position."

  "Moore concealed his stroke from Tom?"

  "At first. I don't believe it was a deliberate plot. He just expected Mr. Sholto to carry on with the work of running the estate as if nothing had happened."

  Jean turned that over in her mind. "It must have been difficult for Sholto."

  "Worrying. Eventually he writ his lordship an account of what had happened and offered his own resignation. Mrs. Moore told me so."

  "Heavens, that must have been...Tom did make a flying trip home. He was back in France within a fortnight."

  "I don't know any details," Miss Bluestone said. "I daresay his lordship had to set legal arrangements in order, and he must have had doubts."

  "That a man so young and inexperienced could deal with the complexities of estate management?"

  "Exactly. He took a chance and left Mr. Sholto to do the work."

  "With Moore as titular steward? I see. Then Sholto has been de facto steward these seven years."

  "Yes."

  Jean frowned. "Doing his own work as well as Moore's?"

  "He has done it well, and of course he had helpers."

  Jean thought of the two gangly boys.

  "I believe men like Quillan and Mr. Waring have every confidence in him," Miss Bluestone continued, "but what is most interesting to me is that the labourers and small farmers seem happier now than when they were dealing with Mr. Moore. At the time, there was unrest and some rick-burning near Greylands. Mr. Sholto has the rare ability to persuade people to cooperate."

  Jean thought of the well-engineered dinner they had just enjoyed and laughed softly. She had been almost convinced it was spontaneous--except for Miss Bluestone's "solo turn". "What should I do now, d'ye think?"

  "Tell me what you plan to do."

  So she did. And Miss Bluestone gave qualified approval of her tactics. It was a comfort to Jean to know she had a confidante.

  * * * *

  Winter slipped by without drama, as Jean's daily journal entries revealed. At the end of February, the sun appeared in a week of intense cold, time enough for Sholto to strengthen the
bank without resorting to a coffer dam. The lads were downcast, but the cut stones he had ordered fit together precisely. A pipe at the top of the new stone wall would carry off excess water to a natural streambed that led to Earl's Brecon. The clouds closed in again. The lake began to fill.

  He told her it had worked better than he'd hoped it would, despite his assistants' gloom. Jean was glad to be able to share his exuberance, though she had to share it with other people about--her sisters or his assistants or, once, Miss Bluestone. Jean accepted that. He was being careful of her reputation--or he was indifferent to her feelings. She proposed that he join them for dinner at the dower house to celebrate his success, but he said his time was not his own during lambing and, later, ploughing.

  Not to mention planting, she grumbled to herself at his second polite refusal, and stoning the crows. Jean did not press. She was taking great pains not to pursue Mr. Sholto or harass him with unwelcome attentions. Their encounters must seem accidental. She took to walking up to Brecon every day for exercise. She borrowed a great many books from the library without seeing him at all.

  Sometimes she saw him in the bookroom, though, and once, very bold, in the estate office. She entered the room uninvited. He rose from a ledger-strewn desk and greeted her with his usual courtesy, but she thought he resembled a half-tamed horse ready to bolt.

  Jean surveyed the familiar office and looked out the window. It gave a good view of the northwestern portion of the lake bed with the dower house and its stables showing in the distance, though the bridge and the pavilion were too far east to be visible. He had a perfect spy hole. To be fair, he could see anyone approaching from the direction of Earl's Brecon as well as the to-ing and fro-ing from the front door of the dower house, not to mention anyone leaving the estate. The desk sat with its back to the window, however. He probably didn't see everything.

  She stuck her nose against the pane and squinted. Elizabeth had once complained that a light in the office distracted her from her telescope, but Jean caught not so much as a glimpse of the refractor on its sturdy wooden stand. Perhaps the rhododendrons had grown since then to form a screen.