The Highlander’s Yuletide Love
By Alicia Quigley
Text copyright © 2015 Alicia Quigley
All Rights Reserved
Sophy’s story is dedicated to family: the ones we’re born into and the ones we choose along the way.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Lady Sophia Learmouth and Lady Exencour made their way out of Somerset House and into the brilliant late May sunshine. Sophy blinked, glad for the deep poke bonnet that shielded her face. Her companion laced an arm through hers as they turned their steps away from the pillared entryway and out of the courtyard.
“Thank you so much for accompanying me to the Royal Academy summer exhibition, Isobel,” said Sophy. “You know that poor Mama would have been bored to tears. She would have come if I had insisted, but I hate to torture her that way.”
“I’m only too happy to indulge you, my dear,” said Isobel cheerfully. “It is the least I can do after your assistance last summer sketching my excavations. Though, truth to tell, I fear I am somewhat of the same mind as dear Harriet. Sophy, how do you manage to tell one picture from another?”
Sophy’s eyes widened. “Whatever do you mean? I--I look at them. They are very different in subject, style, and feel. Why do you ask?”
“With so many of them in one place, hung cheek by jowl, and almost from the floor to the ceiling, I found it difficult to tell one from another. It was rather like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle before they have been assembled.”
Sophy gazed at her, bemused. “Do you truly not see them the vast differences between them, or do you merely exaggerate?”
“My dear, there are nearly two hundred of them crammed into that space!” Isobel exclaimed. “Of course I realize that some are landscapes and some are portraits, I’m not such a fool as that, but it looked like a jumble of colors all up and down and along the walls, punctuated with gilt frames.”
“Would that be similar to the way that I feel when I look at a jumble of broken stones in an earthen pit, and you earnestly explain to me that they are the footings of a Roman bath?” replied Sophy teasingly.
Lady Exencour laughed. “Touché, my love. I suppose it is precisely the same thing. I should be grateful that I have you to explain the paintings, for those broken stones make a great deal more sense to me!”
They had emerged onto the Strand, and Isobel looked about for their carriage. Seeing it a short way down the road, she waved, and the women began to move towards it as her coachman urged the horses to a walk. Moments later, a liveried footman was opening the glossy black lacquer door of an elegant barouche bearing the Strancaster arms, and letting down the steps for the ladies.
Once they were ensconced in the dark green velvet upholstery Isobel, Viscountess Exencour cast a shrewd look at Lady Sophia.
“Sophy dear, I think you have finally made me understand what your painting means to you, and that you see things that others do not.”
“What, by telling you that I see a jumble of stones in the bottom of a pit?”
“Quite so, and it crushes me to hear you say it,” Isobel replied, but a warm smile belied the words.
“Oh dear.” Sophy glanced at Isobel from the corner of her eye. “Does that mean that you no longer wish me to sketch your progress to document the location of important features?”
“Of course not, you wretch!” Isobel slapped her hand playfully. “What would I do without you? It would be far more difficult for me to describe the site in my papers. It appears that our interests are very compatible; you are able to hone your sketching skills, and I have a record of my work.” She looked around. “What a lovely afternoon it is.”
“It is pleasant to see the sun after the tiresome rain of the last two days,” Sophy agreed. “I thought I should never be able to go outside and paint again.”
“Shall I have the coachman drive through the park before I take you home?” proposed Isobel. “It is the hour of the promenade, and you never know who we might see.”
“I would adore it. The exhibition was wonderful, but the crush in the room was dreadful. It would be nice to spend some time enjoying this beautiful day,” Sophy replied.
Isobel conveyed their new direction to the coachman, and talk ceased for a few moments as he threaded his way through the busy London traffic. Isobel appeared to be pondering their earlier conversation, for she turned again to her friend. “It occurs to me that if I have underestimated what your craft means to you, your family may have also,” she said.
“Indeed they have.” Sophy’s voice was pensive. “But, in fairness, I think perhaps I have as well. At home in Scotland, after I outgrew Mama’s instruction, I mostly taught myself how to paint, and saw only the artwork at Glencairn, which is remarkably fine, though I had no idea of that at the time. But since I have been in London these past three seasons and have taken lessons from Mrs. Pope, and seen the paintings at the Royal Academy salons and in the homes of my parents’ friends, I have realized that I too may be capable of creating great art, and not merely the charming little pictures that any lady of quality dabbles in.” She paused a moment. “And I wish to try--more than anything, I wish to try.”
“Is this why I have recently heard from your stepmama about concerns she and Glencairn share that you will never find a gentleman you wish to marry?”
“Oh, has she told you about that?” Sophy asked naïvely.
“Of course she has, you silly girl. What doting mother, for Harriet loves you thoroughly, would not be concerned? For three years you have been the toast of London, yet you remain unwed.”
“But she lived with you as your companion for many years before she married Papa, and you were unwed until you were six-and-twenty. Surely she must understand what it is to have an interest in something other than dancing, dresses, and marrying well.”
“I didn’t understand your desires until this moment, even though I spend a great deal of time with you,” Isobel pointed out. “Sometimes those closest to us are the most blind. Harriet, for all that she is so kind, is also a very conventional lady and won’t have wanted to consider such a possibility.”
Sophy grimaced. “I know. It will be difficult to convince them to allow me to pursue my painting, but surely you can help? Harriet has known you so long and trusts you--you can explain it to her, can you not?”
“I can try, my love,” Isobel replied. “But I am not your mother or guardian, so I would not wish to give offence by meddling in Learmouth family matters. I will, however, tell Harriet that I think that your art is not merely a passing fancy but a lifelong passion, like mine for ancient Roman history. I don’t know if that will serve to reconcile her, but I will do what I can.”
As the barouche rolled into the leafy green confines of the Park, Isob
el sat back with a sigh. “It’s so nice to be out of the noise and dirt of the streets. Sometimes I wonder why I bother with the crowds of the Season at all, rather than staying at Kitswold or Exencour until it is time to go to Scotland.”
Sophy laughed. “Surely the meeting of the Royal Society would be enough to draw you to London?”
Isobel gave her a rueful look. “Well, there is that. I fear I am compelled to meet with other scholars, and London is the only place for that.”
It was the fashionable hour of the promenade, and all around them the cream of London society swirled, the ladies glowing in their finest walking dresses, strolling arm in arm or riding in elegant carriages, while the men tooled their phaetons or rode well-bred horses. They circled one another, now and then stopping to converse, all eager to learn of the latest scandal or fashion.
Isobel tucked her arm through Sophy’s. “I think we shall outshine all the other ladies here this afternoon,” she teased.
Sophy took in Isobel’s elegant appearance in her plumed bonnet and emerald green pelisse worn over a pale yellow muslin gown. “You look fine indeed, but Miss Durand has been acclaimed the beauty of this Season, and I fear we cannot challenge her,” she laughed.
Isobel made a wry face. “That simpering nitwit? I’ve never understood what Society sees in her. Let us enjoy our drive all the same.”
Their carriage moved some ways down the path, the ladies nodding here and there to an acquaintance, and even stopping once or twice to talk briefly. Suddenly Isobel gave a little start.
“There is Colonel Stirling!” she said. “How very surprising. I haven’t seen him for an age. Francis will be delighted to know that he is in Town.”
As it would be bad ton to display her very real pleasure at seeing a friend, she waved rather languidly at a tall gentleman some distance down the path from them. He clearly saw and recognized the occupant of the barouche, and, nodding at the gentleman he was conversing with, made his way towards Isobel’s carriage.
As he drew nearer, Sophy noted the breadth of his shoulders, his narrow waist, and the powerful thighs under his fawn-colored pantaloons. His gait had the ease of an athlete, and she perceived as he reached the barouche that he was very handsome; a strong jaw, straight nose, golden brown eyes, and cropped black hair were set off by the elegant tailoring of his black coat, his perfectly arranged neckcloth, and gold-tasseled Hessians which he appeared to have been born in, so closely did they fit about the ankle.
Despite his attractiveness, Sophy also perceived an aura of arrogance surrounding him, as though he held himself aloof from his fellows, but it was countered by an air of confident masculinity that was extremely appealing. As he sauntered towards them, she was confused by the conflicting impressions that flooded her. She tried to imagine painting such a man; one whose surface was so alluring, yet who also possessed an inner chilliness, and found her mind awash in ways of translating such conflicting impressions into images. As a result, when Colonel Stirling arrived beside the barouche and Isobel introduced him, she found herself in a state of confusion.
“Lady Sophia Learmouth, may I present Colonel Stirling? He is a dear friend of Exencour’s,” she heard Isobel say.
The Colonel bowed elegantly. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Sophia. I believe I have encountered your father upon occasion.”
Sophy did her best to bring her thoughts back to the moment. “Oh thank you, Colonel Stirling. I’m delighted to be sure.”
She flushed slightly at her nonsensical response, and saw with a twinge of annoyance that Colonel Stirling, whose face had shown a touch of curiosity, now assumed a look of bland politeness. He had clearly dismissed her as a foolish girl beneath his notice, and the thought stung.
Isobel stepped in, drawing the colonel’s attention. “Have you been long in London? I hadn’t heard from Exencour that you were here, and I feel certain he would have mentioned it if he had encountered you. He speaks often of you, you know.”
A smile glimmered on the colonel’s lips. “No, Lady Exencour, I have missed much of the Season, and seldom venture to London of late. After the death of my older brother this past year, I decided it would be best to spend some time in Scotland with my father, learning more about the estate. I shall have to sell out, I suppose, if I am to be the next laird.”
“My condolences, Colonel Stirling. You must feel the loss of your brother deeply,” Sophy said gently.
Ranulf switched his gaze from Isobel to her companion, and looked at Sophy closely for the first time. Her charming bonnet made of chip, trimmed with a garland of pink silk roses and matching silk gauze ribbons framed an expressive face, with large blue eyes fringed by dark lashes and a mouth that was full, yet surprisingly firm. Dark curls peeked out from under her hat, emphasizing the slim column of her neck. He raised his eyebrows.
“Why would you think I must necessarily miss my brother, Lady Sophia?” he asked, his voice faintly mocking. “My chief memories are of him teasing me mercilessly when we were boys, and as I embarked on a military career over a dozen years ago, I’ve seen little of him since.”
A spark of annoyance lit Sophy’s eyes. “I was being polite, and attempting to sympathize, Colonel Stirling, as you doubtless know. But I can tell you that I have a brother as well, and, as much as I wish to throttle him from time to time, if he were to suddenly disappear from my life, I would be heartbroken,” she replied, a touch of acid in her voice.
The smile grew broader, and Sophy blinked as the colonel’s handsome face grew even more attractive. “Well said, Lady Sophia. I do indeed miss my brother a great deal, if only because his death makes me take on the responsibilities of the family lands.”
Isobel glanced from Sophy to the colonel, her eyes alight with curiosity. “Colonel Stirling’s father is the Laird of Spaethness,” she said.
Sophy received the information with apparent disinterest. “Are you from the Highlands, then?”
“Yes, Spaethness is in Argyll, hidden away in the Grampians,” he replied. “We are wild Highlanders through and through.”
“No wild man out of the glens has his coats made by Weston, as yours clearly is, or wears boots with a shine such as yours,” said Sophy dryly.
A touch of amusement crept into his sleepy eyes. “I see I shall have to take my tales of kelpies and banshees elsewhere then.”
Sophy gave a gurgle of laughter despite her annoyance. “I may be a lowlander, but you must definitely find a more gullible female to impose upon than me.” She turned toward him and their eyes met and, though she relished the opportunity to give this confident gentleman a bit of a set down, she realized she had not managed to chase away the pull of his personal magnetism.
After a moment he looked away and gave her a careless reply. The conversation turned to the doings of the Season, and particularly of the Exencours’ and Colonel Stirling’s mutual acquaintance, while Sophy listened in silence. After a few minutes Isobel held her hand out to the colonel with a cheerful smile.
“We must not keep you any longer,” she said. “But do call upon us at Strancaster House. Francis will be very pleased to see you again.”
“I am always happy to see Lord Exencour, and his charming wife as well,” said the colonel. He turned to Sophy, and nodded. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Sophia.”
Sophy inclined her head coldly, not failing to note that this caused the colonel’s lips to twitch slightly. She watched, annoyed, as he bowed politely while the barouche pulled away.
“How charming to encounter Colonel Stirling,” said Isobel. “It must be several years since I have seen him.”
“Are you well acquainted with him?” Sophy inquired.
“Francis is, as they were in the Peninsula and at Waterloo together. They are great friends. I have met him a number of times, and find him to be utterly charming. I suppose I need not tell you that I am not the only woman to find him so.”
“I thought him rather rude, if the truth be told,” said
Sophy.
Isobel turned to her, surprised. “Did you? Oh, I suppose he was rather teasing to you, but I would hardly call him rude. But then, he is not much used to devoting himself to very young girls. No doubt he is out of practice in conversing with one.”
“I am not a very young girl! I am one-and-twenty!” protested Sophy.
“It’s true, you are not fresh out of the schoolroom, but to a gentleman such as Colonel Stirling, you must seem a mere child. He spent years on the Peninsula and then was wounded at Waterloo. When he recovered, he went to India to take part in the campaign against the Marathas. He stayed on a year or two after, and I understand he made quite a fortune. He has vast experience, but you must forgive him if he does not remember how to speak to a young lady.”
“That all sounds very interesting, but I fail to see how it excuses his rudeness,” said Sophy. Even to her own ears her voice sounded pettish.
Isobel looked at her closely. “You are too accustomed to all the London gentlemen, who fall at your feet when you smile at them,” she teased. “But you need not be concerned with Colonel Stirling. I doubt you will meet him again. Before the war he cut quite a dash, but since he was wounded he has had little use for Society. Francis does not speak of it much, but I gather he prefers the company of his horses and dogs to that of people, of late.”
“Perhaps that is why his manners are so rough,” murmured Sophy.
“Rough! I’ve seldom met a better spoken man. And so handsome, too. I can’t imagine what has given you such an instant dislike of him.” Isobel shook her head at the stubborn look on Sophy’s face. “Don’t look daggers at me, child! We need not discuss Colonel Stirling any longer, as he will doubtless return to Spaethness soon.”
They continued around the park, pausing to talk with a few ladies and gentlemen, but none of the conversations interested Sophy. She found her thoughts wandering to Colonel Stirling’s dark hair, powerful body, and oddly expressive eyes. A painting began to form itself in her head, and she firmly squelched the thought. It was as ridiculous a notion to wish to paint him as it was that he might be willing to sit for her. So lost in thought was she, that she barely realized they had pulled up outside her father’s house in Charles Street.
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