by Bess McBride
I balked at the edge of the forest.
“Where exactly do you live, Robin Hood?”
He stopped and turned with an inquiring look.
“Robin Hood?” he repeated as if he didn’t understand the reference. “Forgive me. I should have introduced myself. Colin Anderson.” He lowered his head and dipped in a fairly courtly bow. I was taken aback at the old-world gesture. “And how may I address ye?”
“Elizabeth Pratt. Beth,” I said.
“Mistress Pratt then. Come along. We havena much further to go.”
I hurried after him, and within ten minutes, the forest opened up onto parkland surrounding a magnificent gray stone mansion with castellated turrets on either end.
I stopped short, astounded.
“Is this your house?”
“Aye, it is still mine, though for how much longer, I canna say.”
I wanted to ask what he meant, but he urged me forward, and the moment was lost.
“Come. Mrs. Renwick will have supper ready.”
I followed, my head spinning as I studied first the massive house, then the well-kept lawns bordering the mansion. Forest surrounded the whole, reminding me of an enchanted fairy-tale castle.
The massive oak door opened before we reached it, and an elderly gentleman in dark-brown trousers and jacket stood at the stop of the stone steps, awaiting us.
“Mistress Pratt, this is George Renwick.”
I stuck out my hand, but George bowed at the waist. I guessed then that he must be an employee of some sort.
“Mistress Pratt,” he said briefly. I noted his faded blue eyes focused on my legs as he straightened, and I felt oddly underdressed in the setting, as if I should be in a dress. I looked down at my jeans. They weren’t abnormally tight. Surely some women up here wore jeans, didn’t they?
Colin then spoke to George in an unintelligible language, and I understood nothing of the exchange. It wasn’t French—it wasn’t any language I’d heard before.
George nodded and turned away without a word.
“I instructed him to have the housekeeper prepare a room for ye. Ye will need to stay the night.”
“What? Oh no! Wait!” I called out after George, but he had vanished into the house. I turned to Colin. “No! I wasn’t going to spend the night! Can’t I use your phone? I’m sure I can get someone to come out from Inverness to get me.” As I remembered the long trek to Colin’s rather remote mansion, I wondered if that were actually true.
Colin, gesturing for me to enter the house, tilted his head, regarding me with an expression of surprise.
“From Inverness?” he asked. “Do ye jest, lass? It is a journey of many hours from Inverness! Nor do I possess this ‘fone’ of which ye speak. What is this blasted thing?”
The first raindrops fell, and before I could answer, Colin’s hand at the small of my back propelled me forward. I stepped inside a large foyer, notable for shining dark oak floors and two narrow staircases that flanked the entryway. The interior of the castle was cool, and I wished I had my jacket, now sitting on my seat in the bus. I crossed my arms over my chest and shivered.
“Are ye cold, lass? Come into the great room. George will have set a fire by now.”
Colin led the way through a narrow doorway into a room that could certainly be described as great. Massive oak beams splayed across the ceiling drew the eye. A long rectangular table centered the room and was flanked by a stone fireplace that seemed to take up half of a wall. A cheery fire burned within, though it was summer. The house certainly did need warming. The walls, of stacked and mortared rock, while stunning, did not look as if they retained warmth. I also noted candles—real candles—burning in sconces on the walls and in candlesticks on several tables. How very quaint!
“What a beautiful room!” I exclaimed.
“Aye,” Colin acknowledged. “It is my favorite room.” He let fall the length of plaid that had draped across his left shoulder. My eyes rounded as I watched Colin unbuckle a cross-body strap over his jacket. A basket-hilted broadsword dangled from it. What on earth? Was that the metal I had seen peeping out from the folds of his kilt?
George returned just in time to take the sword and deftly catch the jacket that Colin was about to throw onto one of two stunning high-backed, velvet-cushioned chairs set facing the fireplace.
Colin said something further to the older man that I couldn’t understand. George disappeared again, and I watched with fascination as Colin loosened the white neckcloth of his shirt and lifted the overly long back of his plaid and hooked it into the belt around his waistcoat. I had never seen a kilt quite like his with so much material. Nevertheless, I didn’t feel like admiring his costume so much as ensuring my safety. A sword?
I panicked.
“So, your wife? Could I meet her?” I said breathlessly. I moved closer to the fire, both for warmth and with some plan to grab the nearby iron poker and smack him with it.
Colin stopped and dipped his head. He laced his hands behind his back, bringing into focus the muscles of his chest as they pressed against his shirt. Even in my anxiety, I could not deny that he was quite a specimen of a man.
“I fear I lied to ye about a wife, Mistress Pratt. I have nae such.”
I drew in a sharp breath and dropped my eyes to the poker, only inches from my hand. I reached for it, and though I didn’t brandish it at Colin, I settled it in front of me, crossing my hands over the handle.
“Why would you lie about that? Do you have any other family here?”
“Nay,” he said in a somber tone. “None have survived me. I told ye an untruth because I feared that ye wouldna come wi me, that ye would fear me more than wolves, the English soldiers or the storm.”
As he spoke, a loud clap of thunder startled me, and I jumped, raising the poker and pointing like a sword.
Colin thrust up his hands, a smile breaking across his face. I looked down at the poker and lowered it.
“There now, lass. Calm yerself. It was only the storm. I am sorry for lying to ye. Ye will be safe here. I have plenty of womenfolk in the house to see to that.
“Seat yerself near the fire,” he said, pointing to a satin embroidered cushioned bench positioned against the wall. “Rest. We will sup soon. Can I interest ye in a dram of whiskey?”
I shook my head.
“Tea then? To warm ye up? Ye still look a bit cold.”
That sounded quite civilized to me.
“Yes, tea, please.”
He moved toward me, and I shrank back against the stone wall until I noted he was reaching for a bell on the mantel over the fireplace.
George appeared almost instantly in response to the ring, and Colin muttered at him in the strange language. I began to think Colin was speaking Gaelic, and I strained to make out any familiar words. I found myself once again fascinated by him—an old-world man in a modern era. It wasn’t just his costume that compelled the imagination, but his mannerisms and his speech.
“Is that Gaelic you’re speaking?”
“Aye,” he said, pulling a chair away from the table and turning it to face me. He seated himself.
“I didn’t know many Scots spoke Gaelic anymore,” I said. “Admittedly, I should know more about a country I’m visiting, but don’t they only speak it in the outer islands?”
“The Hebrides?” Colin asked. “I suppose they do, but we still speak it amongst ourselves, though it is forbidden.”
“Forbidden?” I asked.
“Aye, for some time now. I suppose ye wouldna ken such, coming from the colonies as ye do.”
The fire warmed me, relaxed me, and I almost laughed.
“The colonies,” I repeated. “You Brits! Still referring to the colonies.”
Colin tilted his head again in that charming way of his, as if he didn’t quite understand me.
“Brits? Please, madam. Scots. Is it improper to call America the colonies then? Instruct me.”
I thought Scots were Brits, but then again, maybe I was wrong. I smile
d.
“No, I’m used to it. I’ve traveled to the UK before. This is not the first time I’ve heard the United States referred to as the colonies. It’s not taken seriously, like an insult or anything.”
Just then, George entered with a silver tea service that he set on the dining table. He poured a cup for Colin and for me.
“Sugar? Milk?” he asked me in English.
“Neither, thank you.” He nodded and handed me my cup, one of the loveliest patterns of china I had ever seen, and then he left the room promptly.
“I must say, Mistress Pratt, that ye continue to use language which befuddles me. I canna say I have heard the terms the UK or the United States. Do ye suggest that America is called the United States by some?”
In the act of sipping my tea, I sputtered and choked. I set the cup down in its saucer, and seeing no nearby table to set it on, held it in my hands.
“Look, Mr. Anderson, I really don’t know what your act is, but it’s kind of goofy, don’t you think?” I scrunched my nose. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I was tired and very confused.
“I dinna have an ‘act,’ Mistress Pratt. I ask the question in all sincerity.” He seemed not to take offense.
Now I tilted my head.
“Okay, I’ll bite. Yes, of course America is called the United States. The UK is the United Kingdom, of which Scotland is a part...for now anyway.”
Colin narrowed his eyes. “Nay, I think ye are mistaken. Scotland at present is under the Kingdom of Great Britain, more’s the pity.”
“Maybe I had it wrong,” I said. I didn’t think I did, but it didn’t seem worth arguing about. The hot tea and fire were working their magic, and I was toasty warm.
The door opened, and George appeared again, holding the door for a young girl carrying a large silver platter. She sported a mobcap, of all things, and a white apron over her gray ankle-length skirt. A brown bustier over a beige muslin blouse completed her ensemble. She set the tray down, and George unloaded plates of food onto the table.
Colin rose and approached me. He bowed once again and held out his hand.
“Shall we dine?” he asked.
I slipped my spare hand into his firm grasp and carried my tea to the table. He seated me at his right. The waitress, or serving girl, or whatever she was called, waited while George set plates before us.
I had one burning question, and I waited until they withdrew to ask.
“Okay, Colin, is this some kind of themed hotel or something? I mean...why was the girl in costume? For that matter, why are you?”
Colin, in the act of ladling food onto my plate, paused before continuing.
“Costume?” he repeated with a lift of a dark eyebrow. “Aye, the plaid. It is also forbidden, but I am stubborn. I choose to wear it when I wish, so long as I am out of sight of those who would report such.”
I shook my head. He certainly was deep in character. Hadn’t the tour guide said that wearing the kilt had been banned following the defeat of the Highlanders at Culloden? I suppose if someone had to help me out of my bind after being left by the tour group, a man running a historic hotel for tourists was perfect.
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of questioning him on the “forbidden” speech.
“So, is this a themed hotel?”
“I dinna understand yer reference to a ‘themed hotel.’”
I began to eat. The food was delicious, the bread hot and fresh.
“Themed, you know. Like everyone dressed in traditional Scots clothing? Speak as if we were in the eighteenth century?”
“But we are in the eighteenth century, Mistress Pratt.”
My face must have gone pale, for he poured quite a large amount of reddish liquid into a silver goblet before me.
“Are ye quite well, madam? Drink this. Ye look peaked.”
I gulped the sweet wine, focusing on the candles centered on the table. Rotating my head, I noticed no evidence of electricity. No lights, no lamps, no wires, no outlets drilled into the stone walls.
I turned back to Colin, my eyes dropping to his plaid. The material was clearly handwoven.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“There is much I dinna understand about ye either, mistress. How ye came to be alone on the path, yer manner of dress, yer own manner of speech.”
“What year do you think you’re living in?” I asked.
At this, Colin laughed outright—a deep, full-bodied sound that at any other time would have sent a delightful shiver up my spine.
“Why, it is 1746, Mistress Pratt! And what year do ye think ye’re living in?”
Chapter Two
I jumped up and ran from the room, making for the front door. Colin called after me, but I ignored him. The huge oak door featured a wooden bar across it, and I lifted it with effort and pulled open the door.
Wind and rain pelted me as I ran outside. I ran down the drive toward the forest for only a few moments before I realized I really had nowhere to go. I stopped.
“Beth!” Colin called after me. “What are ye doing, lass?”
I turned and faced the house, faced Colin, who hurried toward me. George stood at the doorway.
“Woman!” Colin said, reaching my side. “I canna let loose in this weather. Come into the house. We will sort this out.”
He pulled the extra length of his plaid from his belt and wrapped it around me, pulling me close to him.
I sobbed and tried to catch my breath as he led me back to the house.
“This is a nightmare,” I mumbled. “I have to be dreaming.”
“Ye’re nae dreaming, lass. I dinna understand what troubles ye, but I will help ye if I can.”
Upon entering the house, he called out in Gaelic, and a diminutive gray-haired woman wearing a white lace cap on her head came running.
Colin switched to English.
“Mistress Pratt, this is Mrs. Agnew, my housekeeper. She will take ye upstairs and find some dry clothing. Then ye must come and finish yer supper.”
I shook my head, dazed and very confused. Sopping wet, I shivered. “I’m not hungry.”
“Ye’ll take another cup of tea then to warm yer bones. I will await yer pleasure. I think we have things to discuss.”
I turned away to follow the housekeeper up the stairs. Her dark-gray ankle-length skirt and bodice jacket were in keeping with the costuming of the house.
A glance over my shoulder showed that Colin hadn’t moved but remained standing in the foyer watching me. He smiled and ran a hand through his wet hair to brush it back from his face. I turned back to negotiate the steep wooden stairs.
The housekeeper was largely silent, and I didn’t know what to say as we topped the stairs. She stopped at a side table and lit an oil lamp, holding it high. The second floor was colder than the first, if that were possible. Stone walls didn’t help.
“I’ve put ye in the Red Room, Mistress Pratt, and we started the fire,” she said. “I’ll fetch a dress from Lady Mary’s room. She had a figure such as yers.”
“Lady Mary,” I repeated. “Are they aristocrats?” At the moment, I was trying to focus on anything that didn’t have to do with the date. Was Lady Mary Colin’s wife or his mother?
“Aye. Lord Anderson is the Earl of Halkhead. Ye didna ken?”
“I didn’t what?” I asked. An earl!
“Ken. Ye didna ken his lairdship was nobility?”
She paused in front of a room and pushed open a heavy oak door. She stepped in, and I followed. A hearty fire burned in a large stone fireplace, and it instantly cheered me up. I had no idea if they had central heating or not, or even if they had electricity, but as long as I was warm, I would be all right. I wondered how they managed out here in their remote location. Surely they must have a generator or another source of energy.
I didn’t answer Mrs. Agnew’s question but moved to stand in front of the fireplace with my ice-cold hands extended. My reddish-brown hair, caught up in its usual ponytail, hung w
et down to the middle of my shoulder blades, and my cotton blouse clung to me. I started to shiver.
“Poor child, ye’re freezing, ye are!” Mrs. Agnew murmured, setting her lamp down on a side table. She lifted a green tartan blanket from the end of the bed and wrapped it around my shoulders. I buried into the soft yet scratchy material and clutched it closely to my chest. It reminded me of the plaid Colin wore.
“Divest yerself of yer wet garments while I will fetch the dry clothing.”
“Thank you,” I said with chattering teeth.
She moved toward the hallway and stopped to light a candle by the door. She picked her lamp up and paused.
“I’ll warn ye though, mistress. Her ladyship didna wear trousers. All I can bring ye is a dress.”
The housekeeper continued to refer to this Lady Mary in the past tense, and I suspected that I would be wearing the clothes of a dead woman. The idea distressed me, but standing around in wet clothing was no alternative.
“That’s fine,” I said.
She nodded and left, and I turned to examine the room, staying near the fire. In my wet state, I dared not sit on the red velvet settee centered in front of the fireplace.
The room, medieval in appearance with its gray stone walls, was luxurious with red velvet curtains, bedding and bed hangings on the highly polished oak four-poster bed. I understood why Mrs. Agnew called it the Red Room. It was beautiful. Several chairs and a small dressing table with a matching stool completed the furnishings.
It appeared that Colin, Lord Anderson, had some money. I gave him some serious thought while I stood in front of the fireplace waiting for Mrs. Agnew’s return, and I decided that he was eccentric, as the wealthy could often afford to be. I didn’t know whether he ran a themed hotel or simply chose to live his life and dress his servants as if they lived in the eighteenth century, but the whole place was rather charming, if a little cold.
Mrs. Agnew returned carrying an armful of material and one really big hooped thing that she laid out on the bed. I moved toward her to look at the clothing and sighed to see that, indeed, I was going to be forced to dress in period costume as well. My eyes rounded on what I assumed were stays or a corset. Oh, surely that was a bit much!
