Highlander Unbound

by Julia London

  Liam stalked from one end of the salon to the other (even larger than the old great hall in Talla Dileas!), taking in all the belongings. The walls, consoles, and shelving were chock full of fancy ornaments, china figurines, and sculptures made of precious metals. On the walls hung large paintings in gilded frames. There were, as best he could identify, Persian, Chinese, French, and Italian trinkets and art scattered about. But not a beastie among them.

  While Liam was brewing to a full head of steam, Nigel did at last deign to appear with his father in tow, from whom, Liam could see instantly, Nigel had inherited his robust figure and lack of common sense.

  After introductions were made and the ladies’ apologies given, the gentlemen had assumed their seats, and the old man asked of Liam, “A Lockhart, are you?” to which Liam grunted an affirmative reply. “Scots, too? I wasn’t aware of any Scottish Lockharts, was I, Nigel?”

  “Eh, what?” Nigel asked. “Well, it’s really so far north and rather remote, isn’t it? That makes them rather distant cousins after all. I shouldn’t think that we’d know necessarily, sir.”

  “Distant cousin? How odd…I always thought that meant the degree of removal, not necessarily the distance,” Lord Lockhart pondered.

  Mary Queen of Scots, Liam thought irritably, wishing it did indeed mean distance, and swallowing his tea, said pleasantly, “Perhaps, then, ye donna recall the family history?”

  “Ooh, is there one? A family history, that is?” Nigel the Dolt asked, holding his teacup aloft so the good butler might put a spot of whiskey into it.

  “Surely ye’ve heard the tale of the first Lockharts, eh?”

  “Do you mean our ancestors?” Lord Lockhart asked helpfully.

  God blind him! “Aye. Our ancestors,” Liam responded, and proceeded to tell them how the split of the Lockharts had come about after the earl of Douglas had died, being careful to omit any references to the sorry lot of cowards their side of the family had proved to be.

  “Quite interesting and all that, but what have the Lockharts to do with this Douglas chap?” Nigel asked, adopting an identical perplexed look to the one his father wore.

  Family history was not, apparently, high on the English Lockharts’ agenda. Then again, who needed history when one had so many resources and a priceless beastie to boot? Liam devoured another cucumber sandwich and tried a different tack. “Right ye are, Cousin Nigel. There’s no’ much to say about the Douglases—or the Lockharts, for that matter. Just that they were a lot of Highlanders and old loyalists to the clans.”

  “To clams?” the elder Lockhart demanded. “What sort of person is loyal to a clam?”

  “Not clam, milord. Clan,” Liam clarified, and proceeded to paint a false picture of the Scottish Lockharts (who became, the more he talked, a group of backward cave dwellers who spoke their own guttural language, adhered to their own animal standards, and basically ate tree root and grunted quite a lot). His purpose being, of course, to separate himself from them so the rift between father and son might be believed. And he managed to do it with something of a straight face, and frankly, had the two English Lockharts quite enraptured. They sat on the edges of their seats, gasping at all the appropriate moments and shaking their heads in silent sympathy for a man so hopelessly different from his family. “Ye can see me dilemma, then,” he said hopefully, after confirming for Lord Lockhart that his father was indeed a rustic madman.

  Holding their teacups in identical, effeminate fashion, Lord Lockhart and Nigel stared wide-eyed at him. “Well of course we can see!” Nigel said, nodding furiously. “In truth, Cousin Liam, you mustn’t go back there!” he added with a shudder.

  “Ah, I couldna do so. Me father, well…he’s got himself a bit involved in…Ach, best no’ to speak of it.”

  As if they were one person, Nigel and his father both surged forward. “You may speak freely with us, sir,” the old Lockhart assured him. “We are family, after all.”

  Not if he had anything to do with it. “Aye, indeed, milord…but it’s rather difficult to speak of, what with the…well, consequences and all.”

  “Consequences?” Nigel squealed.

  “Rather dire,” Liam added with a shrug, then muttered behind his teacup, “Perhaps unlawful.”

  “Oh, dear. It must be something quite…wretched?”

  “Quite. I canna condone it, what with being a soldier in the king’s army, that is,” he said helplessly as the butler moved woodenly to the old man’s side and leaned over his shoulder.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” the butler whispered rather loudly, “but Lady Lockhart is leaving for her fortnight in the country and is waiting for you in the family drawing room.”

  Lord Lockhart frowned and waved a hand at the man. “Can’t she just go on, then?” he asked irritably.

  The butler was not deterred. “She’s rather insistent, my lord.”

  “Yes, yes,” Lord Lockhart said, putting his teacup aside. “Can’t keep the dear waiting,” he added with a roll of his eyes to Liam and Nigel, and pushed his girth to standing. “Well, then. We simply must finish our visit another day. Will you come again, Cousin Liam? We’re quite anxious to have the whole story.”

  “It would be an honor.”

  “And naturally you’ll be attending our annual ball, Wednesday next, as our special guest, will you not?”

  The very word ball sent shivers of fear down his spine. “Ah, milord, I canna—”

  “Of course you can! Don’t be ridiculous! I should be quite offended if you refuse, for we’re family,” he said, balancing his ample girth on a spindly little cane. “You must come. We’ll show you about to all our friends. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Bloody hell. “Thank you,” Liam said, rising. He towered over his uncle, who put a liver-spotted hand to Liam’s chest and patted him like an old dog. “Never fear—we’ll clean you up and turn you out, you’ll see,” he said as he started out the door. “They’ll never know you’re a Scot once we’re through with you, will they, Nigel?”

  “No sir! All right, then? Pip-pip,” Nigel said, waddling after his father.

  “Pip-pip,” Liam echoed, and waited until they had quit the room behind the butler to slap his teacup down on the service tray and toss aside his napkin. “Bloody barmy English,” he muttered as he marched from the room to have a quick look around before the butler could find him.

  While Liam was sneaking about the ground floor of the Lockhart mansion, Ellen was staring across a table at her sister Eva as she embroidered linen kerchiefs with the family initials, wondering how two people born of the same parents could be so very different.

  For the first part of her visit, Eva had, in a near monotone, attempted to regale Ellen with an account of their meal just last evening. She had begun by recounting the menu (braised lamb with rosemary and potatoes, although she did not care for the potatoes), the wine (a rather disagreeable vintage, although she really couldn’t recall which vintage it was, precisely), and the exact time they had sat for the evening meal (always at eight o’clock, but for Willard’s late meeting, which put them back a full quarter past). Then she had begun to explain how she came to be embroidering the linen napkins with initials (Willard thought them rather plain, all in all).

  Ellen stitched an on her kerchief, thought of the flowers in her dressing room stolen from Lord Parnham’s prized garden, and instantly put her hand in the pocket of her gown, felt the polished stone there, and suppressed a quiet smile.

  When Eva finished reciting the evening meal, she reminded Ellen that she had two gowns to pass along to her. “From two Seasons past, I believe, so I should think no one will take any notice,” she assured Ellen.

  “Of course not,” Ellen responded automatically, knowing full well that no one would take notice of her in anything she wore. It was almost as if she existed like a ghost, where she could see everyone around her, but no one could see her.

  “I’ve also a little frock for Natalie,” she continued blandly, “t
hat belonged to the daughter of my housekeeper. But really, I’m so cross with the girl that I shouldn’t give it to her a’tall,” she said with a sniff.

  “Indeed? And why is that?” Ellen asked calmly, expecting a host of minor social violations, the sort Eva typically liked to catalog for her.

  “Because she’s telling awful stories to Frederick! They’re keeping him awake at night,” she said petulantly. “Her conduct and imagination are very unseemly. You should do something.”

  Do? And what exactly would Eva suggest? What was unseemly in this family was that she had nowhere to take Natalie but to this stodgy old house. That, to Ellen, was a far greater crime than a child’s bizarre storytelling. Nonetheless, she could not ignore the fact that Natalie’s expanding imagination had moved beyond the point of making excuses for it. She shoved her unfinished kerchief into her reticule. “Let’s fetch the gowns, shall we?” she suggested tightly.

  Eva was more than happy to send her on her way.

  As she and Natalie walked home later that afternoon, Ellen decided that in the last fortnight or so Natalie’s tales had become bolder and more fantastic. And on those occasions when she tried to talk to her about it, the girl was dutifully contrite, but would return to her fantasy the very next day. Her daughter’s malady, whatever it was, was not something Ellen knew how to address. Yet it was a growing concern, and she felt instinctively and certainly that if she didn’t get Natalie away from here and into some semblance of a life, it would only get worse.

  She looked down at Natalie walking next to her, trailing her hand along anything she could touch, oblivious to her mother’s concern. “Darling, have you been telling stories to Frederick?” she asked.

  Natalie glanced at her from the corner of her eye and hesitantly shook her head.

  “Should I presume, then, that you didn’t say anything that might have frightened him?”

  Natalie did not look at Ellen, but kept her eyes on her feet.

  They continued walking in silence.

  It was moments like this Ellen felt so very alone. No one but she knew the troubles clouding Natalie’s mind; no one knew the two of them even existed, really. They were living like lepers in a city teeming with life, and her daughter was wasting away in a little fantasy world Ellen could no longer control or even enter.

  It was time to go. Ellen could feel it in her very marrow.

  She was so lost in thought that she almost collided head-on with Liam on the walkway near the Farnsworth house. He caught her arm as she walked past, and Ellen shrieked with alarm.

  “Did ye no’ see me, then?” he said, instantly letting go of her arm as she whirled around to face him. “I thought surely ye did, Ellie, for I was standing directly before ye.”

  She caught her breath; he looked different—dressed in black superfine, dark brown trousers, and the embroidered waistcoat she had given him. The shirt he wore—one she had pressed—looked as pristine as any she had seen, and the neckcloth…well now that was an interesting knot. All in all, he looked stunningly handsome. How strange, therefore, that she should prefer the other Liam. The soldier Liam. The Liam who stomped mice and roasted partridges at the hearth.

  “Mi Diah, donna say ye’ve forgotten me already!” he exclaimed with a nervous laugh.

  “I know who you are,” Natalie offered hopefully.

  Liam smiled, cupped her chin. “Of that I am as sure as that the sun will rise.”

  “Pardon, but I didn’t see you standing there,” Ellen said. “I’m not accustomed to…well…” She didn’t say more, but looked meaningfully at his clothes.

  Liam instantly looked down and groaned. “Ach, I feared it would be so! I’ve become a bloody coxcomb, have I no’?”

  That was so absurd, Ellen couldn’t help but laugh. “I am quite confident, sir, that you will never be a coxcomb. Were you just leaving?”

  “Just returning. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting me Uncle Lockhart,” he said, and gestured for her to proceed down the walk. He fell in beside her, hands clasped behind his back, looking like a typical London gentleman.

  “And how did you find him? Is he well?”

  Liam looked at her from the corner of his eye and smiled wryly. “Well enough, I suppose. But it is a fact that the English Lockharts are cut from a different cloth than their Scottish cousins.”

  Ellen refrained from remarking that that was perhaps the world’s greatest understatement, and asked about the tea.

  “Bitter stuff,” he said. “And ye didna mention the whiskey,” he added. Before Ellen could ask what he meant, Liam confided, “And I didna see the beastie.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head, frowning. “I’m afraid I must go back,” he said, sounding as if he were marching off to Hades. They reached the steps leading up to the house; Liam cupped her elbow as they started upward. “The old man, he’s invited me…demanded, really…” His voice trailed off, his expression changed, and for a moment, he looked almost ill.

  “Demanded…supper?”

  “No. No’ as easy as that.” Liam rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. “A ball,” he said, looking now as if he were in physical pain.

  “A ball, a ball!” Natalie cried, clapping her hands as Liam opened the front door for them. “May we go, Mother?”

  “Of course not, darling. One must be invited to attend.”

  “Oh,” she said, her face falling. “It would be so lovely.”

  “No, lass, ’tis no’ lovely at all,” he said miserably. “’Tis a bloody disaster.”

  “A disaster?” Ellen laughed. “Why ever would you say such a thing? Natalie is right—a ball in Mayfair is all the rage, you know.”

  “A ball in Mayfair is no’ something for a soldier.”

  “Oh, Liam, soldiers attend balls all the time! Surely you know that a young lady’s heart will beat wildly at the sight of a man in uniform.”

  Liam came to a dead halt in the foyer, peered down at her with forest eyes so deep that they stirred the pit of her belly. “I donna want young ladies’ hearts to beat wildly,” he said emphatically. “And I canna dance.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “No! I’ve two left feet if I’ve one!”

  “Miss Farnsworth, will you be taking supper this evening?”

  They all turned startled gazes to Agatha, who had come into the foyer without being heard. And there she stood, her arms folded tightly, her eyes narrowed with suspicion as she glared at Liam.

  “Personally, I wouldna advise it,” Liam said cheerfully, to which Agatha’s scowl deepened.

  “Yes, Agatha,” Ellen added, ignoring Liam’s wisdom. “At the usual time, please.”

  “Very well,” she said coldly, still eyeing Liam, and held out her hand to Natalie. “Come then, miss, it is time for your bath.”

  Natalie walked to Agatha, slipped her hand into hers, and as Ellen watched them climb the steps, she was struck again by how sad it was for someone as small as Natalie to be so troubled.

  “What is it, then?” Liam asked her softly, his gaze following hers to Natalie’s retreating figure. “Ye seem suddenly downcast.”

  “Nothing, really,” she murmured, and attempted to smile. “It’s just that she’s growing up so fast. But as for you, sir, we shall simply have to teach you to dance. It’s quite simple, really.”

  “Oh no,” he said, backing up. “I’ll no’ be so dandy as that—”

  “You’ll never find the beastie if you don’t attend this ball, isn’t that so? And if you attend you must at least appear to be socializing, mustn’t you? And if you are going to at least appear to be social, then it stands to reason that you must dance. Am I quite right?”

  “Aye,” Liam said, and groaned again, looking as truly miserable as anyone Ellen had ever seen.

  And true to his word, having reluctantly agreed to dancing lessons, Liam snuck up the two flights of stairs after Follifoot brought the obligatory and positively vile serving of what he claimed was lamb for his supper
. Liam had attempted to eat it but at last gave in to his stomach’s wailing for him to stop.

  He left the offal on the table, took a piece of vellum from his knapsack, and penned another letter home.

  Dearest Mother, the weather has turned foul, the small game is wretchedly undernourished, and it appears as if I shall be forced to dance at my cousin’s ball. Yours faithfully, L.

  He sealed the letter and then dressed in Highland fashion as was his preference. He quit the room, moving quietly down the long corridor in his ghillie brogues, and quickly climbed the stairs to Ellie.

  She was waiting for him, looking angelic once again in a gown of pale blue silk. As she had been previously, she seemed a bit taken aback by his féileadh beag, which gave him, oddly enough, a sense of enormous pleasure. Natalie was dressed, too, he noticed, and she gleefully rushed forward to tell him she would also learn to dance. Indeed, Ellie had pushed aside the sofa and made an area where she could teach both her daughter and her father’s tenant the latest ballroom dances.

  Against Liam’s better judgment, Ellie lined him up head to elbow with Natalie, and taught (or rather attempted to teach) the two of them the steps of the quadrille, the minuet, and lastly, the waltz. Liam grudgingly admitted that little Nattie was by far the better dancer. For him, the movements seemed ridiculously without purpose and put him at sixes and sevens to the point he couldn’t remember which foot to put where or when.

  When they practiced the more complicated quadrille, however, even Natalie was beginning to lose her natural grace, and after the two of them collided more than once, they could not help dissolving into a fierce fit of laughter. Neither could Ellie, her cheeks glowing with her enthusiasm, and Liam thought she had never looked lovelier.

  When it came time to put Natalie to bed, the girl didn’t protest, no doubt exhausted from his attempts to lead her around the dance floor.

  Ellie returned a few moments later with a soft smile on her face, and Liam was struck with the notion of how lovely it would be to see that smile each and every day.

  “She’s asleep,” she said, reaching for his hand. “Come on, then. I’ve something to show you.”