An American in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  “It wasn’t the war,” Rose said. “It was the Great Fire of 1861. Two years ago in December. They say nearly six hundred buildings burned.”

  Everywhere he looked there was destruction. Some effort was being made to rebuild what had been destroyed, but it seemed a Herculean task needed to be performed instead of the efforts of a few ­people here and there.

  He couldn’t imagine war doing any more damage than the fire.

  “A hundred fifty acres or thereabouts were destroyed, I heard,” she said. “It ended when the spire from the new Cathedral of St. Finbar fell. Susanna said it was a sign that God was displeased with the way the city fathers had handled the war so far.”

  He glanced over at her. She returned his look with a wry smile.

  “You’ll find that almost every conversation is about the war.”

  He could understand it, especially for those living in Charleston. The city lay in shambles. The taste and smell of soot clung to his nostrils.

  “What caused it?”

  She shook her head. “Some say it began in a business. Others say slaves started it. There are as many stories as there are ­people in Charleston. No one is certain, only that it seemed to have begun in three different places.”

  “Which gives credence to the idea of a concerted effort to burn the place down,” he said.

  She nodded.

  The wagon wheels rumbled beneath them, sometimes catching on the potholes left by the missing bricks. More than once he thought they might lose a wheel, but Rose never looked worried.

  She seemed in her element as he led the horses down the ruined street. She was sitting up straight, her shoulders back, wearing a smile. Here was the woman who believed in freedom to the extent she helped slaves escape. Here was Rose O’Sullivan who would go head-­to-­head with Bruce MacIain despite the fact she’d always lost. Now she was determined and focused as she’d probably been dozens of times before. No emotion showed on her face other than fierce determination. She had a goal and she was damned determined to reach it.

  A surge of admiration for her made him smile.

  She caught his expression and frowned at him. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  Of course she wouldn’t have remained behind in Nassau. Of course she wouldn’t have stayed at Glengarden with starvation and deprivation facing them. Rose would always do something, even if the action wasn’t wise. She wouldn’t be passive about life. She’d reach out and grab it with both hands, shake it until it surrendered or slapped her back.

  When had he fallen in love with her? When had he realized that his life wouldn’t be complete without her? Maybe that first day, when she’d taken one look at him and her eyes had widened before she fell at his feet.

  Maybe when she’d argued with him about the price of cotton.

  Maybe when he’d washed her back and realized that he would do anything to spare her from further pain.

  Or maybe it was that first kiss, when she’d been cuddled on his lap and he was overwhelmed by lust and tenderness.

  Whatever the timing, all he knew was that he wasn’t leaving here without her. Even though each night when he told her he loved her only silence was his answer.

  His patience could last as long as her stubbornness; at least, that’s what he told himself.

  He was going to have to handle one problem at a time. Right at the moment, he needed to figure out how to get the cotton to the Raven.

  THE COTTON warehouse was located in a part of the city the fire hadn’t reached. At first he thought that the three lines of dusty-­paned windows meant the warehouse had three floors, but that wasn’t the case. The windows were there to provide light to the cavernous one story space.

  They were let in by a thin and grizzled man sitting just inside the front door in a small office that was as cluttered as the warehouse was empty. He’d perused Rose’s certificate, then shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s gone,” he said. “Ain’t here no more.”

  “Where is it?” Rose asked. “You promised it would be safe.”

  “It got took away. The owner came and got it.”

  “Did he have a certificate like mine?” She took back the paper from the man and waved it in the air.

  “Didn’t matter. The warehouse owner recognized him right away. Poor man, him with one leg gone in the war. Heard tell he was going to get a medal or something for bravery. Even helped him get the cotton back to his place.”

  For a moment Rose didn’t say anything, and when she did speak her voice was hard.

  “If he didn’t have a certificate like I do, then you shouldn’t have given him the cotton.”

  The look in her eyes gave Duncan the indication that she would fight this point until death. It didn’t matter in the end, because the cotton wasn’t there. Certificate or not, Bruce had taken it.

  “It’s all right, Rose,” he said.

  “No, it is very much not all right. It’s theft.”

  She straightened her shoulders and marched out of the warehouse.

  Rose might be incensed, but the fact was, the law stated that the cotton belonged to Bruce and there was nothing she could do about it.

  She had already made it back up to the wagon seat when he returned, after thanking the man in the office, an innocent bystander in a war of two years’ duration. Not the Civil War but the war between Rose and Bruce. In this battle, Bruce had won again, but at least he hadn’t used force against her.

  Nor would he ever, again, Duncan thought.

  “I’d already decided to see my cousin anyway,” he said, getting back on the wagon seat. “How far is Glengarden from Charleston?”

  “A good four hours by land. Two by water.”

  “Then we’ll go by water. Can the Raven navigate it?”

  She nodded.

  “It’ll take another day to unload our cargo,” he said. “We won’t be able to leave until tomorrow at the earliest.”

  She stared down at her bare hands. She’d stopped wearing her gloves, but each time he saw her scars he was reminded of the cruelty of his cousin.

  He’d once entertained the idea of a reunion of all three branches of the MacIains. He’d thought it fascinating, the different ways the three original brothers had decided to make their fortunes in the world. For the most part they all succeeded, which would have made their mother proud.

  His family owned a mill that used to be the most prosperous one in Scotland. His English cousin was an earl. And his American cousin owned a plantation.

  Yet the same man had seen nothing wrong with owning another human being.

  The reunion would never take place; he knew that now. Nor would any meeting of the minds. They might be related, but they’d never be more than that.

  THERE WAS nothing bright or beautiful about Charleston to show Duncan. The fire had destroyed more than a third of the city, most of the damage in the heart of it. They visited the ruins of St. Finbar, which gave a hint to how beautiful the building had once been. Other than that, there wasn’t much to do but wait until the cargo was offloaded.

  She spoke to the pilot about where Glengarden was located, and thankfully, he was familiar with the Wando River. They should be able to reach the plantation in two hours without any difficulty.

  When they left Charleston, heading northwest, she continued standing at the rail. Speed wasn’t of the essence now, so their navigation of the wide river was done slowly, to guard against debris that might harm the Raven’s iron-­clad hull.

  She didn’t talk to anyone, not even Duncan, as she prepared to return to Glengarden. If she were courageous enough, she would have spoken of her fear that she’d wasted the time and resources of a man she admired, respected, and had come to love. How did she explain? How did she put her regrets into words?

  Not for loving him. Not for even
acting the harlot. Not even for bearing their child, if it came to that.

  Please, God, don’t let it come to that. How could she protect her child from Bruce?

  She’d put Duncan in danger and she couldn’t forgive herself for that. And she’d do so again, because the outbound voyage might not be as hazardous, but it would be more difficult for the Raven since the Union navy was on the lookout for her.

  All for nothing.

  She’d done everything for nothing. She’d traveled to Nassau, argued, cajoled, tried to convince various factors for no reason at all. She’d journeyed to London by ship, to Scotland by train, all to no avail.

  Glengarden wouldn’t be protected, unless Bruce agreed to sell his cotton. The future of the ­people who lived there would be just as bleak as the ­people once enslaved at the plantation.

  She didn’t know what to do, and the feeling of frustration was almost unbearable.

  THE MAIN approach to Glengarden was from the river. The Raven lay at dock behind a wide barge with Glengarden’s name painted on the stern.

  “It’s a cotton barge,” Rose said, catching his questioning look. “It’s how we take the cotton to Charleston.”

  “You took the barge to Charleston?” he asked.

  He didn’t know why he should be amazed. Rose was capable of doing anything she decided to do, even piloting a cumbersome barge down a river and into Charleston harbor.

  “There was no one else to do it,” she said.

  That explained almost everything she’d done, didn’t it? When no one else stepped up or stepped in, Rose had. She’d performed those tasks other ­people either couldn’t or wouldn’t do.

  She was more a Highland woman than she was an Irish descendant.

  He didn’t know what was going to happen from this point forward, so he told Captain McDougal not to prepare to load the cotton until he returned.

  He and Rose began to walk down the corridor of oaks. The tall trees met over the road, shadowing the approach, giving an appearance of peace and harmony on this warm afternoon. He didn’t know what the weather was like in the winter in South Carolina, but if the branches overhead were filled with icicles, they’d be spectacularly beautiful.

  The silence would have been enjoyable but it was overwhelmed by a peculiar and endless clicking noise.

  “Those are the cicadas,” Rose said, when he asked. “I’d never heard them before moving here. The sound goes on for hours, but you gradually get used to it. They’re a flying insect, but they sometimes leave their shells on the bark of trees. Wait until you hear the tree frogs at night. Sometimes, they’re so loud you can’t sleep.”

  Charleston had been a disaster, but it was a city, one not appreciably different from any other city. Glengarden was another place entirely, almost otherworldly.

  Every one of his senses were affected. The air was thick and warm, making him wish he hadn’t worn his jacket. The perfume of heady flowers, none of which he could identify, seemed to surround them like a cloud. The day was bright, the sunlight glaring, but here beneath the branches of trees that must be hundreds of years old there were only shadows.

  “Glengarden occupies all of the peninsula,” Rose said. “You can’t see the fields from here, but there are acres and acres behind the house. For the first time since MacIains came to South Carolina, there’s nothing planted.”

  If Bruce agreed to sell the cotton, he’d have enough money to hire workers and buy seed so he could plant a crop next year, not to mention having the funds to sustain them for some time. Would he see the possibilities? Or only resent Rose’s intrusion?

  Duncan didn’t know, but he wasn’t feeling optimistic, given her tales of the man. Anyone who would lock a woman up, regardless of what she’d done, didn’t seem the reasonable or rational type.

  As they walked, she pointed out places that he might have seen but for the curtain of trees. To their right were a series of outbuildings.

  “We don’t buy many things,” she said. “Cloth, shoes, flour, and sugar. Almost anything else can be made here.”

  As if she heard his curiosity, she pointed to the left. “The slave cabins are through there, beyond a small rise and behind a row of trees. They don’t show.”

  THE CLOSER they got to the house, the slower Rose walked. Duncan reached out and grabbed her hand, holding it in his. She shouldn’t think she was alone. He was here and he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Let the family think what they would.

  They must have noticed the Raven on the river. Either that or the barking he heard must have alerted them. Three ­people were arrayed on the veranda, waiting for them. A daguerreotype of a southern family, one that wasn’t particularly welcoming.

  “Auntie Rose! Auntie Rose!”

  A little girl with long curls of reddish gold stepped away from her mother. She might have flown down the steps toward Rose if her father hadn’t held out his crutch in front of the girl and stopped her.

  The little girl’s face changed in that instant from joy to caution. A second later she slid back behind her mother’s skirts.

  “The man is Bruce,” Rose said. “The woman is Claire, my sister. The little girl is my niece, Gloria. Susanna rarely makes it downstairs unless it’s a special occasion. She’s Bruce’s mother. Maisie isn’t allowed on the veranda. Neither is Benny. There’s only one other person living here and that’s Old Betsy. She rarely leaves her cabin.”

  She took a deep breath and stared up at the man in the Confederate uniform. He was using crutches, his left trouser leg pinned up as if to accentuate the loss of his limb. He was tall and slender, with brown hair that looked sparse but was left longer than normal, as if to make up for the lack. A chair sat behind him and Duncan knew it was for when he could no longer stand.

  The compassion he would normally have felt for any man with his injury was missing. In its place was the memory of the whip marks on Rose’s back and the scars on her hands.

  Bruce reminded him of a Shakespearian quote: he had a lean and hungry look. The man had evidently suffered; the deep lines on the sides of his mouth belonged to a much older man. His face was nearly skeletal, marked by wrinkles radiating outward from his eyes and thinned lips. His eyes, tobacco brown, were narrowed, fixed on Rose as if he’d like to immolate her with his gaze.

  The man looked exactly as he’d been in his letters: autocratic and overbearing. Evidently, there wouldn’t be a welcome home speech forthcoming.

  Beside Bruce stood one of the most beautiful women Duncan had ever seen. Her hair wasn’t as bright red as Rose’s, but darker, an auburn color with red highlights. Her face and Rose’s had similar features, marking them as sisters, but hers were less lively and more patrician. The privations they must have endured in the last months had carved her face into a porcelain cameo complete with aquiline nose and sharp chin. Her smile was barely there, an infinitesimal curve of her lips.

  Rose turned toward Duncan and smiled. Her courage was shining forth again, as was her daring. She might be terrified but she was not going to show it, especially to Bruce. Duncan kept her hand in his as they walked to the top of the broad steps of Glengarden.

  “Duncan MacIain,” he said, choosing to introduce himself before Rose could. “I’m your Scottish cousin.”

  Bruce didn’t say a word, leaving his wife to lean toward him. “How very nice to meet you, Mr. MacIain,” she said. “Welcome to Glengarden.”

  “You have a lovely home.”

  Bruce inclined his head in acknowledgment of the compliment, but that’s where his politeness ended.

  “Why are you here?” Bruce asked, directing his comment to Rose.

  “I once lived here,” she answered.

  “You were never a welcome guest,” Bruce said. “Only one I took in as a favor to Claire.”

  Rose’s face didn’t change.

  Duncan wanted to
push Bruce down the stairs, one leg and all. But what was worse was that Claire’s expression didn’t alter either. Nor did she say a word in her sister’s defense.

  No wonder Rose never considered Glengarden home.

  ROSE WAS nauseous with fear and that made her mad. The anger steadied her, reminding her that Duncan was at her side. Thank God he’d returned with her. She didn’t have to face Bruce alone.

  “What did you do with the cotton, Bruce?”

  “My cotton?”

  She smiled. It was hardly his. He hadn’t been there for the planting or the harvest. She and the slaves had picked it, ginned it, and packed it before taking it to Charleston.

  But a glance from Duncan made her change her question.

  “What did you do with your cotton, Bruce?”

  “Brought it back to Glengarden,” he said. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “I’ve arranged to purchase it,” Duncan said. “If you’re willing to sell it.”

  He named the amount, but it didn’t change Bruce’s expression.

  “That’s more than the factors in Charleston or Nassau would have paid,” she said.

  “I’m not interested in selling it,” Bruce said.

  “What are you going to do for money, then?” she asked. “Is the Confederacy going to provide you with flour and sugar and meat? How are you going to support your family?”

  “Tell your sister that she isn’t welcome at Glengarden,” he said to Claire before turning and making his way to the door. “Neither are you,” he added over his shoulder to Duncan. “If you conspired with that conniving bitch. She can’t sell what she doesn’t own.”

  Claire grabbed her daughter by the hand and followed Bruce inside Glengarden. It was an early summer day, when all the doors and windows were normally kept open to allow the breeze to cool the house.

  Instead, the door was closed firmly in front of them.

  “I WOULD say that went well but I’d be lying,” Duncan said. “At least we traveled here by the Raven. We won’t have to sleep on the ground.”

  “There’s always my cabin,” she said. She waved her arm toward the east.