An American in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  She lay her cheek against his chest, hearing the reassuring beat of his heart. Duncan had asked her to marry him. Not under a romantic looking tree. Not surrounded by rosebushes. Not even in a magnificent suite overlooking a harbor, but here, in this place that had known so much heartache.

  It was somehow fitting and felt right.

  “THERE’S SOMEONE I want you to meet,” she said, “before we go back to the Raven. She’s a hundred years old and she’s been here longer than anyone.”

  She led him through the cabins. Some of them had tiny gardens attached. Some had porches added on. A man will provide for his family if it’s possible. He couldn’t help but wonder about the ­people who’d left Glengarden at night over the last few months, carrying their meager possessions. Had they found freedom? Were they safe?

  The shame he felt was mixed with anger. He’d always been proud of his Highland heritage, but now he felt that he needed to do something to counteract his relative’s actions. He wished to God that Bruce didn’t bear the MacIain name.

  The cabin Rose led him to was smaller than the others and at the end of the row. Characters that he couldn’t read were scrawled on the door frame from the top crossbar to the ground. He sincerely hoped they were words wishing good fortune for the visitor and not some sort of curse. He didn’t believe in such things, but he was a Scot. His culture was filled with fantastical creatures, myths, and legends.

  Rose knocked on the door frame.

  “Miss Betsy, is it all right if we come in? I’d like you to meet someone.”

  If Old Betsy claimed to be a hundred years old, he could believe it. She was a tiny, wizened woman sitting in a woven chair that looked to be nearly half her age and twice her size. Her skin reminded him of a walnut, hardened by years of working in the sun. Her hands were riddled with engorged veins traveling up her arms to disappear beneath the sleeves of the worn and patched patterned cotton of her dress.

  Her eyes, white with cataracts, made him wonder if she could see.

  “Miss Rose, is that you?”

  “It is, Miss Betsy.”

  She clapped her hands together.

  “I didn’t think I’d see you again on this earth, child. You’ve come back, then?”

  “Not to stay, Miss Betsy.”

  The old woman reared back in her chair and smiled, revealing only two teeth left in her mouth.

  “Good. This place got no heart. My ­people’s gone, but that’s not the reason. This place never had no heart.”

  A wise woman, whatever her age.

  “Who’s that with you?”

  “This is Duncan MacIain. He’s from the Scottish branch of the MacIain family.”

  Betsy didn’t say anything for a full minute, but she looked in Duncan’s direction as if she were studying him.

  “Thank you for coming to see me, Master Duncan.”

  “Just Duncan, ma’am. I’m master over no one but myself.”

  She smiled again and he had the feeling he’d given her the right answer.

  “Then, Just Duncan, you got a home?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It got heart?”

  He smiled back at her. “Lots of heart. From generations of ­people loving each other. It hasn’t always been easy, but the love has always been there.”

  She turned her attention to Rose, although she continued to speak to him.

  “Are you going to take Miss Rose there?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

  “She’ll make her home there with you? And you’ll take care of her and protect her?”

  “I will,” he said, feeling as if it were a vow he gave her.

  “Then go before the Devil does something to stop that.”

  There wasn’t any doubt about whom she spoke.

  Duncan stepped forward and placed his hand on the old woman’s.

  “There’s nothing he can do to stop me,” he said. “I promise that, too.”

  Rose bent and kissed Old Betsy on the cheek, gently enfolding her in a hug. He wasn’t at all surprised to see tears on her face when Rose pulled back.

  “How can I leave you?” she asked.

  “You stayin’ isn’t going to change a thing. But if you go, I know that at least you’ll be safe. You go on and have a happy life, Miss Rose.”

  Rose knelt at the side of the chair, bending her head at Old Betsy’s knee. The elderly woman put both hands on Rose’s head as if it were a benediction. Had she done so with all of the ­people who’d left her, off to find their freedom?

  He realized why Glengarden disturbed him. It was the physical representation of arrogance and cruelty. Too many ­people had been brutalized here, and Rose had single-­handedly done what she could to make amends. Yet one person’s effort would never have been enough.

  “You’re a man who keeps his promises?” Betsy asked, raising her whitish eyes to him.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “This is a good man you found, Miss Rose. Go on with him.”

  “I’ll miss you,” Rose said, standing.

  “I’ll be going soon myself, child. I’ll be waiting at St. Peter’s gate for you when it’s your turn. You can tell me what you’ve been doing for the last fifty years. All of the details, now.”

  Her cackling laughter made him smile and they could hear it as they left the cabin.

  “Miss Rose?”

  A woman with a turban of black cloth wrapped around her head, her face the color of chocolate au lait, stood on the path. Her nose was wide, her chin squared, and her smile like a ray of sunshine as she revealed white, even teeth.

  Rose startled him by starting to run. The woman who had called out to her placed the pot she had in her hands on the grass, then opened her arms.

  “Maisie, oh Maisie, I’ve missed you so.”

  Maisie embraced her tightly. “Oh, child, I never thought you a fool. Why did you come back here?”

  “I had to, Maisie. I sold the cotton,” she said.

  She motioned to him and he stepped forward, introducing himself to the woman.

  Her eyes were brown, the brown of the fecund earth of dark woods, the bark of wet oaks, so deeply colored they appeared almost black. They were leveled on him, and he had the sense that she practiced hiding her emotions, but that her feelings sometimes escaped through those large brown eyes.

  She took his measure in those short minutes and he couldn’t help but wonder what she saw.

  She held Rose away from her. “You should leave as soon as you can.” She looked up at him. “This is not a safe place for Miss Rose. He’s back and he’ll hurt her if he can.”

  He had the same sense. As soon as he could finalize the sale of the cotton, they’d be gone. And if Bruce refused to negotiate with him, he’d just take Rose and sail away. He’d already profited from this voyage, and he didn’t mean the cargo they’d unloaded in Charleston.

  He had Rose in his life and he was going to do everything he could to protect her.

  Chapter 24

  Duncan wasn’t going to leave without trying to make Bruce see reason. If that meant meeting with his disagreeable American cousin, so be it. He returned to the Raven with Rose, her silence unusual. He didn’t attempt to breech it, didn’t give her any platitudes.

  He’d been briefed on the war by various ­people, from his English cousin to Captain McDougal. Up until the last few months the Confederacy had been faring well, but the tide was turning. He didn’t know what was going to happen in the next year, but he didn’t believe that Glengarden was exempt. Sooner or later the war would find them.

  They walked side by side up the gangplank. Once aboard ship, she turned to him.

  “Are you really going to meet with him?”

  He nodded. “One last chance to get him to see reason.”

  “Be careful,�
� she said before leaving him and walking to the captain’s cabin.

  “Will we be loading the bales soon, sir?”

  He turned to find Captain McDougal standing there. The man’s beard looked to have grown whiter in the days since they’d left Nassau. By the time they made it back to Glasgow all the hair on his beard and head might be as white as the clouds above them.

  “Not yet, Captain. I’ve a visit to make first. Have we any good Scottish whiskey left in the crate we brought on board?”

  McDougal grinned. “Aye, we do at that. I’ll go and get it for you.”

  As he waited, he stared at the back of Glengarden. From here he could see the outbuildings and the stables. The trees on the banks of the river looked to be as old as those marking the formal approach to the house.

  A man in the throes of patriotic passion sees only one thing, the love of his country. Yet shouldn’t the love of family come before that? As much as he loved Scotland, his immediate family, which now included Rose, and his extended one of Lennox and his relatives, would always come first.

  “Duncan.”

  He turned to find Rose standing there. Without a word she extended the drawstring bag that held the gold he’d paid her.

  “Half down, half on arrival,” she said. “It doesn’t look as if you’re going to get your cotton.”

  He shrugged. “It may be a matter of pride with him. He may not want a witness to him changing his mind.”

  “Here you go, sir,” Captain McDougal said, coming to his side and presenting the bottle to Duncan. “Nothing but the finest Scottish whiskey.”

  Rose shook her head. “You intend to soften him up with spirits, Duncan?”

  “They’ve been known to work before.”

  She glanced at McDougal. “I don’t think we should expect Duncan back any time soon, Captain. My brother-­in-­law has been known to like his whiskey.”

  “A wise man,” McDougal said.

  Duncan left the Raven with a smile, but it vanished as he followed the path back up through the oaks.

  He hated Glengarden, and it was unlike him to judge something so quickly. He knew a little of its history, knew how Rose was treated, but it was something else about the plantation that disturbed him. An aura of tragedy seemed to permeate the place. Sorrow lingered in the dappled shadows. The breeze sounded a mournful wail in the branches.

  He didn’t know what its fate would be as the war progressed, but it seemed as if the house did and grieved for its passing even now.

  At the steps, he didn’t hesitate but climbed up to the veranda. Once there, he knocked on the door, still closed against them.

  Maisie opened it a few minutes later. When he would have greeted her, she shook her head just a little, a clue that someone was listening.

  Her brown eyes pleaded with him for kindness, for understanding, to be fair in his judgment of her, or perhaps not to judge at all.

  “I’d like to talk to Bruce,” he said, pretending they’d never met. “I’m Duncan MacIain.”

  “I’m to keep the door closed,” she said.

  “I’ve brought a present,” he said, holding up the bottle with his right hand. In his left was the bag of gold.

  “I’m to keep the door closed,” she repeated, her eyes flickering to the left side of the door. “Master Bruce said so.”

  “I’ve come all the way from Scotland to see him.”

  “It’s all right, Maisie. Let him in.”

  Behind her, in the shadows, he could see Claire descending a curving stairway. From what he could see of the inside of Glengarden, it was as prosperous looking as the exterior. At what cost? How many slaves had labored to build and maintain this place?

  Maisie stepped aside.

  “Bring us some mint tea, Maisie. You will join me, won’t you?” Claire asked, sweeping her arm forward, evidently an indication he was to follow her.

  He did so, feeling even more uncomfortable than while walking down the lane. Perhaps it was the otherworldly silence of Glengarden, like that of the grave. Perhaps the house was sentient and knew it was the last of its era, that it housed ­people whose time had come and gone. Or perhaps there were ghosts here with no knowledge of their mortality.

  He couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that this was a cursed place, one he’d give anything to leave as quickly as possible.

  The parlor was filled with furniture he’d easily find in London, overstuffed settees and chairs with wood trim, pillows etched in delicate fringe, all in a restrained pattern of roses. The curtains were the same, now parted to reveal a view of the oaks and the long path to the river. Was the approach to Glengarden on the land side as formidable? Designed, no doubt, with a dual purpose: impress a visitor and hide the plantation’s secrets.

  “You’re a very long way from Scotland, Mr. MacIain.”

  He smiled. Her voice held no trace of New York in it. Was her new South Carolina accent a practiced thing or had it simply come naturally over the years spent here? He suspected it was more the former than the latter.

  She sounded nothing like her sister, but then Rose had only lived here two years. He wondered what her voice would sound like after a few years in Scotland.

  “I am at that,” he said. “Would it be possible to speak with your husband? I have a business proposition to offer him.” He held up the bottle. “And a peace offering, of sorts.”

  She smiled, the expression only accentuating her beauty. He could well see why Bruce MacIain would marry Claire O’Sullivan and bring her back to Glengarden. Had he known he’d also acquire Rose, too?

  He kept his smile in place as he waited for her answer.

  “If you were a factor from Charleston, Mr. MacIain, my husband would be pleased to meet with you. If you were from Scotland and had come independently, the same would be true. But because you were accompanied by my sister, he’s not disposed to give you any time. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth of it.”

  “Not even if we’re relatives?” he asked, wishing he had Lennox’s charm. His brother-­in-­law was a great deal more diplomatic. “After all, we’re descended from the same family.”

  Her smile was less charming and slightly thinner. He had the feeling that Claire demonstrated her moods not with words but with gestures.

  “The fact that you are party to my sister’s manipulations negates any familial feeling, at least that’s how Bruce feels.”

  Was she being threatened by her husband or did the words come of her own volition? He honestly didn’t know. Some women were terrorized by their husbands, and it was easy to assume that was the case here, but Claire might be the exception. She might honestly feel that Bruce was justified in his behavior.

  “Your daughter is lovely,” he said. “She resembles you a great deal.”

  She inclined her head in acceptance of his compliment.

  Maisie entered the room with a tray. He stood to help her. The only response he got when he took the tray from her was a widening of her eyes. She glanced toward Claire, who nodded a dismissal.

  When the other woman was gone, Claire spoke, her tone soft, as if she feared being overheard. By whom? Maisie or Bruce?

  “You don’t understand, Mr. MacIain,” she said softly.

  “Since we are related, however distantly, would you call me Duncan?”

  She nodded, looking through the window. He couldn’t help but wonder what she saw. The past with guests arriving for a ball at the grand house? Or had Glengarden always been isolated, deliberately cut off from society?

  “Rose has been a thorn in my husband’s side from the moment she arrived at Glengarden,” she said. “He was happy to give her a home when she had nowhere else to live. She was, after all, my sister. But instead of being grateful for his generosity and his kindness, she sought to annoy him at every turn. He forbid her to visit with the slaves, yet she was down
at the cabins every day.”

  She looked at her hands, the tips of her fingers meeting.

  “If someone was whipped, she insisted on caring for them. If someone was cold, she took her own bedding to them. If someone was ill, she brought them medicine. I began to wonder if she did it out of a wish to genuinely help or only to annoy Bruce.”

  He wasn’t often speechless, but Claire’s words stripped a response from him. Rose had cared for their slaves and all Claire could think was that it was her way of irritating Bruce?

  First of all, what kind of sister was Claire? Secondly, had she no humanity? Was that a prerequisite for living at Glengarden?

  She was continuing to speak, which was a good thing because he didn’t know what to say.

  “She’s pushed him into behaving unlike himself.”

  “He forced her to work in the fields, Claire.”

  She handed him his glass. He took it, thanked her, and waited for her response. When she didn’t immediately answer, he took a sip of the drink. The mint tea was refreshing and would certainly be so on a hot summer day. Days like those Rose had spent in the cotton fields.

  She finally nodded. “He believed that if she lived like a slave, she would come to appreciate her position as his sister-­in-­law.”

  “Instead, she endured.”

  She looked away again. “Rose is very good at endurance. If she’d only listened to him, if she’d only obeyed him, life could have been nearly idyllic.”

  Except for the slaves. Didn’t she ever notice them? He decided the question would be foolish to ask. Claire was one of those ­people who saw what they wanted to see. When forced to visit reality, they pretended to be shocked by what was before them the whole time.

  “She never once complained. Twice, she had to be brought in from the fields because of heat stroke, but she stubbornly went out the next day. It was a battle that raged between them until Bruce went off to war.”

  “Why didn’t you leave him?”

  Her eyes widened. The smile she’d fixedly worn disappeared.

  “Why on earth would I leave him, Duncan? I love my husband. Besides, I’d taken a vow before God that nothing would separate us.”