In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams

by Karen Ranney

  “I’m sorry,” Eleanor said. “I didn’t mean to cause you any distress.”

  “I’ll be living in some hideous place while Gavin goes off to play at war. I’ll never see my family or go home again.”

  Play at war? Did she think the thousands of casualties were part of a game? Wasn’t she concerned about her husband’s safety?

  Evidently not, because the woman rarely mentioned her husband for the rest of the day, and when she did, it was in a quarrelsome tone. She wanted a maid and Gavin wouldn’t hire one since they were due to leave Scotland soon. She needed new dresses and he was just being too frugal. She wanted a puppy but he had stated that he didn’t feel comfortable bringing a pet into someone else’s home.

  Nor did her complaints end there.

  Glasgow was thriving because of shipbuilding. But Lucy saw nothing impressive about the shipyards or the port with its docks and new quays.

  In her eyes England was even better equipped.

  They traveled down Trongate, past the Glasgow Cross, the original center of medieval Glasgow. Neither it nor the Tolbooth steeple interested Lucy.

  London, Lucy said, was filled with ancient landmarks and buildings.

  When Eleanor pointed out the horse-drawn buses, Lucy shrugged and remarked that Glasgow had a reputation for being one of the filthiest cities in the Empire. Eleanor countered that Queen Victoria had opened up the Loch Katrine Scheme and now the entire city drew water from the Trossachs.

  Nothing Eleanor said affected Lucy’s opinion about Glasgow or Scotland. Sometimes, people neither wanted to learn nor change their minds.

  To Lucy, London was the hub of the universe, the place to be admired above all others. Although they were careful not to show Lucy the wynds and closes of Saltmarket and Gallowgate in the East End, Glasgow still came off a poor second to Lucy’s birthplace.

  Glynis found it less irritating to retreat into silence. When you were silent, people couldn’t argue with you. They didn’t know what you thought unless you told them.

  She had no intention of telling the woman she considered her petulant, privileged, and difficult.

  At least the outing had reacquainted her with Glasgow. Her home was vibrant, the city teeming with people, and there were magnificent places such as the Botanic Gardens, Kelvingrove Park, and the St. Vincent Street Church. Built less than ten years ago, the Grecian style church was one of the city’s most famous landmarks.

  While Glynis admired it, Lucy’s only comment was, “I’m not a Presbyterian.”

  Did Mr. Whittaker notice Lucy’s complaints? Or was the woman different around her husband? If she wasn’t mistaken, the dress Lucy wore—a silk stripe in green and beige—was expensive. Mr. Whittaker provided well for his wife, but Lucy didn’t say one kind word about the poor man. In a few years Lucy’s youth and beauty would fade, leaving the dregs of her character, in this case a thoroughly dislikable woman.

  Even her mother’s powers of persuasion could not transform Lucy Whittaker into a pleasant person.

  “Perhaps another day we’ll travel north,” Eleanor said. “There’s the remains of Dumbarton Castle. It’s perched on a rock overlooking the Clyde. Or we might go to Bothwell Castle. Either are sights we should visit.”

  “There are many historic places in England,” Lucy said. Her voice quavered. “My papa loved to take trips on Sunday.”

  She was very much afraid the girl was going to weep again. She didn’t know what was worse, the constant denigrating of Scotland or the tears.

  “Tell us about your family,” Eleanor said, a comment causing Glynis to glance at her in disbelief. “I’ve found that talking about sorrow sometimes makes it easier to bear,” her mother continued.

  “I have three brothers and a dear sister, who is as close to me as anyone could be.” Lucy blotted at her eyes with a handkerchief. “And my darling dog,” she said. “Jasper.”

  A woman who liked animals had at least one good character attribute. Perhaps Lucy was simply desperately homesick and not as querulous as she appeared.

  “He’s a King Charles spaniel and the smartest animal in all of England. Or Scotland,” she added.

  For the next thirty minutes they were regaled with Jasper’s antics from his trick of taking treats from between Lucy’s lips to jumping up the steps to the carriage without being prompted.

  “He, too, loved to take trips,” she said, looking as if she might cry again.

  “Perhaps he would have liked a sea voyage,” Glynis said. She ignored her mother’s look for the view from the window.

  “I’m told that I will like America, but I don’t see how I shall.”

  Richard hadn’t liked America, either. He thought democracy made the government weaker than it should be, handing too much autonomy to the masses. Americans were, to his mind, not only ignorant, but excessively violent. She was forced to listen to a similar speech at least once a week.

  She hadn’t found the Americans to be either violent or ignorant. Instead, they were a fascinating group of people with distinct thoughts on liberty and freedom. The Civil War was stripping the soul from the country, and it was being felt on both sides.

  The most common color for women was black, and before she left America each one of her acquaintances had been touched by the death of a soldier in some way.

  But she never bothered to tell Richard her opinion. He wouldn’t have listened. His inability to hear other people or to empathize had been his greatest drawbacks and why he wouldn’t rise to the meteoric heights he envisioned for himself.

  Once, he’d been so filled with images of his own success. “I’ve been told that my future is bright in the diplomatic service,” he said on the day he asked her to marry him.

  They’d been in Alexandra’s garden, a tiny but perfect spot behind her English cousin’s town house.

  She couldn’t imagine a more unassuming man. If the aim of the diplomatic service was to employ only males of a certain conformable appearance, Mr. Smythe was a perfect employee. Of short stature, he had auburn hair, brown eyes, and a narrow face he kept expressionless. One could not tell if Mr. Smythe was excited, amused, or irritated. Instead, he was an island of nothingness in a sea of emotion.

  He was the antithesis of Lennox Cameron.

  Mr. Smythe did not make her feel anything at all.

  He’d begun to walk, his hands clasped behind him.

  “It has been brought to my attention that my career would advance more quickly if I were married.” He glanced at her. “I haven’t the temperament to go courting, Miss MacIain.”

  He stopped in front of the bench where she sat and regarded her intently.

  A slight frisson of curiosity pierced her misery.

  “Nor do I have the time, having been sent my new assignment.” He cleared his throat. “I have found you to be a very personable young woman. Although a Scot, you’re related to Lady Alexandra.”

  “She’s my cousin,” Glynis had said, wondering where he was going with his speech.

  “I would then like to propose something to you. A match between you and me. Not one of love, Miss MacIain, as much as expediency. A business arrangement, if you will. I can offer you a position as my wife. You will meet important people and be present when history is made. My wife, of course, would be called upon to represent the Empire as well as myself. If you agree, you will need to learn certain things, and I will avail myself of the finest teachers for you.”

  She didn’t dissuade him from continuing. Instead, she listened.

  “I can guarantee you my future is a bright one. It has been hinted that if I conduct myself well in Cairo, my next assignment will be to one of the British legations.”

  He began to walk again, a jaunt of four feet one way, a turn and four feet the other.

  “Would this arrangement suit you?”

  “You want me to marry you, Mr. Smythe?”

  “I do, Miss MacIain.”

  Her mother’s letters had been filled with speculation abou
t Lennox and Lidia Bobrova. Glasgow was rife with rumors about the joining of the two families that had been so close in business.

  How could she bear returning to Glasgow? How could she tolerate seeing him every day? Or worse, having to socialize with his wife?

  “If I marry you, would we be returning to Scotland?” she’d asked.

  He frowned. “No, Miss MacIain. I see no reason to do so. Do you have an excessive fondness for your homeland, one that would prevent you from considering my offer?”

  “I love my family, Mr. Smythe. I would miss them.”

  “Perhaps they could visit us occasionally,” he said.

  She wouldn’t have to see Lennox again. Nor affect a nonchalance when he married.

  “I realize we have only known each other a few weeks.”

  “Three weeks to be exact,” she said.

  “Which means this is a precipitous offer. I am due in Egypt in a month. Therefore, our wedding would have to take place within days.”

  Enough time to send for her parents and Duncan to attend the ceremony.

  What did it matter who she married now, she’d asked herself, especially if Lennox was marrying that Russian girl? All she cared about was that she didn’t have to return to Glasgow.

  “Yes, Mr. Smythe,” she said, standing. “I will marry you.”

  She allowed him to kiss her on the cheek. On their wedding night she allowed him into her bed. She didn’t even try to pretend Lennox held her and kissed her perfunctorily.

  Lennox wouldn’t have made her want to bathe after her marriage was consummated.

  Richard’s career had been hampered by his personality. He didn’t want to speak to women or servants, since each class—as he’d said on many occasions—was given to extreme emotionality. He never realized some men respected their wives and their judgment. Nor did he understand a diplomat’s position was to listen more than speak.

  A lesson Lucy Whittaker could learn as well.

  Glynis couldn’t wait until the day was over.

  DUNCAN MACIAIN walked to the window and stared out at the mill buildings stretching before him. His great-grandfather had built this empire and it flourished until two years ago.

  “You can never forget you hold the lives of these people in your hand, Duncan,” his father once told him. “Every decision you make affects them. You may feel like king of the mountain here, but like leading a clan into battle, your actions have consequences.”

  He’d been a boy at the time, amused at his father’s metaphor. Having been the head of MacIain Mill for the last five years, he now realized the comparison was apt. Every change he instituted affected not only himself and his family but the hundreds of people who worked for him.

  Having to lay off a third of the employees had been difficult, but he’d originally hoped it would be enough to keep the mill open. They were still doomed, not because of the competition from Manchester or the loss of the contract for wicking. He couldn’t get any raw material. He couldn’t loom nonexistent cotton.

  His father had had a way of looking at everything in the best possible light. “Duncan, my boy,” he’d say, “there’s nothing so bad that you can’t find some good in it.”

  He was trying to find something to celebrate in this situation but hadn’t come up with anything. Nor did he have any solutions. Short of sailing to America himself, he was out of ideas. He’d rejected every idea but one because it didn’t produce the one thing he needed: cotton.

  For a while he’d seriously contemplated Lennox’s offer of help. If he took money from the other man, it would forever alter their friendship, and he didn’t have all that many friends left.

  The idea of closing the mill and turning his back on his family’s business, one he’d learned since boyhood, was anathema to him. He liked that, in busier times, the floor of his office vibrated with the clacking rhythm of hundreds of looms. Their cotton was the finest in Scotland, just as each employee at MacIain Mill, all seven hundred sixty-three of them, were the most dedicated and loyal in Glasgow.

  Coming into the mill each day was an indictment, a demonstration of his failure. If he didn’t do something, every single person would be gone, the mill shuttered, the windows boarded up, and the doors chained.

  What would his father think of his plan, even now growing more substantial? Something Lennox said had started his thoughts in that direction.

  Sometimes, bold action was required. He was a MacIain, a family heralded for their courage.

  It was time he acted the part.

  GAVIN WHITTAKER stood on the dock, staring at the ship soon to be his. The Raven was the most beautiful vessel he’d ever seen.

  Her twin smokestacks were painted gray, her hull the same color, with a black line indicating where the cladding began. An iron and steel paddle wheeler, she had a length of nearly three hundred feet and an eleven-foot draft. She could carry a crew of sixty-six, had five watertight compartments and four boilers. Fully loaded, she could still outrun anything sailing today.

  Wait until they encountered the blockade. She’d fly right past the Union bastards. No one would forget her once they saw her lines or her speed.

  Too bad they’d already named her Raven. Gavin would have christened her “Ghost,” because he intended to slip past the Union blockade just like an ethereal being.

  His life, his honor, his single-minded purpose, was wrapped up in this ship.

  A damned shame so much deception had to be part of the initial voyage. When he sailed from Glasgow, his destination would officially be listed as Bermuda. A few Scots would accompany him to Wales, where he’d rendezvous with his Confederate crew. After their cargo was loaded they’d set off for Savannah, with a stop at Nassau to make sure Lucy was settled.

  On his outgoing trip from Georgia he’d be carrying cotton and mail, bound for Nassau. After a few days with Lucy, he’d run the blockade again, intent on furnishing his fellow southerners with those commodities needed to survive the war.

  He’d received word from his first mate that the weapons and ammunition had arrived, ready to load. His crew was waiting. The Raven would be handed over to him in a week, and the money transferred to Cameron and Company.

  The plan, however, was marred by only one thing: Lucy.

  In England, she’d been demure and accommodating, reminding him of the women he knew. She smiled often, was gracious to people and polite to a fault.

  She’d been the sweetest thing in England. He’d found himself besotted on the spot. Never having believed in love at first sight, he found it strange he should be afflicted in such a manner. But she had bright sparkling eyes and the most enchanting smile. He knew his sisters and mother would adore her when they met.

  Something happened on their arrival in Scotland. She’d become querulous and argumentative. She hated Scotland. She hated the idea of living in America.

  He wasn’t sure what she did like, but he knew for certain what annoyed her.

  Lucy was providing the kind of problem he wasn’t sure he could handle. Give him an entire fleet of Union ships trying to block his way and he’d sail right through them.

  Give him a complaining woman, however, and he wasn’t sure what to do.

  Chapter 8

  When they arrived back at Hillshead, a carriage was in the drive. Glynis suspected it belonged to Lennox since the side lamps had been replaced by brass anchor lanterns.

  Her stomach shouldn’t clench at the sight. Nor should her palms become damp.

  In the last seven years she’d met the President of the United States, along with numerous dignitaries. She’d been forced to deal with cabinet secretaries and their wives. More than one British diplomat’s wife, as well as Mrs. Lincoln, had attempted to intimidate her.

  Lennox wasn’t going to succeed where they’d failed.

  “I won’t be any time at all, Glynis,” her mother said.

  She nodded, grateful not to have to escort Lucy into Hillshead. The woman grated on her. But she smiled and made
her farewells with a grace she’d been taught and had practiced over the years.

  A few minutes later the door opened and she moved her skirt aside, thinking it was her mother returning as quickly as she’d promised. Instead of Eleanor, however, Lennox entered the carriage, his size making the space feel even more confined.

  In Washington she could converse about a variety of inane subjects. The skill left her as he settled on the opposite seat, staring at her as if she were a creature from the depths of Loch Lomond.

  He took his time perusing her, from the top of her hair, which wasn’t as neat as it had been this morning, to her shoes, muddy from the excursion through the Botanic Gardens. She was certain she was wrinkled as well. The deep mauve fabric with the embroidered collar and cuffs was a pleasing dress, but it was designed for a woman to sit in the parlor and read, not an entire day of sightseeing and exploration.

  Did he think her changed? Or would she be forever ten years old to him, dressed in a soiled pinafore and climbing a tree? Did he recall when she raced Rainbow, her pony, down the river road? Or what about the time she’d been tossed off another horse, only to land in the mud unhurt and furious that he’d witnessed the whole thing?

  She firmed her lips so they didn’t tremble, forcing herself to return his stare.

  Even now, at the end of the day, he looked like he’d just left his chamber and was about to go to the yard, not returning from it. His shirt was white and crisp below his dark blue jacket. His trousers bore a crease but not one speck of dust. His black shoes gleamed with a shine.

  “Have you finished inspecting me?” she asked, looking away.

  “You’ve grown more beautiful in the last seven years.”

  Her heart stopped at those words. Her mind urged it forward. This was just Lennox being charming. Lennox being conciliatory. What else could he say? Glynis, you’re haggard in your mourning.

  “Thank you.”

  Seven years ago she might have preened or even flirted with him. She’d thought herself a beauty, known she was destined for great things.