by Allie Borne
“I grow tired. I think I will retire,” Sir Andrew announced quietly to his brother. Bryan nodded and allowed him to leave. The moment he was gone, Bryan leaned over and whispered to his wife. She nodded her head sadly and watched as he left the room.
“What is it?” Mary asked, noting the exchange.
“It seems that Sir Andrew wishes to ask something of Lord Redland.”
“And this is a concern?” Mary persisted. Merianne shrugged her shoulders.
“What is it?” Mary insisted.
“If thou must know, Lord Redland believes that Sir Andrew will ask for thy hand in marriage.”
“Oh,” Mary was struck dumb by the idea.
“As thee know,” Merianne continued, “Lord Redland could never allow such a match.”
“I am so far below Sir Andrew’s station, you mean,” Mary responded, bristling.
“Nay, tis the problem of religion. Thou art Protestant. As heir, Sir Andrew has to maintain a Catholic family unit. Bryan told him before he left that he might marry you, if he could get thee to convert.”
“I told Lord Redland that that would never happen. You would never convert for the sake of a mere marriage. You would never convert simply because a man loved thee. You would maintain thy Protestant upbringing for that was how you were raised and what thy parents would expect.”
“So, Sir Andrew cannot wed any but a Catholic?”
“That is so; the clan’s bylaws require it.”
“What would happen if he chose to marry against the bylaws?” Mary asked, her heart beating fast. She did not care that her questions made her interest in Andrew evident.
“Then the Laird would be without an heir. Sir Andrew must put his clan first. They depend upon him. Don’t worry, I told my husband that Sir Andrew was too young for thee. You would prefer another, more staid husband. He has a few possibilities in mind. Verily, we are expecting a suitor tomorrow.
“Redland assures me that Sir Andrew will back off, when he realizes thou hast other interests.”
“Other interests? That seems wholly unnecessary, Merianne. I truly wish thou wouldst not.”
“Thou wilt thank me when you fall in love, Mary. Finding love means taking risks. Trust me. I am happily in love in an arranged marriage.”
“I think I am going to be ill,” Mary stood. “Couldst thou show me to my chamber?”
“Of course,” Merianne rose, the model of the gracious hostess.
~ ~ ~
Mary barely slept. Her room was lovely but she could not enjoy it, knowing that she had likely thrown away her one chance at happiness. Come the morrow, Sir Andrew would have officially moved on and she would be presented with a potential new suitor. The sunrise was painfully beautiful as it rose over the fields of barley. Yellows and golds swirled about in the soft breeze.
Mary lay back down, determined to fake an illness, rather than face the day. Just as her head hit the pillow, a knock came on her door.
Mary rose to answer it, only to find no one there. As she closed the door, a slip of paper caught her eye. Bending to pick up the vellum, she read the masculine scrawl.
Dear Mary,
I must speak with thee. Meet me in the garden.
Mary’s heart raced. Perhaps she had not lost her chance with Sir Andrew. Straightening her hair, Mary slipped into her best day gown and rushed down the steps, toward the garden. On her way, she saw that Merianne had already risen. She spoke in the garden with some older lady. Ducking behind a bush, Mary waited for them to pass without being seen.
“Tis true, Mrs. Fraser. My dear brother-in-law has said that he will leave this place. It seems that he can not bear to deny his brother but he can not bear to see Mary wed another. He has vowed to not ask her to change for his benefit. I fear he will suffer much over her rebuttal.”
“Rebuttal?” Mary whispered to herself. “Why he barely asked me for my hand but once and in a most uncivilized manner!”
“I am deeply grateful thou hast come early to prepare for our guests,” Merianne continued. “I love my dear friend more than life itself but I do fear that she will never settle for a mere mortal man. Perhaps she would do best to convert and take the veil. God is the only man capable of pleasing my Mary.”
“Verily? How can she think this is so?” Mary retorted, disturbed by the revelation. As the two women walked off, Mary continued on towards the center of the garden.
~ ~ ~
Sir Andrew was dead to the world. The moment he had quit the hall, he had made his way to his brother’s study to partake in some stronger spirits. Redland had found him there and demanded the story.
“So she won’t convert, hey?” Bryan had retorted, unconcerned. “Tis for the best, I expect. Merianne has arranged for her to wed a Protestant scholar from the Cumyn clan. Ye’ll not have to worry over her again.
“It breaks Merianne’s heart, though, to see her one true friend removed from her. Yet, to ease thy pride, she has agreed to have it done. She wishes for Mary’s happiness, as well.”
Sir Andrew had brought the whiskey decanter to bed. He woke to a rapping on his door and a pounding head. Shuffling to answer, Sir Andrew saw nothing but a note before him. Bending to pick it up, he read the note eagerly.
Dear Andrew,
I must speak with thee. Please meet me in the garden.
Perhaps she had changed her mind! Andrew splashed his face with water and put on a clean linen shirt beneath his plaid. Taking the steps two at a time, he realized that the day had grown later than he expected. Noise from the hall indicated that breakfast was being cleared. Someone was arriving.
Merianne and Redland stood in the foyer, greeting their guests. A lovely plump woman was introducing a handsome looking older man. Sir Andrew’s gut coiled in fear. The man was tall and dark. He must have been closer to thirty than twenty. He wore a somber jacket and trewes, rather than a tunic and tartan.
Sir Andrew turned to go up the stairs and change, then stopped himself. Mary was not so foolish as to judge a man solely by what he wore. Even so, she respected the Scottish traditions. And he looked good barelegged.
Sir Andrew slipped out through the kitchens before anyone might track down Mary. Walking past the spice garden, Andrew overheard Aiden and Arthur talking. He stood behind a tree to hear what they had to say. “Tis true. Merianne told me this morning that Mary is so heart broken that she has agreed to marry whatever man her mistress chooses. She just wants to leave this place.”
“Why?” Aiden asked.
“She can no’ bear to look upon Sir Andrew when he marries; she is in love with him.”
“Then why did she no’ agree to convert?”
“It seems she was willing to do so. She only wished for Sir Andrew to tell her that he loved her. She believes that he does no’. She believes that he was only asking out of a sense of duty.”
“Tis for the best,” Aiden retorted. “Mary is far too sensitive a creature to be shackled to the likes of Sir Andrew. I mean, I like the mon, but he is inconsiderate. He would never treat her as she deserves. She needs a man that will speak sweet words to her and let her ken how he feels. This Cumyn fellow will be just the thing. I hear he is quite fashionable among the women in his village. My mother says that he is the wealthiest bachelor in town. There are many a Catholic girl that would convert for the sake of his hand in marriage.”
“So he is Protestant, then?” Arthur inquired. “Aye, and rich, did I mention he was rich?”
“Ye did. Come, let us go and introduce ourselves. Perhaps he can recommend some investments.”
Sir Andrew rushed towards the center of the garden. There, standing as if alone in the world, was Mary.
“How fair thee?” Andrew called, eager to hear her voice.
Mary turned to look at Sir Andrew, the strain of a poor night’s rest showing about her eyes. “That poorly?” Sir Andrew asked, then cursed his tongue. “Ye look lovely,” he quickly added.
“Thank you,” Mary tilted her head. “I have
not been feeling well about the way we last spoke.”
“Nor I. I feel I have been unfair to thee, expecting so much and offering so little.”
“I understand,” Mary reassured. “Thou hast many responsibilities, being the Laird’s heir.”
“Aye...but I wanted to tell thee that I do love thee. I suffer when I am not with thee. I suffer when thou art angry or aloof. I never should have proposed marriage without telling ye just how I feel. I asked thee to marry me because a life without thee in it seems barren and devoid of color.”
“I refused because I felt I had no guarantee that it was me you wanted.”
“It has always been thee, Mary. I do no’ wish to change thee, I only wish to raise a family that is united. Canst thou understand that?”
“I can. That is why I wanted to tell thee that if, well, if you have not changed thy mind...that maybe I have,” Mary stammered over the words, her face flushing.
“I have not changed my mind about wishing to wed thee, Mary Luke.”
“I would be willing to convert to Catholicism so that we might be together. I would be proud to be thy wife.”
Sir Andrew gathered Mary up in his arms and kissed her soundly. “Come! Let us announce it to thy suitor. I would hate to misrepresent my intentions.”
“Andrew!” Mary chided, but consented to being dragged behind.
“On further thought,” Sir Andrew halted suddenly. “I would hate for all of those ‘well intentioned’ folk to destroy our plans. I say we are hand fast and bound now.” Sir Andrew grasped Mary’s hand tightly and dragged her through the kitchens.
He pulled her up the back stairs and to his chamber. Picking her up and laying her atop his mattress, he stated. “Be verra sure ye wish to be my wife, for in a few moments, there will be no changing thy mind,” Andrew gazed at his betrothed, lovingly.
“My mind can not change what my heart has determined,” Mary responded resolutely. Sir Andrew removed his plaid and shirt and joined her on the bed. It would be several hours before they joined their kin downstairs.
By then, Father Reagan would be called and vows said. For all involved, it was a happily ever after.
Epilogue
The crowd cheered as Lord Redland threw the log a good three feet further than the last contestant. The annual Murray/Cumyn games had become a grand success. Merianne glanced at her dear friend, Mary, who was nearly biting her nails, she was so nervous about her husband, Sir Andrew’s impending sword fight.
“He will be fine,” Merianne reassured, leaning over to caress the forehead of the sweet babe Mary held in her arms.
“Ach, so you say. Bryan will only be participating in the non-contact sports. You have threatened to go into labor early if he did not foreswear the wrestling.”
Merianne smiled. “Are you taking notes, dear friend? Learn how to use maternal guilt. It works every time.”
“My husband can not possibly win in the strength events. I will not keep him from winning those he can,” Mary responded, her voice full of pride for her spouse’s prowess. Looking about her eyebrows rose, “Speaking of maternal guilt. Ye’ve lost thy wee ones, Merianne. Where have little Sean and Silvia wandered?”
“Mrs. Fraser has taken them to buy cakes. I needed a rest. If the bairn does not come today, forsooth I shall go mad.”
“Come, let us walk together,” Mary offered, switching her own bairn over to the opposite shoulder. “I hear tell you are hoping for a boy.”
“I am. The Cumyn clan deserves the stability our own has found. To have our son lead them would be a great honor. My Grandmama would be so proud.”
“Who knew that we would come so far? Look at us, in our tartans, proper Highland wives after all,” Mary sighed, still very much in love with her husband.
“My father was right, Mary. This is where I belong. Come, let us watch the sword play from under that shade tree. Sir Andrew will not perform nearly as well if he knows thou art watching.”
Bryan came to join them. “How fairs my beautiful wife?” he asked, bending to kiss her full on the mouth.
Merianne smiled up at her husband, “Better, now that thou art here.”
Bryan sat and tucked a honeysuckle behind her ear. Merianne rested her head against his chest. “That is good, My Love,” he responded, “for here is where I will always be.”
Author's Note
Sixteenth century Highlanders are known to have worn similar garments to that of their Celtic neighbors in Ireland. Men donned pleated, saffron-colored shirts reaching to the knee, with a short vest on top. The shirts sported long sleeves that flowed down from the elbow. Highlanders were famous for their bare legs, as during this era European men wore tights and longer tunics. Most accounts also indicate that Highland women wore saffron-colored tunics. These tunics were often sleeveless and worn over their long-sleeved shifts.
Besides Celtic heritage, other traditions would have been present in the Highlands. Highlanders were also affected by Scandinavian, Pict, Roman, and European influences. Roman and Picts that occupied Scotland in the centuries before our story takes place, would have left a stamp on the people's dress and demeanor. For women, European styles of head dress were prevalent. Scottish rulers closely associated themselves with Gaul, often speaking the French language, along with English and Gaelic.
By the turn of the eighteenth century, many documented cases of established clan tartans, plaid patterns, and colors clearly indicate the cemented tradition. Scattered references of tartans and plaids turn up from the time of the Picts to the Victorian era. It is this author’s view, therefore, that clans of the sixteenth century would have at least a loose association with the concept of clan colors and tartans, if not a regulated pattern by which they identified various clans. This story relies somewhat on the assumption that, while many Highlanders of the sixteenth century did not have adopted tartans, clan members wore common colors and patterns.
According to my research, many families would wear outer fabrics in similar colors, so that they might be associated with their clan. In addition, some wore plaids and tartans, although the exact details of which are unclear. Many historians believe that the tartans and plaids referred to may have been very basic in design, with a similar color edging.1
I hope that you have enjoyed The Maiden Switch. You can find me on Facebook, under Allie Borne and on my website at www.AllieBorne.com. Feel free to leave comments and keep tabs on my next book!
1 The Clans of Scotland: The History and Landscapes of the Scottish Clans by: Micheil McDonald Regency House Publishing, Ltd., copyright 1991, Chartwell Books, Inc., Edison, NJ.
