The Witch Of Clan Sinclair

by Ranney, Karen

  According to Thomas, who had once uttered the comment after imbibing a few too many whiskeys, Logan was on stage at all times. The only time he was exempt from being a politician was on the privy and asleep.

  Occasionally, he wondered if Thomas remembered that slurred advice, but thought not.

  Marriage, a relatively recent event for Thomas, had changed the man, causing him to smile more. He could even be heard to hum a tune from time to time.

  What about him? Would marriage change him? A thought that kept Logan staring at the letter in front of him. To what? A tamed and domesticated cat? Would he purr for his wife?

  He was damned happy as it was.

  As he finished signing the last of the correspondence, he sat back in the chair listening.

  Finally, Thomas ground to a halt.

  Logan asked a few questions, made mental notes, and was satisfied that he was prepared.

  “I’ve the dossier you wished, sir,” Thomas said, retrieving a piece of paper from the back of his file and pushing it across the desk to Logan.

  “The dossier?”

  “On the Sinclair woman, sir.”

  He nodded and began to read. Mairi Sinclair did work as the editor of the Edinburgh Gazette, one of the newspapers he read on a weekly basis.

  “She owns the paper?”

  “No, sir. It’s owned by her brother. She manages it, however, and is evidently responsible for its day-to-day operation.” He consulted another sheet of paper. “She is also responsible for three columns, the most prominent of which she writes under her brother’s name, Macrath Sinclair.”

  That was a surprise. He looked forward to reading that column with each edition of the paper. The fact that Mairi Sinclair was the author left him with a discordant feeling. The woman who’d been so argumentative at the press club also possessed a fine mind and a cohesive way of marshaling her thoughts.

  He handed the dossier back to Thomas. His secretary would dutifully file it in a place where it could be easily retrieved. As for him, he’d had years of perfecting his memory. He’d recall everything he needed to know about the woman.

  “I’ll be ready shortly,” he said, standing.

  “I’ll have your carriage brought around, sir,” Thomas said.

  After he left, Thomas would return home to his wife, sleep only a few hours, and be back at his desk at the council offices at daybreak.

  Logan dressed in a black evening suit with a white shirt and embroidered vest. As he fixed his cuff links, he thought about the Sinclair woman. She lived only a few blocks away, with the Edinburgh Gazette building somewhere in the middle. One of three children, she was orphaned when she was sixteen and had never been married. She wasn’t a young woman right out of the schoolroom, but had probably been forced to grow up quickly.

  Experience was sometimes a greater teacher than age.

  Who was Macrath Sinclair, that he’d given over control of the family newspaper to his sister? Who was Mairi Sinclair that she’d accepted it?

  He discovered that he very much wanted to know the answer to both questions, in direct violation of his common sense. The Sinclair woman was aggressive and argumentative, not the type who should interest him.

  As he left the house, the cold dried his eyes and burned the inside of his nose. The air smelled of approaching snow. He’d once loved Edinburgh in the winter, when a dusting of white frosted the craggy edifice of Castle Rock. Now, he noted the men, women, and children over the fires in Old Town and his love of the season faded in light of their misery.

  He knew too much about the problems of the city to see only its beauty. Edinburgh was a dual creature, steeped in history and bedeviled by current problems.

  They stopped in front of the Drummonds’ magnificent home in Old Town, his carriage waved ahead of the others. The four-story red brick structure dominated a square filled with waiting vehicles, an indication of the popularity of the Drummonds’ entertainments. Ribbons of glittering windows lit up the house, and as he left his vehicle, he could hear the orchestra playing a lively waltz.

  His own home was not nearly as ostentatious, but he hadn’t the Drummond fortune. Still, his rise had been what most people would call meteoric. Twenty years ago he was apprenticed to a bookseller on Leith Walk. Five years later he accumulated the funds to open his own stall and then his first bookshop. He’d never considered politics at the time, until he became irritated by the slow movement of the city council. He hadn’t imagined that his election would be so easy. Nor that he’d be elected Lord Provost a few years later.

  The constant need to be affable and attentive was draining, however, and never more so than on nights like this when he was swept along on a tide of greetings, smiles, and handshakes, or claps on the shoulder.

  He was a servant of the city and that knowledge never left him. He was to serve Edinburgh like a faithful steward, care for her people and her problems, and perform his duties as capably as he could.

  Still, there were nights like tonight when he felt that Edinburgh was a jealous mistress and clung to him with talonlike fingers lest he stray.

  When someone called out, he turned to greet an acquaintance, their conversation interrupted by the sight of Barbara Drummond, looking resplendent in a pale yellow gown.

  “How pleasant you look,” he said, which wasn’t overstating the matter. Her blond hair was arranged in almost a Grecian fashion, upswept and tucked up in the back. Little bows held up drapes of fabric on her dress. Her long white gloves were immaculate and festooned with a dizzying number of buttons.

  She smiled at him charmingly, acknowledging his appreciation. The great-niece of a duke with a merchant father, she was one of the women on his list of acceptable candidates for wife.

  Whoever he married would need to be a companion, a helpmate, and conscious of his position at all times. She must always be an asset, be personable, kind, and able to remember people’s names, their children’s names, and other pertinent details. She might even slide into Thomas’s role from time to time, giving him information about those people he’d forgotten.

  She would, above all, have similar political beliefs.

  “How lovely to see you, Provost Harrison,” she said, her brown eyes warming.

  Extending a hand, she placed it on his arm, and indicated the staircase leading to the ballroom with an inclination of her chin.

  He was doomed to dance tonight.

  He forced a smile to his face. On the whole, he preferred almost any occupation to that of dancing. But like most personal thoughts, it wouldn’t be voiced.

  Once he’d finalized his choice for his wife, then perhaps he could be more open about himself, more honest. Or was he, like Thomas thought, to be on a stage for the rest of his life?

  Chapter 5

  Mairi only employed two boys, but each did the work of a dozen hawkers.

  Bobby had a perpetually dirty face, like he’d rubbed his cheeks on a soot-covered building on his way to the paper. His nose was red and delightfully rounded, and his brown eyes sparkled with mischief. She thought he was a successful hawker because his grin and his joyful air intrigued people. On even the dourest day in Edinburgh, Bobby was smiling.

  Samuel was taller and slimmer, with a long face that probably wouldn’t change much as he grew. He looked like a man of importance who passed judgment on others. She wondered what he would become, being one of innumerable children growing up in poverty.

  She paid them their commission and added in a little bit besides. Bobby had a new sister, and Samuel’s father was ill. Granted, she would have to explain to Robert, and he would grumble, not understanding that generosity was sometimes its own reward.

  After the boys had pocketed the coins, she gave them tea and fed them treats she’d requested from Cook. Today it was rock biscuits, and the boys fell on them as if they were starving. She didn’t know how much either boy had to eat, but it was obviously never enough.

  When they were satiated for the moment, she began to as
k them questions. Bobby had Macrath’s talent for listening. He, too, came back to the paper with information about what he’d overheard, tales people were talking about on street corners and in pubs. She took notes of his comments so she could tailor the next broadside to mirror those topics on the minds of Edinburgh’s citizens.

  One day, she was certain the Edinburgh Gazette would be famous throughout Scotland. Until then the income from the broadsides helped defray most of their operating expenses.

  She often published broadsides of a salacious nature, simply because they sold well. People hungered for the bizarre, the tragic, and the risqué. Even more than that, they loved gossip and intrigue. She was determined to give them all of that.

  Still, today was the first time they’d sold every single copy of their broadside so quickly.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, and the two boys nodded.

  Bobby’s grin would charm the paint off a canvas. She smiled back at him, and resisted the urge to ruffle Samuel’s hair as he passed.

  Perhaps the two boys would be as close as she ever came to having children of her own.

  She walked into the pressroom to talk to Allan.

  “I’m off now,” she said over the sound of the press. “Do you need anything anywhere?”

  Allan smiled and shook his head.

  Gathering up her cloak and gloves, she prepared to do battle with the November cold. Eyeing her bonnet, she decided to leave it behind. The hated thing wouldn’t make her warmer, and it would act as an inducement for the wind to catch it and tug at the ribbon beneath her chin. Better for it to remain here.

  At the last minute she changed her mind, grabbed it and wrapped the ribbon around her wrist. She might go somewhere she needed it.

  When she went out reporting, she never knew where she would end up. Reporting was like pulling a thread. She almost never saw where the thread ended, but the beginning was lure enough.

  She traveled down Cockburn Street, the cobbles wet in the sleet, and hesitated at the base of Warriston Close. The steps were shallow but seemed to go upward forever. In the gloom of a November afternoon, they were draped in shadow, not yet illuminated by the gas lamps.

  Instead of climbing the steps, she went around the long way, continuing on Cockburn Street.

  Beneath the Royal Mile were places where Edinburgh citizens had lived and died in the sixteenth and seventeenth century. She always felt like she was walking over a graveyard, as densely populated as the burial ground on Calton Hill.

  She turned left, heading upward toward the castle again, then following another street around to St. Giles Cathedral.

  Named for the patron saint of Edinburgh, the cathedral was undergoing restoration, something the Lord Provost was responsible for starting. She hadn’t been able to see inside, but Bobby had told her that all the old galleries and partitions were being removed to create one single space. Evidently, the provost had also planned and financed the new stained glass, one section of which sat in a wagon covered by canvas.

  Strange, that she knew so much about the Lord Provost but had never met him until the other night. After the success of the broadside sale, perhaps she should reassess her stance about not delving into politics.

  Walking on, she finally reached her destination.

  Donovan’s Bar was known as a place where many of Edinburgh’s magistrates and elected officials frequented, since it wasn’t far from the City Chambers. Mr. Donovan was one of her best sources for what was happening among the important people in Edinburgh. Sooner or later every man stopped in for a pint or a dram at Donovan’s. Once a confectionery shop, the bar still looked like a shop from the outside, as most of Edinburgh’s taverns did.

  As she did whenever she called on him, she knocked on the rear door, familiar enough with the alley that the location didn’t disturb her. Perhaps she didn’t have the sensibilities of most women. Or perhaps she’d simply had to ignore them over the years. The stench of ale and whiskey wafting from the empty barrels stacked against the building made her grateful for the gusty November winds. From inside the tavern came the rhythmic drone of conversation, waves of sound reaching her whenever an inner door was opened.

  Mairi was welcome to stand at the back door, a fact that started to grate on her only recently. She’d never seen the interior because women didn’t frequent Donovan’s Bar. She’d been told it was one large space. A U-shaped station sat at the head of the room, with spirit barrels mounted high up against the wall. From his vantage point, Mr. Donovan could see the majority of his patrons. Just when she thought she couldn’t bear the cold one minute more, Mr. Donovan opened the door and peered outside.

  Despite his sixty years, he was a man of erect posture and sturdy gait. Experience showed in the depth of his gaze and good living in the folds of his face. His normally affable expression was in evidence now.

  “Now you’ll be having me thinking terrible thoughts about myself all day, lass, making you wait for me,” he said as she shivered and thrust her gloved hands into the slits of her cloak.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Donovan. Your customers come first.”

  “As they do, lass, as they do.”

  “Do you have anything you’d like to share?”

  She never asked Mr. Donovan to betray a trust, knowing how vital that was between a merchant and his customers. Over the years, however, he had provided her enough information that she could hint at activities soon to occur in Edinburgh. She wasn’t necessarily the first person with the story, but she prided herself on the fact that she got the details correct.

  “Naught happening of much interest, lass. The government commissioners on the pollution of rivers are meeting in Leith. Had a few of them here, fussing about who’s responsible for the sewage of the water of Leith and such. But you’re not interested in that.”

  Nor did she think her readers would be interested in sewage.

  “But I do have news you can use. Mr. MacTavish is getting wed again.”

  MacTavish was a wealthy merchant, a well-known figure in Edinburgh. The fact that he had outlived a great many wives always sparked talk. His previous wives had died either of ill health or in childbirth. Within months of the funeral, however, he always had another young woman picked out for his bride.

  “What does that make now?” she asked. “Five?”

  Mr. Donovan shook his head. “This one will be number six. It’s a Burns girl from Glasgow. I’ve heard the Lord Provost is thinking of doing the same.”

  “Truly?” She hadn’t heard that from her other sources.

  “His secretary stops in here almost every night. I learned it from him.”

  “I would have thought a secretary would be more discreet,” she said.

  Mr. Donovan nodded. “Aye, lass, I thought the same, but maybe he has a reason for telling tales. It could be the provost himself wants the news known.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Mr. Donovan laughed. “He’s much sought after by the ladies. Maybe the notion that he’s interested in taking a wife will calm the women of Edinburgh.”

  She’d never heard of the provost being so irresistible to the opposite sex. The man was entirely too large, too forceful, and he had a way of smiling at someone that simply stripped the words from her.

  She was not going to ask, for fear of appearing too curious, but thankfully Mr. Donovan didn’t need prodding.

  “The Drummond lass is rumored to be Provost Harrison’s pick.”

  She knew of the Drummonds, of course. A wealthy and accomplished family, they were renowned throughout Scotland. Most of Scotland’s history featured a Drummond from one side of the family or the other.

  They chatted for a moment or two more before his glances toward the interior hinted that he needed to attend to his customers. She made her farewells then, thanking Mr. Donovan as she always did and promising him a supply of next week’s broadsides for distribution to his customers.

  Donovan’s Bar was located off the Ro
yal Mile, and in this same area she had three other sources. Perhaps one of them could tell her something more exciting. She certainly didn’t need to hear anything further about the Lord Provost and his potential bride.

  Leaving the narrow wynd, she headed uphill. She loved this part of Edinburgh, but then she loved most of the city. Every part of her home was infused with history, some of it bloody and most of it tragic.

  For hundreds of years Scotland had fought against oppression. Now, they’d learned to live with it, absorbing the English into their borders. They’d even charmed an English Queen until Victoria rhapsodized over the beauty of Scotland.

  English accents were as common as Scottish ones on the streets of Edinburgh. The English purchased homes in Scotland or visited often, buying souvenirs to take home and display in England.

  In the end, would the lines between the two countries blur? She couldn’t believe that would ever happen, not as long as a true Scottish heart still beat, but there were things each country could learn from the other.

  She rounded the corner, her gaze caught by a group of men dressed in long coats and wearing gloves and hats against the November cold. They were a prosperous looking bunch, intent on conversation. In the middle of them, as if she’d conjured him up simply with her thoughts, was Logan Harrison.

  He wasn’t wearing a hat, his black hair ruffled by the increasing wind. Here, the gusts reached out to snatch at her hem and travel down the back of her cloak, a reminder that she’d stood in one place for too long waiting for Mr. Donovan. If she didn’t hurry, she’d get a chill.

  She wasn’t going to get sick staring at the Lord Provost like one of those fascinated women Mr. Donovan had mentioned.

  He glanced at her at that moment, their gazes meeting across the cobbled street. Her stomach clenched.

  She was not afraid of the man.