Forgetting the Scot (Highlanders of Balforss)

by Jennifer Trethewey

  If Alex and Ian thought a coat of paint and a new name would erase her memory of the Tigress, the unhinged captain, and the loathsome things the sailors had done to entertain themselves, they were wrong. The smell of those men would linger, the groan and snap of the rigging would fray her nerves, and the sickening roll of the waves would turn her insides. Worst of all, if her disguise didn’t work, if Langley didn’t accept her proposal—money in exchange for her remaining hidden—her future would be no different from the one O’Malley had in mind: a lifetime bound to a monster. The same hell, but with better furnishings.

  Three days later, she watched Magnus leave through the front door from her second-floor window. Laird John was sending him away to Inverness to buy a list of items not available locally. Or so Laird John said. Magnus moved slowly, deliberately, stuffing provisions for his journey into his saddlebags and lashing them closed. He glanced around searching for someone, then lifted his gaze to her window. He remained rooted to the spot, not looking away. The longer he stood the more she felt like she was coming apart. The expression on his face—he looked…broken.

  Laird John had made it clear, talking to Magnus was forbidden. It was in her best interest, he’d said, yet the edict felt cruel. She might never see Magnus again. She might never get to say goodbye to the only man she had ever…yes, she had fallen in love with him. She could never say the words out loud, but she did love him. She did.

  Virginia pushed away from the window and raced out of her room, through the corridor, and down to the entry hall. At the base of the stairs she stopped short, heartsick and startled. Laird John leaned against the front door with his arms folded across his chest, blocking her way to Magnus.

  Breathless from her dash, eyes brimming with tears, she clasped her hands and begged. “Please. I just want to say goodbye. Please let me say goodbye.”

  For a long moment, she saw no change in Laird John’s expression. Then he launched himself away from the door and covered the distance between them in two strides. He held her shoulders and said, “If you can compose yourself, I’ll allow a brief farewell.”

  Virginia swallowed, swiped away any telltale moisture on her cheeks, and nodded.

  He opened the door and she walked into the yard, back stiff, chin high, hands tightly clasped in front of her waist. Magnus remained perfectly still, eyes never leaving hers, the handsome plains of his face turned to stone.

  She paused a handshake away and curtsied. “Your uncle has allowed me a moment to—” A lump the size of a teacake stopped up her throat, making it impossible to speak. She struggled. At last she managed to force her words around the lump. “To say goodbye.”

  Magnus’s face rippled with sadness. He was struggling, as well. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “I’m sorry, too.” Her words rode on the crests of sobs. “But I will never forget you.”

  “Say farewell, nephew,” Laird John called from the doorway.

  Magnus flashed his uncle a defiant look. His left arm shot out and pulled Virginia to his chest. He kissed her quick and hard. Then he released her and flung himself onto Finbar’s back. The two had galloped halfway down the road by the time Laird John reached her elbow. Virginia smiled through her tears.

  “He’ll pay for that when he returns,” Laird John growled.

  She put a hand on the man’s arm. “No, he won’t.” Laird John was a romantic at heart.

  Later, she sat at her tiny writing desk where she kept a journal of sorts. She wrote the number eighty. She would leave Balforss eighty days after Magnus had saved her. On the 4th day of August, she would have spent the happiest eighty days of her life with people she cherished more than anyone else on earth.

  Lucy had hinted that it would be unlikely they would see Magnus before Gael Forss set sail for England. “His business in the city will take a week at least. Travel is three days there and three days back,” Lucy had said. “That’s if the weather holds and the bridges are good.”

  Still, Virginia held out hope.

  One would think time would pass too quickly when waiting for the end, yet the following days creaked by like a wheel in need of grease. They hadn’t been bad days. Every day lived at Balforss was a gift. But they had been emptier without Magnus.

  She spent the majority of time with Jemma, sprawled on the parlor floor with dolls and blocks or in the nursery reading stories. Alex and Lucy had begun to refer to her as Auntie Ginny and Jemma had, on several occasions, called her Tah-tee. The name, of course, meant potato, but Virginia didn’t mind. She loved that the child called to her.

  Collecting honey and making candles were Flora and Lucy’s passion. Virginia had joined their beekeeping sisterhood. She learned how to cut the dinner-plate sized irregularly shaped honeycombs from the coiled hemp hives without getting stung, as well as how to perform the multi-step process of rendering honey while reserving the bees’ wax for candlemaking. Virginia and Lucy had harvested honey from six hives that afternoon. They met Flora in the candle shed with their bounty.

  “Well done, ladies,” Flora said, reaching for Virginia’s bowl of oozing honeycombs. “My wee bees have been busy, have they not, Lucy?”

  “Very busy. Will you have help while I’m gone?”

  “Oh, aye. Declan’s sister Margaret said she’ll be by every morning, and Caya will help me with the candlemaking in the afternoon.” Flora covered both bowls of honeycombs with tea towels. “There. These can wait. Wash your hands and let’s join Mrs. Swenson in the kitchen for dinner, shall we?”

  Laird John met them outside the kitchen with a troubled look. Was it Magnus? Had something bad happened to him?

  “Lass, I would have a wee word,” Laird John said, motioning Virginia to the side.

  Her heart tumbled in her chest. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “Do you ken a man named Thadius Mudd?”

  She stepped backward, the need to flee seizing her. “Why?”

  “He’s sitting in my study.”

  “What does he want?” She took another step backward.

  “Calm yourself, lass. He and another man, a fellow with something terrible on his skin, say Lord Langley sent them to collect you and see you home.”

  “Please don’t make me go with them.”

  “Never. I just need to know who they are so I can deal with them accordingly.”

  “Mr. Mudd is my husband’s dogsbody. He’s a rude man, and he’s cruel to members of our staff. By your description, the other one is Crusty Pismire.” Her stomach rolled over, remembering Crusty’s affliction. Large patches of skin above his eyebrows and on the tops of his hands were blistered and oozing, a symptom of syphilis.

  Laird John glanced back at the house and narrowed his eyes. “Odd, is it not? Your husband proclaims you are a fraud and then sends his men all the way to Scotland to retrieve you?”

  She shuddered. “I can’t be sure, but I believe they were the men who abducted me. And, as I’ve told you, I believe my husband ordered them to do so. I’ve never known either of those two to have an original thought.”

  “As I suspected.” Laird John gave her a sharp nod and headed back to the house at an easy lope calling over his shoulder, “I’ll give ’em a dram and send them on their way.”

  Mrs. Swenson met her at the kitchen door. “You look a wee bit peely wally.” She felt Virginia’s forehead with the back of her hand.

  “I’m fine. Really.” In truth, she was shaken to the core. From this distance, Bromley Hall seemed like a faraway dream. Mudd and Pismire had brought reality to her doorstep, a preview of what was to come.

  …

  Magnus stood in the shadows where he’d been watching the house for the last two days. He had ridden Finbar to his limits, but the braw laddie had brought him home days before his uncle thought possible. He needed to be back in time.

  He hadn’t been to his cottage, yet. If Laird John learned of his return, he would send him away again. Instead, he went to Cousin Declan’s house. Declan an
d Caya gave him a room, fed him, and kept him informed of any major Balforss events. Magnus understood and accepted the laird’s edict. Virginia’s good name was at stake. He would abide by his uncle’s ban and not speak to her. But he would not let her go back to England without his protection.

  He lurked on the fringes of the property, managing to stay out of sight but close enough to track Virginia’s movements. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened until two strangers arrived this afternoon. Movement caught his attention, and he retreated a few feet. The strangers emerged from Balforss followed by Laird John.

  Finbar dug a hoof into the ground and nickered at the back of his neck.

  “Quiet, beast.” He reached back and stroked Finbar’s head. “I ken we’ll be moving soon. Just hold your wheesht another minute or two.”

  He couldn’t make out what his uncle was saying to them, but he didn’t look happy. In addition, it was more than unusual for Laird John not to open his home to travelers. Highland hospitality would dictate at least one meal, a dram, and one night’s stay. His uncle had turned these men away. Why?

  The two were slow about taking their leave. The one man seemed to be observing the property. What was he searching for? At last they mounted their horses and walked toward the main road at a granny’s pace. Slow enough Magnus was able to get a good look at them. Neither were large fellows. They were both armed. Pistols and daggers. One was dressed better than the other, wearing a coat with brass buttons, breeks, and silk stockings. He had buckles on his shoes as well. The other wore a patched coat, tattered trousers, and a filthy looking stock tied ’round his neck. But what the devil was wrong with his face? He looked diseased.

  They didn’t say much to each other. Only enough for him to detect the distinct Englishness in their voices. But one word stood out. Viscountess. They had come for Virginia. The well-dressed man couldn’t be Langley. His uncle would never have turned away Virginia’s husband. Perhaps they were Langley’s men. Langley was a bloody—whatever a prat was—if he’d sent men to retrieve his wife rather than come himself.

  Whomever they were, he didn’t like them. He didn’t like the way they looked, the way they talked, or the way they rode their horses. He especially didn’t like the way they smelled. Like mint and rotting fish. He would have to be vigilant. Even the spineless wouldn’t travel all the way from England for someone like Virginia and give up so easily. They would try again, only the second time they wouldn’t ask. They’d take.

  Behind him, the call of a curlew. He spun in time to see Declan step from behind a slender birch only yards away. Blast it, the numpty had an uncanny ability to make himself invisible when he wanted.

  “I could have trussed you up like a goose afore you ken’t I was aboot.” Declan grinned at him.

  “Nae. I would have smell’t ye afore ye got near enough. What’s amiss?”

  “Caya made her Cornishy pies and sent one for your dinner.”

  His mouth started watering at the mention of her meat pies, the tastiest he’d ever eaten. He took the cloth bundle from Declan and untied the loose knot. Inside, a golden flakey half-moon pastry still warm and oozing juices from the vent holes shaped in the letter M. He took a big bite and let his eyes close. He chewed, uttered a muffled, “Oh God,” and swallowed. “That is heaven.”

  “I told you. I got the best wife.”

  “Aye. You did and I’m that glad for you.” Magnus meant it. He finished off the rest of the pie in two more bites, wiped the crumbs from his short beard, and handed the towel back to Declan.

  “Want I should stable Finbar for you?” Declan gave the big Brabant a fond slap on the neck.

  “Nae, but bide a while. I need to ask you something, and you need to tell me the answer.”

  The grin slipped off Declan’s face. His cousin’s talents weren’t limited to stalking game and envisioning the future. Declan could read a man’s thoughts like they were written in ink on his forehead. “You’ll be wanting to know why I lied to you?”

  “I ken why you lied. You didnae want to tell me you dreamed of my death. What I want is for you to tell me what you’re keeping from me.”

  Declan folded the linen towel into a small square, an agonizingly slow process. Magnus restrained himself from grabbing his cousin by the neck and squeezing the answer out of him. At last, Declan shoved the folded towel in his pocket and took a deep breath.

  “It’s true. I dreamed of your death, but I didnae understand the dream at all. That’s why I didnae tell you. I thought I’d dream it again, and then it would be plain to me, but I havenae had the dream again.”

  “What happened in the dream?”

  “I saw a pretty lady crying over your dead body. Her tears rained down on your bloody chest, and then she kissed you back alive again.”

  Magnus felt a little light-headed and sat before he fell.

  “Sorry, man.” Declan lowered his narrow arse down next to him. “Not everything I dream comes true.”

  “That’s shite and you know it. Your dreams always come true.” He added miserably, “Besides, a gypsy woman foretold an Englishman would kill me.” He didn’t tell him about his own dream of he and Virginia lying in a bed soaked with his own blood. That was too personal.

  Declan perked up. “Well, now. That’s a lucky thing, is it not?”

  “What the hell is lucky about dying?”

  “The gypsy said the Englishman would kill you, but in my dream, the pretty lady kisses you back to life, so there’s nae need to fash aboot dying.”

  He looked at his cousin carefully, searching for evidence that marriage might have made the man daft. He’d heard a vicar once say that too much sex sapped a man of his reason. Ah well, too late for Declan. He was a husband now. Magnus would happily join that particular brotherhood, but for the fact that Virginia was already married to a…

  “Declan, do ye ken what is a ‘prat’?”

  “Prat?”

  “According to Alex, Virginia’s husband is a prat.”

  “Oh, aye. A prat is just like me,” Declan grinned. “A cunning bastard.”

  …

  Even though Virginia had been to his cottage once before, she couldn’t remember the way exactly. That first time, she didn’t have her spectacles. The walk with Charlotte, Mary, and Lucy had been a blur of light and dark, green and white, short and tall. This time, she encountered a woman she recognized as one of the Balforss kitchen maids and stopped her.

  “Pardon me. It’s Ann Marie, am I right?”

  “Aye, m’lady.”

  “Do you know, is this the path that leads to Mr. Magnus’s cottage?”

  “Aye, m’lady. Stay on this path and turn right at the northwest pasture. You cannae miss it.”

  “How will I know I’ve reached the northwest pasture?”

  “Em…it’s a big patch of grass surrounded by a stone wall.”

  Virginia gave the girl an embarrassed laugh. “Yes, of course, that was silly of me.”

  Ann Marie smiled. “There’s sure to be sheep grazing as well. But, ye ken Mr. Magnus is awa’ to Inverness.”

  “Yes, I know. I need to return a book he’d leant me. I’m departing for England tomorrow.”

  “We was glad to have you with us, m’lady. Haste ye back.” Ann Marie dropped a quick curtsy and continued on her way.

  A summer wind whooshed down the path and whipped Virginia’s skirts around her legs. She held on to her bonnet with one hand and clasped Lord Byron’s book of poetry in the other. Between the book’s pages, she had slipped a letter to Magnus. She had labored long over the words, what she wanted to tell him versus what she should tell him. What was too much? What was not enough?

  She found the path to the right exactly where Ann Marie said it would be, across from a lichen-speckled stone fence. The lambs were almost fully grown, and their mothers’ fleecy coats had filled in since their spring shearing. Her appearance caused only a mild disturbance among the flock. Curious black heads rose, a few wooly bodies moved away
, and then went back to grazing after assessing her. She supposed no animal would regard her as a threat.

  The trees lining the path to Magnus’s cottage arched above and created a magical canopy overhead. Memories of the day she walked the lane with the others came to her. They’d been happy. All of them. Still flushed with euphoria from their recent rescue. They’d been freed and anything had seemed possible. Not so now.

  Tomorrow she would leave Balforss and return to London with all the potential dangers awaiting her. She would leave without Magnus. Laird John had assured her that Ian would see to her safety, but Ian wasn’t Magnus. If she had Magnus at her side, she wouldn’t be half so nervous.

  The trees opened into a clearing. In the center, Magnus’s big white cottage. The windows were shuttered. No light. No sound. No chimney smoke. The spark of her secret hope that he might be at home died. Nevertheless, she called out. When no one answered, she opened the door.

  The shy Scottish sun had remained behind a ceiling of thick clouds today. A miserly amount of light spilled through the open door into a cool, dark room. Right away she wanted to fling open the shutters, light the fire, and air out the bedding. A pointless impulse. Besides, it was getting late. She would be missed if she wasn’t at dinner.

  She pulled the letter from the pages of the book, laid it on the table, and anchored it with Lord Byron. In the end, her message was simple. Just a few words that would convey what was in her heart.

  Virginia heard the scuff of footsteps outside. Someone was coming. Magnus? She ran out into the yard and pulled up short. Her bones turned to ice and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

  Pismire and Mudd lingered on the far side of the yard not one hundred feet down the lane blocking the pathway home. Each wore a discomfiting smile on his face. Pismire drew a gun from his belt.

  “No. They’ll hear the shot,” Mudd said. “Use your knife.”

  They lumbered toward her.

  Her brain waged a one-second war with itself. The weaker side said, “Let death come. It will be easier.” The stronger side said, “Damn and bollocks, Virginia. Save yourself.” Thank God, the stronger side was in charge of her legs. She bolted in the direction of the river through a dense section of woods and undergrowth.