Highland Sword

by May McGoldrick

  “The Grants of Carrie House are a very honorable family. And now Aidan is master there, with a fine career in the law ahead of him. Quite the eligible bachelor too, I’d say.” Mrs. Goddard patted Morrigan on the knee and smiled. “So, do the two of you have an understanding?”

  It took a moment for Morrigan to catch her breath. She’d somehow missed the direction their conversation was heading. But it was easy to see how a misunderstanding could come about. In his introductions, there’d been no mention of Dalmigavie or the Mackintosh clan. There was no word said about how the two of them knew each other. She was lucky the older woman didn’t think worse of the nature of their connection.

  “I apologize I didn’t clarify things sooner. But I’m a family relation of the Mackintoshes, which is how Mr. Grant and I came to visit you here today.”

  “Kin to Searc Mackintosh? You, miss?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “I must say I’m surprised.”

  Everyone in Inverness knew Searc, it seemed. Though he was an irascible sort, the man was also well liked.

  “Well, I’m a family relation, of sorts, through marriage,” she replied, hoping she wouldn’t be pushed to further clarify the connection. “But it was on Searc’s recommendation that I was first encouraged to come to Barn Hill. You’re well known for your school’s excellent reputation, Mrs. Goddard.”

  “Thank you, my dear. That’s lovely of you to say. In fact, I am quite proud of what we do here. Our teachers are the most dedicated of women.”

  “Will you tell me a bit about them?”

  “As you surely know, we have a number of nuns residing here, along with several widows and spinsters. So the lasses attending Barn Hill are fortunate in that they receive instruction from some very accomplished ladies.”

  Morrigan recalled Aidan’s advice and smiled encouragingly at her host.

  “We see the formation of character as our greatest goal. We teach each lass to develop a good and unselfish nature, and to remain cheerful in the face of adversity so that she can be a good wife and mother.”

  Morrigan would have failed miserably. “And you teach them other topics, I assume.”

  “Naturally! The domestic arts should be a basic part of every woman’s education. And then there is the instruction in both reading and writing in English and French, arithmetic, and we also provide music lessons—voice, the harp, and the pianoforte. Oh, I’ve left out drawing and painting, haven’t I?”

  Finally.

  “I’m so happy to hear this. A friend of mine recently relocated to Inverness. She has two daughters, aged five and seven.” Morrigan didn’t think Fiona would mind that she was using Catriona and Briana to seek information. “Both children are especially fond of sketching. So I am here to seek your advice about hiring a tutor for them. Do you know of anyone?”

  She waited, hoping she’d said enough. She wasn’t disappointed. Mrs. Goddard’s gaze flitted to the tall windows.

  “Does the tutor need to reside with the family?”

  “That can be arranged, if need be, but it’s not essential.”

  “And the compensation?”

  “I’m certain if the right person could be found, a mutually satisfactory amount will be agreed upon.”

  Morrigan watched as her hostess moved to the window. Putting on her spectacles, she peered out, looking for someone.

  “I believe I have just the right person for your friend, Miss Drummond.”

  Morrigan joined Mrs. Goddard at the window. “One of the ladies living here at Barn Hill?”

  “Indeed. But she’s only here temporarily, until she can make other arrangements.”

  “Can you tell me a bit more about this lady?”

  “Madame Laborde. Scottish by birth, thankfully, but she married a Frenchman. She’s lived much of her life on the continent.”

  “Widowed?”

  Mrs. Goddard nodded. “Unfortunately, she was left in a precarious state financially due to the untimely death of her husband.”

  “How long has she been with you?”

  “She only arrived this past spring. Madame Laborde had been having quite a difficult time. She came to us after exhausting the hospitality of her husband’s family and all of their friends. She had no other place to go.”

  “And she supports herself by teaching?”

  “She does, but she’s also been receiving commissions for additional work.” Mrs. Goddard’s expression turned serious. “Perhaps I’m speaking out of turn, but I know she’s not happy here. Our quiet way of life is not what Madame Laborde has been accustomed to. She’s told me herself that she’s hoping for a chance or a means of earning enough money to return to France.”

  And what better way of earning money than to work for the British Home Office. Morrigan imagined they would pay very well.

  “She must be quite good. What kind of commissions has she received?”

  Mrs. Goddard hesitated before answering. “She is quite talented at creating caricatures of people.”

  “Caricatures, you say? How curious.”

  “Curious indeed. But I must tell you she’s very good at it. The ladies here at Barn Hill are continually entertained by the likenesses she draws of each of us. Very amusing.”

  The headmistress was obviously not amused, however. The change in her tone made it clear she would be quite happy to see her guest moving on.

  “Nonetheless, I believe Madame Laborde would be excellent with your friend’s children.”

  “Would it be possible to have a word with her?”

  “Of course.” She looked out the window again. “This time of the day, she generally walks in the garden. If the weather is mild, she likes to sketch or paint out there. I can introduce you, if you like.”

  “That would be lovely. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  As they turned toward the door, a clock in the foyer chimed the hour.

  “Oh my! The time. Would you give me a minute to speak to one of the sisters? I’ll come back and take you out to the garden.”

  Morrigan had a name, and soon she’d have a face to the artist responsible for all the hateful images. She was certain this Madame Laborde was the person she was looking for.

  “It’s so lovely today. Would you mind if I waited for you in the gardens?”

  “Not at all, my dear. I’ll point out the way for you.”

  Isabella’s warnings echoed in her mind as she followed Mrs. Goddard from the drawing room. A moment later, Morrigan was ushered onto a sunny terrace looking out into the garden. She needed to stay calm and keep her temper in check. It was already obvious, however, that what this woman was doing had nothing to do with politics or misguided feelings of patriotism. She was creating these caricatures solely for the money.

  “Please feel free to stroll along the paths, Miss Drummond. I’ll come back to you directly.”

  As the door to the house closed, Morrigan set off in search of the artist. She wanted to meet with the woman alone. She wanted to look into her face and decide if she had any understanding of the consequences of what she was doing.

  She didn’t see her right away, but the gardens were quite large, extending out from the side of the house and falling away in large broad terraces all the way to the road that led back to the center of Inverness. Walls of varying heights separated sections of the gardens. Near the house, a gate opened out onto the lane leading from the road to Barn Hill’s stables.

  They were quite close to High Street in Inverness—the church-like spire of the Tolbooth was visible just above the trees.

  Morrigan passed by a group of youngsters engaged in what appeared to be a botany lesson in progress. She had no trouble finding Madame Laborde. At the edge of a greensward on the lowest terrace, a slight woman in a blue dress and coat sat on a bench. She had a sketchbook on her lap.

  Morrigan forced herself to take a breath and approached.

  The artist’s gaze lifted from the page when she heard the footsteps. The sketchb
ook closed swiftly, but not before Morrigan espied the caricature-style drawing she was working on.

  “Madame Laborde?”

  The woman hesitated but then rose to her feet, leaving the book on the bench. She was small and thinly built, but durable looking. The wide brim of her hat shaded her eyes, but from what Morrigan could see, she was still young and attractive enough to draw men’s attention.

  “I am she.”

  “I was speaking with Mrs. Goddard. She told me you were out here, and I hoped to have a word. I was … my friend is looking for a tutor for her daughters.”

  “Your name?”

  She couldn’t lie. Not with the headmistress coming out soon. “Morrigan Drummond.”

  “Any relation to Dr. Drummond?”

  Morrigan felt her blood grow cold. “Do you know a Dr. Drummond?”

  “Dr. Isabella Drummond. Or does she go by the name of Isabella Mackintosh now?”

  Of course. She’d know a great deal about Cinaed’s life, Morrigan thought. She was drawing him, making a mockery of his life. Unlike the other women who lived in the house at the top of the gardens, she was working for the British government.

  Morrigan’s sgian dubh sat at the ready in its sheath in her boot. She could force Madame Laborde to come with her. She could let Searc handle whatever needed to be done.

  A dozen possible plans raced through her mind. She forced herself to be calm. Taking the woman would create chaos.

  “You’re her stepdaughter, aren’t you?” the artist asked.

  Morrigan’s face caught fire. She hadn’t been prepared for this, but there was no point in pretense. “I am.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “The nuns and children in your etchings.”

  “I see. You’re quite clever.”

  “It seemed that you wanted to be identified.”

  She smiled. “Why are you here?”

  “To speak to you. To offer you more than what they’re paying you.”

  “The son of Scotland doesn’t care for the way I present him?”

  “He doesn’t even know about your caricatures.”

  “Then why are you offering me anything?”

  “Because I care about his cause.” Mrs. Goddard said the woman needed money to leave Scotland. Searc could certainly arrange it. “I understand you want to go back to France. We can book passage for you to go immediately.”

  The artist frowned and crossed to a brass sundial on a pedestal at the center of the green space. She turned and looked intently at Morrigan.

  “It’s not just the money. Through my friends here, etchings of my artwork are now being posted in Tain, Nairn, Elgin, and Aberdeen.” She motioned to her drawing pad on the bench. “I’ve been sketching and painting for all my life with no recognition.”

  “But no one knows who you are still.”

  “I’ve been promised that two separate printers in Edinburgh and Glasgow will be offering to produce my work, etched and hand-colored. I believe London will be next.”

  “But you’re a Scot. How can you support the very government that is oppressing your own people?”

  “I care nothing about politics.”

  “Innocent people are suffering. Dying.”

  Madame Laborde scoffed. “I understand your feelings. I learned a great deal about the son of Scotland and about your family. I know about you. I know about your late father.”

  She wanted to throw the words back in her face. If all this woman knew was what she learned from the authorities, then she had no idea of who Archibald Drummond was. And no idea of who she was.

  “Your father supported and organized reformers in what is a losing cause. You think that’s your calling too. But look at you. No home, no family of your own, no dowry, and no prospect of marriage. You have no future, Miss Drummond.”

  Those words meant nothing to her. This was a woman whose life had been dependent on the generosity of men. Morrigan wasn’t here to argue the rewards of wealth and matrimony. What she had to do was to somehow convince Madame Laborde to change sides.

  “You can continue to pursue your art. You can be recognized and paid generously for it too. All I ask is that you look about you. See what the British military and the wealthy absentee landlords are doing to Scotland and the Highlands.”

  “None of that means anything to me.” She shook her head. “What I see around me are people who have more than I have.”

  “I tell you the Scottish people are suffering. Farm folk are being thrown from their homes. Tradesmen who assemble and protest are being trampled in the streets. My father was shot down in his own surgery.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Drummond. But I see none of that here.”

  “You may not see it, but it’s true nonetheless.” Morrigan thought of Maisie’s articles. “I can bring you newspaper accounts.”

  “And you think reading pathetic stories will change my mind?”

  “I’m certain of it. I know when you see the truth, you’ll have no difficulty deciding which side is more deserving of your talent.”

  Madame Laborde looked past her in the direction of the house. “Perhaps you’d have no objection to including this gentleman in our conversation?”

  Morrigan turned and looked across the gardens. A wiry man with a pinched face and carrying a stout walking stick approached with a nimbleness that belied his middle age. Four bruisers trailed behind him.

  “Have you met Sir Rupert Burney?” the artist asked, a note of amusement in her voice.

  Morrigan couldn’t breathe.

  “I’m certain he’ll be delighted to make your acquaintance and hear all you have to say.”

  CHAPTER 14

  CINAED

  A crowd gathered in greeting as the travelers rode through Dalmigavie’s gate, and Cinaed had never been so glad to see their welcoming faces. It had been an eventful month on the road, to say the least.

  He’d set out to see the leaders and the folk of the great Highland clans. With every stop and from every clan chief, he heard the same thing. The Highlanders were unhappy, fearful, angry. And everywhere, the same complaint rang out. Their lads had not come home.

  To fight the French, armies needed to be raised. Now, every regiment composed of Scots and Highlanders was being moved to Ireland and to the farthest corners of the expanding empire. And militias from the south, as well as English regulars, were moving in to fill their places at Fort William and Fort George.

  The rising was at hand, and the Crown didn’t trust the Scottish soldiers’ allegiance.

  Whispers of coming war in the Highlands had been drifting northward. The Home Office was campaigning for it. English commanders in Edinburgh and the Borders were hoping for it. The rumored visit of the queen was being taken as an open threat in Westminster. Many believed it was far easier to crush out the sparks rather than wait and fight the inferno. But no consensus existed. There were other voices in Parliament who were against it. They feared the dire economic conditions of the country could turn a regional rebellion into a devastating civil war. A revolution like the one that toppled the monarchy in France just a few decades ago.

  Before Queen Caroline returned to London, she’d told Cinaed what her own agents had reported. All opposition to war in the Highlands would be swept away if Whitehall were given a legitimate reason to attack. If the Scots organized and threatened England the way Bonnie Prince Charlie had done, the British military would leave a trail of blood that hadn’t been seen since Culloden and the days that followed.

  The Home Office needed a reason for war. One that would further divide the rich from the poor in Scotland, the aristocrat from the commoner, the Highlands from the Lowlands.

  In his life Cinaed had done plenty to annoy the Crown. But there was an enormous difference between those nuisances and an action that would bring the entire British army down on the necks of unarmed people of the Highlands.

  The English were trained and ready. The Peninsular War. Wat
erloo. The Gurkha War. The Pindari War. Those military campaigns had prepared the enemy. The navy would level every port from Stornoway in the Western Isles to Aberdeen. With the Caledonian Canal linking Oban to Inverness almost fully operational, the Highlands were cut in two. If all-out war were to come now, untold lives would be lost. Cinaed was determined not to give them the excuse they were looking for.

  How to handle an unprovoked attack, however, was another matter entirely. No clan liked to see a laird wounded without retribution.

  “Lachlan’s leg is broken,” Cinaed told Isabella as he dismounted.

  As the men carried the laird to his chambers, Cinaed and Isabella followed. “A half-dozen dragoons appeared to be waiting for us by Loch Laggan. Niall thinks they were from Fort William. Lachlan’s horse was shot from under him and rolled on his leg.”

  “Was anyone else hurt?” Isabella asked.

  Cinaed shook his head. The attack had been little more than a glancing blow. The Mackintosh men had outnumbered the dragoons, who had fired on them and then dashed off as quickly as they’d come. Niall had been quick to say it was an old military tactic to lure them into a trap. These raiders were the bait.

  After doing what they could for Lachlan, they’d brought him back here with the hope that his leg could be saved.

  “When did this happen?” Isabella asked after sending Auld Jean to the medical room for what she’d need.

  “Two days ago. We rode straight here. Lachlan is a tough old bird, but this nearly killed him. Where is Searc?”

  “He and Blair went to Inverness early today. They’re planning on returning tonight. Morrigan went with them.”

  Cinaed nodded, but as they passed a window on a landing, she stopped him.

  “You have blood on your coat.”

  “From Lachlan’s mount. I’m fine.”

  She wouldn’t go another step until she’d inspected his chest and back, assuring herself he was unhurt. She caressed his face. “I’ve missed you.”

  He kissed her lips and held her tightly in his arms for a moment. There was so much he needed to tell her, but it would have to wait.