There were ten carriages leaving Saint-Germain-en-Laye that morning, each one bedecked with the livery of the Regent. It seemed out of place to see the coat of arms of England and Scotland adorning carriages of French design, yet another reminder of this court in exile. Not only was Charles Edward Stuart known as the pretender, but the entire retinue should be, too, Feargan thought to himself, as he climbed into the carriage.
“Good morning, Galbreth of Beira,” Amelia said, as Feargan took his place opposite her.
“Good morning, Lady Barton, ye are looking very lovely this morning,” Feargan said. Catherine was taking her place, too, as the carriage made ready to depart.
Both ladies were immaculately dressed in pretty, long gowns, covered by matching red woolen cloaks. Their hands were covered by mufflers, so despite the cold it was a most cozy scene inside the carriage. A blanket was offered to Feargan who gladly accepted it.
As the carriages trundled away from the château, Feargan cast a final glance up at the imposing finery of the English court in exile. Would any of these people really desire a castle in the Highlands over such finery? And after so long in exile, could they rule over a people whose lives had changed so dramatically under Hanoverian rule?
“A penny for your thoughts, Galbreth of Beira,” Catherine said, as the carriage picked up speed, jolting them along the icy road which just two days ago Feargan himself had travelled along.
“Oh, nothin’ really,” he replied, “I was just imagining this fine court at the mercy of a Scottish winter,” and he laughed.
“We are quite used to such things. Cumberland can be bleak at times and our father’s home at Workington Hall is hardly the French château we have just left,” Amelia replied, smiling a little. “We are not helpless maidens, Galbreth, of that I can assure you.”
“I meant nay disrespect,” he replied, blushing a little.
“Amelia is just having fun with you, but you’re right, many of these people have become so used to France that the thought of returning to the old country is rather grim,” Catherine said.
“And yet the Regent is determined to see an invasion take place, to see the old order restored, and himself upon the throne,” Feargan said, shaking his head. “It will be a disaster.”
Catherine groaned and shook her head.
“Oh, let us speak of something else other than politics. You shall hear enough of that from our father. It would be best not to mention anything of your purpose in coming here, just tell him you are a supporter of the Regent’s cause and he shall be happy,” Catherine said, rolling her eyes.
“Is yer father a man of politics then?” Feargan asked.
“He and the Regent have their business together, yes. Our father has always supported the Jacobite cause, though he is clever enough to keep such things to himself. We are rarely disturbed in our rural backwater, which makes it the ideal place for politics to be enacted,” Amelia replied.
“Which is why we do not wish to speak of it here when we are going to Paris to have fun,” Catherine said, as Feargan and Amelia smiled at one another.
“I shall not discuss such things then,” Feargan replied.
“Tell us something of Scotland, the legends of your clan or the mysterious goings on in your castle,” Amelia said. “I love to hear such tales of the north country. We had a servant once who told the most marvelous fables—I could have listened to him for hours.”
“I am nae much of a storyteller, lass, but I can tell ye of Duncan Galbreth, the fifth Laird of Loch Beira, who legend tells once slayed a mythical beast who was said to live in the loch.”
At these words, both Amelia and Catherine beamed at Feargan and taking hold of each other’s hands, they settled back for the tale, one which would see them well on the way to Paris.
As the day drew on, they passed by the inn where Feargan and Hamish McBride had stayed two nights before and the place on the road where the carriage had got stuck in the mud. Feargan’s story, which he remembered from childhood, captivated the two ladies. Admittedly, he elaborated upon it somewhat, recounting the glorious tale which was depicted in a tapestry that hung in the Great Hall of his castle on the shores of Loch Beira. It was one which every man of the Clan Galbreth knew, a matter of honor, though of course the stuff of legend.
“What a terribly exciting story,” Catherine said, as Feargan concluded and sat back in his seat.
“I felt as though I were there with Duncan on the shores of the Loch. How terrifying it must have been,” Amelia said.
“It is only a story, lasses,” Feargan said, laughing at the sincere looks upon both their faces.
“Story or not, it is still fascinating. Our family has nothing of that sort on either side, except for dear Mary Queen of Scots staying at Workington Hall many years ago.” Amelia continued, “They say it was her last true night of freedom.”
“And the effects of that sorry affair are still being felt to this day,” Feargan said, shaking his head.
“You promised not to speak of politics again,” Catherine cried, wagging her finger at him and laughing.
“I think ye will find it was yer sister who raised the topic again. I have just spent the past hour telling ye of myths and legends,” Feargan replied, laughing at her.
“Real life is dull in comparison,” Catherine said.
“Oh really, Catherine, come now, look—we are nearly in Paris,” Amelia said, pointing out of the window.
They had entered the suburbs of that great city, the road wending its way alongside the river. The road was no longer potholed and muddy, instead it had turned into a wide boulevard and as they left behind the hovels and dilapidated houses of the Parisian peasantry, great baroque buildings rose up around them.
“Isn’t it beautiful? I never tire of seeing Paris—even in the winter it has such charm and magnificence to it, don’t you think so, Galbreth?” Amelia said, blushing at her own exuberance as she smiled at Feargan.
“It is a most remarkable city. Surely there is nothin’ like it in all of Christendom,” Feargan said, leaning over to look out of the window at the passing scenes.
He was transfixed by the city, its opulence and grandeur a far cry from even the richest of English towns. In his journey south from Scotland he had passed through Durham, York, and Lincoln before arriving in London, and then taking a boat to Calais. But nothing he had seen since leaving home could compare to the beauty of this city and even in the twilight, which was now descending, with a flurry of snow beginning to fall, he found himself enchanted by what he saw.
There was Notre Dame, rising magnificently above the Seine. As they crossed the Pont Neuf, he looked up in awe at the towers of the cathedral, rising as if to heaven. In the distance he could hear the bells tolling out the evening hour and he sighed to himself, thanking God that here, at least, he was free to practice the religion of his fathers before him.
“We are not far now, and I hope our father has ensured a fine dinner is prepared for us,” Catherine said, pulling her cloak around herself in preparation for the cold night air.
“Yer father is there now? And what will he say when a stranger arrives in his midst?” Feargan asked.
“He will be quite happy to meet you. I shall say we intend to marry,” Catherine replied, laughing.
Feargan blushed and Amelia smiled at him.
“Do not worry, Galbreth of Beira, our father is a most delightful man, at least once you get to know him. He can be a little bad-tempered at times, but underneath the façade he is quite the gentlest creature you shall ever meet. Look, here we are now, and it seems we are expected,” she said, once again giving him a reassuring look.
6
As the carriage pulled up in front of the grand house on the Rue di Rivoli, Feargan found himself wondering just what lay ahead. Would the sisters’ father welcome him? Or would he, too, try and dissuade him from seeking an audience with the Regent? Perhaps it was better to lay such things aside, at least for this evening, and simply all
ow events to unfold as the good Lord willed them.
A footman descended the steps of the house, opening the carriage door and unfolding the steps. Feargan got out first, holding his hand up for Amelia, and then Catherine, as both ladies stepped out into the cold Parisian night.
A fresh fall of snow had covered the street which was busy with the early evening throng. Gentlemen and ladies brushed shoulders with street urchins and beggars, the merchants and tradesmen who had spent their day about their business in the city trailed their carts towards home, and there was a buzz and excitement in the air as the nighttime came alive.
“How I love Paris,” Amelia whispered. “I never tire of it. I would happily spend the rest of my days here.”
“Just like the rest of this court in exile then,” Feargan replied, as Catherine took his arm.
“Our family has owned this house for the past one hundred years—my grandmother inherited it from her mother. The poor dear was sent off to marry my grandfather at the age of just sixteen. How dismal Cumberland must have appeared when one has left all this behind.”
The Parisian home of the Earl of Workington was indeed spectacular. A handsome townhouse which rose up four storeys high from the street, a wide flight of steps led up to the door which was open now, the footmen hurrying up and down with the bags, a welcoming light coming from inside.
“It is a fine house and make nay mistake,” Feargan said, as Catherine and her sister led him up the steps.
“We just love being here. I hope you will stay a little while, there is so much of Paris to show you,” Amelia said, as they stepped over the threshold into the warmth of the house beyond.
The hallway was richly furnished in the French style and on the walls hung any number of portraits, which Feargan assumed depicted the previous inhabitants. At its center stood a large table, upon which was placed a most beautiful sculpture of Aphrodite, done in bronze.
Once again, Feargan was overwhelmed by the opulence he encountered. It was like a miniature version of the Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, though mercifully unencumbered by those who called that place their home.
“Please inform Father that we have a guest to stay with us and see that the Laird of Loch Beira is given suitable accommodation,” Catherine instructed one of the servants, who scurried off in search of the master.
“We are just in time for dinner, and tomorrow we shall show you Paris. Have you seen Notre Dame?” Amelia said, her cloak now discarded, and the fullness of her beauty revealed.
“Only from the outside. My time here before was spent in preparation for the journey to Saint-Germain-en-Laye, and what a waste of time that was,” Feargan replied, taking off his cloak.
“Not entirely wasted,” Catherine replied indignantly. “You met us, after all.”
“Aye, that is true, lass,” Feargan replied, as the footman arrived to escort him to his quarters.
“Dinner will be at eight o’clock. My father will be keen to meet you, I am certain of that,” Amelia said, allowing her gaze to linger, her eyes sparkling as she met those of Feargan.
“I look forward to it, and to meeting your dear father and my host. I must thank him for his gracious hospitality,” Feargan replied and the three parted company.
The footman led Feargan up the sumptuous staircase and round to the right, turning by yet another bust out of Greek mythology, to where a door led onto a corridor of bedrooms.
“Zis will be your suite, monsieur, and if there is anything I can do for you then please do not hesitate to ask,” he said, opening the door into a large bedroom which itself had further doors leading off it.
Feargan nodded to the footman and made his way over to the fireplace where a little fire had been kindled and was casting its glow across the room. Through a door to his left, he found a well-appointed sitting room, lit by oil lamps and another fire burning merrily in the grate. He crossed to the window and looked out on the street below.
The tallow candles in their iron framed boxes were casting a gentle light upon the scene, as a throng of people continued to make their way along the Rue di Rivoli. He watched as several carriages passed by, one bearing the crest of the Regent, evidently a straggler from the morning’s ride. He wondered if the Pretender himself were inside—where was he lodging that night and would there ever be the opportunity to speak with him?
The letter he had written would surely go unanswered and any attempt to meet the Regent end only in disappointment. The whole journey had been futile, though as Catherine had said, the happy chance of their encounter softened the blow. Both were charming, but it was Amelia, that forbidden fruit, who had so captivated Feargan’s mind.
As they’d travelled together in the carriage that day, he had been unable to stop himself from casting glances in her direction, watching her mannerisms and delighting in her gentle ways. It was rare for Feargan Galbreth to feel such tenderness towards a woman, indeed, he had never experienced such intensity of feelings before. Despite having known her just a few days, there was something about her which he found enchanting. As lovely as Catherine was, she simply did not possess that gentle spark that now so captivated his heart.
Feargan dressed slowly for dinner, the sounds of the Parisian night coming from down below. He could hear music playing from a distant drawing room and a carriage pulling up outside the house. Glancing from the window, he saw the now familiar figure of Lord Torbay emerging, snapping at the footman over some minor misdemeanor. Feargan shook his head and as the clock on the mantelpiece struck eight o’clock, he prepared to meet his host and face the inevitable unpleasantness of Lord Torbay.
The faint music which Feargan could hear was coming from a drawing room just off the hallway. It was brightly lit, and like the rest of the house, lavishly furnished.
Amelia was playing the pianoforte, a most lovely sound to behold. As the Laird of Loch Beira entered the room she paused, smiling at him as the rest of the company turned to look at the stranger in their midst.
“Father, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Feargan Galbreth, Laird of Loch Beira, in the wilds of the Highlands,” she said, beckoning Feargan over to where an older man, with dark brown hair and a long beard, stood imbibing a glass of sherry, his half-moon spectacles balanced on his nose. Addressing Feargan she continued, “My father, the Earl of Workington.”
The Earl of Workington appeared as far from a native Frenchman as may be possible. He had not adopted any of the styles of the court in exile, nor embraced its fashions, and his large frame seemed somewhat out of place next to his petite daughters. He wore travelling clothes, clearly not having bothered to dress for dinner, and now looked Feargan up and down quizzically.
“Laird of Loch Beira, ay?” he said, a pronounced English accent reminding Feargan that despite Cumberland’s proximity to the border with Scotland, the Earl of Workington was very much of the English aristocracy.
“It is an honor to meet ye, Lord Workington, and thank ye for the hospitality of yer home,” Feargan said, extending his hand to the Earl, who shook it ponderously.
“I had little choice in the matter. I understand my daughters scooped you up from the château like a waif and stray—they really must stop making a habit of such things,” the Earl replied, laughing as Amelia shook her head.
“Really, Father, it is our pleasure to host Galbreth of Beira and he was most kind in escorting us from the Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye this morning,” Amelia said, as the footman presented Feargan with a glass of sherry.
“Yes, you are very welcome amongst us, I merely jest. Do you plan to stay in Paris long? Whatever was a Scottish Laird doing at the court in exile, do you not have your own worries to attend to?” the Earl said, rising from his place and taking Feargan aside.
“I am loyal to the Regent and simply wished to convey myself to him and remind him that he has the support of the Scottish nobles,” Feargan replied, unwilling to share his true purposes with the Earl who was about to ask yet more questions when the doo
r to the drawing room opened and Lord Torbay entered, demanding a sherry from the footman and stomping across to Amelia.
“Delays, darn delays, the Regent has only just arrived in Paris, everything seems to have conspired against us today and…” he had not noticed Feargan at first, but as he turned to address the room his gaze fell upon the Laird and he sneered, “What is he doing here?”
“Philip, come now, remember your manners. Catherine has invited Galbreth of Beira as our guest and I am sure you can treat him as such under my father’s roof,” Amelia said, placing her hand upon Philip’s arm.
“This man thinks he can curry the Regent’s favor by arriving at court and demanding to speak with him. Then he has the audacity to ask my betrothed to dance with him,” Philip said, casting a disdainful look towards Feargan.
“I am as much a guest in this house as ye are,” Feargan said, raising his glass of sherry to Philip. “Perhaps we should all just learn to get along with each other. Or are ye always such a bampot?”
Highlander's Hidden Destiny: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 5
