A Highland Conquest

by Sandra Heath

  It was sunset as the two carriages drove wearily over a wild moorland road where sweet-scented heather stretched into the gathering dusk. As befitted a member of the Four-in-Hand Club, Alex had elected to sit on the box beside the leading coachman, from time to time relieving him of the reins, and as he saw a cluster of buildings around a crossroad ahead, he pulled the team to a standstill in order to speak to Hester and Lauren.

  “We’re approaching a hostelry of some sort—at least, I believe it’s a hostelry, judging by the lion and punch bowl sign which appears to denote inns and alehouses up here. It seems quite a substantial place, probably because it’s the only inn for miles, so I think we should resign ourselves to being benighted yet again. We can return to Dumbarton in the morning and see where it was we went wrong.”

  The two women were in no mood to argue. They had hoped to reach journey’s end that night, but there was obviously no hope of that now, least of all in such wild country as this. Lauren supposed they should be thankful there was any sign of habitation at all, for there hadn’t been so much as a cottage for the past five miles or so. She gazed out of the window at the sea of purple heather and the gradually rising landscape which led the eye to the first of the highland peaks. This would be a bleak and terrible place in the depths of winter, but in the summer it was beautiful almost beyond belief.

  Thankfully, the building on the crossroads proved not only to be an inn, but a very superior posting house offering every comfort. It was named the Crown & Thistle, and the monarch whose face was displayed over the door was Robert the Bruce, not any foreigner from London! There were turf seats outside, where several gentlemen were taking their drams while enjoying the summer evening, and as the carriage drove beneath the low archway into the galleried courtyard, they found a number of other vehicles, from private traveling carriages and stagecoaches to carriers’ wagons and a mail coach which was just leaving with much clatter and horn blowing. The appetizing smell of food hung in the air, and music drifted from an open window as a fiddler was playing the song ‘Laird o’ Cockpen.’

  Because the inn was a posting house, one of the vehicles in the yard was a post chaise which was only waiting for a team of four to be harnessed before undertaking the rather hazardous exercise of continuing its journey after nightfall. The two postboys—actually small, rather sinewy middle-aged men—were standing together by one of the flights of steps leading up to the gallery, and they looked disgruntled, if not to say openly mutinous, for no one thought it wise to go on the open road once the sun had gone down.

  Alex alighted from the box and came to assist Lauren and his wife out of the carriage. Lauren climbed down first, and paused to shake out her rather crumpled peach lawn skirts and smooth the sleeves of her brown velvet spencer. Then she adjusted the ribbons of her straw bonnet as she waited for Alex to help Hester down as well. Her glance moved around the yard, and her attention was suddenly drawn to a carriage which was drawn up close against one of the inn walls. It was a particularly handsome vehicle, with gleaming navy blue panels and highly polished brasswork, and the horses had been removed to the stables. The owner was evidently staying at the inn, for there was no sign of the coachman, or even a groom. Although the same could be said of most of the other vehicles in the yard, there was something about this one which aroused her curiosity. A cloth had been draped very carefully over the door panel which wasn’t against the wall, and at first sight she thought the cloth must be protecting a broken window glass, but then she instinctively knew that the purpose of the cloth was to conceal whatever coat of arms was emblazoned on the door panel. She smiled a little, for the usual reason for such a desire for anonymity was an illicit assignation. Was some gentleman dallying here with a lady other than his wife?

  The landlord had hastened out into the yard on hearing two more vehicles arrive. He was a large, very burly Glaswegian with wiry hair and bead-bright eyes which swiftly calculated that these newcomers would pay well for good service. He bowed to them.

  “Welcome tae the Crown & Thistle, sir, ladies.” he said. “Will ye be requirin’ rooms?”

  “We will, and good rooms at that,” Alex replied.

  The man gave a toothy grin. “Ye’ll no’ find bad rooms here, sir, and I can promise you the finest table in this part of Scotland. The very best mutton and beefsteaks, as well as blackcock and red grouse. There’s salmon and trout too, should ye desire it.”

  “I’m sure that whatever you serve will do excellently,” Alex replied.

  Hester anticipated her meal with relish. “Red grouse? Oh, how I love it!”

  “Maybe so, but it doesn’t usually love you. In fact, most gamebirds seem to find a quarrel with your digestion,” Alex reminded her.

  “Oh, don’t be such a damper, Alex, for if there is one thing I mean to enjoy while we’re in Scotland, it’s red grouse, and the season is perfect right now!

  “Well, if it has the same effect as last time, don’t say that I didn’t warn you,” Alex replied.

  The innkeeper had heard the exchange. “The grouse served here is finer than any served in England, of that ye may be sure,” he declared, his tone dismissive of anything that appeared on tables south of the border.

  Hester smiled. “I mean to discover the veracity of that claim, sir,” she said.

  He bowed again. “Please enter my house, sir, ladies,” he said, and led them toward the low doorway into the tap room.

  Lauren was about to follow when curiosity got the better of her. Gathering her skirts, she hurried across the yard to the mysterious carriage and drew the cloth slightly aside to peep underneath. Sure enough, there was a beautiful gilded heraldic shield painted there. Lauren dropped the cloth back into place, satisfied that her suspicion was correct. Whoever had arrived in the carriage, whether it was a lady or a gentleman, was there to secretly meet someone other than their spouse.

  Hester had paused in the taproom doorway to shake her blue sprigged muslin skirts. “Do come on, Lauren, for I’m so hungry I vow I could eat one of the coach horses!”

  “I’m coming.” Lauren hastened toward her.

  Hester gave her a puzzled look. “Whatever were you doing?”

  “Oh, nothing really. I’m afraid I was just being nosy.”

  Hester linked arms with her and they entered the inn, where the landlord had already seen to it that two suitable rooms were put at their disposal. They went up to refresh themselves before dining, arranging to meet again in the taproom in half an hour.

  Lauren’s room boasted two doors, one from the inn itself and the other giving on to the gallery around the courtyard. It was a simply furnished chamber with a large tester bed and a small pallet for her maid, a wardrobe with doors that groaned on their hinges, and a dressing table with a cracked mirror. It was very tidy and clean, and she had only been there a moment or so when one of the inn’s maids came with a jug of hot water, fresh towels, and even some soap. The sun had almost set now, and lanterns were being lit in the yard below, so the maid soon returned to put a lighted spill to the candles on the mantelpiece.

  Lauren’s own maid, Peggy, came in shortly after that with the overnight portmanteau. Peggy had the slender, dark-haired looks of her Irish ancestors, and she’d been in Lauren’s service for ten years, ever since they’d both been seventeen. Like Lauren, she had also come unwillingly across the Atlantic, but she too had found Britain less disagreeable than expected, even to the extent of finding a sweetheart among Alex and Hester’s footmen. The maid had grumbled a little about leaving Boston for London, but she had positively complained about quitting London for this brief visit to Scotland, for it meant leaving her new love behind.

  “This is a very wild place, Miss Lauren,” she observed, putting the portmanteau down on the bed and then glancing out of the window, past the rooftops of the inn toward the mountains, which were now dark shadows against the fading sky.

  Lauren took off her bonnet and tossed it on to the bed. “Have no fear, Peggy, you’ll be back in Lo
ndon before you know it, and I’m sure that—er—Thomas, will be as delighted to see you again as you will be to see him.”

  “I hope so, Miss Lauren.”

  Lauren studied her. “Does this mean you won’t be returning to Boston with me?” she asked after a moment.

  The maid turned swiftly. “I…I don’t know, Miss Lauren,” she replied honestly. “If he asks me—”

  “Do you love him?” Lauren interposed quietly.

  Peggy nodded. “Yes, Miss Lauren.”

  ‘Then if he asks you, you must stay.”

  “But I don’t like to desert you, Miss Lauren.”

  “You must put your own happiness first, Peggy. I loved and lost through no fault of my own, and I wouldn’t like to think that you’d loved and lost because of your misplaced loyalty to me. If you and your Thomas love each other, you belong together, not on opposite sides of the Atlantic.”

  Peggy smiled. “Yes, Miss Lauren. Thank you, Miss Lauren,” she said, hurrying to assist her mistress out of her peach lawn traveling gown and brown velvet spencer. Shortly after that, feeling much refreshed and with her ash-blond hair combed and pinned anew, Lauren was ready to go down to dine. By now she felt as ravenous as Hester had been earlier, for it had been some time since they’d eaten luncheon.

  Wearing a light shawl around the shoulders of the lilac sarcenet gown she’d changed into, she went down a little early to wait in the busy taproom for Hester and Alex to come down to dinner. The door into the adjoining dining room stood open and a babble of voices emerged as the guests enjoyed their repast. Lauren went to sit on a settle by the yawning fireplace, where a large bowl of heather had been placed to brighten the soot-blackened stones. There were two huge hounds sprawled near her feet, and they hardly stirred as she took her place on the settle.

  She couldn’t help glancing around at the other people in the room and those she could see in the dining room, and wondering who was the owner of the carriage with the concealed door panel. There were several couples who fitted the possible bill, one with a lady who was far younger than her elderly companion and the other who were so loving and flirtatious that Lauren began to wonder if they would bother to wait until they retired to their bedroom! Then her gaze moved to a lady who sat on her own at a small table in the corner of the dining room. She was sweetly pretty, with almond-shaped blue eyes, honey-colored hair, and the sort of dainty features that always look vulnerable and appealing. She wore a demure pink lace gown that appeared very costly, and her hair was pinned up into a knot on top of her head. There were large pink opals in her earrings, and she kept glancing at her jeweled fob watch before glancing anxiously out toward the courtyard. But it was the fourth finger of her left hand which told Lauren that she was the owner of the carriage, for there was a white mark left by a very recently removed wedding ring. Yes, the more Lauren studied her, the more certain she became that the lady was a wife waiting for her lover.

  Hester and Alex came down at last, and at first Lauren didn’t hear them enter the taproom behind her, for her attention was still upon the lady in pink. The lady saw Hester and Alex, however, and her face blanched with dismay. It was more than just dismay—it was unutterable horror—and with great presence of mind she got up from her table and hurried out of the other dining room door into the courtyard, leaving her meal unfinished upon the table.

  Startled, Lauren watched her shadowy figure hasten past the taproom windows and then up the wooden staircase to the gallery on the other side of the courtyard. Her actions were impossible to mistake. She knew Hester and Alex and didn’t want to be seen in this place. Lauren’s curiosity increased but she decided not to say anything to her cousins. After all, the lady’s affairs were none of her business, and some sleeping dogs were much better left lying, she thought, glancing down at the slumbering hounds at her feet.

  The landlord’s boast regarding the quality of his table was well founded, for nothing could have been tastier or more succulent than the roast mutton, which was served with potatoes, greens, and red currant sauce, and which Lauren and Alex decided to sample. Hester stood firm upon the red grouse, but both Lauren and Alex thought it looked overly rich and suspiciously buried beneath a spiced sauce. Hester brushed their doubts aside, however, and declared it to be absolutely delicious. Lauren was relieved not to be eating it, however, for although game was supposed to be hung for a long time, in her opinion this particular grouse had been shot on the glorious Twelfth itself, and had lain around on a larder shelf ever since.

  There were no such doubts about the Corinth currant tartlets which followed, for they were light and delicate and met with universal approval. The meal was ended with a particularly tasty cheese, and each course was accompanied by a reasonably palatable wine, which the landlord swore was the very best Bordeaux.

  In spite of their tiredness after the long day on the open road, they would have lingered a little after they’d dined, but among the rest of the company there was a large group of Glaswegian gentlemen on their way home after a climbing excursion to nearby Ben Vane. They became increasingly noisy as the whisky punch flowed and each member of the party was called upon in turn to deliver a toast, or “sentiment.” These sentiments were expected to be a crisp sentence, a poetic phrase, a moral judgment, or a proverb of some sort, and each one was awaited with great interest. Lauren had listened with amusement to the somewhat slurred pronouncements. “May the hand of charity wipe the tears of sorrow.” “May war never be among us.” “May the wind of adversity never blow open our door.” “May sincerity always dwell in the bottom of my heart.” It was this last which met with howls of laughter, for the unfortunate gentleman who uttered it was a little fuddled, and declared that sincerity should always dwell in the heart of his bottom. At this point, with the prospect of a descent into vulgarity suddenly entering the proceedings, Alex decided to escort his two ladies from the room.

  There was no real escape from the rowdy climbers, however, for the night was very hot and Lauren was obliged to leave her windows open. The sentiments continued, becoming more and more drunken and crude, and accompanied by increasingly helpless laughter. There was no harm in the gentlemen, however, and Lauren smiled a little as she lay in her bed listening to them. It was some time before she fell asleep, and when she did, she dreamed of Jonathan.

  It was May, and USS Chesapeake was gliding down the sparkling waters of Boston Roads to face the waiting British frigate, HMS Shannon, a scene Lauren had actually watched from the shore, but which in her dreams she saw from on aboard the Chesapeake. She and Jonathan seemed to be alone on the deck, wrapped in each other’s arms, oblivious to all around them. The vessel sailed relentlessly toward the enemy, and suddenly all was confusion, with cannonballs thudding into the timber, men shouting, and smoke darkening the air. Jonathan was smiling into her eyes, as if still unaware of anything but her, but then his smile faded, and his soft brown eyes lost their shine. He grew pale, but when she reached out, her hand passed right through him, for he had become an illusion, there and yet not there… She screamed his name, but then the scene was awash with red. Again she screamed, but he had gone, and there was the rattling of wooden pulleys as the sails were lowered. The Shannon was victorious and the British sailors were cheering, but she was alone with her grief. She stood there on her own, the smoke drifting chokingly past her as she gazed helplessly around, still whispering Jonathan’s name. The pulleys rattled again, much more loudly and insistently, and suddenly she was wide awake, staring confusedly up at the hangings of her bed in a remote Scottish inn.

  The tatters of the dreams still clung to her, trying to drag her back to the past, but the present was all around her now. Slowly she sat up, pushing her hair back from her hot face. There were tears on her cheeks and her heart was pounding in her breast. The room felt claustrophobic and she flung the bedclothes aside and got up to go to the gallery door. She stepped out into the night air, lifting her face to the stars and closing her eyes as she inhaled the scent of heather
from the surrounding moors.

  It was then that she realized why she had dreamed so vividly of cheering voices and rattling pulleys, for not only were the gentlemen in the dining room still enjoying themselves noisily with the whisky punch, but a cabriolet had just driven into the yard below and the iron-rimmed wheels and the horse’s hooves were still clattering on the cobbles. A drowsy stableboy emerged from the rear of the inn to attend to the newcomer, and the gentleman alighted. He removed his tall hat to run his hand briefly through his hair, and she saw that he was young and very personable, with dark hair and patrician if rather sensuous features that were momentarily caught in the light from a nearby lantern before he replaced his hat. He wore modish clothes, exceedingly well cut and bang up to the mark, and it seemed to Lauren that there was something oddly familiar about him. She watched as he asked the boy something and was directed up to the gallery opposite her room. The gentleman pressed a coin into the boy’s hand and then proceeded up the wooden steps on the other side of the yard.

  There was only one light burning as he walked softly along the gallery, and the door of the room concerned opened almost before he reached it. For a second or so Lauren saw who opened the door. It was the lady in pink, except that she now wore a flimsy nightrobe which was almost transparent in the candlelight from the room behind her, and her honey-colored hair was brushed in loose tumbling curls about her slender shoulders.

  Lauren could almost sense her sigh of anticipation as she flung her arms around her lover’s neck and they pressed together in a passionate embrace before he almost carried her inside and the door closed softly behind them. Lauren gazed across at the lighted window, and after a moment the candles inside were extinguished. She wondered who the lovers were. It was very tempting to ask Hester about the lady, but perhaps a little cruel, for it was still no one’s business but the two people concerned. She also wondered why the gentleman seemed vaguely familiar. She was sure she hadn’t seen him before, and yet… Obviously he must be like someone she did know, although who it was she simply couldn’t guess.