The Whiskey Laird's Bed

by Donna MacMeans

  “But how did he come to find you so far from home?”

  “Here we are.” James smiled mysteriously, then opened a door to a small croft that nestled close to the main building. “This was used for storage, but I’ve cleared most of the items out.”

  Claire could see a long table against one wall with her requested chemicals lined neatly along the back. A stack of commercially prepared “dry plates” for the negative images stood on one side, next to a box of what she supposed was albumen paper to be used for the prints. It was an expensive collection of items, but all seemed to be present.

  “This building was not wired for the use of electricity. But it should be easy enough to run a cord from the residence generator to here.” He looked at her askance. “I assume your requested assortment of incandescent lamps means you’ll have need of electricity?”

  She nodded, still overwhelmed by the laird’s generosity.

  “Miss Starke.”

  She turned toward the gamekeeper.

  “I think the purchase and preparation of all these materials to assist in your use of an old camera accidentally discovered would be an indication that the laird is not, as you say, ‘not fond’ of you. In fact, one might ascertain the opposite.”

  Her sputtering flame of hope flared. She knew of her yearnings toward the laird, but could they be reciprocated? Then she remembered him whispering in Faith’s ear, and Faith’s wide smile in response.

  “Or one might ascertain that he had need of a working camera,” she said.

  James’s brow furrowed. “For what purpose?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I don’t think he would invest in all this”—she swept her arm across the room—“to appease an uninvited guest.” Especially if he knew of her intent to show the heinous effects of alcoholism.

  James sighed as if to indicate he didn’t agree, then reached in his pocket. “I suppose you’ll say he had a specific need for this as well. He made me promise not to forget it.” He placed a silver hunter case pocket watch on the table, then left.

  Claire lifted the watch, smiling at the Ravenswood motif etched on the case. She opened the lid, noting the smaller second-hand dial within the larger clock face. She hadn’t really expected him to purchase this particular item, even though she’d included it on the list. This should be perfect for her needs. Light bounced off the inside lid, revealing engraving. She lifted it higher to better read the words.

  To a developing friendship . . .

  Chapter 16

  Claire’s fingers tingled, her heart racing.

  Years before, when she’d prepared the collodion plates for her father, she’d hoped never to smell bromides and nitrates again. However, ever since James had returned several days ago with those very ingredients, she couldn’t wait to try her hand at it. Amazing how easily she could fall back into the old ways—but with a difference. This time she prepared the mix for her own photographs. Even after the chemicals had been mixed, she’d had to wait for a dry day to expose the negative plates. When the morning dawned dry and fair, she wasted no time in borrowing the gig and gathering directions for the drive into Beckmore.

  Her plan was simple. First, she’d take a photograph of the village tavern, as it represented the distributor of the demon alcohol. With luck, perhaps a few drunken sots of the sort she’d witnessed on Oxford Street would be about and she could photograph their deplorable state as well. Unfortunately, the light conditions would not allow her to expose a negative inside the tavern with any chance of success, but perhaps a few would stumble into the sunlight.

  From that point, she’d locate the families of the men who habitually overindulged and photograph how they suffered. In London, it was always the women and children who suffered when a man decided to drink. Certainly, Scotland would be no different. She would find the suffering women, listen to their stories, take their photographs, and then see if perhaps she could establish a Sober Society right here in Beckmore. Wouldn’t that be impressive?

  Finally, she would photograph the distillery, as she had promised Macpherson. As the place responsible for producing the spirits used to intoxicate the tavern patrons, those prints would have a place in her exhibit. She had a small degree of misgiving about using the prints for purposes other than those the laird intended, but she was certain that once he saw the entire project and its benefit for the greater good, he would understand. At least, that was her theory.

  Thus, she’d positioned the camera across from the Rising Cock to begin what was bound to be an amazing endeavor. She slipped behind the back draping to focus the upside-down image to exacting proportions. When she thought she had it just right, she covered the lens with its cap and brought the prepared glass plate beneath the drape. Working in the dark of the drape, she removed the frame cover and fitted it inside the camera. Once everything was in place, she exited the drape to discover she was not alone.

  “Why would ye want to take a picture of the tavern?” the woman asked. “Why not the kirk? It’s new.”

  Claire looked east toward the spire of the village church. She hadn’t anticipated that question. She turned toward the older woman, then smiled. “Perhaps I’ll take a photograph of the church later. Right now I’m checking on exposure times using the tavern as a subject. Would you care to watch?”

  “T’would be a better picture if someone was in it,” the stranger observed.

  “Perhaps. But any movement will blur the image. Sometimes people can’t stand still long enough for a sharp print. For my purposes, the building alone should suffice.”

  She removed her new pocket watch to time the exposure, then removed the lens cap, letting light pass through the lens to imprint on the prepared glass plate.

  However, before the exposure was complete, the tavern door opened and a man stumbled out.

  “Ah, Ned!” the woman shouted. “Ye ruined the lady’s photograph.”

  “What? A photograph?” The man raised his hand to shield his eyes and looked at Claire. “Ya should’ve warned me.”

  “Ned owns the Cock,” the woman explained.

  Ned stood by the tavern door, then suddenly spit on his palms and smoothed his hair. He posed by the door with his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his open waistcoat.

  “Anyone inside?” the woman called. “They’ll want to come out as well.”

  “Just me bird.” Ned brightened. “Would you be wanting Brutus?” Before Claire could answer, Ned answered himself. “Wait, I’ll get him.” He disappeared into the interior.

  “You’re a Sassenach brought up for the laird’s fancy, aren’t ya?” the woman asked before Claire could even think about her disappointment that no drunken sods were apparently in the tavern. In fact, few people were out on the streets. It was a quiet, restful sort of village.

  “I’m here with a friend,” she responded slowly, unsure how to react to the woman’s reference. “I’m certain the laird doesn’t fancy my presence.”

  “Then you’ll be leaving soon like the others.” The woman crossed her arms. “The laird needs to look no further than his own village for a wife.”

  They both turned as the tavern door opened. Ned, clutching a rooster, stepped out. Claire chuckled, realizing she was looking at the tavern’s namesake.

  “May I ask your name?” Claire asked.

  “Mrs. Murray, I am. My husband is an officer with Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. Who’s doing the asking?”

  “Miss Starke,” Claire replied, puzzled. “Why would a revenue agent be in Beckmore?”

  She laughed. “We live here. At the distillery.”

  While Claire tried to make sense of that explanation, Mrs. Murray pointed toward Ned. “He’s no bound to stay there forever.”

  “Oh.” Claire grabbed another exposure frame and ducked beneath the back drape. Once she had changed the frames, she reemerged and called to N
ed, “Ready? Hold perfectly still, now.”

  She removed the lens cap and watched the second hand on her watch tick by. “Why does a revenue agent live at a distillery?” she asked.

  “For the excise tax,” Mrs. Murray exclaimed, then shook her head. “Everyone knows Scotch whisky puts a lot of money in the English coffers. Mr. Murray is there to tally the production and record the shipments to make certain Her Majesty gets every shilling due.” She chuckled. “No one can make whisky if my Mr. Murray doesn’t unlock the still house.” Claire must have looked confused, as she added, “It’s the only way he can make certain that all the production is recorded. The agents lock the important components of the entire process. They’re the only ones with a key.”

  Claire replaced the lens cap, then called a thank-you to Ned. He shrugged and took his rooster back inside.

  “So all distilleries have revenue agents?”

  “When you consider the amount of tax collected, it makes sense,” Mrs. Murray said.

  This news was unsettling. While it might make sense to the British Parliament, the idea that whisky production provided large revenues to the treasury didn’t bode well for the temperance movement. Claire hadn’t really thought about economic impact before. Perhaps some of the money collected should be used to help out those injured by spirits. It seemed only fair. Perhaps she should shift the focus of her project toward that end.

  “What’s going on here?”

  In her contemplation about the impact of tax collection on temperance goals, Claire had missed the arrival of an attractive lady about her own age with hair the color of bright autumn leaves. Mrs. Murray turned toward her with a grand smile.

  “Good Morning to you, Miss Fraser. Have you met Miss Starke? She’s the latest of Lady M’s imports at Ravenswood.”

  Claire was tempted to correct the implication in that introduction, but her mind changed when she met Miss Fraser’s eyes, which were crinkled with suppressed laughter. Obviously, she didn’t consider Claire as possible marriage material for the laird, so no explanation was needed.

  Miss Fraser’s gaze shifted to the camera, and the humor drained from her face. “That’s not your camera.” She glared at Claire with narrowed eyes. “Did you steal it? Mac would never allow someone to use Adam’s camera.”

  Miss Fraser’s expression of disgust became mirrored in Mrs. Murray as well.

  Claire rubbed her fingers over the initials carved in the wood, surprised another would recognize their significance. But then, Miss Fraser also used a sort of nickname to refer to Macpherson. “He’s well aware that I’m using his brother’s camera. He said it was time.”

  “The fire was a long time ago,” Mrs. Murray acknowledged.

  “Not for Mac,” Miss Fraser declared, letting her voice drop to acid levels. “And not for me.” She turned on her heel and strode away. Claire watched her march off.

  “I do have permission to use the camera,” she insisted, in case doubts remained. “But I don’t understand why those initials would upset Miss Fraser so.”

  “Everyone knew the older brother fancied her, but it was the younger brother who caught her eye. They say she was off with the younger Macpherson at the time of the lightning strike.”

  I was somewhere I shouldna have been. His words reverberated in her mind. Unnecessary regret and guilt must have fueled his outburst in the turret room. She understood a bit more now about the laird’s anger, but hadn’t the time to dwell on it here. She filed it away for a time when she could consider it in peace. Meanwhile, she needed to take steps for her next plan of action.

  “Mrs. Murray, I wonder if it would be possible for me to meet with the women of Beckmore? I’d like to gather their thoughts on certain matters.”

  “Matters? What sort of matters?”

  “Nothing important,” Claire said, noting the woman’s tone of suspicion. “It’s such a lovely village. I’d like to learn more about life here.”

  “Why would a Sassenach care about Beckmore? Especially one who’s leaving shortly?”

  She was hard pressed to answer that when she remembered the camera. “To take photographs. I’d like to take photographs of the people here to show how truly lovely it is.”

  Mrs. Murray wasn’t convinced.

  “With the collodion negatives, I can make prints for everyone . . .”

  The prospect of having a personal photograph seemed to make an impact. Mrs. Murray promised to arrange a meeting at the new church in three days, at a time when it was light enough to make prints.

  “Wonderful,” Claire said, hoping the other villagers wouldn’t react to her with the same horror as had Miss Fraser. If all went well, Claire could envision a possible Beckmore Sober Society. She smiled. She’d leave behind a Scottish legacy even though she and Faith would be returning to London in just a couple of weeks.

  Chapter 17

  “Hold still,” Faith commanded. “Don’t fidget so, or I’ll stick you with a—”

  “Ouch!”

  “—pin.” Faith leaned back in the wheeled chair. Claire balanced on a small table reclaimed from the attic. It placed Claire at the right height for Faith’s alterations. “While it was kind of Lady Macpherson to make this gown available, it’s a shame the color isn’t more flattering,” Faith observed. “With your coloring, you should be wearing clarets, emeralds, and sapphires.”

  Claire glanced down at the ocher-colored material. “I look like a pillar of mud.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find a way to make it presentable,” Faith said, looking beautiful in her green day dress. “Turn around so I can pin the other side.”

  “Is the waist correct? It feels too tight. I’m afraid to move.” Claire carefully made the turn with her arms extended. “At least in this color she won’t keep mistaking me for one of the servants.”

  Faith laughed. “That’s not likely, even in your black and white. You have a demanding personality that no servant could afford to have and still expect to retain employment.”

  Claire flinched, uncertain if she’d just been insulted by her dear friend.

  “Demanding isn’t quite the word I was thinking of though,” Faith continued. “Something more along the line of . . .”

  “Arrogant?” Claire supplied, remembering Cameron’s accusation.

  Faith laughed. “No, not arrogant. It’s more of an assertiveness—especially in the area of temperance.”

  Claire lips tightened. So Cameron was right. Weren’t arrogance and self-assertiveness two words for the same sense of self-righteousness? “I suppose my lips move sometimes before my head can stop them,” she admitted.

  “Sometimes it’s not just the lips,” Faith murmured, then leaned back. “There. You will be appropriately attired for the dinner party. Lady Macpherson will be pleased. I’m certain even the laird will not fail to notice you.”

  Claire turned to respond but met another stab of a pin. So apropos. Everything and everyone seemed determined to hurt her in tiny snips and jabs. “I don’t think the laird will even look my way if you’re in the room.”

  “Claire!” Faith offered her hand to help Claire step down. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You’ve always been the pretty one in the Rake Patrol. You can’t deny it.” Claire’s forthrightness seemed to desert her as she looked in Faith’s face, so she glanced away. “I’ve seen the way the laird whispers in your ear.” Her throat constricted, making the words difficult. “And the way he carries you in his arms.”

  “It was the only way to get up and down the stairs—”

  “You’re the one receiving all of his attention,” Claire said, unsuccessfully fighting the pitiful yearning that had crept into her voice. It wasn’t Faith’s fault that she was beautiful, any more than it was Claire’s fault that she was not. It wasn’t Faith’s fault that so many dismissed Claire as a serious contender for the laird�
�s attention. But Faith’s attractiveness and perfect etiquette seemed to fly in Claire’s face. Her eyes burned with pending tears. “I’m the uninvited guest—the Aunt Sophie, if you will.”

  Faith sighed and then handed Claire her handkerchief. “You’re not at all like my aunt Sophie. And, if you recall, we’re both poachers in that regard. Patricia was the only one actually invited here.”

  Claire blew her nose in a less-than-elegant fashion. “But he’s been spending so much time with you.”

  “Macpherson only spends time with me to appease his mother.” Faith narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger. “Claire Starke, have you never looked at yourself in the mirror? Look at you! Why, any man would be proud to gain your interest.”

  That was the problem, Claire thought. She had looked in the mirror. Several times, in fact, and each time she heard the distant chant, Crow, crow, crow.

  “The laird’s eyes light up whenever you enter the room,” Faith insisted. “Haven’t you noticed?”

  Well, no. She hadn’t. “If his eyes light up at all, it’s due to the presence of whisky, not me. Unless he’s in the mood for a good argument.”

  “Argue?” Faith shook her head. “I think you’ve underestimated your allure.”

  “Me? Allure?” She would laugh if it wouldn’t mean another pin prick. “I only have allure over dogs.”

  Peat raised his head and made a swipe with his tail. He spent more time with Claire these days than with Macpherson—company Claire was pleased to have as she explored the estate through the lens of the camera.

  Faith patted a chair in front of a mirror, and Claire reluctantly sat. Faith wheeled behind her.

  “You can wear my earbobs, and I’ll fix your hair.” Faith ran both her hands through Claire’s hair, lifting and twisting. “Even Lady Macpherson will be stunned by your beauty.”

  “Can you bob my nose?” Claire asked, half in jest.

  Faith laughed in her musical tone. “I wish I had your nose, so strong and unique. People listen to a woman with a nose like yours.” She tapped the end of her nose with her finger. “They assume that a woman with a silly, small nose like mine has a head filled with only silly, small ideas.”