“I think more than one person has been in here,” James said, studying the floor. “The dirt’s been pretty well kicked up.”
Cameron remembered how he’d mistaken Miss Starke for one of the agitators at the distillery. Could it have been that he wasn’t too far off the mark? Were the agitators using this cave as a meeting place?
“Looks like something may be behind the bench leg behind you,” Cameron said.
James reached behind the bench and recovered a dusty tube. He held it up to the light of the candle.
“What the—”
“Wait!” Cameron knocked the tube out of his hand. “If that’s what I think it is, you don’t want it close to a flame. Take it outside.”
James stooped to pick up the fallen tube. “What do you think it is?”
Cameron clenched his jaw. “It’s something that shouldn’t be here. I’m afraid it got left behind, which can only mean trouble.”
James looked up at him as understanding dawned. “Dynamite.”
Chapter 25
Gone were the idyllic days of empty rooms, peaceful contemplation, and undefined existence. A coterie of servants and staff invaded Ravenswood, many of them residents of Beckmore, with accompanying noise, cleaning cloths, and newly issued uniforms. One could not walk down the main hall without tripping over a servant. Everything under Ravenswood Castle’s many roofs was to be cleaned, polished, shaken out and resettled. Inexperienced young men were asked to become footmen and groomsmen, which resulted in ongoing training, sometimes by Lady Macpherson herself.
The bank of tiny bedrooms on the various floors of Ravenswood became filled with temporary residents. Cailleach’s kitchen bustled with activity to feed this new resident population.
Claire hadn’t seen Cameron for the past week. In part, she was told, because of difficulties at the distillery. She wondered if he was avoiding Ravenswood, as his mother was much more active in the house as she oversaw the preparations.
Or, she wondered, was he avoiding her? That kiss exchanged in the photography croft had been an awakening for her, but perhaps he was not similarly affected. Perhaps she hadn’t done it right—she certainly wasn’t a woman with a great deal of experience in these things.
Whatever the reason, she missed him. Even as she told herself it was for the best because she and Faith would be leaving in just a few days, she missed him. And she feared that this feeling of incompleteness, this sense that she’d lost a great opportunity, would haunt her the rest of her life.
Cailleach made up small baskets of bread, sweets, and maybe a small portion of stew. She’d send Claire off with the gig every day to deliver the baskets to different families of some of the new staff. In part, it was a way to let the families know that their loved ones were fine at Ravenswood, but it also allowed Claire to see and get to know some of the local residents. Particularly, Claire noticed, the residents who were having some sort of difficulty, often due to alcoholism.
While her first thought was to retrieve the camera she had carried under the seat of the gig in an effort to revive her Sober Society project, she quickly discarded that idea. The Highland families were a proud lot. None of the women she’d met wished to have their photograph above a caption suggesting they were poor and suffering, though they clearly were. And none of the women saw the temperance movement as anything but a nuisance. They had no wish to abolish whisky. They wanted their spouses to be more responsible in their consumption.
On just such an expedition to deliver baskets, Claire had entered one of the many beautiful glens in the area when she heard the sound of bagpipes echoing through the hills. She’d heard bagpipes played in parades on various occasions in London, but this was different. The bewitching notes sounded both beautiful and mystical, both sad and uplifting at the same time. She called Thistle to a halt and just sat there and listened while the music filled her soul.
Scotland. She would miss this place.
***
The day the esteemed guests were to arrive, Claire received two envelopes. She opened one from the Sober Society with great trepidation. The prize winner had to be announced soon for the rally next week. There’d be speeches to write and banners to be prepared. She unfolded the paper and quickly searched the contents.
“I won,” she said quietly; then, as realization dawned, she leapt to her feet and shouted, “I can’t believe it! I won!”
Faith hobbled over with her crutch, and hugged her. “What does it say?”
“The letter is from Mrs. Preston, who says my varied approach to instilling the temperance philosophy put me in first place. I’m to make a speech at the temperance movement rally and introduce Mrs. Carrie Nation. Then, after all the speeches, I’m to be presented with the prize purse.” She looked to Faith. “This is so exciting!”
Claire held the announcement to her heart, thinking of all the ways she might utilize the prize money. From behind the chair, Faith’s arms wrapped around her. “Read me what she says about you,” she urged.
“Mrs. Preston lists my varied and successful projects as including ‘pamphlet distribution in taverns and pubs where they were needed most’”—Claire imagined that most of those pamphlets had been tossed to the floor— “and ‘creation of slogans to remind others of the need for temperance.’” The two women just looked at one another and laughed. “Also, the ‘influencing of key government officials’ . . .” Claire glanced up. “I don’t know about influencing, but I hope to speak with Lord Lothian tonight.” She looked back down and continued to read the letter. “‘And finally, and most significant, the establishment of a Scotland temperance organization.’”
“That’s wonderful, Claire. I’m very proud of you,” Faith said. “I’ve been so busy, I didn’t realize you’d succeeded in establishing a society in Beckmore.”
“I haven’t.” Claire frowned. “She must be confused.”
“It’s of little consequence,” Faith assured her. “No one has attempted to advance the temperance mission as you have with your dedication and persistence. You deserve that prize.”
Claire reread the line—most significant—and felt her heart plummet. This was too important of a misunderstanding to go uncorrected. “I’ll inform Mrs. Preston of the misconception right away.”
“What’s the second letter?” Faith asked.
“It’s from Sarah. I’ve missed her. It’ll be nice to reinstate our meetings of the Rake Patrol once we’ve returned to London.”
“Do you think that’s wise? So far we haven’t found one rake yet.”
“We just have to modify our methods,” Claire insisted. “The goal is a worthy one and shouldn’t be abandoned.”
“What does Sarah say?”
Claire opened the envelope enthusiastically and a newspaper clipping floated to her lap. First she read Sarah’s letter, then urgently moved to the clipping from The Illustrated London Times.
“Oh, no,” she gasped. “This is terrible.”
“Whatever the problem is, you have to put it aside,” Faith said. “You need to get to get ready for dinner. With all the new guests, I’m not sure if Molly will have time for the two of us.”
“Do you recall that letter from Mrs. Preston requesting that I send some prints of the photographs I was taking in Scotland for the Sober Society? I sent an extra print of the Beckmore ladies in front of the Church.” Claire held up the newsprint, as though Faith could see the fine print from across the room. “I sent that print, along with an explanation that the women were not in support of the temperance movement. I wanted the Sober Society to know that I tried to have a meeting, but I made it very clear that no temperance group was formed.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Faith said.
“Yet that’s not how the print was used. The Illustrated London Times turned my print into a woodcut. They used it to say that this was the first temperance meeting in Sc
otland, and that the women are complaining about the effects of whisky drinking in their households.”
“Let me see.” Faith took the paper from Claire’s hands, then scanned the print. “How did this happen?”
“Someone obviously decided to use my photographs for their own ends.” Claire wrung her hands. “But it’s not true. Does the article mention a contributor?”
“The paper says the article is attributed to a Mrs. C. Ledbetter.”
Lucy Ledbetter. “That sneaky, low-based . . .” Claire paced a moment. “She’s after the prize purse and decided to use my photograph to win it, even if she’s purporting something that’s not true.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “Oh, dear, do you think Cameron will see this article? Or worse, do you think anyone in Beckmore receives The Illustrated London Times?”
“I doubt the villagers of Beckmore would really care about what happens in London,” Faith said. “Surely you’ve noticed that there’s a certain hostility toward the town’s English neighbors.”
Yes, Claire had to acknowledge to feeling the outsider on more than one occasion. She’d not actually seen a copy of The Illustrated London Times anywhere in Beckmore, or, for that matter, at Ravenswood castle.
“Does it really matter?” Faith continued. “Your name is not on the article, and it just says the very thing you’ve lectured me about so many times. You said yourself you were certain there were families in Beckmore who suffered due to alcohol abuse, and you just needed more time to find them.”
“It matters because this is not true,” Claire said with conviction. “Lucy Ledbetter can write her article anyway she wishes, but she cannot use my photograph of good, upstanding people as evidence of depravity.”
“It’s a woodcut,” Faith said, examining the paper. “Do you think anyone will recognize themselves, even if they do see it?”
Claire took the paper from Faith’s hands to study it. It was a good representation. Some of the facial expressions were accurate, like Miss Fraser’s scowl. The name of the church was visible, and then she noticed the word “Beckmore” in the print. She slapped the paper back in Faith’s hand.
“So what are you going to do? They might change their minds about the prize winner,” Faith cautioned.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s the principle. I may lose the prize purse, but unlike Lucy Ledbetter, I refuse to win it falsely. I’ll write a letter to the editor and explain that this was not a temperance meeting,” Claire said with resolve; then hesitated. “Do you think that’s enough?”
“I don’t know what else you can do while you’re here. Perhaps once we’re back in London, you can make a personal appeal.” Faith tugged the bell cord in the room, then sat at the vanity to remove her hairpins.
Claire disappeared into her adjoining room, but returned with her lap desk. She placed it on the table in Claire’s room.
“What are you doing?” Faith asked.
“The sooner I correct this misunderstanding, the better.” Claire took the seat before the desk and removed a bottle of ink and a pen.
“You’re not going to write the editor now!” Faith exclaimed. “We’re to meet the guests in just an hour. I’ve already called for the maid to help us dress.”
“Molly can help you dress,” Claire said. “I’m going to pen this letter. It shouldn’t take long.” She didn’t mention that she wasn’t anxious to don the ugly gown in her wardrobe. No amount of earbobs would make that thing attractive. The dress’s main virtue was that it was utterly forgettable. “I’m not arguing with the text of the article; just the use of my photograph and any implication it might carry.”
Faith sighed and swung toward the mirror. “Sometimes I just don’t understand your sense of priorities.”
Molly arrived and removed Faith’s gown from the wardrobe, which was made from a beautiful, smoky blue material with a silver embroidery. The color reminded Claire of the mist-shrouded mountain Schiehallion, which she saw outside her window every morning. Faith would resemble one of the sirens from Cailleach’s stories of the Scottish fae—magical and seductive.
“Not that dress,” Faith said. “Miss Starke will be wearing that this evening. Bring me the gown prepared for Miss Starke.”
Molly paused with the shimmering gown stretched across her arms, but at Faith’s insistence, placed the gown on the bed and left for Claire’s room.
The exchange caused Claire to swivel in her seat. “What are you doing? You know that Lady Macpherson will be expecting to see you in that gown this evening.”
“Then she’ll be disappointed. The color is not right for me.”
A falsehood if ever Claire heard one.
“We’re of a similar size,” Faith continued. “And that shade of blue will bring out your eyes.”
Claire sealed her letter of complaint in an envelope, then moved the newspaper article to the side of the desk. She shook her head. “And you question my priorities. Lady Macpherson will not be pleased.”
True to her word, Faith had made the muddy dress more attractive than Claire remembered it being. She’d interspersed insets of creamy lace over a pink crepe in the bodice to break up the overwhelming ocher hue. She’d added some brown velvet details to the skirt to emphasize its swaying motion when she moved, and she’d also added a brown velvet belt to emphasize her tiny waist.
Claire remembered complaining that the waist on the ocher gown had been uncomfortably tight when she tried it on for a fitting. Faith had been planning to switch gowns all along!
She gazed warmly at her friend for her generosity, but also with a bit of guilt. She recalled being jealous on that day about how Faith’s beauty caused her to receive so much of the laird’s attention. She never should have doubted Faith.
For her part, Claire stepped into the deep smoky blue gown that shimmered and changed color with every movement. The bodice was cut too low to be appropriate for a dinner gown, so it was covered with a cape of light gray lace that moved independently of the gown and fastened at the back of the neck. Rather than the popular leg-of-mutton sleeves that Faith wore, the lace of the cape capped her shoulder with long petals of lace that were repeated at the gown’s hemline. It was truly the most extravagant gown Claire had ever worn.
Molly displayed a talent for dressing hair, as evidenced in the twists and plaits she employed in Faith’s blonde tresses. The effect lightened and warmed her appearance. No one would ever confuse Faith with a column of mud.
It was Claire’s turn. With Molly and Faith conferring on just the right style, the time raced past until Molly pronounced her finished. She handed Claire a hand mirror. “What do you think?”
Claire stared at the mirror, turning her head slowly from side to side. She couldn’t speak. A string of gray pearls and a matching gray ribbon had been woven through the dark mass of hair piled high on her head, while delicate tendrils had been artfully pulled from the chignon to soften the effect of her distinctive nose. She looked—dare she say it—breathtaking. “I think the light really must be magical here,” she whispered.
“It’s not the light, silly.” Faith laughed. “You’ve just never taken the time necessary to do yourself up properly for a social occasion.”
This was true. She’d managed to avoid evenings like this one her entire life. And there certainly were never funds for an extra pair of hands to assist her in preparations. Without a mother or sister to teach her how to compensate for the lacking of nature, she never attempted to look any different than the person she was.
“Come see yourself in the wardrobe mirror,” Faith urged, and pulled her from the small parlor to the bedroom. “There. Look at yourself. You’re beautiful.”
Claire almost cried. Such words were always directed to others, never herself. She had this one night to shine, but what about tomorrow? She posed the question to Faith, then added, “Or do you have a treasure trove of miracles in your wa
rdrobe?”
“Don’t worry about tomorrow,” Faith counseled. “You only get one chance to make a good first impression on Lord Lothian. After that, it doesn’t matter.”
Claire almost laughed, thinking of the first impression she must have made on Cameron. That night seemed so long ago.
“Come on.” Faith picked up two lace fans from the table, then handed one to Claire. “Let’s go show those lairds and lords what two English ladies can do.”
Chapter 26
Cameron groaned and poured himself another whisky. In spite of his mother’s promises to keep this dinner party to a very small gathering, the luggage and noise and increased activity levels suggested otherwise. The unloading of wagons and the activity in the gunroom gave hint that more than Lord Lothian had arrived. It all looked and sounded like money spent needlessly to him. Lord, he loved his mother and wished her every happiness, but obviously the directive of restraining expenses had again fallen on deaf ears.
The knock at his office door was not unexpected. Try as he might to hide, a summons was bound to be delivered to come meet the guests.
“Come,” he said, and James entered.
“I’ve been sent—”
“I know,” Cameron interrupted. “She wants me to make an appearance. How many?”
“Judging from the footmen delivering guns, it looks like we’ll have four in the hunting party tomorrow.” James paused. “You’ll be going, of course.”
“Of course.” It was expected. As much as he wished he wasn’t placed in the position of entertaining all these strangers, he wouldn’t want to embarrass his mother in front of these particular guests.
“And the women?” It would not surprise him to hear she’d invited more potential flighty brides for him to consider. None of them would have the substance of one particular uninvited guest. He glanced toward the window, imagining that she’d be in the croft James had set up for her.
The Whiskey Laird's Bed Page 16
