Miss Leslie's Secret

by Jennifer Moore

  Cover image © Terrence Drysdale / Trevillion Images

  Cover design copyright © 2017 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Moore

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

  First Printing: September 2017

  ISBN 978-1-52440-451-2

  To Carla Kelly, for being an inspiration,

  mentor, and most of all, a friend.

  And for teaching me that “research” can

  have a variety of meanings. (wink)

  Acknowledgments

  When I sit down to write the acknowledgments, without fail, my heart grows warm thinking of all the people that help me along the way as I try to turn an idea into a book.

  First of all, so many thanks go to my family. It’s not always easy to have a wife or a mom who hides away for hours in her office or to step in and run kids around when she leaves for weekend writing retreats. Thank you for understanding and eating cereal for dinner, and for listening to plot ideas and my attempt at a Scottish accent. Frank, James, Ben, Andrew, and Joey, you all deserve a medal.

  I have two wonderful writing partners, Josi Kilpack and Nancy Allen, who are willing to answer panicked texts late at night when I feel like my plot went off the rails. Their inspiration and encouragement means more to me than I can even put into words.

  A historical novel requires so much research, and I am so lucky to meet wonderful people as I look for information and sources. Karen Pierotti, thank you for reading my rough draft, for helping with this dialog and the nuances only a Scottish lass would know. I can’t wait to see your books on the shelf some day. Debbie Peterson, I so enjoy reading your Spirit of the Knight book, and thank you for taking the time to answer questions and give me great resources. And of course, Carla Kelly, whose book Doing No Harm introduced me to the Highland Clearances and made me want to know more. Thank you to the Beekeepers of Scotland Facebook group for letting me join your online community and for answering my questions. You are all a lovely group of people, and I hope this year brings to you healthy hives and lots of honey.

  Thanks to the team at Covenant for turning this manuscript into a book. Stacey Turner, your edits shine it up and make it sparkle. Editors do so much more than make red marks on paper, and I’m so grateful you’re there all along the way to help me when I feel insecure or crazy. Christina Marcano, thank you for your fantastic artwork and for making the cover and the inside pages look beautiful.

  And last of all, thank you to my grandma, Marmé, for taking me to Scotland when I was eleven and instilling in me such a love for the country, the customs, and shortbread.

  Chapter 1

  A color sergeant of His Majesty’s Royal Marines, decorated as a war hero and discharged with honor, does not weep, Conall Stewart reminded himself as he swallowed against the burning in his throat. He swept his gaze over the glen he’d dreamed of since he’d taken the king’s shilling and run off to adventure and glory ten years earlier. His eyes stung when they lit on the blackened stone and burnt timbers, and he blinked rapidly, turning his back, lest his companion see the swell of emotion.

  Walking a few paces, Conall rolled back his shoulders and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The smell of pine and soil and the soft noise of the brook were so familiar he nearly expected to see his da emerge from the trees leading a string of shaggy cattle or hear his ma call for him to wash for supper.

  Over the years, he’d worried that his memories of the Scottish Highlands had become warped, crossing from reality into the realm of fantasy. Surely no place could be as beautiful as the Glengarry of his dreams. But as he’d neared his childhood home, traveling over heather-covered moorlands, crossing smooth blue lochs, and climbing craggy mountains, he found that his remembrances of the land’s splendor hadn’t been exaggerated in the least. He felt his lips tremble and pressed them together tightly.

  “Difficult tae see wi’ yer own eyes, ’tis, surely?”

  Conall glanced at Davy MacKay. When he had inquired after a horse in Dunaid, Davy had offered to accompany him to the tract of land on the slopes of Loch Nevis that Conall’s family had farmed for generations. He didn’t know whether he was glad of the company or resentful that the man should be present as Conall fought with his emotions.

  “The sheriff and his officers burnt yon houses to keep the tenants from returnin’.” Davy sat on a flat rock, stretching out his wooden leg before him. “And ye’ll see more o’ the same in every glen from here to Strathnaver.” He swept his arm in a wide gesture. “Naught but ghosts left behind.”

  Conall nodded, not trusting his voice. He’d heard the rumors over the course of the war, both from other soldiers and convict prisoners, but hearing was one thing. While he considered himself a realist, his mind had not allowed him to accept the possibility that the farm wouldn’t be there when he returned. His home had seemed so strong and permanent. “I’d not imagined it could be true,” he finally said. “Not here in County Ross. Alexander Randalson MacDonell is a friend to the Highlanders.” He heard the pleading tone in his voice and stopped it immediately, tamping down his emotions by focusing on the facts. “What changed?”

  Davy blew out a puff of air, squinting with an expression that seemed a blend of disgust and tired acceptance. “The lairds are no longer protectors of their clans, ye see, Sergeant Stewart.” He poked his toe into a clump of buttercups, watching the yellow blossoms bounce as he talked. “Educated abroad, livin’ in Town, sons ha’ forgotten the ways of their fathers and loosed the ties that bound them to the clan. They marry Sassenach women, attend fancy parties in Edinburgh and London, and seldom journey to their Highland holdings, save for a hunting trip or land inspection.”

  Years earlier, Conall’s da had observed much the same thing. In order to remain in the king’s good graces after Bonnie Prince Charlie’s failed rebellion, clans broke apart. The surviving chieftans attempted to appear as English as possible, forgetting Gaelic and turning their backs on their Highland roots lest they be mistaken for Jacobite sympathizers. With the exception of their last names, the succeeding generations of lairds were as Sassenach—or English—as a powdered wig.

  “But Glengarry,” Conall said, using the laird’s nickname. “I thought he was different. He understood duthchas.” The sound of the old word brought a new swell of emotions as Conall thought of his clansmen’s deep connection to their lands and to each other.

  “Och, aye.” Davy smirked and swept his boot over the flowers, crushing down the stems and breaking off their tops. “Garbed himself in plaids and blew the pipes, carryin’ a fancy decorative dirk in his belt. He enjoyed the romance of the auld ways, but in the end, I suppose stone walls and homespuns lost their charm for a man who’d been raised wi’ the finer things.”

  Conall crossed the space between them and sat on a rock of his own. He rubbed his forehead, knowing the rest of the story without Davy needing to tell it. Property was more profitable to the laird as pastureland. As a young child, he’d heard of complaints and disputes in surrounding areas. Landowners increased rent, refused to grant new leases when old ones expired, and drove families from their
farms with a combination of law, violence, and intimidation.

  He remembered the sky darkened with smoke as dead heath on the moors was burned so cotton grass could grow more richly. Bliadhna nan Caorach, his da had called it, the year of the sheep. Glens were emptied by commissions, law agents, and soldiers to make room for the wool producing beasts. But in Glengarry, the people had been spared.

  Conall stared down the green slope to the glassy surface of the loch and beyond to the other side, where white specks indicated one of the laird’s flocks.

  “The MacDonells’ four-footed clansmen.” Davy’s voice was bitter as he lifted his chin toward the sheep.

  As if in response, the sound of a bleat carried across the water.

  Conall looked back at the burned shell of his childhood home with an ache as if something had been torn from him. “And how long ago?”

  “A year a’ least.” Davy squinted. “Ye never received word?”

  He shook his head. “My parents don’t read or write. My sister, Elspeth, occasionally sent a letter, but I’ve been travelin’ the better part of a year.”

  “Someone in the village will ken where yer family’s gone to. And set yerself at ease. ’Twasn’t a violent business here in Glengarry. Not like the evictions in Sutherland.” He twisted to face east, as if he could see over the miles of mountains. “Aye, but ’twas brutal. We’ve a few in Dunaid with tragic tales: Sleepin’ in the snow-covered kirkyard with family members too ill to travel, auld women burned alive in their homes. Ye see, most o’ the men were away, fightin’ with the Highland regiment at Waterloo.” He sighed, glancing down at his wooden leg and leaving no question as to why he’d not been with them. “The duchess’s factor, Patrick Sellar, cared naught a whit for those he expelled. He seized furniture and cattle, leaving women and children with no shelter in the cold winter.”

  Conall had seen his share of human suffering in ten years of military service. He thought of the convicts wallowing on prison hulks to Australia, of war-ravaged Spain and France. Widows, starving children, wounded and dying soldiers. The horrors humankind was capable of . . . but how could such things happen here? The peace and beauty of his home had been a tether, something to cling to when depravity and violence seemed to have no end. Even now, the place looked so peaceful.

  “Come, Sergeant. We’ll ask aboot in the village. Perhaps the minister, Mr. Graham, kens where ye might be findin’ yer kin. I’d reckon they’ve gone to Canada or America.”

  The ache inside grew as Conall imagined his parents, now ten years older than when he’d last seen them, trying to forge a new life in a faraway land. He attempted to picture his mother in an American frontier cabin and found he couldn’t do it.

  The motion of Davy rising to his feet shook Conall from his contemplations. He’d remained rudely silent for the majority of the day and felt as if he should say something. “And what of yerself then?” He folded his arms, studying the young man. “Why’ve ye remained?”

  “A fair question,” Davy said, shifting around to balance on the slope. “Between my leg and my sick auld gran, I was in no shape to board a ship. Instead, I made a home on a croft farm in Dunaid. Most o’ the folks in the village are those wi’out the means or strength to leave the Highlands. Women and children, mainly. And plenty o’ gray-hairs.” He smirked, jabbing Conall with his elbow. “But ’tisn’t as bad as all tha’. You’ll like Dunaid. A fine place indeed. You’ll find your answers there.”

  Conall thought the man’s description far from convincing. A village of displaced orphans and elderly exiles was hardly what he’d had in mind when he’d returned to his homeland.

  Davy elbowed him again. “Come. I’ll buy ye a drink.”

  Conall followed the man to where they’d tethered their horses. Once he’d received word that the war had ended, it had taken him more than a year to return home. A long year of sailing, riding, and walking from the other side of the world. The very thought of stepping foot on a ship to America so soon was more than he could bear. But Dunaid?

  He knew the village, of course. ’Twas located less than twenty miles from his childhood home. He used to travel the distance a few times a year with his father, usually to see the blacksmith about a tool repair. From what he remembered and what he’d seen earlier today, Dunaid was hardly anything special. The main road ran along one edge of a deep inlet—a firth—giving Dunaid the feel of both a seaside fishing village and a farm town.

  He’d returned to the Highlands to find his home and family gone. Now it seemed his only choices were to remain here alone or leave his beloved land all together. At the moment, neither option held the slightest appeal. A spring rain broke, soaking his woolen coat. The cold, heavy garment perfectly reflected his mood.

  Chapter 2

  Aileen Leslie dashed across the road, holding the bundle tightly against her chest to block it from the sudden rain. She ducked beneath the overhanging mossy roof of the cottage, knocking on the door. “I brought yer candles, Mrs. Campbell.”

  The door swung open, and Dores Campbell stepped through with a swiftness that defied her delicate appearance. She tugged on Aileen’s arm, pulling her through the doorway. “Hurry yerself ben, lass.”

  Aileen smiled at the older woman. Dores was slender with a height shy of five feet. Her hair was pulled back tightly, and a snood wrapped around her silver bun, giving it the appearance of a herring caught in a net, but her plucky personality was far from that of an aging matron. She took a step back and surveyed her young neighbor from head to toe with a disapproving lift of her left eyebrow. While age had turned her hair a uniform gray, Dores’s brows were dark as crow feathers and somehow managed to convey worlds of meaning with their slightest movements. “Well, yer droukit, are ye not?”

  “I am a’ that.” Aileen glanced down at her wet dress. Droukit—soaked—was right. She held out the bundle of candles.

  Dores didn’t take them. She crossed her arms, the left brow raising higher. “Ye could have waited. ’Twasn’t a matter o’ life or death, now was it?”

  “I was already halfway here when the clouds opened.” Aileen set the candles on the scrubbed wooden table. “I don’t think the wicks are wet.”

  Dores shrugged. “Och, well, there’s naught to do but pour the tea. Come, sit ye there by the fire, or you’ll catch yer death.”

  Aileen sat, grateful for a chance to rest her legs, though she would have rather remained a bit longer in the cool rain after an entire morning of dipping candles. She used a rag to lift the kettle from the hook above the fire and poured hot water into the teapot.

  “Ye look to be tired.” Dores leaned closer to peer at her. “Not working too hard, I hope?”

  She shook her head. “Not too hard.”

  Dores reached forward to touch her forehead, muttering.

  Aileen recognized the worry in her friend’s face. Nearly a year had passed since she’d taken ill with fever and Dores had cared for her, nursing her back to health. Aileen truly believed Dores had saved her life, and for that she could put up with a bit of mollycoddling. She took the older woman’s hand from her forehead, giving it a grateful squeeze and looking Dores directly in the eyes. “I feel fine.” She poured the tea into two cups.

  In truth, Aileen felt exhausted. ’Twasn’t yet time for supper, and she’d already had a long day. Hive preparations in the spring were time consuming, and the majority of the work needed to be done before the sun had risen. She was pleased with how the colonies had wintered; their laying patterns looked healthy and the combs strong. The hives would be ready to take out to the heather and local farms after the first day of spring—Beltane. She’d spent the early-morning hours setting up bait skeps to entice new swarms, then melting down and straining some of the older combs into wax, making a fresh batch of candles.

  Aileen sighed in pleasure as she took a sip of the warm tea.

  “And where’s Jamie got to this afternoon?” Dores sipped her own tea, settling back into the wooden chair for a visit
.

  “He’s had lessons a’ the kirk with Mr. Graham earlier, then I suppose he’s off about the village wi’ the other laddies.” She smiled, thinking how grateful she was for the minister’s lessons, although Jamie didn’t appreciate sitting on the hard pews each weekday as well as on the Sabbath.

  “And ye reckon he’s stayin’ out o’ mischief then?” Dores spoke without meeting her eye, and Aileen’s defenses rose into place.

  “Why would ye be wonderin’ such a thing? Jamie’s a sweet lad. Perfectly behaved. No’ like some o’ the other troublemakers in the village.”

  “Ye ken I love the lad. I do. But a bit o’ discipline now an’ then wouldn’t be misplaced is all I’m sayin’.” Dores’s telltale left brow ticked.

  Aileen sighed. “Och, but yer an awful liar, Mrs. Campbell.”

  Dores set her teacup into the saucer with a clank that made Aileen jump. “Liar, am I? You’d question my devotion to that child? After our history?”

  The reminder of their shared secret sent a shiver of dread through Aileen. “Of course I’d never question yer love o’ Jamie.” She spoke in a soft voice and glanced at the door, the familiar fear that someone might overhear made her muscles tighten.

  “There’s no mother loves her bairn as you love that lad.” Dores’s voice took on a soft tone. She reached for Aileen’s hand. “But love doesna mean turnin’ a blind eye to misbehavior.”

  Aileen allowed her hand to be held but did not relax. Dores was the only other person who knew the truth about Jamie. She’d been there on that cold night in the cemetery, one of three women huddled together in the snow as their township burned around them. Their pleas to Patrick Sellar and the Duchess of Sutherland for assistance had fallen on deaf ears. Aileen’s dearest friend, Sorcha, had birthed the lad, then, with no midwife to care for her, had died moments later. Sorcha’s final words were a plea to keep the child hidden from his father.