by Alisa Adams
The Ceilidh
Davina went to church that Sunday armed with Nanny’s advice and wearing her best clothes. She had donned a fur cloak and stole over a red linen shift dress with gold earrings gleaming in her ears and she thought that she looked quite passably pretty, even if she would never be gorgeous. All through Mass, she prayed for a helping hand from God, but while she was outwardly calm, inwardly she was a nervous wreck. Her heart was hammering so hard she was afraid that the woman kneeling next to her could hear it.
Afterward, the congregation gathered outside for some gossip. For some, church was the social highlight of the week and everyone made the most of it. She joined a group of girls she knew and managed to steer the conversation around to a mare she was hoping to acquire from one of her father’s friends whose estate had a number of broodmares and stud stallions. It was the truth; she did want to acquire another mare, but when she tapped the shoulder of Michael Galbraith, a young gentleman farmer, to ask his advice, she already knew the answer to all her own questions.
“Ah! Mistress Anderson!” he said, smiling happily at her. He was not the most handsome of men, but he had a pleasant open face with gray eyes that were nearly always smiling. Davina had always liked him because he had no airs and graces. Now she looked at him appealingly.
"I would like your advice, Mr. Galbraith,” she said earnestly. “I have heard that you are a good judge of horseflesh.”
He frowned. "No more than most men, but I will help if I can."
“Good!” She stepped in closer to him. “How long does a mare carry a foal from conception to birth? I have always wondered.”
“Goodness!” He laughed. “What a strange question! It is between eleven and twelve months. A bit longer than human beings.”
“Thank goodness!” Davina put her hand on her heart and feigned relief. "It is to settle a bet. I said eleven months, so I’m happy I won. Now, I have another question for you. Do you mind?”
By this time Michael was preening a little. “Not at all, not at all,” he said, smiling a little smugly. “What would you like to know?”
She frowned, then pretended to look a little embarrassed. “How do they know if the mare is in foal?” she asked, trying to sound silly.
Michael’s cheeks flamed. “Another bet?” he asked desperately.
Davina nodded.
“Well, they erm…” he beckoned her closer and whispered in her ear.
Her eyes grew round and her mouth became an ‘o’ of shock. “Really?” She was outwardly embarrassed, but inwardly she was trying not to laugh. “Well! I am very glad I am not a horse doctor!”
He looked at her for a moment then they both burst out laughing.
“I need to know a bit more about horses, you see,” she went on, “Because I am buying quite a valuable mare in the next few weeks. As I am paying so much for her I want to give her the very best care.”
“Of course,” he agreed.
“After all,” Davina said coyly, “she will be like a child to me until I have one of my own. Oh, look, there is Daisy.” She waved to the stable lad from the castle who was bringing the horse around. “I must be going.”
“I will see you next week then.” He bowed.
“I will look forward to it!” she replied, smiling.
Davina felt like singing. She had taken Nanny’s advice and it had worked. She had not thought of reminding herself that Nanny was a figment of her imagination and that the source of it was in her own mind. She felt wonderful, for the first time not fat and ugly, but an attractive and intelligent woman able to hold a conversation with an attractive and intelligent man.
It is astonishing how men respond to flattery, she thought. She laughed. Soon she might be able to twist one or two around her little finger, but that was in the future. First, she needed a little more practice. She decided to throw a party.
“Do I have to go?” Athol asked, with obvious reluctance.
“Athol, they are our nearest neighbors,” his mother pointed out, sighing. “I would like to stay friends with them. They are a lovely family and Davina is a wonderful girl. I wish—”
Athol held up a hand, palm facing her. “May I stop you there, Mother?” he asked politely, looking up at her with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "I have no intention of becoming betrothed to Davina Anderson. She is a pleasant girl with large estates, I grant you, but I am not greedy. I will have one large estate of my own and that is enough. Even if I do marry a laird’s daughter I shall put in a manager on her estate. Besides, I am not attracted to her.”
“She may not be attracted to you either!” his father snapped. “What does that have to do with anything? Your mother was not attracted to me when we got married, but we fell in love soon after. And you do not need love to make a marriage! Liking will do. Friendship. In fact, friendship outlasts love.”
“Then I will go to the ceilidh if it pleases you both,” Athol said grimly. “Never let it be said that I let the family down!” He got up and strode out of the dining room, quickly penned a letter of acceptance, and had one of the grooms ride to Craiglochan, the Anderson estate, to deliver his reply.
The ceilidh was on the Sunday after the next one, so Athol had plenty of time to mentally prepare for it. He was sure that Davina had set her cap at him, but, in fact, he couldn’t have been more wrong.
Davina had decided to chat to every young man she saw. She would forget about being an heiress and be available to everyone. She had almost forgotten about her encounter with Athol. She had not seen Michael at Mass that week and although she had sent him an invitation to her party he had not replied. She promptly forgot all about it.
The evening was wet and windy but every guest was greeted with a goblet of hot mulled wine on entering and soon there was a happy convivial atmosphere in the great hall. As hostess, Davina was obliged to welcome everyone and start the dancing, which she did with an Eightsome Reel, a ring dance for eight members. When she and her seven partners had arranged themselves on the dance floor everyone else began to join in and soon the hall was filled with her guests pirouetting, dancing in rings, straight lines, singly, in couples, and in quartets.
They were accompanied by a bagpiper and a whistle player. After a few whiskeys, a great many pints of ale, and a few glasses of mulled wine, the guests were all slightly inebriated and very tired, so they sat down and the singing began. There were old Celtic melodies full of sadness and nostalgia. There were haunting love stories and lively sea shanties, and stirring patriotic songs about how proud everyone was to be a Scot and how ready they were to vanquish the English. These were saved until last when the guests were very emotional, and tears were running down everyone’s cheeks. After one last ‘Slàinte Mhath!’ everyone was ready for bed.
It had been a total success by anyone’s standards. Davina was thrilled. She had been asked to dance so many times that she had been obliged to refuse quite a few invitations. This was a novel experience since she was usually left standing by the wall at least half of the time. Even Athol had asked her to dance, but she had to refuse him, having already promised it to someone else. Athol was a little put out. He knew he had no right to be since she was the hostess and everyone wanted to dance with her, but he was unaccustomed to being refused and it hurt his pride a little.
Many of the guests were staying the night, so Davina and her parents went to their beds after they had almost everyone else had retired. Athol and Lyle were among the last to go to their rooms.
“It was a wonderful evening, Davina!” Athol said warmly, kissing her hand. “Except that you turned down my offer of a dance!”
“Indeed, it was,” Lyle agreed, doing likewise. "I confess I have never seen so many pretty maids all in one place before! I apologize for not bringing my Mary, but she is in Aberdeen visiting her family.”
“Then we had better hope she shows up in time for the wedding!” Davina laughed. "Anyway, I am so glad you enjoyed the evening.” She smiled at both of them. “Athol, I will save
a dance for you next time. Now, your room is ready for you. The fire is lit, the bed is warm, and I trust you will both have the best night’s sleep ever. By the way, if there are any headaches in the morning, I have had gallons of willow bark tea prepared!”
They laughed and went upstairs, following the maidservant to a beautifully appointed bedroom which contained an enormous feather bed.
“Lovely!” Lyle said in tones of deep appreciation.
“Indeed.” Athol yawned. “Davina looked very well tonight, did you not think so?”
“She always does,” Lyle replied, “you seem to be the only one who has any doubts about it!” He took off his kilt and boots then scrambled into bed in his shirt. It was not unusual for them to share a bed on occasions like this, and it gave them an opportunity to talk and relive the evening together. Usually, they spoke about all the lovely ladies they had seen, but that night they could only talk about one of them.
“I told Davina she was pretty the first time I met her again!” Athol said indignantly.
“I would love to have heard the way you said it.” Lyle’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.
Athol got into bed and punched him on the shoulder. “I am not looking for a wife yet,” he reminded Lyle, "but when I do I will give you a list so that you can see which ones you approve of. I doubt Davina will be on it, worthy though she is.”
“I am not looking anymore,” Lyle said, “but if I were, she would definitely be on mine! She is a lovely girl and you could do much worse.”
Athol frowned at him. “Is that a challenge?” he asked suspiciously.
“Take it any way you like,” Lyle answered, yawning. “Goodnight!”
46
After the Ceilidh
“Tonight seemed to go well,” Ruaridh said with satisfaction as he and Una lay cuddled up in bed together.
“Aye,” Una agreed. “Davina looked happy and she was very much in demand all night.”
“I saw her turning Athol down for a dance,” Ruaridh said, "I know I shouldn’t rejoice in other people’s misfortune, but I can’t help but think that young peacock deserved it.”
Una laughed. “She just had too many partners!” she said. “Don’t be so cruel!”
Ruaridh cupped the side of her face with his big hand. He looked worried.
* * *
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Una asked anxiously. “You look worried.”
“She is going to be an old maid,” Ruaridh said sadly.
“She is still a girl!” Una laughed. “Give her time. We will find a nice boy for her eventually.”
“There are plenty of nice boys,” Ruaridh stated grimly, "I have sounded out their fathers and they are all very sure that they want nothing to do with her.”
Una was aghast. “I had no idea!” She said, alarmed. “But why? What is so wrong with her that fathers will not let their sons court her? Did you ask?”
“Of course, I did,” he replied, exasperated. “Not one of them would give me a proper answer. All I got were excuses. Very kind excuses, but excuses nonetheless. I do not know what to do, Una.”
“I did not know it had come to this,” she said worriedly, biting her lip. “We must find out why this is happening. I cannot believe that absolutely no-one will have our daughter’s hand in marriage!” She looked at him, frowning. “Why did you not tell me this before?”
“I wanted to exhaust the possibilities,” he replied, sighing. “I feel so wretched. I cannot find a good husband for our daughter, but there must be a better way of doing it than offering her like a piece of meat. She is not a thing! She is a wonderful young woman who deserves a worthy husband. I will not be here forever.”
“Don’t say that,” Una said hoarsely, burying her head in his shoulder. "I could not bear to be without you.” Una began to weep and Ruaridh held her tightly in his arms.
“I am sorry, dear. We will think of something,” he said, sighing. “There is still plenty of time, but I cannot understand why a girl with so many assets cannot find a man to wed. Do not cry, my darling.”
Una felt reassured by his confidence and nodded. “I hope she finds a husband who will make her as happy as we are,” she whispered. She kissed Ruaridh and in a moment they were lost in each other.
After so many years of marriage their lovemaking was still new, and now it healed them like nothing else could. In all their years together each had discovered exactly how to please the other and when Ruaridh eased his manhood inside her, Una growled her satisfaction against his mouth while their tongues twined together and they both strove towards the inevitable moment of ecstasy.
After it was over they lay, sated, in each other’s arms and smiled at each other. She kissed him softly on the lips. “I love you,” she said, gazing at him tenderly.
“I love you too,” he replied, smiling. “Now go to sleep, sweetheart. It will be a busy morning.”
Seeing guests off after a ceilidh was always a slightly arduous but necessary duty. Una enjoyed it, but Davina and Ruaridh found it a little tiresome. A lavish breakfast had been set out for the guests that morning, although many, particularly those who had partaken of a little too much whiskey and mulled wine, were not inclined to eat much. There was willow bark tea in abundance, but many of them swore by ‘a hair of the dog that bit me.’ This meant a glass of wine or whiskey to cure the after-effects of the alcohol they had already drunk. It was an old Scottish cure and was surprisingly effective.
“How does that work?” Davina asked he father, baffled.
“Nobody really knows, dear,” he replied, laughing. “But it always does! I’ve tried it myself!”
“I think the best way,” Davina said thoughtfully, "is not to let the dog bite you at all!”
Her father laughed and put an arm around her shoulders. “Then you would have no guests!” he said, eyes twinkling.
Lyle and Athol came up to them to say goodbye. Both of them looked a little the worse for wear, especially Athol, who was grimacing in pain.
“Willow bark tea?” Davina asked, offering him a goblet.
"We already tried a hair of the dog,” Lyle said, rubbing his forehead. “It did not work, so thank you, Mistress Davina.” He accepted the goblet and drank it in one draught, screwing up his face in disgust.
Davina gave one to Athol, who studied the goblet for a moment before doing the same as Lyle. He made a face that twisted his handsome features out of all recognition for a moment. “Ugh!” he complained, giving the glass back to Davina. “Have you tasted this? It’s foul!”
“No,” she said demurely, “the bad dog didn’t bite me!”
Lyle howled with laughter. “Davina!” He was bent double with mirth. “Bad dog! I am going to use that saying myself. You are truly the soul of wit, Davina!” His laughter was infectious and soon Davina and Athol had joined in. Eventually, when they had all stopped, they thanked her.
“Next time at my house,” Athol assured her, smiling as he mounted his horse.
“I look forward to it.” Davina waved and turned to say farewell to other guests. In ten minutes, she had forgotten him completely. At last, it was finished and all the guests had gone.
“Well, that went well,” Una remarked, smiling.
Davina nodded. Her eyes were shining. “Mother.” Davina linked her arm through Una’s. "It’s your birthday soon. Can we have another one?”
“I met someone last night that I would like to get to know better,” Athol said thoughtfully. “Her name is Maura McKay. Do you know her?”
Lyle looked at him in disbelief. “Athol,” he said patiently, “this is McKay country. Every second soul you meet is called McKay. Which one of the ten thousand McKays do you mean?”
“The one with long, red hair,” he replied.
Lyle thumped his knuckles against Athol’s forehead.
“Grrr!” he growled, “are you pretending to be stupid or is it a natural gift? Every McKay has some shade of red hair! What was she wearing?”
Ath
ol looked blank. “I don’t know.”
* * *
“What was Davina wearing?” Lyle asked patiently. “And her mother?”
“Davina was wearing a dark green dress,” he said with certainty.
“Wrong,” Lyle said triumphantly, "it was brown and her mother was in red. You probably didn’t notice your girlfriend’s dress because you were busy looking at her other assets!”
Athol looked slightly shamefaced. “How am I going to find her?” he asked plaintively.
“Davina will know,” Lyle answered, “she invited everyone.”
“You are a genius, Lyle!” Athol laughed. “What would I do without you?”
“I have no idea,” Lyle sighed dolefully.
“See that tree over there?” Athol pointed to a massive fir tree a few hundred yards away and Lyle nodded. “Race you!” Athol’s horse Jock bounded away, but Lyle’s horse was smaller and faster. It reached the tree first by a ten-yard margin.
Lyle held his hands up in triumph. “The winner!” he cried.
Athol laughed, but he was still preoccupied with his problem. “I can’t just barge in there and ask Davina,” he said.
“Why not?” Lyle asked. “It’s not as if you’re courting, betrothed, or married to someone else. Asking a question is not a crime.”
“I’ll ask her mother!” Athol said triumphantly. “Come with me for moral support.”
“Pfft!” Lyle flapped a hand at him then looked at him in disgust and disbelief. “You really are a big Jessie! If you want to speak to Davina’s mother go and do it yourself! You are a big boy now, or am I mistaken?”
The two friends looked at each other, their gazes challenging, then Lyle spurred his horse into a canter and rode away. Athol had annoyed him and he knew it. He hated himself because Lyle was the very best friend a man could ever have; he was honest and straightforward to a fault. If Athol ever said anything out of place or objectionable Lyle would tell him to his face. It was one of the reasons why Athol loved him so much; he often thought that if he’d had a brother he’d have wanted him to be just like Lyle.
