Laird Campbell’s expression changed swiftly, to a twisted mass of scar tissue, even uglier and more frightening than the face that had first greeted me.
I’ve gone too far.
“She knows plenty,” he said, his voice deceptively quiet. “Her mother lies in that casket behind me.” He turned toward the dais at the back of the hall.
I followed his gaze and glimpsed the long, wood box laid out across the trestle table. Flowers adorned the top of the casket, and candles burned nearby, on either end of the table.
It was a shock to see it there, to realize I’d not noticed before. With some consternation I realized I’d not taken stock of my surroundings. A quick glimpse around the room revealed no additional caskets, and my eyes returned to the lone box on the table. It was laid out with such respect— on the table they eat at, no less— that I felt neither remorse for my earlier words nor sympathy for the laird or his granddaughter.
At least her mother will have a decent burial. I hadn’t even a blanket to lay Father in and had lowered him into the ground with nothing covering him but his own, filthy, blood-smattered clothing.
I glanced from the casket to the child and saw that her impertinent look had dissolved into one of uncertainty and fear. With a tremulous sigh, she turned from me, burying her face in her grandfather’s shoulder.
At least she still has someone, I thought, further justifying my unkindness. But the thought didn’t carry the bitterness of my previous ones. I hadn’t the strength to hate the child. I didn’t want to hate her— or, at the moment, even Laird Campbell with the compassionate look he bestowed upon the lass and then me.
He is my enemy. I tried to rouse the anger I’d felt just moments before, but somehow the girl’s reaction had taken it from me. It wasn’t right that she had lost her mother. It wasn’t right that my parents were both dead and that what few clansmen I had left were strewn about, hiding and starving on their own land.
“How long?” I asked, looking past Laird Campbell toward the casket. “When did she—”
“Three days ago,” Laird Campbell said. “She was my only child. I would have gladly given my life for hers, so you see—” He paused, shifting his granddaughter’s weight before meeting my eyes again. “So you see how I could not deny your father’s request. When he asked me to see that you lived, that you were safe, I had to agree.”
I read the truth in Laird Campbell’s eyes even as my own smarted. I looked down at the weathered wood of the table and wished, more than anything, that I didn’t know the truth, and that I wasn’t beholden to this man for my life. That Da had not given his for mine. But there was no changing that now.
I swallowed the painful lump that had formed in the back of my throat and blinked rapidly to keep foolish tears at bay as I uttered the belated apology. “I’m sorry.”
Part One
Marry in June when the roses grow,
And over land and sea you’ll go.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I looked up from the trencher and glanced around the hall, relieved that no one appeared to have been watching as I consumed more food than I’d had in at least a fortnight. I still didn’t feel quite full, but I’d eaten everything they’d brought me, and it appeared there were no plans to bring more. If this was my last supper, I intended to make it as good a feast as possible. And if it was not... well, I’d need all my strength to escape. I’d no intention of being on Campbell land for long. But the thought that my father might have intended just that niggled uneasily at the back of my mind...
Chapter One
Alverton, England, June 1761
Katie
“Katherine Christina Mercer, come down here this minute—”
“— and help,” I finished in a nasally tone matching Mother’s when upset. I made no move to answer her summons that sounded as if it was intended for a nine-year-old instead of a mature, independent young lady of nineteen.
Independent and artistic. I could not afford to be interrupted. Whatever chore needed to be done it would simply have to wait until tomorrow. I’d worked all the morning, as I did most every day, leaving me little time to paint. Leaning back on my stool, I clamped the end of a well-chewed brush between my teeth as I studied the canvas before me.
I squinted, then sighed in frustration as I took in what I’d hoped was— but obviously was not— a completed work. The scene appeared finished, but something about it was not quite as it should have been. And Lady Gotties, to whom I hoped to sell the painting, would surely notice as well.
“Christina!”
“Bother,” I muttered, more concerned with what ailed the painting than what troubled my mother. I held one hand up, spreading my index finger and thumb wide in an attempt at crude measurement. Moving my hand in front of the canvas, I checked the distance between sky and mountain, trees and meadow.
The scale is good. That’s not it. Pensively I stared harder.
“Do not make me come up there.” Mother’s voice carried up the stairs again.
Little worry of that. I dismissed the threat as idle. Mother had never once been up to my attic. It seemed highly unlikely she’d start tonight. I glanced out the window. It was almost night. The time for finishing this painting— for finding and fixing what was wrong— grew short.
But when I looked back to the canvas my error seemed blatant. The hue of the sky was wrong. No little mistake. And I’d so wanted to finish this piece tonight.
Perhaps, in better light... As a last hope, I stood and dragged the easel toward the solitary window— definitely not the best source of light or the best view for capturing the majesty of the sky on a summer day. I’d relocated up here out of desperation. Anything out in the yard or in the house below that was at all moveable had already been taken. Thus far I’d managed to preserve my easel and supplies as well as everything dear to me by stashing my belongings up here. That Mother knew of this and had not put a stop to it was likely because she saw no value in the canvas and paints.
Or anything else I own. That was true enough, at least. Aside from being two seasons old, or one of my few plain mourning frocks, the gowns I had left were mostly in a sorry state of disrepair. The dresses that had once comprised much of our wardrobe were not designed with work in mind. But I had done little else the past year. And with no other clothing to wear while doing that work, the gowns had quickly become worn.
Not to mention, too short. I uncrossed my exposed ankles and knew I’d have to let a hem out and find some trim to add to a gown tonight if I planned to visit Lady Gotties tomorrow.
But there would be no point in visiting Lady Gotties if I did not have this painting completed.
Pulling the brush from my mouth, I continued to study the landscape critically. The sky is too light— too vast and blue. The sky in Alverton hadn’t looked that way for a long time. Perhaps it never had. It was most often grey, and on particularly pleasant days— rare ones— appeared more of a purple hue. The painting would have to be fixed.
Glancing out the window again, at the waning light, I wondered if I had enough time to mix paints and rework the sky before the sun set completely. There wasn’t a lantern left to spare for me to bring one up here, and even had there been, it would only have created more shadows to contend with.
I need to be out in the yard again.
Brisk footsteps sounded on the stairs, jarring me from my contemplations.
Mother?
I jumped up to pull the latch on the heavy trap door, and not a second too soon, as her grey-brown head appeared in the opening. Stepping back, I allowed her to enter the sloped room. Once inside, she looked around the narrow space, crammed with canvases, jars of paints, stacks of books, and the large trunk full of my clothing.
“You’ve made quite the nest up here, I see,” she said.
“It’s nothing anyone would have wanted,” I said defensively. “It’s not hurting anyone.”
“No one, except you.” Ducking her head, she crossed the room on
squeaky floorboards to sit on the edge of the trunk. “Christina, you cannot hole up in here forever.”
“I know.” I looked across the room at the easel longingly. Outside the sun had nearly set. “I’m almost out of canvas, and three of my colors have run dry. But I have a plan,” I added hastily. “During her last visit Emma’s grandmother, Lady Gotties, expressed interest in my work. She’s coming again this weekend, and I intend to present her with a painting she might wish to purchase.”
“You are not going to be here at the week’s end,” Mother said.
“What?” I searched her face, dread in my heart. I had known it might come to this, had known that it would come to this eventually— that we would all be forced to go live with some estranged aunt or other obscure relative kind enough to take us in. But not so soon. Father had barely been gone six months.
“The last of the furniture was taken an hour ago,” Mother said. “Our beds are reduced to blankets on the floor for the night, and we’ll be taking our supper at the work table in the kitchen. I sold the last of the livestock, too.”
I nodded, not caring a fig about the furniture or the cow that had gone. My horse had been sold three months ago, and I’d just as soon sleep on a pile of blankets on the floor as in the four-poster bed that used to be mine.
“Where will we go?” I asked. “How soon will the new tenants be here?” Will I be allowed to bring my paintings? Will there be time to visit Father’s grave again? Selfish thoughts, to be sure, when I should have been in the rooms below this afternoon, helping Mother. But it was difficult not to feel selfish when I thought of Annabelle, one year younger than I, touring Europe on her wedding trip right now. She’d done nothing to help Mother settle the estate after Father’s death, but had instead created a flurry of work for all of us as we readied her trousseau and all else for her wedding, just a few weeks previous.
“Will we be staying with Anna?” I asked. Staying with my sister wouldn’t be so bad. She had married well, and her new husband owned a vast countryside estate as well as a townhouse in London.
“You will not be staying with Anna,” Mother said. “It wouldn’t be good for you— seeing your sister happily married like that. It’s high time you thought of yourself, of your own marriage.”
I bit back a harsh laugh. “No one will have me. My prospects were not promising before, and now— without any sort of dowry and with Father’s reputation— they are nothing.” Which was all well enough for me. What did I want with a husband and babies when I could devote my life to art?
Once, in those years before our circumstances had changed, like any other young lady, I had dreamed of balls and parties, of beautiful gowns and dashing suitors. But Father’s fall from grace with the English government had changed all of that and at the worst possible time— just before my London season was to have begun. I had been disappointed, of course. But a conversation with Father out in the yard had changed my perspective.
“Being a wife and a mother is a wonderful thing, Christina. And I believe you will yet have those opportunities. But you are meant for more.” He stood behind me, looking over my shoulder as I sat at my easel, adding shadows to a thrilling landscape. Or thrilling to me, anyway.
“Your talent is quite remarkable— as are you. In more ways than you realize,” Father continued.
“If you are saying that to console me, it is working.” I set down my brush and turned to him. “I suppose we shall not have to travel to London now, and that is something.” Riding in carriages did not agree with me in the least.
Father smiled. “No loathsome carriage rides. No stuffy ballrooms or boorish men. I should say you are quite fortunate to have avoided the whole affair.” He swept his arm, gesturing to the garden. “Instead you are left in peace to enjoy this beautiful scenery and to paint it as you please.” His eyes strayed to my canvas. “Though I must say this looks nothing like our landscape here.”
“Oh, it isn’t,” I exclaimed, only too eager to tell him of my work. “It is a place I imagined—”
“I am sorry you did not get a season,” Mother said, bringing me back to the present and the cramped attic.
“It’s all right.” I tucked away the pang of sadness the memory had brought forth and crossed the room toward her. Truly I didn’t mind the loss of a season anymore— hadn’t minded since soon after it had happened. Thinking back on that spring now, I realized that my quick recovery illustrated how very little the whole affair had meant to me to begin with.
Instead of enjoying my seventeenth summer in town, spending a fortune on a new wardrobe and attending balls and other prestigious social functions, I’d spent that summer with Father, consoling him, telling him he’d done the right thing in standing up to his superiors when he believed they were wrong. I hadn’t understood, exactly, why Father was so strongly against the Act of Proscription against the Scots, but speaking his mind about it had cost him his long-standing post in the military.
Where I had been sympathetic to his cause, Mother had been furious. I’d hardly ever heard my parents quarrel before that, but after his dismissal, it was difficult for a day to pass without them arguing.
“It doesn’t matter, Mother. None of it.” I sat beside her on the trunk. “I’m not like Anna and probably wouldn’t have made a good match anyway.” I suppressed a shudder at the thought that I could have been married a year or two by now. I might have even had a child!
I could only be thankful for my good fortune in escaping that life, and for Grandfather’s limited funds that had rescued us the previous year and provided a season for Anna.
“I wish—” Mother began. “I wish things could have been different. I do love you, you know.”
“Of course I know.” I laid my head against her shoulder and took her hand.
“We were a fine little family, the five of us.” She squeezed my fingers affectionately.
I nodded. “The best.” We still are. Though it wasn’t the same anymore. Father was gone, Anna moved away, and Timothy had been sent to Grandfather’s for the summer. I missed him racing around the house. I missed my evening chats with Father. Occasionally I even found myself missing Anna. Or Anna as she used to be. Growing up we had been the best of friends, and only in the past few years had our differences surfaced enough to drive a wedge between us. But Mother was right. For many years we’d been a fine little family. We’d been happy together.
I wondered, not for the first time, if it had started out that way, if my parents had always been in love or if they’d found each other out of necessity— Father, a widower in the military who needed someone to care for his daughter, and my stepmother, a young widow with her own child. Whatever their beginning— and they never spoke of it— there had been many good years and a son of their union. But all that was before Father’s humiliation. Before his actions that somehow seemed the beginning of the end of everything I knew and loved.
Mother straightened and turned to face me. “You are nineteen years old— nearly twenty.”
“Yes,” I ventured warily. Mother was using her no-nonsense tone, the one that brooked no argument.
“It’s time you were married.” She held a hand up, cutting off my protests before I could speak. “It’s time you were married, and you shall be.” She took in a deep breath. “Tomorrow.”
“What?” I jumped up and hit my head on the sloped ceiling. Eyes smarting, I stepped away from the trunk and Mother. “Have you gone mad?”
“Your father perhaps did at the end, but I am quite sane. As was he, apparently, when this was decided.” She removed an envelope from her apron pocket. “He intended to speak with you before he died, but he never got around to it— leaving the task to me.” Bitterness laced her words. “Lord Collin MacDonald will arrive at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. You will be packed and ready to go with him.”
“I don’t believe this.” An arranged marriage? Father wouldn’t. “What about posting banns? Where are we to be married? What of—”
; “It’s all explained in this letter.” Mother held it up but did not yet hand it to me. “Lord MacDonald has arranged the license and will be bringing the proper clergy with him, and you will be married here before your departure.”
“Departure?” I demanded. “Where is this stranger I am to wed taking me?” I couldn’t be hearing things correctly. This couldn’t be happening to me, of all people. Me married? To a stranger? Absurd!
I snatched the letter from Mother’s outstretched hand and made my way toward the window, to read it in what little light was left.
“Supper will be in the kitchen when you’re hungry,” she said.
I didn’t bother to reply but waited until the sound of her steps on the stairs had faded away. Only then did my trembling fingers unfold the paper. Father’s writing, sloppy in his last days, stared up at me, and I felt my eyes fill with tears, not only with dread at what the letter might reveal but because he was not here to tell me himself.
My dearest Christina,
My time is growing short, and I should speak with you in person but, coward that I am, cannot bear the thought of our last days together being filled with contention. And so I ask your forgiveness before I even begin.
When you were very young I took you from your mother’s people, but not before giving my word that you would return to them someday. Among them is a fine man named Collin. As a youth he risked his own life to protect yours when he believed you in danger. He has waited these many years for you to grow up and for me to contact him regarding your whereabouts.
I have done so now and requested that he wait until the summer to take you to his home— your first home. I know you will protest this; I am certain you will want to resist your mother’s plea for this marriage and Lord MacDonald’s good intentions. I beg of you not to. Instead, consider the promise you gave me in my parting days, that you would be mindful of the welfare of your mother and brother. Your marriage will provide a settlement for them as well. As for your situation, I am comforted in knowing that you will marry well. You will be the wife of a lord and will lack for nothing. I only wish I could be there to see you in your wedding finery and to kiss you farewell.
Yesterday's Promise Page 2
