Yesterday's Promise

by Michele Paige Holmes

  I pray you will give this situation a chance. That you will honor me as I honor a promise made long ago.

  Your ever loving father,

  William

  I read the letter twice more and even turned the paper over, certain I must have missed something. But that was all— no further explanation. I knew only that this Collin MacDonald had known me as a child and waited for me to grow up. How old is he? And a lord? A chill that had nothing to do with the dropping temperature ran up my spine. What did I know about being the wife of a lord? I didn’t want to know anything about it, about being a wife to anyone.

  If only Anna was here. At least she could have told me what I might expect of marriage to a nobleman. What might be expected of me. I did not think I could ask anything of Mother, private as she tended to be. Yet going into such an enormous undertaking as marriage so completely blind seemed to doom the arrangement from the start.

  Or doom me, at least. Turning from the window, I sank down on the stool before the easel. Had I, only minutes before, been concerned about the color of the sky I’d painted? Had I once spent an afternoon crying when my horse was sold? Have I not spent months mourning and missing Father, who is sending me to such a fate? Along with the hopelessness I felt engulfing me, a burst of anger flared to life. How dare he! How could he?

  “How could you, Papa?” I cried aloud, using the name I had as a little child. How could you betray me so?

  My shoulders slumped, and I stared at the canvas, wishing I could disappear into the landscape and never be found. It was no more of an option than my disappearing anywhere else. There was nowhere to go, no one who might take me in.

  Perhaps, if Lady Gotties had been here already and she liked my work well enough... But no. It was a foolish thought, and I knew it. The likelihood of a woman surviving on her own—and one without any practical skills, at that— was not good.

  Anna was out of the country and could not help, even if inclined to. And that was doubtful, given her egocentric, self-preserving nature the past year. She hardly ever allowed her then-fiancé and now-husband to so much as converse with me. How likely is it she’d welcome me in their home? Mother and Timothy maybe, but never me.

  There was no one else who might help. The servants had all been dismissed, or I might have tried finding work elsewhere with them, however unqualified I was.

  I rose from the stool and walked over to the trap door, closing it, letting it fall with a deafening slam. The sound did little to appease my agitation. I lit a candle and lifted it high, staring around the cluttered room. My attic. My art. I would have to leave it behind.

  Tomorrow morning a man was coming to marry me. I would have to go through with it and go with him, or Mother and Timothy would be destitute.

  I would have to make promises to a stranger. I would have to give myself to him. I will have to leave everyone and everything.

  With despair in my heart, I walked to my trunk and began to pack.

  “Feel better now?” the laird’s hand was heavy on my shoulder, interrupting any thoughts I’d had about escaping.

  “Not so hungry, anyway,” I muttered. I pushed back my chair and stood, turning and feeling a little more confident as I stood nearly eye-to-eye with the old man. “What do you want of me?”

  “Why are you so certain I want something?” He walked past and took up his chair at the head of the table. The wee lass that had been with him earlier was nowhere to be seen.

  “No Campbell does something for a MacDonald without expecting something in return.”

  The laird’s brows rose, and a speculative, almost amused look crossed his face. “You’re an astute lad.”

  Sure that I’d just been insulted, I frowned.

  A broad smile widened Liam Campbell’s mouth. “A clever, intelligent lad,” he clarified.

  Apparently not, if I didn’t even know his words. I felt my face flush. “Nothing— astute— about it. MacDonalds and Campbells have been enemies since time began.”

  “True enough,” he said as the smile slipped from his face.

  Chapter Two

  I brushed the dirt away from Father’s grave, wishing once again that we might have afforded a more expensive stone, one that stood perpendicular to the ground instead of this one, pressed flat into it. I worried that someday the drifting soil and then the grass might overtake the narrow strip, covering it and wiping away all memory of Father from the earth.

  The thought brought a fresh wave of sadness to an already sorrowful morning.

  “I forgive you.” I placed a bouquet of wildflowers over the stone. “But you’d best help me,” I said, as a sort of half prayer, my face raised to the dreary sky and the heavens beyond. “Be with me and help me to endure whatever lies ahead.”

  Knowing I had little time before Lord MacDonald was to arrive, I got to my feet and turned from the grave. I shook the soil and grass from the skirt of my best dress, a slightly too-short grey silk, as I hurried across the cemetery. I didn’t want my mother to worry. It wasn’t her fault I was in this predicament. If anything, it was Father’s, and after a night of ranting and raving, I could no longer find it in my heart to be angry with him either.

  Some minutes later I approached the house and felt alarmed to see nearly two dozen horses tethered by the gate as well as a good-sized, if somewhat shabby, carriage in the drive. The vehicle in question looked as if it might fall apart at any moment, the wheels thin with wear, and the sides dented and scraped as if they’d survived numerous attacks by highwaymen.

  What sort of lord went about in a carriage like that? Perhaps it did not belong to Lord MacDonald after all. Perhaps he’d sent a messenger to tell Mother he had changed his mind.

  The horses tethered nearby tamped my hopeful thought before it could come to full fruition. I wondered if Lord MacDonald had brought the animals as the settlement to be paid to Mother. If so, she could not be pleased. She’d not know the first thing about where or how to go about selling them, and in the meantime we’d not have the means for their upkeep.

  She will not have the means. I will be gone. With whom and where were the questions that remained to be answered. Filled with trepidation though I was, I felt myself pulled toward the house, my innate curiosity drawing me closer to discover the particulars of my fate.

  Gathering my skirts, I walked quickly, eying the carriage with distaste before rushing up the steps to the front door. So much for my hope that we would not be traveling far. A large, enclosed carriage indicated otherwise, no matter that it didn’t look capable of a journey beyond a mile or two.

  With a quick breath for courage, I pushed the door open. I stopped short once inside, just managing to press my lips together to contain an audible gasp.

  Heads— far too many of them— turned to look at me anyway. My heartbeat quickened as I glanced around the crowded room. What had always seemed a generous-sized foyer was crammed with men— too many for me to accurately count, moving about restlessly as they were.

  Are there fifteen, twenty? I glanced to and fro, alarmed at so many eyes on me— eyes that did not appear overly friendly. Each man had a sword and at least one pistol hanging from his belt. My apprehension heightened at seeing so many weapons so close to my person.

  For a second I wondered if they were friends of Father’s from the military and he had somehow arranged for them to attend my wedding. But none of the men were in uniform, and on closer inspection, I noted that the clothing they wore was in poorer condition than my own.

  “She’s the look of her mother,” a man to my left said, breaking the oppressive silence. He stepped from the crowd and grabbed my hand, shaking it heartily, the assorted weapons in his belt clanging loudly as he did. I tried not to look at the wicked sword that nearly reached the floor, or the pistol, or the knife at his waist. Instead I did my best to return his greeting, summoning a wan smile, though inside I felt I might be ill or even faint.

  “Bonny, that’s what,” he said, grinning broadly, accentuati
ng the many wrinkles lining his face.

  That accent... I thought of the carriage and the horses outside. He was not from around here. From anywhere around here. Not even from England? I had to be mistaken. Father would never have married me off to one of the barbarians from the north.

  The man was also easily twice my age, with a balding head but more than ample auburn hair covering his face, arms, and his legs exposed below knee breeches. He could not be my intended. Please no. But when several seconds passed and no one else stepped forward to greet me, I feared it must be.

  At least he appears to be possessed of good humor. I attempted to console myself while fighting tears of dismay.

  “She does have the look of Katherine. And a more bonny lass I never saw.”

  At last another man joined us, this one clapping me on the back soundly as if I was both a man and an old acquaintance.

  At his overly friendly gesture, four others followed, circling close around me. My arms pressed down at my sides— the men were too near for me to do otherwise.

  “Hair like a field of dry heather.”

  An odd compliment. Though, perhaps it hadn’t been meant as one. Given the number of auburn heads surrounding me, perhaps hair of a different color was seen as inferior.

  A man reached out, touching one of my painstakingly arranged curls. I tried not to flinch. Father had always said that showing fear was a sign of weakness, and though inside I trembled, I did not want to appear weak in front of these men.

  I had decided sometime during the long hours of the night— after realizing that any attempt at sleep was futile— that if I must marry, I would do my best in this endeavor. To that end I had sat before the looking glass by candle light, taking more care than usual with my appearance, hoping, I supposed, for a bridegroom who did the same.

  “Eyes like the sky afore a storm,” the man who’d spoken about my hair continued.

  “Save your poetry for later, Finlay,” another beside him said. “What matters is that she’s known her sorrows and is sensible to boot. A fine choice in your dress color, Miss Katherine.”

  “Good luck it is, wearing grey to your wedding,” agreed yet another who stood behind our tight circle.

  I nodded, though I had never heard such before. Obviously they had not been to London recently to see the latest fashions. The gown my sister had married in had been a beautiful ivory silk, with lace and pearls at the throat and sleeves and a long train that trailed behind. I had envied her that dress. But just now, exclaimed over as I was, I felt grateful for the simple grey. Wherever these men were from— and it most definitely was not Alverton or even Nottingham—they judged my gown as appropriate. A little thing, but it brought a measure of relief. I’d spent the night worrying over what my bridegroom would think of me. To realize I’d at least dressed correctly was something, however small.

  I was feeling just slightly better, if not completely overwhelmed about my circumstance, and reminded myself that I only had to marry one of them. Meeting one strange man today had sounded bad enough. But twenty? I stifled nervous laughter.

  “Marry in June when the roses grow, and oe’r land and sea you’ll go,” the man called Finlay said, waxing poetic again. I thought of the carriage outside, and my panic returned.

  “Just how far are we going today?” I asked. A voyage by sea did not sound so bad— at least once we arrived at the dock. The drive to London’s wharfs would be torturous, but standing on deck with the fresh ocean air blowing about as we sailed toward the continent sounded quite lovely.

  “Be lucky to make Newark by nightfall if we don’t get on with it,” a voice behind me said crossly.

  “We’re having a reuniting with kin, MacDonald,” the bald man who’d first spoken to me said. “Hold your peace a minute.”

  MacDonald? Did he mean Lord MacDonald?

  Before I could turn to see who had spoken, my hand was seized once more.

  “Name’s Alistair Campbell,” the bald man said. “And I’ve— we have—” He swept his arm toward the men clustered around us— “waited a long time to see you again.”

  Again?

  “I’m Quinn,” the man standing beside him said. “Cousin to your mother and now you.” He grinned, revealing a mouth that was missing several teeth.

  “Moireach Campbell,” another said. “Your mother was a fine woman. She’d be pleased to know you’re coming home.”

  Finlay, Donaid, and Ruaridh came forward next. I gave up trying to keep their names straight after that. Each sounded stranger than the previous, save for the common last name of Campbell, a name I’d heard Father mention a time or two before.

  My mother was a Campbell. And she was from... I didn’t know. Shame and regret and worry flooded my mind. How could I not know where my own mother was from? Father had rarely spoken of her, and I had never bothered to press him. He had provided me another mother, the only one I could remember, and that had always seemed sufficient— until now.

  No others came forward to greet me, and I knew a brief moment of relief when I realized that all had failed to introduce themselves as Lord MacDonald.

  Looking up at the men clustered about me, I felt strangely touched that they had traveled to find me, to see me wed. Though I’m sure I must have looked utterly confused as I stared at each in turn.

  “Are none of you Lord MacDonald?” I asked, wondering who the voice I’d heard earlier belonged to. Maybe the groom had grown tired of waiting or had cried off at the last minute. Maybe I was to be expected to choose one in his stead— a possibility that seemed at least as painful as having a husband chosen for me.

  Oh please no, I silently prayed.

  “I am Collin— Laird MacDonald.”

  Laird. A term I’d heard Father use when speaking of the Scottish clans. My heart sank further as I turned toward the deep voice and realized that half of the roomful of men had not moved at all since my entrance. Contrary to the jovial expressions on the faces of those whom I’d just met and who surrounded me, these men looked as if they were attending a funeral or preparing for war. Not one smiled. Several looked positively fierce. I searched the group for the one who’d spoken but felt no reprieve when a man stepped forward.

  Like the others in the room, he was armed to the hilt— with sword, knife, and pistol all tucked neatly in his belt.

  Had they supposed I would resist? No chance of that now. Were weddings in the north a violent affair?

  My eyes traveled up to his and saw rich brown beneath a somewhat shaggy mop of equally dark brown hair. His face appeared young, if not serious, with not even a hint of a smile. But he did not appear to be an ogre, or as old as my father, or horrible to look upon— all worries that had consumed me the previous night.

  Our gazes collided midway through our perusal of each other, then held for a long second. Collin, of course. My heart quickened as some inner part of me felt a jolt of recognition, stirring my stomach in a not entirely unpleasant way. For the first time since I had entered the house I thought that, perhaps, I could go through with this.

  Behind me the front door banged open. “I’m terribly sorry. I cannot find her anywh— Christina!” Mother’s hand grabbed mine and whirled me around to face her. “Where were you? How dare you leave me to face this— these—” Her sharp eyes narrowed as she looked at me closely. Disapproval marred her usually pretty face. “What have you done to yourself?” she asked tersely, staring at my skirts.

  I glanced down and saw that I had not been entirely successful at ridding my gown of the dirt from the cemetery. “I had to visit Father one last time.”

  “You speak to the dead?” Lord MacDonald asked behind me, not a hint of humor in his voice.

  “Only when I am angry with them.” I turned to face him again and had the thought that Father had met my intended before. If only we could have spoken of this. “Or missing them,” I added as another clutch of sorrow tugged at my heart. Never again would I speak with Father about anything.

  Mother c
leared her throat loudly, as if she suspected I had forgotten her presence— not far from the truth. There was something about Collin MacDonald that commanded all of my attention.

  “Let’s get you upstairs,” Mother said. “The least you can do is wear a clean gown to your wedding.”

  “She is fine as she is.”

  I looked at Laird MacDonald, uncertain of his tone. What must he think of me? Traipsing around in the dirt before I am to be married. I didn’t want to care but found that I did.

  His eyes had shifted to the front of my skirt. A false, fleeting smile vanished faster than it had appeared. “Your name is Christina?” He sounded perplexed and possibly annoyed.

  I nodded, wondering what the problem was, if there hadn’t been some mistake after all. Had he come to the wrong house? How many other penniless girls in the province were being forced to wed today?

  “Her name is Katherine Christina Mercer.” Mother gave me a stern, reproachful look.

  Belatedly recalling my manners, I sank into a curtsy and held my hand out to Lord MacDonald. He took it, but instead of bringing it to his lips, turned it over quickly and examined my palm, which was quite ordinary save for a thin white scar that began at my wrist and swept up toward my thumb, the result of an accident when I was very young.

  “Do you find my name— or my hand— lacking, Milord?” I tugged free of his grasp, alarmed at the startling sensations his simple touch had caused.

  “On the contrary. I find you to be just as I had expected.”

  I wasn’t certain what to make of his comment, so I said nothing.

  On the other side of the room— the pleasant side, as I was coming to think of it— Alistair Campbell cleared his throat. “Don’t be thinking to back down now, Collin.”