Amanda Scott (8 page)

While Michael ate his porridge, he read over the list he had made, crossing off items he had dealt with the day before, and noting what remained to be done before they could leave for Edinburgh. When he had finished eating, he sent a message to his bailiff, asking that worthy to present himself later in the morning, then retired to his bookroom to write letters to two friends, which he could post from the Scottish capital. The dog followed, curling up in its favorite spot before the fireplace.

He was sprinkling silver sand over the second letter when the door from the hall opened and his sister entered the room.

Looking up in surprise, he said, “You are up early.”

“I awoke and could not go back to sleep,” she said, “so I dressed and came down to get something to eat Are we really leaving tomorrow, Michael? At last?”

“We are,” he said. “Our aunt is doubtless awaiting our arrival in Edinburgh with great impatience.”

“Yes, I suppose she is,” Bridget said. “I’m feeling a trifle impatient myself.”

Amused by the understatement, Michael resisted pointing out that she had nearly driven everyone at Mingary to distraction with her demands and frequent questions. She had packed and unpacked her boxes so many times that he feared they might not survive the journey. Not a day passed that she did not spend an hour or two making lists of the items she wanted to purchase in Edinburgh, and those that must wait until they reached London. In vain had he tried to persuade her that he could not afford to purchase even half of what she wanted.

He said, “Has your Nan accustomed herself to the notion of leaving her family for such a lengthy time?”

“Aye, I had only to promise her a new hair ribbon when we reach London. I shan’t have time to have a new gown made before we leave Edinburgh, shall I?”

Astonished, he said, “For your maid?”

“No, silly, for me, of course. I’ve told you ever so many times that I must have new gowns if I am to go to parties and balls in London, and if I have to wait for them to be made up after we arrive, there will scarcely be any time left.”

“I know you need gowns,” he said, “but the money Cailean will bring won’t stretch to more than two or three, you know.” Mentioning the dog stirred the sick feeling again, and when Cailean thumped his tail, it was all Michael could do to look at him. They would deliver the dog to its new owner on the way to Edinburgh.

Bridget regained his attention by stamping her foot and saying angrily, “I do not want to hear any more about money, Michael. Not only is it unnecessary, but it’s stupid and foolish, as well, to keep talking about it. You can hardly expect this Lord MacCrichton of yours to show interest in a girl dressed in rags. Moreover, you know perfectly well that the cost of the London house will not fall upon you, since we shall be living with Aunt Marsali’s Cousin Bella, and that Aunt Marsali has said she will be happy to help dress me.”

“I do not like taking her charity,” Michael said stiffly.

“Well, you cannot afford that sort of stupid pride if you want this venture to prosper,” she snapped. “You are putting a great deal of trust in his lordship, and far too much in me. If I do not like him…”

When she paused meaningfully, glaring at him, he said with as much patience as he could muster, “All I ask, Bridget, is that you behave like a well-bred Highland lady should. You do not want to shame the name of Mingary.”

“As if I would do any such thing. I know very well what is due to my great name, sir, and it is
not
to be dressed in rags.”

“Your gowns look quite suitable to me,” he said, knowing the minute the words had left his tongue that he had merely offered tinder to a spark.

She fired up at once. “You do not know anything about feminine attire, Michael. You rarely go into company, and even on those few occasions during the year that we manage to dine away from Mingary, you do not heed what other women wear, or notice how painful it is for me to let quite inferior females see me looking like a tattie-bogle, wearing the same ancient gown over and over again.”

“Most of those females are likewise wearing gowns they have worn before,” he pointed out. “Few of our neighbors can afford much more than we can.”

“Exactly so, but I am
Lady
Bridget Mingary. It is much worse for me than it is for plain Rose Martin or Sadie Sanderson.”

“I know that you find it so, my dear,” Michael said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. Judging by the fire in her eyes, however, it was not soothing enough. A voice in his head warned him that he had no hope of persuading her to heed his concerns. Nonetheless, he made one more effort. “Although it may prove difficult for you at times to forgo some of the pleasures you crave, you will not want to be too much beholden to Aunt Marsali.”

“She
wants
to help,” Bridget insisted, her voice rising sufficiently to warn Michael that unless he wanted to endure one of her tantrums, or be forced to play the tyrant again, he would do better to placate her.

“Please, lass, we cannot discuss this if you fly into the boughs. I know that our aunt has offered many times to help you take your proper place in the world, but even she cannot know how much a Season in London will cost. She is not King Midas, you know. Her desire to help will not turn the leaves of the trees into gold. You must not press her to spend more than she can afford.”

“Do you think she has no mind of her own, Michael?”

“I don’t think any such thing. I merely—”

“Then, pray, did you read her letter, the one she sent in response to yours?”

“You know I did. I read it before I gave it to you to read.”

“Well, you cannot have paid it much heed, or you would recall that she said I would want to be well gowned, and that she would be delighted to see to the matter if you would but allow her to do so.”

“I do recall what she wrote; however—”

“Oh, do be sensible! Even at the long price Glenmore is paying for Cailean, once you have paid for our journey, and set aside enough to pay for our month in London, I daresay you will have less than half of it left. Moreover, you will also need new clothing, you know, unless you mean to embarrass us all dreadfully.”

“Begging your pardon, m’lord.”

The servant’s voice startled them both. Neither had noticed his entry.

Though he was grateful for the interruption, Michael replied more sharply than he had intended. “What is it, Connal?”

“Sir Renfrew Campbell is below, your lordship.”

“Mercy,” Bridget exclaimed, clapping her hands to her cheeks. “Don’t see him, Michael! Send him away!”

“Don’t be foolish,” Michael said. Then, to the servant, “Bring him up. No, wait. Does he request hospitality?”

“Nay, m’lord. He said he and his man stayed the night at Kilmory Inn, and he craves only a few moments of your time.”

“Very well,” Michael replied, realizing that Campbell must have sailed from Loch Moidart to Kilmory on Ardnamurchan’s north coast, and hired horses there. The journey from Loch Moidart to Mingary by road—if the meandering rough dirt track could be called a road—was nearly twenty-five miles and could take as much as two days. By sea it was only eleven miles and, with a favorable wind, could be accomplished in about an hour.

“Give Lady Bridget five minutes to disappear, then bring him up,” Michael said, adding when the servant had gone, “I wonder what the devil he wants.”

“You know what he wants,” Bridget exclaimed. “He wants me!”

“Aye, well, I’ve already said he cannot have you. Now, if you do not want to see him, take yourself off to your bedchamber until he’s gone.”

For once she did not argue but hurried away. A few minutes later the servant showed Sir Renfrew Campbell into the room.

Gesturing toward a chair, Michael said, “Will you take a mug of ale, sir?”

“I will,” Campbell said, drawing the chair up near Michael’s desk and sitting down. “’Tis a dry day and all, it is.”

When the servant went to fetch ale, Michael said, “How may I serve you?”

“I’ll tell ye, lad. The plain fact is that I canna understand your reluctance to pay your debt off without all this dallying about over the matter.”

“I mean to pay the debt in full,” Michael said. “There is still time, I believe.”

“Aye, sure, perhaps. Still, ’tis a fact and all that your father would have accepted the arrangement I’ve so generously offered to ye.”

“I cannot speak for my father, sir. Thank you, Connal,” he added when the servant returned with their ale in mugs on a tray. Setting his on the desk, Michael waited only until the servant had gone again before he said, “You’ve made a long journey for naught, sir. I will give you neither my sister nor my timber.”

Campbell drank deeply from his mug. Then, setting it down, he said bluntly, “Ye’re making a mistake, lad, but I’m a generous man. I said I would tak’ the lass and your timberlands in lieu o’ half the debt. What if I were to tak’ the same and write off three-quarters instead? No man can say that is not a fair offer.”

Since he would have to forfeit all but the castle if he could not pay the debt by the first of June, Michael knew the offer was fair. Nonetheless, he said, “I cannot do it, sir. Even if my sister were old enough, she does not want to marry you. Nor do I want my forests cut down and burned to provide the English with more iron.”

“Ye’d let a wee lass flout your wishes? Ye’re a fool then, Kintyre.” Sir Renfrew got to his feet, his expression grim. “I willna heat cold cabbage, lad, so ye’ll rue the day ye didna tak’ such a fine and charitable offer.”

“I might,” Michael admitted.

“Aye, well, dinna think that when ye canna raise the gelt, ye can come to me wi’ your hat in your hand. Until the first day o’ June, I’ll tak’ the lass and forests for half what ye owe, but after that I’ll tak’ it all. Not only will I never offer again what I’ve offered today, but forbye, ye’ll find it doesna pay to thwart me, laddie.”

Michael would have liked to point out that his superior rank demanded more respect, but with little substance to back the demand, he decided to overlook the man’s manners. In truth, Campbell gave him the shivers, and the sooner he saw the back of him the better he would like it. Consequently, he replied as politely as he could and rang for Connal to show his guest out again. He did not accompany him to the stables, or urge him to linger long enough to dine.

Sir Renfrew had not expected an invitation. Indeed, not trusting his host any more than he knew his host could trust him, he had left his own man to mind the horses, with orders not to let them out of his sight.

When he reached the courtyard, he found MacKellar waiting, and as the two rode out through the main gate, Sir Renfrew said, “Did ye see the lass again?”

“Nay, laird, but I did learn that they be leaving at the skreich of day, bound for Auld Reekie.”

“Edinburgh, eh. Now, I wonder what’s possessed the lad to take her there.”

“I dinna ken, laird, but he’s no keeping her there. They be bound for London town, his men say, and from what I’m told, they mean tae stay a month or more.”

Sir Renfrew received the news with annoyance at first, but when his nimble brain had considered the prospects, annoyance changed to grim satisfaction. “I’m thinking,” he said a half hour later, “that this turn of events may prove advantageous to a man o’ my clever notions.”

“Will it then, laird?”

“Aye. I’m thinking I’ve got a ship bound for Bristol in a sennight. I’ve no been nigh London these five years and more, and forbye, I’m thinking ’tis time I returned to see how the city has changed. Let’s ride, man. There will likely come a mist later, and I dinna want to spend the night at Kilmory.”

No mist marred Michael’s plan to leave Mingary early the following morning before the birds had begun to sing. The starry sky had a clear hardness after a night of frost, and a keen, stiff breeze from the northwest sped their boat through the Sound of Mull. They reached the harbor of Oban on the west coast of Lorne as the sun was rising, less than three hours after leaving the castle.

Snow still capped the higher peaks beyond the village, but spring had arrived on the shore, where primroses and violets bloomed in abundance.

Michael stepped ashore with a sigh, wishing it had been possible to sail all the way to Glasgow, from whence it was but forty miles to the capital, much of it by post road and all of it fit for a coach. With a healthy breeze like the one that had sped them to Oban, they could easily have reached Glasgow in a single long day by making use of the narrow neck of land that separated the head of West Loch Tarbert from Loch Fyne on the River Clyde.

Since the time of Robert the Bruce, it had been common practice to have men pull one’s ship across that bit of land—less than a mile wide—rather than sailing around the peninsula below it, thus saving more than a hundred miles in distance. But sailing to Glasgow would mean entrusting someone else to deliver Cailean to Glenmore, whose estate lay near Dalmally. Whoever delivered the dog would have to collect the money Glenmore had agreed to pay, too, and deliver it to Michael in Edinburgh. It was more practical and safer to deliver the deerhound on their way.

Hiring horses for the five of them—Bridget and her maid, Michael and his man, and Connal to tend the horses—they set forth from Oban an hour later. They spent the first night at Dalmally, where Michael sadly bade the deerhound farewell, and the second night with kinfolk at Lochearnhead.

The weather held, and they easily made Stirling on the third day. Leaving Connal there with orders to return the horses to Oban, Michael hired a coach and four the following morning to take them the rest of the way. They made good time on the post road and entered the capital that afternoon, arriving at Lady Marsali’s town house in Castle Street shortly before four o’clock.

Bridget eyed the exterior of the gray stone house doubtfully. “It is very plain, is it not, Michael? I thought it would be much grander.”

“Just wait,” he said, helping her alight from the coach.

Chalmers hurried up the short flight of stone steps to apply the knocker, and soon thereafter the door opened to reveal a tubby little man in yellow breeches, a black frock coat, and a powdered tie-wig.