Once Upon a Highland Christmas (13 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-One

Duncorrie, fifteen days before Christmas

C
ONN
OR
F
RASER GREETED
his parents-­by-­marriage at the door of his cottage, welcoming them in from the cold with a broad grin. “It's a braw wee lad!” he told them, and was enveloped in his mother-­in-­law's joyful hug before she rushed inside to see her daughter and newborn grandson.

Jock stepped inside and unwound his plaid. “It was a fearsome journey through all the snow, but worth the trouble. Mind you, the storm doesn't seem to have reached you here. Not a day's travel from Craigleith, and there's barely a sprinkle of snow on the ground here.”

“Still, it's cold enough,” Connor said. “Come and meet your grandson and have a dram to warm yourself and wet the baby's head,” Connor said. “Now you've come, and we've had a meal together, I'll set off to see my own kin in the morning and tell them the news.”

Jock gripped his son-­in-­law's shoulder. “Good lad. We're not the only grandparents who'll be waiting for the news. By the way, can you take a letter, pass it on to someone heading toward Glenlorne?” Jock asked.

“A letter? Who is it you know at Glenlorne?” Connor asked, his brows rising into his dark thatch of hair.

“No one at all. It's for Laird Iain—­he found a lass lost in the snow and brought her home with him. Her brother is at Glenlorne.”

Connor poured two cups of whisky. In the box bed in the corner, his Isla was cooing like a contented dove over the babe with her mother. He waited while Jock admired the child, commenting on the babe's fine solid weight in his arms, and opening the blankets to count the bairn's fingers and toes, ignoring the objections of the womenfolk that the child would catch cold. May took the babe from her husband's arms, rewrapped him, and sent Jock back to Connor.

“So who is this lass? Does the laird mean to keep her?” Connor asked.

Jock sighed. “I haven't seen her, but I hear she's a lovely wee thing. Sandy MacGillivray told me Iain chased her down like a fine hind, and kept her through the night. He brought her back to Craigleith over his shoulders, wrapped in naught but his plaid and weeping into his handkerchief.”

“There'll be a wedding then,” Connor said, sipping his whisky.

“Or a ransom,” Jock added. “Or perhaps he'll give her back if she doesn't suit him.”

“I'd keep her if she's as bonnie as you say,” Connor said, whispering so his wife wouldn't hear.

“That's just what I'd do,” Jock agreed with a wink, and let Connor pour another measure of whisky into his cup. “Once there's a child, all will be settled right enough, and the lass will be as tame and content as a fine cow.”

“As is the Highland tradition,” Jock agreed. “Tradition is a fine thing, where women and cattle are concerned.”

“Helps a man make sense of them both,” Connor agreed. Jock's wife came to stir the stew that bubbled over the fire and sent them both a sharp look of disapproval, because that was tradition too, when it came to making sense of men and keeping them in line.

 

Chapter Twenty-Two

Loch Rain, fourteen days before Christmas

T
HERE WAS A
celebration at the home of Connor Fraser's family. Even if the proud father had not brought the blessed grandchild with him to visit, the news of the babe was welcome enough.

“How big is he?” his father asked. Connor held his hands apart a good two feet and received a nod of approval.

“And so heavy we can scarcely lift him,” Connor bragged. “He'll be a fine man when he's grown.”

“Like his father,” Connor's mother beamed at him. “Does he feed well, cry loudly?” His aunt nodded her approval of the question.

“Sounds like the bagpipes wailing across a broad glen on a clear day, and he feeds like a lusty sailor,” Connor said with colorful enthusiasm. His cousin, a lad of just sixteen, looked bored.

Connor took the letter out of his pocket and nudged the lad. “I've a job for you, Farlan.”

“What is it?” Connor's mother asked, snatching the letter.

“A letter that needs delivering. It's going all the way to Glenlorne, but if you could take it part of the way, to Cairnforth, maybe, then ask someone to take it on from there—­” Connor knew the blacksmith at Cairnforth had a pretty daughter, and Farlan sat up eagerly.

“Aye, I'll do it,” the lad said at once.

“Now who do you know at Glenlorne?” his aunt asked, setting her hands on her hips. She took the letter from his mother and read the address. “Alec McNabb? Isn't the chief called Alec? How do you know the chief of the McNabbs, Connor?”

“Och, no, not me. I'm carrying the letter as a favor for Jock MacIntosh, who promised Sandy MacGillivray he'd pass it on. There's a lass at Craigleith who's trying to get word to her kin at Glenlorne.”

“A lass?” his mother asked. Everyone leaned in, even Farlan. “Is she pretty?”

“Jock says she's the loveliest lass in the Highlands,” Connor said. “The Laird of Craigleith himself found her while he was out walking in the hills, stalking a fine deer for Christmas. He found her instead and fell madly in love with her. He caught her up in his plaid, gagged her with his handkerchief, and carried her home to his castle.”

Connor's family stared. “Is that a true tale?” his aunt asked.

“As true as it came to my ears,” Connor said.

“Maybe she's an enchantress, or Cailleach herself,” Farlan said. “There's snow at Craigleith, isn't there? There's almost none here.”

The womenfolk gasped. “But Cailleach's a crone.”

“She could be whatever she wanted, couldn't she, if she's magical?” Farlan asked, rubbing his beardless chin.

Connor rolled his eyes and broke the spell with a laugh. “Laddie, you've been listening to too many of the
seannachaidh
's stories. Why would an enchantress be writing letters? She'd just fly where she wanted to go, or cast a spell. Jock said she was naught but an ordinary lass.”

Everyone looked disappointed. “But beautiful, you say?” Farlan asked.

“Aye,” Connor said.

“
Enchantingly
beautiful? Does the laird intend to keep her? If she's not spoken for, then I might go to Craigleith, see her for myself.”

Farlan's mother boxed his ears. “You'll do no such thing. You'll take the letter to Cairnforth, find someone to carry it on to Glenlorne, and you'll go this very day.”

Farlan colored and rose to his feet, grumbling. “Fine, but if I find a beautiful lass in the snow on my way there, I won't be home for supper.”

He stuffed the letter into his pocket, wrapped his plaid over his shoulders, and slammed the door behind him.

 

Chapter Twenty-Three

Craigleith Castle, thirteen days before Christmas

T
HE LIBRARY OF
Craigleith Castle was a pleasant place to spend an afternoon, Alanna thought. The shelves were stocked with an excellent collection of books, all well read by the looks of it, which was as it should be. She had grown up with a limited supply of books, and had devoured the ones she did have over and over again. She could indulge her desire to read now, of course, and did. She hoped that Lord Merridew's home had a library.

Tired of being alone in her room, Alanna had found her own way down the stairs, moving slowly, using a fireplace poker to lean on. She felt like a crone, the Cailleach herself perhaps, hobbling over the hills and glens of Scotland on ancient bones. She'd found her way to the library, looking for company, or a book at least.

She'd found Fiona and Elizabeth sitting by the fire, sewing.

They jumped up as Alanna entered the room, and hid their work behind their backs. Then Fiona's face lit with pleasure at the sight of Craigleith's guest. “Hello. We were afraid you were Seonag. We're sewing for her new baby, for Christmas. Well, and for other folk, too. Can you sew? I mean, you needn't feel you must, but I'm woefully behind this year. I've been working on Iain's Christmas present,” she said. She glanced at the door. “Did Iain carry you down?”

She was chattering nonstop, and Alanna smiled.

“No, I made my own way. My leg is feeling much better.” She set her makeshift cane aside and took a place on the settee.

Elizabeth dipped a curtsy. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

Alanna smiled at her. “If you call me Alanna, may I call you Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth grinned. “Yes, of course—­I mean, aye, of course.”

“Elizabeth wants to learn some Gaelic,” Fiona said. “I've been trying to teach her.”

“
Fàilte,
” Elizabeth said, meaning welcome.

“
Tapadh leibh,
” Alanna replied. “That means thank you. Why do you wish to learn Gaelic?”

Elizabeth sighed. “My mother says that I shall be very difficult to marry off, being plain and plump and a trifle dull-­witted. I thought if I did not wed, I should like to come here, to Craigleith, and live out my days here, sewing for the clan and learning magic from Annie.”

“I think you're very pretty indeed,” Alanna said. “My mother says the same things to my sister Sorcha. Sorcha has freckles on her nose and unruly curls, and she prefers roaming about the hills barefooted with her skirts tucked up instead of wearing pretty clothes and sitting in the schoolroom. She's hopeless at sewing, or any of the other ladylike accomplishments my mother thinks are important—­but Sorcha will grow up to be the family beauty.”

“How can you tell?” Elizabeth asked, twining a blond curl around her fingertip, her blue eyes on Alanna's.

“She loves to laugh, she's kind to everyone, and she doesn't care a whit what ­people think of her. She just needs to grow into her looks, for the beauty is already there, inside.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth breathed, her eyes widening with delight. “How wonderful. Perhaps I have an inner beauty waiting to come out.”

“Like a butterfly,” Fiona said. “One day you'll spread your wings, step out onto the dance floor at your London debut, and dazzle everyone.”

“So will you,” Elizabeth said. “Maybe we can make our come-­out together.”

Fiona's eyes fell to her stitches and she shook her head. “I don't know,” she said. “I can't dance, and my English is laughable. Penelope said so, and Aunt Marjorie says she can't understand a word I say. I can sew, but I'd hardly call a shirt for an infant a ladylike accomplishment.”

Alanna felt indignation curl in her breast at the harsh criticism. “Then we shall practice. The English tutor my mother hired put pebbles in my mouth, told me to speak around them, as if they weren't there.”

“Did that work?” Fiona asked.

“Not at all, though it might help with Gaelic.”

The girls laughed.

“Say ‘How do you do,' ” she instructed Fiona.

“How d'you do?” Fiona said, adding a lilt.

“She said ‘doo' instead of ‘do,' ” Elizabeth said.

“But she said the words as if she was genuinely glad to meet me. That will make the person she's meeting notice the sentiment, not the accent, and be pleased indeed.” At least Alanna hoped that was true. Her own accent refused to yield to pebbles or hours of instruction. It remained as an underpinning to her speech, like a homespun shift under a silk ball gown.

“Oh, I see,” Elizabeth said, beaming at her cousin. “It does sound charming, doesn't it? It makes one want to lean in, listen more closely.”

“Is it the same for men?” Fiona asked, her brow furrowing.

She meant Iain, of course. Alanna thought of Iain's mellow voice, the soothing sound of it, comforting, sensual and rich, like warmed whisky. The familiar heat that invaded her limbs whenever she was in his presence, or even when she merely thought of him, flooded her body even now, and he was nowhere in sight. “I'm sure it is,” she assured Fiona.

“You have a way with ­people, Alanna. Your marquess must love you very much. Is it a love match?” Elizabeth asked. “I mean, if it isn't rude of me to ask.”

Alanna felt her skin prickle. “I—­” She swallowed. “I am very pleased to accept your—­his—­proposal of marriage.” She said it just the way she'd practiced it, over and over again, until there was no accent at all and she could say the words without tears, or panic threatening to choke her. She looked up, met Fiona's eyes, saw the question there, and forced a smile. “May I help with some of the sewing?”

Fiona dropped her gaze to the linen shirt in her lap. “Of course. Children are always growing out of things, or wearing them out. By the time hand-­me-­downs reach the littlest ones in a family, there's nothing left. My mother would make new things for the very youngest ones, give them at Christmas, so they would have something brand-­new to call their own.”

Alanna smiled at her kindness. “I can see the wisdom in that. I wore my older sister's castoffs when we were children, and I hated it.” She had grown up in Megan's shadow, the middle child, forgotten, always second in line for clothes, attention, and affection. Now, once she married Merridew, she would outrank her sister, who was a mere countess. She would be first at last. And yet, Merridew was still a castoff—­he had wanted her sister before he'd wanted Alanna. She was still less worthy than Megan, even in marriage.

She shut her eyes for a moment. She wanted something—­someone—­who was just for her, who wanted her above anyone else, perfect, not second best.

She swallowed the bitter thought, chose something pleasant to think about. It was Christmas. If she were at Glenlorne now, she would be helping Muira and her sisters plan Christmas surprises for the folk there, and for each other. Since she could not be there, she would help here, in the company of strangers—­nay, new friends. She smiled as Fiona put a tiny garment into her hands. She looked at the careful stitches that had already been added to a little shirt. The linen was soft, had been washed in lavender and heather to make it smell sweet. She threaded the needle with blue thread instead of white and began to stitch tiny flowers around the collar.

“Oh my,” Fiona said. “That's lovely. You didn't say you were so skilled.”

“My tutors despair of the way I paint, and I cannot play the piano or sing. Sorcha sings like an angel, and Megan collects stories. But they can't sew. That is my talent,” Alanna said proudly.

“I am quite good at knitting,” Elizabeth said. “But my mother says it's a skill better suited to peasants and old women. I'm ham-­handed when it comes to any delicate work.”

“Would you like to knit a blanket or two?” Fiona asked. “There's some red wool in the basket.”

“How festive!” Elizabeth enthused and picked up her needles. “My mother and Penelope would have fits if they knew I was knitting for ordinary folk.”

“But it's charitable, and kind, and so much appreciated, especially as a gift. Why would anyone mind that?” Alanna asked.

“Oh, Mama's charitable—­she directs the servants at Woodford to make up baskets for distribution to the poor.”

Fiona looked at Alanna. “We tend to do it ourselves here in the Highlands. We call them handsels. I help Annie and Seonag make preserves and bake Yule cakes, and then Iain and I go out a few days before Christmas and visit everyone, take gifts, and invite the clan to the party on Christmas Eve. We see that no one wants for anything we can provide.”

“It's the same at Glenlorne,” Alanna murmured. “My sisters and I would pack the handsels and make the rounds in the village.”

“May I help this year?” Elizabeth asked. “I would like to.”

“Of course—­the more hands, the lighter the work. It makes everyone happy and merry, and sets the mood for the festivities.”

“It's very different, the way folk are with each other here, than it is in England, isn't it?” Elizabeth asked. “I mean, the way you treat your servants—­they're more like family.”

“They
are
family,” Fiona said. “They're all MacGillivrays, like Iain, and me. Annie took care of me when my mother died—­Iain too.”

Elizabeth leaned forward. “Does she truly have magic?”

Fiona's expression turned solemn. “Aye. She saw a crown and ring in the fire even before Iain knew he'd inherited Purbrick. She saw Alanna's arrival as well.”

Alanna glanced up.

“Can she tell my future, see what will happen to me?” Elizabeth asked.

“It isn't like that,” Fiona said. “She sees what she sees. She doesn't tell folk bad news, or try to stop it happening unless she's sure she can.”

“We have Muira McNabb at Glenlorne. She's a healer, a cook, and she sees things in the flames of the fire, or the sky, or in her own mind from time to time. We've learned to believe her, and to love her the way the MacGillivrays love Annie.”

The door opened. There was a flurry of hiding half-­stitched garments under cushions and in the folds of skirts, but it was only Sandy, bringing in a basket of peat. He carried it to the fire with a sober expression.

“Seonag had the bairn this morning,” he said. “It's a wee lad, just as Annie said it would be, healthy and strong. Lungs like a piper.”

“How wonderful!” Alanna said, and Fiona rose and kissed the old gamekeeper's weathered cheek.

Sandy sighed. “Wonderful? There won't be a moment's peace in the cottage. The wee one will be wailing all day and night. A man needs his sleep.”

Fiona smiled. “You can sleep here in the castle, Sandy. There's plenty of room.”

He looked at her in surprise. “What, and leave my family?”

“We'll go and visit Seonag this afternoon,” Fiona said. “We'll bring some sweeties for the children. That should keep
them
quiet at least.”

Sandy looked pleased. “They'll be glad of the visit. Seonag's proud of her bairns, loves 'em all. Logan too.”

“No wonder you don't want to be anywhere else,” Alanna said, and he looked at her with soft eyes.

“The wee lad is my fourth grandchild, and I love him well. I'll teach him to hunt if the good Lord gives me a few more years on this earth.” He bid them good day and left, and the needlework resumed.

“Who'll cook now?” Elizabeth asked.

“Wee Janet, of course, and Annie and I will help,” Fiona said. “If I know Seonag, she'll be back in a day or two, fussing about the Christmas baking, checking up on things, with the babe happy as a wee piglet in a basket by the stove.”

“You'll help out, in the kitchen?” Elizabeth said to her cousin. “Mama would be horrified!”

“Then we shan't tell her,” Fiona said. She looked at Alanna. “Are things truly so different in England, ­people so separate from one another?”

“So I've been told,” Alanna said.

“But you'll be a marchioness. Surely you'll be able to do things just as you wish,” Fiona said.

“I will do as my husband directs.” She'd been told that, too. An English wife, even a marchioness, was obedient and uncomplaining. She did as her husband thought best in all things without argument or demur. Alanna was already sure she'd burst if she could not express an opinion, make her own decisions on things. Would he choose her clothes, her friends, her books?

“I wonder how many times a day a marchioness must change her clothes. Mama says it's at least four times for a countess,” Elizabeth said. “More, if there's a busy schedule on a given day.”

“What does a countess—­or a marchioness—­do all day?” Fiona asked. “Especially if the servants do everything for her?”

The girls looked at Alanna. Her mouth dried. “Well, as it's been described to me, I shall confer with the housekeeper each morning, discuss my schedule of activities, advise her what my . . . h-­husband . . . is doing that day, and approve her menus for luncheon and dinner. The cook, of course, will already know what his lordship likes to eat, and there will be little reason to make changes to her suggestions. I shall write letters in the morning, or read. I shall take lunch, then stroll the grounds or ride out a short distance with a groom if I am in the country, or take a carriage ride through the park if I am in London. Then I shall pay calls, or wait for others to call on me. I will rest before supper, and dress for whatever the evening plans are—­a ball, or party, or a trip to the theater, then bed, then up the next day to do it all again.” Even as she recited the expected agenda of her days, she didn't think she could bear it. Once she conceived Merridew's heir, she would retire to the country to await the birth. The cycle would continue the same way year in and year out.