Sarah Gabriel (24 page)

“O
ver a dozen eggs this morning when I checked the nests!” Mary told Sophie the next morning. “Ye willna think it odd—but believe me, lass, those three hens hardly lay an egg a day between them. I was thinking they’d make good soup if they didna start earning their keep.”

“Eggs! That’s wonderful,” Sophie said, peering at the bowl. “What will you do with so many eggs?”

“Och, I have a bonny dish to put them in,” Mary said. “Kinnoull loves it, but we never have the eggs for it. ‘Tis an oatmeal pudding—oats and thick cream, a little salt, some sugar, cinnamon and spices, and several eggs. A thick and hardy baked pudding that cuts like a cake. He’ll be that pleased to see it on the table.”

Sophie smiled. She still felt the effects of her secret
adventure with Connor the night before, a little stiff from the chill and a bit sore from the loving, but she did not regret a moment of it. That sort of glorious ecstasy could never be regretted, no matter what might happen later. After what he had told her about her brother, she wanted to be alone—yet he was right to bring her out into the hills with him, where the sense of freedom, and the abandonment of loving, had been far more conforting than an evening alone with her thoughts and her grief and worry. She had needed his arms around her last night.

She needed him now, she thought wistfully.

“It sounds delicious,” she told Mary. “But what about the cream? Connor says the cows do not give much milk.”

“We have cream, too!” Mary beamed. “Fiona gave generously this morning. It’s like a wee miracle here at Glendoon! And did ye see how bonny yer flowers are looking already? ‘Tis a wonder.” As she spoke, she went to the cupboard to fetch oats and sugar, salt and cinnamon, setting them on the table with the eggs. “So I hear you met our Fiona.”

“I did. Kinnoull seems very fond of her,” Sophie commented.

“He’s very protective of her, too.”

“Is he afraid she’ll be stolen in retaliation for the cattle he has stolen from others?”

“No one would dare take from Glendoon’s fold. He treats her well, she’s nearer a pet than a milk cow. He’s tried unsuccessfully to breed her, but she hasna fared well with it in the past. She should not be bred at all, I say, and Kinnoull agrees now. But now and then she goes over the wee wall to meet her bull in
another field—it’s not our own bull, but another she’s enamored of.”

“Isn’t that good? You want more cows or bulls, I presume?”

“Any farmer wants more, and it’s better to make them than steal them, aye,” Mary said. “But Fiona loses her calves. It is a sad thing to see her labor so long and for naught, though Kinnoull does his best to save the dearlings each time. He takes it hard, the loss of the calf.”

Sophie listened thoughtfully. “He raises them with care.”

“Aye. He prefers to raise them, not steal them. He takes only from Kinnoull lands, and those livestock are his own. Oh, my oatcakes, they’ll burn!” Mary whirled away to take the cakes from the oven using a wide wooden spatula. “I suppose you’re accustomed to fine wheat bread,” Mary said, “but we’ve precious little flour here. Oats are plentiful enough, and so we have a steady supply of them. At times, when other foodstuffs are low, we have the oats to see us through.”

“I like oatcakes very much. Especially yours.” Sophie took a folded towel from a stack of cloths on the table and covered the steaming oatcakes to keep them fresh.

“I think I have heard your castle ghost,” Sophie mentioned as she worked. “I heard some music, quite sad and lovely. I’ve heard it either very late or near dawn.” She glanced at Mary.

“
Och
,
that
ghost. Ye must ask Kinnoull about that one.”

“Has he seen that ghost? He’s never said.”

“That one keeps the soldiers away. They willna climb the hill with the haunts making their eerie music about the place.” Mary’s eyes twinkled, and when she laughed, Sophie saw the twins’ bright smiles there.

“So this really is a haunted castle.”

“If it is, a wee oatmeal pudding will brighten our laird’s home a bit. Crack the eggs in that bowl, dearie.”

“I wish oatmeal pudding could fix his troubles,” Sophie said, beginning her task.

“So do I. He has no fine life in this ruin, like he once had. Kinnoull keeps his family’s things about him, but what he wants most is to have a true home again.”

“He thinks Glendoon is no home at all.”

“Aye.” Mary sighed. “I know he does.”

Later in the day, Sophie found Roderick, who was always somewhere close by in the castle or the yard. He would have guarded her every step if she had let him.

“Come with me,” she said. “We have work to do. We’ll need the shovel and rake.”

“
Ach
, not again!” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I thought we were done with the kitchen garden.”

“We are, for now. It’s time to start clearing the big garden.” She smiled. “And I will need your help.”

“But that place is a mad tangle—it cannot be undone. The ivy alone would take a year to pull up and trim out.”

“We’ll do it faster. Though we must apologize to it first.”

“Apologize?”

“Of course. It will thrive and grow just the way we want, if we treat it with respect.”

“Mistress,” Roderick said, “you have been wandering around this old place too long.”

She laughed. “Bring a scythe, too, if you will.”

“A scythe?” He blinked. “I am not cutting grass. Padraig does not mind that task, but I am not doing it.”

“Then ask Padraig to come as well.”

“Padraig is out in the fields.”

“When he’s done, then.” As she spoke, she led him toward the garden. When she reached the low wall, she lifted her skirts and climbed over, while Roderick held out a hand to assist her.

“Oh, and we could use an axe and a sharp kitchen knife. There are branches and vines that need trimming.”

“Mistress, this is a hopeless task.”

“You helped me rescue the small garden,” she reminded him. “And it is doing very well now. You are more of a gardener than you think.” She gave him her brightest smile.

Roderick nodded truculently and walked off to fetch the tools. Sophie picked her way through the overgrown garden, pushing through a section where flowers had once been bedded and ivy now covered a curving flagstone walk. Making her way toward the apple trees at the back, she pushed through brambles that snagged at her clothing. On the other side of the apple trees, she was delighted to find blackberry and raspberry bushes, alongside a rowan tree that reached bare branches upward. Desperately in need of trimming and thinning, the bushes had already started to produce a little. Once they could
breathe again and had space to grow, she was sure they would burst with berries by summer.

She wondered if she would be at Glendoon then, to see it.

Shoving through a thicket of lilacs, finding the flowers already fragrant and blooming, if thin and hidden from sight, she moved past, toward another part of the old garden.

Here, roses had once thrived. Climbing and shrub, vine roses and briar roses, they were bare yet, tracing in thorny arcs along the wall. The stems were long and leggy, so that the flowers would be few, if any. But with careful pruning and nurturing, Sophie thought she could bring them back.

Would she be here to see them flourish?

By the time she made her way back around to the low entrance wall, Roderick had arrived with the shovel, a rake, and a pickaxe. Though he complained a little, he waded into the chaos of the garden with her, and together they began to pull at the ivy and the weeds, and shred out delicate but stubborn runnels of strawberry plants. Cutting and trimming back, they created piles of debris that Roderick carted off in an old wheelbarrow.

Much later, Sophie stood up, rubbing her lower back. The garden beds were neater, parterres of soil and slate forming the hub of the old garden design, which had a circular layout. The strawberries and ivy vines had been tamed, the rosebushes and climbers trimmed, the walkways and benches exposed. Though there was much more to do, the beginning was promising.

That was reward enough for a long day’s work, she thought. She looked forward to preparing beds and
seeding them, and made plans in her head to create hotbeds to protect the seeds. She would start some seeds inside, too, in boxes set in sunny windows.

Glancing at the sky, she saw the sun sinking. She wiped at her cheek, realizing in dismay that her fingernails were grimy and her hair, coming loose from its braiding, was as much a tangle as any vines. She was dirty, aching, exhausted, and happy.

Truly happy, for the stresses had lifted from her for a while, and honest physical aches had replaced the elusive ones in her heart. Cutting, trimming, and putting the garden right again helped her to sort things in her mind and make them clear.

Looking around the garden, she imagined what it could be someday, with flowers spilling down the hill, fragrant and colorful, with a fountain burbling and birds chirping in the branches of blossoming fruit trees. Closing her eyes, she could see it, almost smell it.

And she realized then, without a doubt, that when the flowers bloomed in wild abandon and the berries hung fat on the vines, when the apples and pears grew sweet on the branches, she wanted to be here with Connor to see it all.

“S
aighdearean ruadh
,” Connor said—red soldiers—glancing at Neill and the others with them. “Get down!”

Connor and Neill stood with Andrew and his younger brother, Thomas, on a hill crest a hundred feet above the valley floor, their perch hidden by the steep incline. In quick reaction, the four men dropped to their knees and bellies in a deep, rough carpet of brownish heather.

Peering through the thicket, Connor swore. “The time has come to do something about their wee road,” he said, gazing down through the twilight to watch Wade’s latest effort.

The road itself was enough of a threat, he thought. But the bridge, swiftly being erected not a half mile
from where the road crews now worked, was the greater hazard.

“If there is a way to stop this, then let us act on it,” Andrew MacPherson said. He had met with Connor and Neill while crossing Glen Carran with his youngest brother, Thomas, a gangly lad with a wispy beard, a tendency to sullen silence, and an unerring aim with any weapon to hand. Connor noted with chagrin that the lad carried a firelock, imperfectly hidden.

Now, Connor leaned his chin on his folded hands, looking downward. Wade’s road ran straight as a ruler through the pass into Kinnoull lands, where the men now crouched. The stone road ran over the moorland to follow the river toward Kinnoull House in the distance. The road met the riverbank in parts, while elsewhere it barely changed course even as the river curved.

More than a hundred men, mostly soldiers along with Highland men in need of paying work, were divided into several crews. Toiling at various sections of the road, they used axes and shovels, and moved earth and stones in wheelbarrows. They dug the foundation of the roadway and placed stones in successive layers, placing larger stones at the bottom of the cleared area, followed by a layer of smaller stones, and a final topping of gravel.

“The good general is quite the engineer,” Connor observed. “And his approach is highly organized. But he’s no architect with the design. He has a mathematical brain for making roadways. He sees the world in terms of geometry, lines and intersections, angles and perfect curves. The Highlands are not geometrical—
these mountains and glens are supremely organic in design, and every natural flow and turn of the land should be respected even by an engineer.”

Neill and Thomas looked at him as if he was daft, while Andrew ignored him altogether.

“Aye, that road is straight,” Neill allowed.

“Wade has no feel at all for the curves and hollows of the land,” Andrew said, surprising Connor. “The earth and the hills are like a woman’s body—follow those sweet curves and honor them, and you’ll have pleasure and peace. Plow through them without regard and she will make your life hell.”

Neill grunted agreement. Thomas gaped.

“Absolutely,” Connor said. “Though the general is cutting military roads. If a straight line gets his troops from Fort William to Fort George, or from the Great Glen to Perthshire, he’ll not waste time curving the track to fit the land.”

“Whatever is in his way, stone, hillside, or bog,” Neill said, “he blows it to hell and moves through it. Look at the wagon over there—it carries kegs of black powder.”

“Either that or whiskey,” Thomas observed.

“A little whiskey might do them good,” Andrew mused. “If they were all drunk, we could sneak down there and take that black powder and blow their wee road to hell.” He glanced at Connor. “We’ve done that before. Though it was at night, when we could not be seen, when there were no soldiers around in force. And in the Great Glen, there were trees to hide us.”

“They’ll be taking those kegs to the magazine at Wade’s camp north of here,” Neill said. “They’re hitching the ox to it again, see. It is time to decide, I am thinking.”

“Well, then,” Connor said. “I think we should blow the wee bridge, not the road.”

“The bridge? Aye!” Andrew nodded. “So that is why you sent me out to fetch Neill and meet you here on this hilltop.”

“I could take that powder keg,” Thomas said, drawing his pistol. “I could blow those red soldiers apart.” He aimed the barrel.

Connor laid a hand on the boy’s wrist before he could cock the gun. “Thomas MacPherson, I know your mother raised no fools.”

“Exactly.” Andrew slid the gun from his brother’s grasp.

“I could get that black powder for you,” Thomas insisted. “Let me go down and snatch it away. You could blow the bridge at night, when the red soldiers are gone.”

Connor exchanged glances with Neill. “We could.”

“But the lad will not be getting the powder by himself,” Neill said.

“We should not wait long to do it,” Thomas said.

“We’ll wait long enough to borrow that powder in a safer way than walking down this hill in plain sight,” Connor said.

“I am thinking, if we blow the foundation, they’ll just rebuild it.” Neill pointed to the bridge.

From his vantage point high on the hill, Connor could clearly see the structure, which did not yet span the river. Two abutments had been constructed, curving into piers. The skeleton was there, and the keystone would be set in place soon, he thought. But the paving of the bridge was not in place, and at this point, only wooden planks served for the workmen to move back and forth.

The watercourse narrowed at that place to a width of thirty feet or so, he knew. A single arch stone bridge would suffice. In peaceful times, he thought, a stone bridge would be useful, and in fact more than one bridge had gone up in that very spot—but flooding had taken them down again. Very likely, General Wade was unaware of that history. The bridge would go up quickly enough, but before it could be washed away, thousands of troops might cross it to further invade the Highlands.

“That’s true,” Connor agreed. “Destroying a bridge that is more complete would send them in search of a place to start over.”

“And not so near Kinnoull.” Neill grinned.

“That would be my hope,” Connor said. “We will wait to blow it when the keystone is set in place.”

“That will be soon, by the look if it,” Andrew observed. “But how will you do it?”

“Late at night, by stealth,” Thomas said. “I’ll do it.”

“You’ll not,” Andrew said. “We would have to plug the powder into the stones somehow—between the crevices. But how? Break the mortar and pack it in there?”

“It would not stay,” Thomas said. “I know about gunpowder. You’ll have to put it in something to pack it or it will trickle out.”

Connor nodded. “He’s right. Something to contain and concentrate it. Parchment would not work, nor leather. A cup might do.”

“I am thinking,” Neill said, “that the pewter tankards you have at Glendoon would be just the thing.”

“My mother’s set of German tankards?” Connor huffed. “They might.”

“We’ll dig into the mortar between the stones,” Neill said. “We’ll need chisels. Thomas, you can help, lad, if you can keep a cool head.”

“I can,” Thomas said.

“Fuses,” Connor said. “We’ll need those, too, do not forget—good string will do, but we’ll have to wax it well, or it could get damp near the river. Long lengths. We want everyone to be away from this thing when it goes down.”

“I’ll ask Mary to help us with that,” Neill said.

Looking around as they talked, Connor sighted three redcoats climbing another hill. One of them carried a surveying tool, another a tripod for the instrument. Setting it up quickly, they took turns peering through it, one of them jotting notes.

“What’s that, small cannon?” Thomas whispered.

Neill shook his head. “They’re measuring the lay of the land with their geometry and all.”

“What will they use the black powder for?” Thomas asked. “It’s all flat down there.”

Connor pointed. “Look far ahead, past where they are setting up the bridge. A hill juts up where the river curves sharply. They’ll blow through that to continue their road.”

“Soldiers,” Andrew growled, gesturing to the left, where another party of redcoats climbed an adjacent hill. They were fitted in full gear, Connor noted—red jackets, black tricorns, boots and gaitered shoes, and some carried muskets and bayonets. One man stopped, called to the others, and conferred. Another soldier pointed, the men turned, and muskets were shouldered.

Connor felt a cold chill. “We’re seen—quick! Down the other side and away!” He shoved at Thomas, urg
ing his young cousin down the back of the slope. Andrew tumbled after him, followed by Neill.

Sliding after them, rising to his feet to run, Connor followed the dip and rise of the rumpled hill, purposefully lagging behind his comrades. When he was sure they would be safe, he turned and made his way into a shadowed gap formed by the close, steep sides of twin hills. Keeping close to the rocky incline in the gathering darkness, he leaned there to watch.

Two soldiers worked at reloading the wagon that held black powder and other supplies, and hitched the ox into its harness. They would take it away for the night. The laborers were also preparing to leave, laying down their tools and stopping work due to the increasing twilight. Wanting to see where they might take the supply wagon, Connor stayed still, hidden in shadows.

Startled, he turned to see Thomas running toward him. Pausing in the gap, Thomas then launched ahead, toward the road in the glen, before Connor could stop him. Pounding down the hillside, Thomas rolled partway and slid behind a boulder.

Andrew came flying just behind him, and Connor grabbed him fiercely. “I’ll see to this,” he hissed, and went through the gap, streaming down the hill at a low crouch. As he neared Thomas, his young cousin looked around wildly, then careened down the hill again.

Connor swore as he glanced around to look for the red soldiers. Their attention was still focused on the other side of the hill, where the group that had sighted them still searched. None of the laborers or their supervising officers glanced directly above them to see the Highlanders there. Yet, Connor thought.

“Thomas,” he hissed, his voice blending with the wind, lost in the noises of carts, stones being stacked, and men calling to one another. “Thomas!”

The boy ignored him, intent on his reckless mission, running and sliding farther down the hillside, using rocks and gorse to hide his progress. Connor followed, desperately wishing for a rope to loop over the lad to haul him back to sense and safety.

Somehow, within a few moments’ time, Thomas made his way down to the level of the road. The darkness was descending rapidly, and the soldiers were busy packing up tools and equipment. Connor knew from experience that they never left anything out to use the next day, for it was too likely to be stolen or destroyed by Highlanders disapproving of English roads. And they customarily posted guards to discourage sabotage.

That had not kept Connor and his comrades from wreaking havoc where they could, upending stones, tipping wagons and carts into gorges. More than once they had acquired some of Wade’s supply of gunpowder or black powder, using it judiciously to destroy whole sections of roadway. On one occasion they had blown apart the side of a hill already ravaged by the construction. Tons of earth had collapsed onto the newly built road, closing the pass.

“Thomas!” Connor called softly, crouched behind a rock just above the boy. “Come back!” He glanced over his shoulder then, to see Andrew making his way down the hill as well, silently and quickly. Connor motioned him to go back.

At the same time, heart pounding, Connor drew his own firelock pistol, its single shot primed and
ready. He swore again, but prepared to aim to protect the lad.

With speed and stealth, Thomas came near the ox-drawn supply wagon and jumped on the rear axle. He snatched a keg from the cart, dropped back, turned. Then he ran up the hillside as if the dogs of hell were after him.

Soon enough they were. Soldiers spotted him, shouting out. A few of them began to run, but none drew near enough to catch Thomas as he pounded up the hill carrying the compact wooden keg.

One of the soldiers aimed his musket. Connor knew that if the shot missed the boy and caught the keg, his foolish young cousin would be blown to bits.

He stood tall, cocked his own firelock, and took aim. A shot cracked the air—not from his pistol—and the soldier fell.

Connor glanced back and saw Andrew with a smoking pistol. Thomas was still running uphill, reaching the highest part of the slope. Connor followed, breath tearing in his throat, heart pounding near out of his chest. He twisted to look behind him, his firelock ready to discharge.

More soldiers were running now, shouting upward. Another redcoat aimed a musket. Nearing Thomas now, Connor dove at an angle to protect the lad’s retreating back.

The musket ball screamed free, and Connor felt the piercing sting of it in his side. The impact dropped him to one knee, but he regained his footing to run toward the tight gap between the hills where his cousins had disappeared.

Neill waited there, extending a strong hand to pull Connor into the shadows.