Scotch Rising (6 page)

“I was a boy when Mr Clunes’ faither made a deal with the Parliamentarians. He bought the castle and the surrounding lands, promising never tae rise up against them,” Tavish chuckled. “He told the story tae the lads about how he travelled all the way to London. He waited fur days tae receive an audience with the magistrates and finally they gave it tae him without much pause, as none of the fine Sassenach Lords wanted a castle in the middle of the Highlands. After he returned, Mr Clunes set tae expanding his business and kept Markinch away from the fighting in the south. None hereabouts had any taste for it, as it had naught tae dae with us.” 

Tavish scratched his bristly chin for a moment. “The point of this whole rambling tale is to tell ye the story of Logan. He is the great, great grandson of the auld Markinch Laird, and he wears his jealousy of the Clunes’ success on his sleeve.”

Chapter 4

I spent the afternoon in Tavish’s company, going through the old production logs. I insisted on making an inventory of all the grain arriving at the mill. Illegal stills could be using missing grain to make Scotch. Dusk fell as I walked back down to the cottage in order to prepare for my supper invitation. Tiny flakes from clouds obscuring the sky began to fall, creating an atmosphere of hushed enchantment.

Walking through the front door of the cottage. I could smell peat burning in the grate, the pleasant smell of light smoke escaping through the chimney. Closing the door behind me, I shut my eyes and tried to conjure a picture of Onatah busily at work somewhere in the house.

“There ye are, Captain.” Freya’s voice rang from above and her stout figure filled my vision as she came down the stairs. “I hae tidied above stairs this afternoon. I aired one of the front rooms and made the bed fur ye.” She stopped on the bottom step and still craned her neck to look up at me. “Beathan has informed me of yer supper invitation, so there is naught in the larder.” Freya paused a moment, looking uncertain. “You’ll hae tae tell me if ye want meals made, otherwise I’ve got my own brood tae feed.”

The morning’s altercation forgotten, at least set to the side, I could only be relieved, not having much patience for women’s moods and tantrums. “Thank you, Freya, I am sure the two of us will do our best to get along. Please let me know of any expenses you incur and I will provide reimbursement.”

“Of course, Captain,” Freya turned her attention to the drawing room, and stepped closer in order to share in her confidence. “The Thistle and Rose acts as a market fur most goods and a tab will be run in yer name payable at the end of each month. They hae catalogues fur any items ye may want tae purchase from Auld Reikie, Edinburgh tae ye, or Glasgow.” Her look took in my sad frock coat. “We pride ourselves as having as guid a selection as anyone in town or Scotland. I thought tomorrow it would be appropriate fur me tae begin clearing away poor Mr Turner’s work,” sniffing dismissively. “I know it is wrong tae speak nae well of the dead and I dinnae believe any of the rumours circulating in the village. He never let me tidy up properly in here. I will hae tae fetch a ladder and a couple of my laddies to get the rope down.”

What were these rumours? I wanted to ask for details concerning them, but a thought diverted me. “Take the rope down with a ladder. Is there not one around? I thought Mr Turner’s stature shorter than mine.”

“Aye, he stood only just taller than I.” Freya smiled at a memory, putting her hand to her forehead and grimacing up at me. “Sometimes I still can nae believe it. He might have been an odd body, however I never thought him capable, if I had.” She took a couple of deep sobbing breaths.

Female hysterics were something I never acquired the ability to deal with, perhaps if my mother might have lived or a younger sister tormented me. I would have been more prepared to deal with them. I patted Freya on the back, “It’s just as well. I want to leave the rope up. The knot is peculiar, there is something missing in the puzzle.” I let my voice trail away.

Hiccoughing a couple of times, Freya frowned up at me and for the second time in one day. I could feel her approbation for a social misstep vibrating from her being. “Ye want me tae keep that horrible rope up in the drawing room. Want me tae clean around it, knowing what happened in there. It’s a terrible macabre thing!”

I let my hand fall back to my side. Seeing her point, I grimaced, acknowledging the rope’s macabre presence in an effort to placate her. “Until I finish my study of the knot, I think it’s best for you to leave the drawing room off your list of duties. Besides I would enjoy going through Mr Turner’s mathematical work. It looks incredibly interesting.”

“Ye are an odd body, Captain.” Freya stepped away, towards the door to the dining room. “I can nae condone such barbaric actions, maybe ye dinnae know how yer actions might affect my poor nerves,” she sniffed. “The same as Mr Turner, strange behavioiur by folks from the south.”

An urge to run my hands through my hair and pull as hard as I could came into my mind. Instead I fisted my hands and breathed deeply as the rear door to the cottage opened and closed forcefully. Taking today as a preview of the discord to come over the next year, I shuddered to think of the mess of nerves I might be left with in the end.

With heavy boots, I trod up the stairs to find what mischief Freya may have made while I spent the day up at Deoch. To my surprise, the results of her cleaning were not all bad. She’d organised one of the front rooms, lighting a fire in the grate, setting my shaving kit along with fresh water on the commode. Even the heather in a small vase did not grate too much. Guilt washed over me, twice today I caused Freya to be unhappy and, in truth, I resolved to do my best to right our relationship once and for all in the morning.

After washing my face of the day’s activities, I dressed in my best linen shirt and hose. Both made of good quality material, they stood the test of time. The hair on my head felt downy and I paused for a good minute. Pondering whether to shave my head again or let it grow. In the New World, I had resolved never to wear a wig again, fashionable or no. A red ribbon caught my attention, and I picked up the delicate furbelow, careful not to disrupt any of the long strands of black hair it held in a curl, tears welled behind my eyes. I looked into the small mirror. I was a fraud, a disgrace to her memory. My wife lay dead and buried and I was to sup in style with the only society in the vicinity.

I smelled the hair, rubbing its silky texture on my cheek. I placed it carefully back onto lace set out by Freya. Luckily she took precautions with my precious keepsake. I needed to cancel this invitation, not a month ago I stood rotting in the stocks in Boston, for attacking the man responsible for my wife’s death.

Thinking of ways to bow out gracefully, my gaze fell upon my lapel pin, my only reminder of my place in society, of where I came from, the Clyde coat of arms set in gold with the family motto, Courage to the Last, written on the bottom. Never one for cowardice, I had attacked in the front lines in the New World, I would bear my burden.

Full darkness descended over Markinch, a lamp in one hand to light the way through the snowflakes my only companion on the road up and through the distillery. The workers either home or down at the Thistle for the evening, tucked warmly into their evening rituals. A night guard watched my progress from his post on the road in front of Deoch.

The lantern light reflected off the snow gathering in pockets on the ground, making it easy to pick my way over the rough surface. Just as I relaxed into the embrace of the wilds of the fens, lights from the castle were visible ahead, guiding me gently back to civilization, to the purpose of my evening’s journey. The doors leading into the courtyard were open, in fact a quick inspection of the metal gate above my head revealed it probably had not been down in some time. Large cauldrons lit with peat stood at intervals and I nodded to the workmen and servants before climbing the great steps.

I felt slightly embarrassed at the archaic formality of banging the large metal knocker on the door to alert the inside servants of my presence. Surely they would have seen my approach. However, just as social niceties were different in the New World, so would they be different here in the Highlands? The door creaked open and a grim-faced gentleman, wearing the same plaid as Beathan, peered out at me. Without speaking, I found myself ushered into a cavernous reception hall, resplendent with a blaze in the large fireplace. My eye caught various bits of weaponry including muskets and rapiers adorning the walls. A large broadsword placed on the mantel caught my attention and I walked forward in order to make a closer inspection. The grim-faced clansman coughed in the back of his throat and indicated I should give him the oil lamp before proceeding with my curious journey.

Only a person twice the size of any man could wield this sword. Even with the added strength the warrior would need two hands to swing it. The hilt resplendently decorated with fine gold filigree and gems, with a large ruby set in the hilt, heavy scroll work wound down the blade and I squinted to read it properly.

“I thought ye may hae taken a wrong turn, Captain.” Beathan’s voice interrupted my deciphering and I turned with slight irritation to greet him. He held a glass out in his hand. “Welcome tae Castle Markinch, home of the Clunes.”

Accepting the glass with a smile, I nodded in return, “Thank you for the invitation to dine. It has been many months since I graced a seat at a proper dining table. I will concentrate on not making a bore of myself this evening.” I lifted my glass to match Beathan’s salute and we drank together. The Scotch tasted incredibly fine, much better quality than I ever sampled in the past. I turned the glass over to admire the colour.

“One of the perks of coming round fur supper,” Beathan grimaced. “My faither is auld and tired and my sister is firmly on the shelf, hardly the best companions fur a meal. However, ye get to dip intae the guid stock.” He winked. “We can nae hae folk around and drink the standard we send out tae the rest of the masses.”

I gave Beathan another salute and took another pull. I could definitely become accustomed to the smooth, smoky flavour of this Scotch. The quality so different from the bottle I consumed the past evening. I never would have thought it came from the same family still.

“Beathan, I know ye would prefer tae keep the captain all tae yerself out there. However, Faither would enjoy meeting our guest.” A firm, soft voice called from the open doorway, the brogue similar to Beathan’s, light with only the touch of an accent to make it sound exotic.

My companion shrugged his shoulders in apology and led the way into a large, stately drawing room. Oil lamps and a few candles lit the large space, a fire burned in a marble hearth set on the opposite side of the wall, two delicate couches faced one another in front. One occupied by an older gentlemen and a woman no longer in the blossom of youth, however far from old. Everything in the room spoke the success of Deoch, from the gilt picture frames and mirrors on the walls, to the rest of the furniture grouped together to form smaller parties of conversation in the room. Even the thick rugs underfoot felt lavish.

“We dinnae stand on much formality here, Captain,” the old man stood and swept his sharp eyes over my attire. I knew he missed nothing from my bald head to my slightly scuffed boots. His own jacket, worn over a linen shirt to compliment his kilt, spoke of an expensive cut made to look serviceable. He wore a small wig with the long white hair caught in a black ribbon.

I gave him a short bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Clunes. Thank you for the invitation to dine. I informed Beathan on my arrival it is a rare occurrence for an old army captain.” Pretty words and platitudes may not be my trade, however I was not above a bit of flattery.

“Nae, ye must call me Magnus, Mr Clunes is only fur folk who owe me coin.” He sat back down on the sofa with a huff, and took up his Scotch, an example of a man not born to wealth or privilege. Who may have never even aspired to either, yet he sat in the drawing room of a disgraced Lord and reigned over all he surveyed. He earned respect.

Turning to the woman standing next to the sofa, I made another short bow. She politely returned the favour, and wore a curious rather than a friendly smile. “Captain, welcome tae our home, since my brither appears tae hae forgotten his duty tae me.” She shot Beathan a mild look of annoyance. “I am Philomena Clunes, please spare me the Miss Clunes, it only grates on the fact I am nae miss at all.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Philomena,” the unusual name rolled from the tongue and threatened to trip the unwary speaker. Dressed in a simple gown, with no bows or ruffles, she wore her hair in a severe bun at the back of her head, no wig and no powder on her face, not even the hint of a black beauty patch marred her creamy complexion. If we met by chance in a ballroom, or even in the street, I do not think I would have given her a second glance. Something in her green eyes warranted a second look. Intelligent, not striking as my wife’s dark eyes and hair, any man meeting Onatah would fall immediately in love with her.

Philomena turned to acknowledge a discreet cough from another doorway, nodding she turned back. “I think Cook is ready fur us,” she leaned down to help her father from the low couch. He held her arm as they led the way through to the heavily decorated dining room with a table set cosily for four, even though it could easily fit twenty diners. I tried to reconcile the fabulous display of wealth of both the drawing room and the dining room with the subdued appearance of my three supper companions. They gave no hint at the opulent tastes surrounding them. The room would be the envy of any society hostess in London.

Beathan leaned over from his seat next to mine and with a nod he indicated the room at large. “My late mother’s tastes ran tae the fanciful, as an heiress from a great family she took pleasure in redecorating the castle tae current fashion.” He smiled at Philomena. “If only my younger sister could delight in such pastimes, perhaps she would be seated at her own table this evening.”

Sniffing in contempt, “I see nae reason fur me tae leave Faither’s board.” Philomena let the server shake out and place her napkin. “My absence would only result in a complete lack of female entertainment in this household. It isnae as if we were in danger of yer wife making an imminent appearance.”

Choking back a laugh into my soup – Philomena certainly knew how to expose a man – I felt myself relax in the presence of the two siblings. Bickering looked commonplace between them and their father’s smile showed a true affection for the two. It was rare to see a man take such concern over his children.