Chapter Seven
When Lucy joined Flora at the breakfast table, she casually enquired about Alex’s whereabouts.
“He’s gone hunting for the red deer with his cousins,” Flora said, unperturbed by her son’s departure. She passed Lucy a plate of sausages.
“Where is Laird John?”
“At the stable, most likely. Getting ready to leave.” Flora took a bite of sausage and chewed.
Lucy stared at the tablecloth, shocked. So, Alex had made good on his threat after all. He hadn’t even waited for her answer. Rather than returning her to Maidstone Hall himself, he’d left the chore to his father.
“Laird John will be taking me home today then?”
“What?” Flora asked, another forkful of sausage poised in front of her mouth.
“Will Laird John be returning me to Maidstone Hall? Shall I pack my things right away?”
Flora set her fork down carefully. “Why ever would he do that?”
“I thought that’s what you meant when you said Laird John was getting ready to leave.”
“Do you want to leave? Have we made you unhappy, dear?” Flora reached out and laid a gentle hand on her arm.
“No. I mean, I don’t know. Alex is…” How much should she tell Mother Flora?
“Och, pay Alex’s temper nae mind. He’s hot-headed and says things he regrets later.” She shoveled a heap of scrambled eggs onto Lucy’s plate. Her voice didn’t indicate any distress. “Have some breakfast. You’ll feel better. Then you and I can spend the day together. Alex will be home tomorrow and you two can sort things then. Dinnae fash. Everything will work out.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I know so. You need time to adjust to each other. That’s all. Be patient.”
Lucy brightened a little. “All right.” Her appetite returned along with her spirits. She slathered a piece of toasted brown bread with sweet butter and strawberry jam and took a big bite.
“Good. It’s settled then. We’ll be making candles today.” Flora had a youthful exuberance about her this morning. It must have been contagious, for Lucy felt her excitement build, too. “We’ll need plenty of candles for the wedding celebration. And honey. I’ll show you my hives. They’re my treasure.”
“You mean you make your own honey and candles?” Lucy wiped a glob of jam off her chin and licked her finger.
“Of course. How else would we come by them? Do you have a plain frock to wear? I wouldnae have you ruin such a fine gown as the one you’re wearing.”
After breakfast, Mother Flora helped Lucy change into her brown serge morning gown and gave her an apron to wear. She also insisted Lucy wear a dreadful white mop cap to cover her hair, explaining that, “a hairpin gone amiss could spoil a batch of honey.”
They collected the necessary tools from the candle shed, and Flora led Lucy down a path past a small spring-fed duck pond to an open field of wildflowers and clover. Groupings of three to four coiled hemp beehives sat atop wooden platform benches spaced eight to ten yards apart. Flora called them skeps.
“This will be the last harvest of the summer. We must allow the bees to keep their remaining honey over the winter so they won’t starve.” Flora pulled the netting bunched on top of her wide-brimmed straw hat down over her face and neck. Then slid her hands into long, heavy leather gloves. “My bee armor,” she said, smiling.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll be stung?”
“No. That’s why we harvest at mid-day when the bees are at the height of their work. There will be fewer in the hives, ken. Stand back a wee bit.” Flora gave one of the skeps a sharp rap on the side and stepped backward. A flurry of bees exited, buzzed excitedly over the hive, then flew away.
“This is the delicate part.” Flora turned the skep over and removed the bottom slat. Retrieving a short knife from her apron pocket, she cut several irregular waxy slabs from the hive and placed the dripping combs into the wooden bowl Lucy held.
Lucy peered into the bowl and caught the sweet scent. “We’ll make honey from these?”
“Honey and candles. Come. We’ve more hives to harvest.”
Lucy marveled at the skill and confidence Flora demonstrated as she moved from hive to hive, graceful and serene. After watching her carefully, noting each step in the process and the care with which Flora took to preserve the lives of the tiny bees, Lucy asked, “May I try?”
Flora happily transferred her bee armor to Lucy. Aside from some difficulty removing the slat from the bottom of the skep, Lucy successfully harvested three good honeycombs from the last hive all on her own.
She basked in Flora’s words of praise. The intoxicating thrill of her newest accomplishment left her breathless and beaming. If someone had told her before she left for Scotland that she would spend her first day at Balforss up to her elbows in bees, harvesting honey like a common laborer, she would have laughed in their face. Yet, here she was, out of doors, in the middle of a field of wildflowers, thoroughly enjoying herself.
She spent the balance of the day learning the arduous task of separating honey from the wax combs. The process of rendering purified honey and clean wax required a series of steps: draining, straining, boiling, and filtering. It was as much a science as an art. How much more satisfying than passing one’s day in idle conversation over tedious needlework.
Exhausted and triumphant, they took their afternoon meal in the kitchen. Surprising. Lucy had never eaten in the kitchen in her life. The casual setting didn’t seem at all disagreeable to Flora. It suited Lucy quite nicely, too.
Leaning their elbows on the table, Lucy, Flora, Mrs. Swenson, and Haddie ate from a platter containing a dizzying assortment of savory treats. They drank sweet tea and swapped amusing stories about Alex as a boy. Most of the stories were about Alex instigating some mischief or calamity, ultimately resulting in a spanking by his father. The walls of the kitchen echoed with shrieks of laughter. Lucy enjoyed this glimpse into her betrothed’s childhood.
“Do you recall the time he tried to kiss your niece, Mrs. Swenson?” Flora asked. “I ken Alex was barely twelve and already crazy for the lassies.”
Mrs. Swenson, red with laughter, said, “Och, aye. Katie was fifteen and thought herself a grown woman. I’ll never forget the look on her face when Alex snuck up behind her.”
“And I’ll never forget the way Alex looked with a bowl of parritch on his head,” Flora cried. More shrieks of laughter. Wiping her eyes, Flora added, “Oh, God. I think he thought you got a woman by stalking her like a deer.”
“From what I can tell, he still believes that,” Lucy said.
One breath of silence and the women erupted in laughter again, nodding and congratulating her on her astute observation.
They made no attempt to disguise Alex’s shortcomings. According to his mother, Alex was bad-tempered, impatient, cranky in the morning, and prone to brawling. On the other hand, he was kind, fair, loyal, and fiercely devoted to family. Add to that his good looks and impressive size, and one could hardly do better, Lucy thought.
With each story—the formative experiences that made him the man he was today—she grew more inclined to forgive his recent transgressions. Perhaps, when Alex returned from his hunt, they could start again. That was, if he was truly repentant.
…
Alex had roused Declan and Magnus from their beds before dawn, shoving them stumbling and grumbling to the stables where he’d gathered rifles and provisions for a two-day hunt.
“But we just got here,” complained Magnus, mounting his big bay mare.
“We’ll need meat for the wedding celebration. Would you have my da shamed with a meager table?”
Declan said, “I thought the wedding wasnae for another—“
“We’re going now,” Alex said in his do-as-I-say-or-die voice.
When dawn had broken, they’d set out west with a mule in tow. They would use the beast to carry the burden of their hunt back to Balforss. The three cousins rode in silence, Alex brooding, Magnus dozing in his saddle, and Declan marveling at the rainbow arched across the moor.
“It’s a good sign, aye,” Declan said, turning in his saddle to look back at Alex.
“What?”
“The rainbow. It’s a good sign.” Declan was always prattling on about signs and dreams and the old gods. Alex never gave him chaff about it, though. Cousin Declan was prescient. He dreamed of future events with starling accuracy. Once, on the eve of a battle, Declan had dreamed where the French would attack their line. As a result, they had been prepared. His dream had saved their lives.
“My mam says it’s God’s promise he willnae flood the earth like he did in Noah’s time,” Declan said, a dream-soaked look on his face. “But her granda called it the Bifröst, a bridge to the gods only warriors most skilled in battle may cross.”
“What do you think, Declan?”
“I ken it’s a sign we’ll have a good hunt.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Magnus woke. “What?”
“Go back to sleep,” Alex said with no particular animus. In truth, he didn’t care if they were successful or not. He just needed to get away from Balforss. Put some distance between him and Lucy. He needed time to cool down. Stop speaking out of anger.
He had slept fitfully, plagued with dreams of her. It had been the same dream over and over. She was slowly sinking deeper into a peat bog. He tried to reach her, to save her. Each time he would get hold of her hand, it would slip from his grasp as though greased. His dream, of course, a metaphor for his failed attempts to gain Lucy’s favor.
They stopped midday. Magnus caught two fat trout in the River Forss. They roasted them on sticks and ate them with their hands. Declan and Magnus argued amiably, Magnus poking fun at Declan’s ill luck with women, Declan poking fun at Magnus’s size.
“You look more like a bear than a man.”
Magnus countered, “You look more like a troll than a man.”
“What say you, Alex?” Declan called out.
“Few men could do better than to have a bear and a troll for friends.” Alex thought tall, lanky Declan looked nothing like a troll. In fact, he wasn’t a bad-looking fellow, really. And if Magnus shaved his beard, the big man would look far more presentable. He hadn’t seen Magnus clean-shaven since they were fifteen.
Magnus came to sit by him on the riverbank. “How does Miss Lucy like Balforss?”
He twisted his mouth to the side and blew a sudden gust of air out his nose. “She likes the house fine. She likes my ma, my da, Haddie, Mrs. Swenson’s clootie dumpling.” Alex shook his head and sighed. “She likes everything but me.”
“Surely she’s forgiven you for—”
“Aye,” he said with resignation. “She’s forgiven that, I think.”
“Then what’s the problem, man?”
“She loves someone else. Some viscount in England. But her father, the duke, made her come here to marry me.”
“Oh. I see.”
“I asked if she wanted to go home.”
“What did she say to that?” Declan asked, having quietly walked up behind them to join the conversation.
“Nothing.” Alex rubbed at the tightening in his chest. “She gave me no answer at all. Just stopped talking. What do you ken that means? When a woman says nothing?”
“Dinnae ken.” Magnus shrugged.
After a moment, Declan said, “Maybe she didnae like the question.”
Magnus scratched his beard thoughtfully. “You know, for the first time, I think you might be saying something that makes sense.”
“Aye. Because I know women fine, ye clotheid.” Declan jabbed a thumb in his chest. “I’ve got two sisters.”
The argument between them resumed, but Alex remained on the bank of the river, thinking about what Declan had said. Maybe Lucy hadn’t liked the question. Shall I return you to your precious viscount? If she didn’t like what he had asked, then maybe she didn’t want to go home to the viscount.
The bloody viscount. He wished he could fight the sodding bastard for her. End the issue altogether. No rival. No problem. But then she’d hate him for killing her precious viscount. A picture of Lord Langley formed in his mind, a skinny, nance boy with a powdered wig and rouged cheeks. He hated him.
“Jesus, Alex. If you keep brooding, you’ll make it rain,” Magnus said. “Here, man. Did I tell you the story about Donald and Kyla?”
“Aye. You have. Many times.” Magnus knew only one joke.
He launched into his story anyway. “Says Donald, ‘Ah, Kyla, drinking makes you look so bonnie.’ Says Kyla, ‘But Donald, I dinnae drink.’ Says Donald, ‘Aye. But I do.’” Magnus laughed at his own joke as if it were the first time he’d heard it. The joke never got old for him.
Later that afternoon, Alex crawled through the grass on his belly, Declan to his right, Magnus to his left. They were situated at the base of the mountains that bordered Sutherland, the extreme western fringe of Balforss land. The deer were near. They could hear the click and clatter of two stags battling. The wind was at their backs, but it never mattered when the red deer were rutting. Stags gave no thought to anything but fighting and coupling.
They inched forward and spotted them. Both big bucks. Magnificent beasts. Red coats gleaming in the afternoon sun. Antlers locked, heaving to and fro with grunts of effort. Powerful muscles rippling as each strained to gain ground.
Alex whispered to Declan, “You take the one on the right. I’ll take the left. On three.”
Snugging their rifles into their shoulders, they took aim.
Blasts followed, echoing through the glen, barely distinguishable as two. The deer fell as one. The men rose and trotted toward the kill.
“Nice shooting,” Magnus said. Alex’s shot had entered the neck and Declan’s just below the ear. Both beasts had died instantly. In the distance, they heard the challenge of another stag’s bell, a deep, hollow sounding low.
“Better reload,” Alex said. “He could come upon us unawares.” Magnus kept a sharp eye out while Declan and Alex cleaned their kill.
Declan was for the old ways. Alex waited for him to say the gralloch prayer of thanks. Then they sliced open the deer and removed their steaming entrails to leave for the corbies. With help, Alex and Magnus each hoisted a carcass around his shoulders like a yoke and headed to where they had hobbled the horses and mule. Declan, the best shot, carried the guns and kept watch for any stray stags.
They made camp in a clearing where they’d slept many times since boyhood. Although no wolves had been spotted in the Highlands for years, they tied the deer carcasses high in a tree, and then went about gathering wood for the fire.
Alex brought out the round of bread and chunk of cheese he’d pilfered from the kitchen that morning. The men put cheese between pieces of bread, skewered them on sticks, and toasted them to a light brown. The cheese oozed out of the sides and they savored each gooey bite. Magnus removed a flask of whisky from his saddlebag, took a healthy swig, and passed it to Alex.
“Do you mind the time when the white hart went after you, Alex?” Magnus asked, a string of cheese hanging from his beard.
“Oh, aye. I nearly shit myself.”
“No one would shoot it for fear of hitting you,” Magnus added.
Alex relived the moment of terror four years ago when a giant white stag had charged him. “I dropped my gun and ran screaming bloody murder, ‘Shoot it! Shoot it!’ I could feel its breath on my back, it was that close. I knew I was about to die.”
“What made you stop and turn around?” Declan asked.
Alex shrugged. “I suppose I didnae want to be stabbed in the back. Better to face the beast and have done with it.”
“What I’ve always wondered is why did the white hart back down?” Magnus asked.
“This sounds daft, but I looked in his eyes and I saw what it was thinking. He thought to himself, ‘Should I kill the lad? Or should I let him live?’ I just stood there with my arms out, waiting to die and praying to God I wouldnae.”
“God heard you,” Magnus said.
“Nae. God spoke to the white hart. Told him to let you live,” Declan said.
Magnus began another pointless argument with Declan. “Have you gone daft, man? Do you think God speaks to animals?”
“The white hart spared King David of Scotland.”
“That’s Papist nonsense,” Magnus said.
“Still, God talks to people. Why not animals?”
“Because God created us in his image. He only speaks our language.” Magnus passed Declan his flask of whisky.
“That makes no sense at all.” Declan took a long pull on the flask.
“You’re both daft,” Alex said. “I was lucky, and that’s the whole of it. But I thanked God for my life to be sure.” And that episode had marked his life. People thought he was blessed. But Alex knew better. He was just lucky, and so far, his luck had held. Would his luck finally run out with Lucy?
The sun dipped below the mountains, and the men spread their plaids on the ground for sleeping. Magnus poked up the fire. “Have you thought what you’ll do to make Lucy want you?”
Alex darkened again. “No.”
“Perhaps if you gave her something. A gift.”
“What kind of gift?”
“Something a woman likes. Jewelry, a fancy bonnet, the bitty shoes they wear on their feet.”
“Gowans,” Declan said with certainty.
“The flowers, you mean?” Alex asked.
“Dinnae listen to him, Alex. I mean it. He knows nothing about women.”
“Gowans,” Declan repeated. “I’m sure of it. Hamish Clouston couldnae get my sister to look his way. He showed up at the croft with a bunch of gowans, and Margaret went all soft and started cooing for him.” Declan stood up and minced around the fire, imitating his sister using a falsetto. “Och, did ye ken Hamish gave us the gowans. He’s sae romantic. He kens jest what I like.”
Magnus and Alex rolled about laughing.
Pointing a finger at Alex, Declan warned, “You laugh, but I’m telling you, gowans.”
…
After supper, Lucy followed Laird John into his library to search for a particular book he had on beekeeping, since she had newly taken an interest in becoming an apiarist. Stepping into the room, Lucy felt a sharp pang of homesickness, the library reminding her so much of her father’s study, sizable but cozy. Not as big as her father’s, but very nearly. Distinctly masculine.
The room even smelled like men; tobacco smoke, whisky, and musty old leather. Bookshelves lined three walls floor to ceiling, all fashioned from mahogany. Two tall windows faced the front garden. Flora had decorated the room smartly with wingback chairs by the fire, a massive desk, and a deep burgundy Persian carpet covering the majority of the wood planked floor. The whole room took on the character of Laird John, large and inviting. Imposing yet warm.
“Ah. Here it is.” Laird John removed a well-worn leather-bound volume from the shelf. “The Bee-Master’s Companion.”
“Thank you.”
“Feel free to avail yourself of any book that interests you.”
Lucy lingered for a moment, liking the room and not wanting to leave Laird John’s company. He was so like the duke, and she missed her father. She wondered how they could seem so similar. The two men looked nothing alike. From all outward appearances, they had little in common.
“How did you and my father meet?”
“Did he never tell you?” John asked, surprised.
“All he ever said was that you were his oldest and dearest friend.”
“It’s a long story. Are you sure you want me to tell it?”
“Oh, yes. Please do. I’m not tired at all.”
“Have a seat by the fire, lass. Sherry?”
“Yes, thank you.” Lucy made herself comfortable while Laird John poured her a sherry and a whisky for himself.
“We met when we were young men, very young men. Your father was a lieutenant aboard the HMS Prince George headed for the Colony of New York—what is now America. I was on my way to my first commission in the army.” John handed her the sherry and took the other seat next to the fire. “There was a war going on then, mind ye?”
“Of course. The American War of Independence.”
“We became well acquainted during the passage across the Atlantic. He was a lot like me. We fancied ourselves men of the world. When we made port, we wandered toward the city, looking for adventure. It was our first bit of freedom since we’d left the shores of England, and we meant to make the best of it.”
Laird John’s gaze wandered to the peat fire as if seeing the memory play out in the glowing embers.
“Straight away, we met a man who looked a gentlemanly sort. He spotted us for strangers and asked politely would we like assistance finding our way ’round town. Seeing as the man was agreeable, we accepted his offer and joined his good company. We visited a tavern called the Bull’s Head where there was much drinking and gambling. After we drank quite a lot of strong ale, the gentleman who called himself Smith, suggested we visit a bawdy house.”
“That sounds like my father.” She dipped her chin.
John Sinclair tugged at his stock uncomfortably. “I, of course, cautioned your da against such an unwholesome enterprise. But, as his friend, I couldnae abandon him.”
“I’ll bet.” Lucy gave him a skeptical quirk of an eyebrow.
Laird John emitted a nervous throat-clearing before continuing. “Aye, well. We followed Smith to a rather dodgy part of town. He led us down a narrow lane between houses, and we were set upon by villains.”
Lucy couldn’t stop herself from blurting, “What did you do?”
“It was dark. I ken’t there were three men. One threw a sack over your da’s head. I drew my dirk and stuck his attacker in the side. Your da threw off the sack and drew his sword. We faced the villains shoulder to shoulder. Aye, they were bigger, but we were quicker.” John turned to Lucy again, smiling. “We made quite a racket, yelling and flailing aboot.”
Laird John shook his head and laughed to himself. “Two of His Majesty’s soldiers came rolling out of the whore house—swords drawn, no trousers, and drunk as hell. The braw laddies chased the blackguards awa’ but not before your da and I got a bit of our own back, aye.”
Lucy clapped her hands and laughed, thoroughly tickled by her father’s youthful escapades. “What happened to Smith?”
“He ran,” John said with disgust. “We suspected our man Mr. Smith may have been the orchestrator of the ambush.”
“Did they ever catch him?”
“No. But that was the end of our adventures.”
“So, you saved my father’s life.”
“Och, nae. The duke saw it that way, but one could also say I nearly got him killed.” John laughed heartily then finished off his whisky.
“Thank you for telling me that story.” She got up, placed the sherry glass on the table, and headed toward the door.
“My pleasure. Good night, Lucy.”
She paused. “Do you think Alex will be back tomorrow?”
Laird John smiled back at her. “The thing to remember about Alex is he’s exactly the way I was at his age. Brash and braw. Dinnae fash. He’ll come ’round.”