Sarah Gabriel (19 page)

“I am not surprised.” They had reached the stone pier gates that led to the drive in front of the house. “What if you do not find a bride who can fulfill the requirement?”

James sighed. “I have decided to sell Struan House. It’s mine to do with as I please. We can divide the profit and need not pursue the fairy nonsense, in that case.”

“But we would lose Struan House,” Patrick said. “Our grandparents loved this place. The house and estate are as much our family legacy, now, as the inheritance.”

“We have no choice,” James said curtly. “Fairy brides are scarce.”
And unwilling
.

“Selling would solve the financial problem, perhaps. But we would still lose the inheritance to Eldin if we do not meet the rest of the will. We cannot let that happen.”

Ahead, the vehicle had stopped in front of the wide entrance steps. Nicholas, Lord Eldin, stepped down. Dressed in black from head to foot, he lifted that haughty, handsome head to survey the house and its immediate grounds.

“Perhaps Mr. Browne can more liberally interpret the will,” James said, watching Eldin.

“I doubt it,” Patrick drawled. “Jamie, you cannot imagine spending several hours in a coach with Lord Raven, over there. The man is cold and factual. Not a whit of humor or warmth to him. It’s as if someone had plucked the heart out of him long ago. Though I do not remember him like that as a lad. He was pleasant enough when we were young.”

“He was.” James had forgotten the early years, but not the betrayals he and his family had suffered since. He strode forward, determined to honor his duty as host and laird of Struan and uphold Highland hospitality, which dictated courtesy no matter the guest. “Gentlemen, this way, if you please,” he said, as he reached the entrance steps.

As they entered the house, Patrick’s words echoed in his thoughts.
It’s as if someone had plucked the heart out of him…
In a way, James felt like that himself, after Elspeth’s rejection of his proposal. He wondered, with time, if he would grow as unfeeling as the Earl of Eldin.

A shout from Angus MacKimmie caught his attention, and James turned to see the ghillie pointing toward the road, where a second landau approached. He waited until it entered the drive, then walked forward to meet it. The driver opened the door of the coach, and Sir Philip stepped out first with a mumbled greeting, turning with James to assist the ladies out of the vehicle.

“James,” Lady Rankin said as he helped her step down moments later, receiving a kiss on the cheek, “how good to see you. What an absolutely dreadful road we came over. Look who I’ve brought with me!” She gestured toward the coach. As the driver held open the door, James saw Fiona and Charlotte still
inside. His sister stepped out, her gloved hand in his, her smile quick and bright, her kiss light and welcome. Smoothing the creases from her dark gray skirt and short jacket, she moved aside, and James looked up.

Charlotte Sinclair stepped out, twitching the white skirts that fell beneath a pink velvet spencer, her blond hair neat under a white bonnet tied with matching ribbons. She smiled and stretched out her hand. “Dear James, how I’ve missed you!”

“Miss Sinclair,” James said, though they had long used first names. He stepped aside to allow Sir Philip to hand her down to the ground. “How good to see everyone. Welcome to Struan House.”

When Charlotte grabbed his arm possessively, he thought of Elspeth and her gentle pressure whenever she took his arm—he had not felt that touch for days, and realized how deeply he missed it.

An hour later, enjoying Mrs. MacKimmie’s excellent meal of cold lamb and butter-mashed turnips, James listened, nodding repeatedly, while his great-aunt explained her plans in excruciating detail. The woman scarcely took a breath, despite Patrick and Fiona’s polite attempts to interrupt her.

“Miss Sinclair has the headache and chooses to have lunch in her room,” Lady Rankin told Mrs. MacKimmie for what was probably the third time. “Send a tray upstairs to her, please.”

“Aye, madam, we’ve seen to it,” Mrs. MacKimmie answered as she moved around the room, quietly directing the two housemaids as they brought dishes to the table.

“James, I want you to find us a local guide,” she was saying now, as he sliced into another piece of lamb and added a spoonful of rowan jelly. “Sir Walter Scott
hoped to join us in our trip, but he was unable at the last moment, a prior obligation of some kind. I was so very disappointed. He would have been a superb guide on our journey through the Trossachs. His poem is set there, you know,
The Lady of the Lake
—”

“I know, Aunt,” James said. “I will ask if—”

“—though he did give us a most excellent travelogue for the area, written out in his own hand. Fiona has it—you do have it, you did not forget?”

“I have it,” Fiona said, and reached into her pocket to produce a folded letter, which she opened to reveal a page densely covered in hand script that used every available inch of paper.

“We are so excited to see Loch Katrine, described in the poem,” Lady Rankin said. “Lady Murray of Calton Hill told me at tea last week that the views there are simply breathtaking and not to be missed. Fiona, you must bring your sketchbook and pencils so that in the future we may all enjoy some pictures of our trip.”

“I have that, too, Aunt,” Fiona answered.

“Very good, madam. You will enjoy your tour,” Eldin said. “The area is quite popular with tourists. In fact, I plan to open an inn there. I’ve purchased an old castle that is in the process of being refurbished.”

“How nice!” Lady Rankin said. Glancing around the table, James noticed that his brother and sister were quiet while Sir Philip and Lady Rankin expressed their interest.

“I would be honored if any of you would choose to stay there once it is ready to accommodate guests,” Eldin said. “A reasonable price would be extended to family and friends.” James saw Patrick glance at Fiona and roll his eyes.

“Thank you, Nicholas,” Lady Rankin said. “Fiona, you might consider Lord Eldin’s hotel for your accommodations if your teaching assignment is near there.”

“Cousin Fiona would be more than welcome,” Eldin said.

“Perhaps.” Fiona folded the letter and slipped it back into her pocket.

After Lady Rankin and Fiona retired to their rooms to rest, the gentlemen remained to have coffee, electing to stay at the table. James was relieved, finding the casual choice better than retiring to the parlor. He wanted to return to his study as soon as possible, and had no desire to put forth more effort than necessary toward entertaining Eldin in particular. A housemaid brought a silver server of steaming coffee, and china cups were filled. When John Graeme expressed curiosity about the local Highland whiskey, James fetched a bottle, and though Eldin held up a hand in curt refusal—the man had spartan tastes, James knew—the others accepted small drams. James, meanwhile, drank the strong coffee, dark and bitter, adding a spoonful of sugar when he thought of Elspeth.

She was never far from his mind—even her sweet tooth had influenced him.

Much of the meal had been spent discussing engineering improvements in Scotland, which James would have found a more animated discussion if not for the glowering presence of Lord Eldin, who said little outside of brusquely ending one topic to initiate another that interested him more. James found him cool, polite, and enigmatic. Nicholas seemed keen, though, to learn as much about plans for certain Highland areas as he could.

“The roads in this glen are in very poor condition, Struan,” Nicholas said. “I do hope there are plans to repair them.”

“A portion of the damage is due to some recent severe storms. I will ask my ghillie, Mr. MacKimmie, to hire a few men to make repairs to a bridge near here,” James answered. “Though long-term repairs and replacements are needed.”

“The roads planned by the Highland Commission since the first of this century are nearly complete,” John Graeme was saying. “The work of Telford and others has made a difference throughout the Highlands. Between those roads and the older ones created under General Wade for the British campaign a hundred years ago, the Highlands are more accessible than ever. I cannot say, though, if this glen was included in the plan.”

“Likely not, from what I’ve heard,” James said. “There is a good deal of work to be done, though the costs would be considerable.”

“You should submit a report on the condition of the area to the Commissioners for Roads and Bridges in the Highlands,” John said, “which will require an engineer to assess the problems. I would be happy to do that for you.” He frowned. “But it takes months, if not longer, to gain the commission’s approval, and more time for them to find the funds, hire the teams, and acquire the materials.”

“You might better pay for it yourself, Struan,” Philip suggested, “as the road and the bridge are on your estate. Get the thing designed, hire the laborers and workmen, and have it complete by next summer.”

“True, some others have done that, finding it unwise to wait,” John agreed.

“Perhaps you are hesitant to part with the funds for the repairs,” Nicholas said.

“If it needs to be done, it will be done,” James said curtly.

“Indeed. Allow me to offer a donation for the work,” Eldin offered.

“Why would you do that?” James responded warily.

Eldin shrugged. “It is a pretty glen, from what I saw as we traveled through. I hear it is a place of fairy legends, too. I’m partial to fairies,” he added.

Was the man mocking them, was he outright insulting, or was he serious about the offer? James narrowed his eyes. “There are interesting legends here, as in most places in the Highlands. As for the work on the estate or in this glen, it is no concern of yours, sir.”

“I do not offer out of the goodness of my heart,” Eldin said. “I intend to open a hotel at the head of Loch Katrine, and this glen would be an easy way for travelers to come north. Naturally I would prefer that these roads and bridges be in good repair.”

“Understandable,” James said, tight-lipped. Eldin shrugged, sipped his coffee.

“How is your research going, Struan?” Philip Rankin asked. “I understand you are doing some geological exploration here, and some folklore research as well.”

“I am making progress with my investigations, thank you. My grandmother requested that I complete her last work, and that’s going well also.”

“A long while ago,” Nicholas said then, “I remember hearing about some missing fairy gold in this glen. Have you encountered such a story?”

“In passing,” James answered. “A curious tale. I doubt there is any truth to it.”

“Lady Struan may have something in her notes,” Eldin said. “Your grandmother was a thorough scholar of folklore. I had great respect for her, and her work. That she trusted you to finish her last book is not surprising.”

James inclined his head at the unexpected compliment. “I will do my best.”

“Treasure? Interesting,” Patrick said. “That bit of gold would solve problems for all of—well, it would be nice if it could be found.”

“Certainly anyone with the slightest clue would be looking for it,” Nicholas said. “The temptation exists where any legend of gold or treasure presents itself. Only natural.”

“Have you seen my cousins by any chance, Struan?” John Graeme asked, and James turned, grateful for a change in subject. “We are to meet the Glasgow architects in the morning, and so cannot stay long enough for me to arrange a visit.”

“I have met them,” James said carefully. “They are quite well.”

“Excellent,” John said. “Please give them my best regards.”

“You should invite them to dinner while Aunt Rankin is here,” Patrick said. “She and the others met Cousin Elspeth at the Ladies’ Assembly in Edinburgh, from what I understand.”

Sipping his coffee, James nodded. “As did I. Lovely girl,” he murmured.

“She seemed quite taken with you that day—though many kisses flowed that afternoon, as I recall.” Philip grinned. “You and Miss MacArthur seemed in agreement.”

“Met a Highland lass, have you?” Nicholas asked quietly. “Well. Very good.”

Sensing an edge in the tone, James turned away. He would be glad when Eldin’s fancy barouche took him out of here later, along that rough and rutted glen road.
And may the very de’il bounce him back to hell
, he thought.

R
emoving from the loom a full roller of the tartan length she had produced in the last three days, Elspeth set down the heavy bolt. She tugged the wooden roller free and set that once again on the loom. She took time to remove the last yarn sett from the loom, winding the spare yarns into bundles while she thought about the next design. Having completed several lengths of commissioned tartan, she had planned to make another lady’s arisaid pattern, but she decided to make a gift piece for James instead.

Although she did not know if she would ever see him again, she wanted him to have a length of yarn from her loom. Then, at least, she would know that part of her would always be with him.

In the past week, a veritable demon of weaving had possessed her, and she had worked what seemed night and day. Nothing like her grandfather’s work—that was indeed otherworldly—but her fast pace helped her forget all else, and lose herself to the creating of the cloth. Other weavers in the glen worked hand looms for Kilcrennan, and Elspeth went to their cottages to collect goods and give payment in coin and materials.
She had learned a good deal from them, her cousin Margaret among them. Lately some came to watch her and learn from her facile technique, and so she was further absorbed in her work. Margaret and her husband, Robbie, had tutored under Donal, an expert weaver by anyone’s standard. Only Elspeth and Peggy Graeme—and now James—knew the secret that allowed him to finish his work so quickly.

Being busy with the weaving, Elspeth had been able to avoid her grandfather’s attempts to bring up any subject involving Struan, marriage, or the future. And she avoided much thought about it, for the matter pressed upon her, heart and soul.

Leaving her cottage, she headed across the lane to the storage house where yarns and supplies were kept. Inside the dim room, bright, slender sunbeams poured through the cracks in the shutters, and motes and woolen fibers floated on the light. From a shelf, she took down a copy of Wilson’s
Key Pattern Book
, and sat at the worktable to turn the pages. Published by an Edinburgh tailor a few years earlier, the compilation contained hundreds of tartan designs, each assigned to particular clans. Some were based on old, accepted clan traditions, while many, she and her grandfather were convinced, were simply invented. And all of them had helped feed the current craze for tartan that was of such benefit to the MacArthurs of Kilcrennan and other Scottish weavers.

She was so immersed in studying the various tartans meticulously hand-colored on each page that she hardly noticed a knock, or the door opening, until sunlight poured over the pages of the book. She glanced up.

“Margaret!” Sliding from her stool, she gave her
cousin a welcoming embrace. “I did not expect you here today!”

Margaret Lamont smiled, round face beaming, brown eyes sparkling. Her red hair was swept back in a thick braid wrapped and pinned at the back of her head, and she was tall and a bit heavyset, her hands rough and pink from the work she did, working almost daily with wools and dye baths. “Reverend Buchanan kindly took me here on his way elsewhere,” Margaret answered.

Knowing that her cousin was expecting a fourth child, Elspeth saw a difference even over the last few weeks, the girl’s figure increasingly full, a pretty flush on her cheeks. “You look healthy,” she said. “And I hope you are not working with the dye baths, for it is not good for your back, and you’ve said the smell makes you quite ill.”

“True. My husband has asked me to let others do the dyeing, while I do the spinning and combing. Today I had some free time, with my sister doing the dyeing, my mother watching my children, and so I thought to get some fresh air and visit Kilcrennan, to see what you and Uncle Donal have been weaving with my yarns.” She smiled.

“Your yarns are the best, and make wonderful weaving,” Elspeth said. “I’ve just finished several tartans this week, and just now I’m searching for a new pattern.”

Margaret came forward to peer at the book Elspeth had opened. “We’re very fortunate to have this resource,” she said, speaking softly in Gaelic, as she and Elspeth always did. “Tartan is in great demand since the king’s visit, and many are ordering lengths from
the Kilcrennan Weavers, I hear. The demand will keep you, and myself, busy for a while to come.”

“I’m glad,” Elspeth said. “Grandda is content when he’s busy at the weaving.”

“What sett will you do next?” Margaret looked over her shoulder.

Elspeth flipped pages in the book. “I cannot find the one I want, which is, ah, MacCarran,” she said.

“Lord Struan’s plaid?” Margaret asked. “You met him at Struan House, I know. Reverend Buchanan told me, and your grandfather told me, too, just now, when I arrived. He and Peggy Graeme said…quite a bit without saying so directly, Elspeth.”

She felt herself blush. “Ah, some secrets Grandda cannot keep for long.”

“And some he will keep a lifetime. He has your best interest at heart.”

“I know.” Elspeth turned another page. “Lord Struan does not have a kilt of his own, so I thought to weave the cloth for him. He can have it made up in Edinburgh.”

“Would this be your wedding gift?”

“Now I know you’ve been chatting with my grandfather.”

“It is customary for a bride to make her husband a tartan of his clan. I did that for my Robbie Lamont when we married.”

“This is a parting gift,” Elspeth murmured.

“Peggy Graeme and your grandfather love you very much,” Margaret said quietly. “They fret over you as if you were their own child. And those Buchanans are gossiping now, too, which makes Peggy angry. She does not mind whatever happened between you and
Lord Struan—she likes him. But she fears this will ruin you in the future so that no man will have you for a wife once he hears of it.” She paused. “She wishes you would accept the laird’s offer. You would be wise to marry him if he has offered, Elspeth. And if you care about him. Only then, mind you.”

Turning another page without seeing what was there, Elspeth sighed. “It is all my doing, this kerfuffle. I asked him to ruin me, Margaret,” she answered. “I wanted to escape the Lowland marriage that Grandda was so set on arranging. But I never thought—well, no matter.” She looked away.

“If you did not like MacDowell, you should have told your grandfather outright.”

“I did, but he was determined—if not Mr. MacDowell, then some other Lowland suitor. Now he has set his mind on Lord Struan. I know he wants my happiness. All of you want that.” She saw her cousin nod, listening. “But I want to stay here at Kilcrennan. I thought that if no one would marry me, the matter would be settled. But Lord Struan…has offered. He is not obligated, however, because it was all my idea.”

Margaret sighed. “Oh dear. Still, I can understand. I have not seen him myself, but Peggy says he is a lovely braw man.”

“Oh, he is,” Elspeth said, and this time she knew she blushed furiously.

“And did he? Ruin you, I mean. Though I should not ask,” Margaret added.

“He is a gentleman, and that is all I will say. But I admit that what happened was…wonderful, and unforgettable. And I made a mistake, because I never expected—” Her voice caught.

“To fall in love?” Margaret asked quietly.

Elspeth flipped pages frantically, ignoring that. “I cannot find the pattern I want.”

“The MacCarrans are a small clan. Perhaps it is not in Wilson’s publication.”

“My grandfather has notebooks with all the patterns that the Kilcrennan Weavers have made over generations. Wait.” Elspeth reached toward a shelf and took down a black leather notebook, much worn, with slips of paper stuck among tattered pages, the whole tied with red yarn. She began to look through that, turning pages quickly. “Ah, MacCarran.” She opened the page to show Margaret. “You were right. Here it is.”

They leaned together to study two open pages, which were filled with ink and pencil sketches and charted weaving notations. “It says here that the MacCarrans are a sept of the MacDonalds of the Isles. And that one must be the MacCarran plaid,” Margaret said, pointing with a fingertip.

“Aye, it is! My great-great-grandfather wrote these notes,” Elspeth said. She read the marginal note along the side of the page. “It says, ‘Kilcrennan Weavers made this tartan for a laird of the MacCarran clan in the years before the Jacobite Wars.’”

“Ah. Not all the old clan tartans are included in Wilson’s pattern book, so you are fortunate to have your grandfather’s notes. So many of the ancient plaids were not fixed designs for a clan, but varied from glen to glen, depending on local weavers and the plant dyes available for those who colored the yarns.”

“True,” Elspeth agreed. Looking at the ink sketch of the tartan design, Elspeth scanned the color names and the penciled numbers that were the weaving in
structions. “Twenty warp threads of deep blue…twenty warp of forest green…ten weft threads of red, five weft of white,” she read. Those yarn threads, stretched on the loom in the warp or forward direction and the weft, or crosswise direction, would make up one repeat or “sett” of the pattern, which was then repeated for the width of the plaid. “This would be a very handsome tartan.”

“I’ve heard something of the MacCarrans,” Margaret said. “A small clan with a singular history. Do you know their clan motto?”

Elspeth shook her head. “Lord Struan did mention a tradition of a fairy ancestor, but he…is not a believer in such himself. It is all fancy, he says.”

“Then he should spend more time in this glen, and with the MacArthurs of Kilcrennan,” Margaret said. “You must ask your viscount about the MacCarran motto.”

“He is not my viscount.” Elspeth took a scrap of paper and a pencil from a box on the table, and began to copy the sett instructions. “I may not have occasion to speak with him before he leaves for the city. I may not see him again at all,” she said as firmly as she could. “I will send the tartan length to Edinburgh when it is woven, and if he likes it, Lord Struan may take it to an Edinburgh tailor.” She copied carefully, her heart thumping as she thought of James in Edinburgh, and apart from her.

“He will love it. And you should deliver the gift yourself.”

Elspeth looked up. “Go to Edinburgh?”

Margaret watched her. “Let me tell you their motto, since you are too stubborn to ask him about it yourself. It is something you may want to know.”

Elspeth shrugged as if it did not matter, but waited intently.

“The MacCarrans keep a golden cup at their castle seat—it was given to their clan generations ago by their fairy ancestor. Around its base, I have heard, are some engraved words.” She paused. “‘Love makes its own magic,’ reads the fairy cup of Duncrieff.”

Elspeth sighed. “That is beautiful.”

“I thought you might find it interesting.”

“Oh, Margaret,” Elspeth said. “What have I done?”

“Only you know that,” Margaret answered. “From what I know of this, and of you—I say marry the man. No matter what obstacle exists, or why you refuse, ask your heart, and follow its lead. The MacArthurs of Kilcrennan have some secrets that we, their friends, are wise not to know. But follow your heart, and all will be well, I’m sure of it.”

“He proposed out of responsibility, when the situation was mostly my doing. And Grandda needs me here, even if he says he does not.”

“What if it could be sorted out? There is always a solution. Surely your Sight tells you something about this?”

She shrugged. “I feel…that he cares. A little.”

“Listen to me,” Margaret said. “Nothing else is as important as loving the one you love. You can find a way, with this.”

“I wish it could be sorted through…but I am not sure.”

“Sometimes we complicate love when it is a simple, beautiful thing of its own nature.” Margaret smiled. “If you love him, then tell him so. You may be surprised to see what happens. Give the man, and the future, a chance.”

Without reply, Elspeth stood and walked toward the baskets and shelves of yarn. She chose skeins of dyed yarns for the MacCarran plaid, taking the moments with her back turned to compose herself, for her thoughts tumbled. Suddenly she wanted to weep, and to run over the hills to Struan House before he left—and before she turned twenty-one and she belonged, by fairy bargain, to those she did not know. But Margaret had never heard the whole of that story—Donal and Elspeth had kept it close.

Margaret chose some skeins of yarn from another basket. “Elspeth, your grandfather needs more of the red and the yellow for his work.” She handed them to Elspeth. “Take them to him. Go on—there are things to be said between you. Start there.”

Elspeth took the yarn and gave Margaret a hug. Within moments she crossed to the other cottage and knocked, entering. Her grandfather glanced up as she set the yarns on a table beside his loom, and she saw that he did not really need those colors. There were ample amounts already there. But Margaret was right—there were things that needed explaining. Elspeth faced him. “Grandfather,” she said.

“Aye then,” he said, stopping his work. “What have you to say?”

“Kilcrennan Weavers is flourishing, Grandda. And that depends in part on your ability to weave tartan so quickly, by virtue of your skill, and your secret.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

“We can meet the orders for tartan faster than many others, though only we know why. Otherwise, to do this much work, we would need eight or ten more weavers to help us fill our orders. There are not that many to be found in this glen—Margaret’s husband
has his own small weaving business, and he might join us, but it is not enough to replace the work you do when the magic is upon you.”

“I have been meaning to speak to Robbie Lamont about that very thing. I will not be here forever at Kilcrennan.”

“Oh you will,” Elspeth insisted. “And I will help you. You and I and Robbie can train new weavers. But for now, with so many orders, and the tartan madness upon the city folk, your fairy gift allows Kilcrennan Weavers to thrive and grow.”

“Elspeth,” he said quietly. “We do not need to fill all those requests ourselves.”

“But you love this business, and you have put your life into building it. And we have come to rely on your fairy magic, and the goodwill of the fairy ilk.”