Sarah Gabriel (2 page)

Scotland, Edinburgh
July
1822

F
airies!
You cannot possibly mean, sirs”—Patrick MacCarran leaned forward, knuckles pressed on the lawyers’ desk—“that a parcel of blasted fairies stands between us and our inheritance!” He glanced at his three siblings, while the men behind the oak desk, one seated, the other standing, remained silent.

“We need not assume ruination.” James MacCarran, Viscount Struan, gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders in good black serge as he spoke quietly. He deliberately maintained an unruffled demeanor and casual pose as he leaned against the doorframe of the lawyers’ study, though he felt as stunned as the others. “Let Mr. Browne and Sir Walter finish before we decide that we are done for.”

His siblings looked grim—his sister, Fiona, pale but
composed, while their younger brothers, William and Patrick, scowled. James preferred distance in most things, actual and emotional, and that served him well today. Scarcely a farthing would come to any of them from their grandmother unless the astonishing conditions of her will were met. Ruination very well could be in store for all of them, James thought.

“What could make this worse?” Patrick shoved a hand through his dark hair.

“A few elves might complement this disaster nicely,” William murmured.

James huffed a curt laugh. William, his next younger brother, was a quiet-spoken physician who had hoped to open a hospital with his inheritance; Fiona, their sister, was an independent, serene woman with an academic bent for the study of fossil rock that made her any scholar’s equal. Now Fiona stood to calm Patrick, a signet clerk with greater ambitions. The funds could support his younger siblings’ dreams, James knew. As for himself, he was content with a professorship in geology; he had few real needs.

But what Grandmother unexpectedly, posthumously asked was untenable.

“Lady Struan’s fortune will be divided, with conditions,” Mr. Browne said. “Apart from your grandfather’s estate at his death a few years ago, which was a modest sum after his considerable expenditures—”

“He helped ease the suffering of displaced Highlanders during the clearances of so many from their homes,” Fiona said. “None of us begrudge his decisions.”

Browne nodded. “Lady Struan acquired a personal fortune through publications and properties, which
she allowed Lord Eldin, her adviser in those matters, to sell for her in the last few years. All but Struan House, which goes to James, who inherited his grandfather’s title of Viscount Struan two years ago.”

James leaned in the doorway, listening. As eldest grandson, he had inherited the title, for their father had died when he and Fiona had been nine, their brothers younger. Now a titled but less than wealthy peer, James had a modest bank account, and earned most of his living as a professor of natural philosophy at the University of Edinburgh.

He had mourned his grandmother privately, concealing his grief as was natural for him to do, and he had hoped that her fortune would ensure the future for his siblings, particularly his sister, as he himself could not adequately do as a penniless viscount.

But—
fairies
. James felt as bewildered as the others. He glanced at Patrick, who still seethed; Fiona, her air of serenity overcoming what was sometimes a fiery temper; and William, who sat with steepled fingertips, brow furrowed beneath golden hair, as skilled at hiding his thoughts as James. As a boy, James had kept himself to himself while mourning the deaths of his parents and the separation of his siblings into other homes—William and Patrick to uncles, James and Fiona to a great-aunt. He had never entirely emerged from that self-imposed exile of the heart, and he preferred it that way.

William cleared his throat. “Grandmother was fond of fairy tales and scribbled some of her own, but it is surprising that she took it that seriously.”

Fiona sat beside William with a graceful swirl of black satin, her bonnet’s curved rim highlighting her pretty face and wispy brown curls. Gazing at his twin
sister, James suddenly knew what she would say next.
A kerfuffle—

“It’s a kerfuffle,” she said, “but we shall resolve it.” She smiled tightly.

Did he so often guess her words from sheer logic, or the bond of twinship? A question to ponder another time, he thought, when the scientific reason he preferred could reign cool and supreme. The situation was more than a kerfuffle. It was a disaster.

“I wonder if Grandmother was fully capable when she decided these conditions,” Patrick said. “Not to imply that anyone influenced her, for we know she was stubborn. But she was very ill, at the last. William, as one of her physicians, what say you?”

William sat up a little. “Her condition made her increasingly frail, but her mind seemed balanced. I noticed no diminished faculties. James would agree—he saw Grandmother a good bit in the past year, when she was in the house on Charlotte Square.”

“She never mentioned the will,” James answered, “but she always knew her mind. I never doubted her faculties.” He rented a house near his grandmother’s town house on Charlotte Square, where she had lived during the last months of her illness, and had seen her a good deal during that time, and they had grown closer than before.

“I regret I was not able to confide in you, though I knew of Lady Struan’s plan.” Sir Walter Scott smiled a little sadly, James noticed. The poet and author had long been a friend to Lady Struan, and though James did not know Sir Walter well himself, he admired the man’s genius and generosity.

“Grandmother so enjoyed your visits, Sir Walter,” Fiona said. “We appreciate your attentions to her.
She looked forward to King George’s arrival in Edinburgh, too. It is tragic and ironic that she died before the great event.”

Sir Walter nodded. “She enthusiastically helped me plan the festivities. I am sure she will be there in spirit for the king’s jaunt next month.”

“We will be there in her honor,” James said. “Let us hear the rest of Grandmother’s fairy scheme, if you will, Mr. Browne.”

“Aye. Lady Struan’s executor, Sir Walter, consulted with her at length, and we know there is no more estimable or trustworthy gentleman in all Scotland.”

Sir Walter Scott shook his head slightly, a modest fellow, James thought; all Scotland and indeed England might agree with Mr. Browne. “Go on, sir,” James said.

“Now that the will has been read, there are only a few points to discuss further. Each of you has some individual conditions.” Browne turned a few pages. “These obligations must be fulfilled. Lady Struan stipulated that if one of you fails to comply, everyone fails to comply.”

“What if we do not meet the conditions?” Patrick asked.

“Then most of the inheritance will go to another party.” Mr. Browne took up a stack of folded and sealed letters and handed them around with Sir Walter’s assistance, the author using his cane as he limped around the desk to present a packet to Fiona with a small bow, while James, Patrick, and William got letters, too.

“Once the conditions are met,” Mr. Browne continued, “you will each receive an equal share of Lady Struan’s fortune—approximately fifty thousand pounds
apiece. However, your portions could be reduced to five thousand pounds if you forgo the conditions of the will.”

In the dumbstruck silence that followed, James looked down at his own letter.
The Right Hon. The Viscount Struan,
read the outside of the page. Written in a clerk’s hand, not his grandmother’s—she would have called him James, or James Arthur MacCarran if she was displeased. He smiled a bit ruefully.

“If you wish, open the letters now, or wait,” Mr. Browne said. “Share the contents among yourselves, but please keep them private otherwise. The requests must be adhered to exactly, or the inheritance reverts to the lesser amount.”

“Well, I will not wait,” Patrick peeled open the seal, unfolded the page, and read quickly and silently. “Ah. I am to help win back Duncrieff Castle, lost to debts ten years past. But—what the devil! I must make a love match for myself, with someone of…fairy blood.” He looked at the others in disbelief. “It’s absurd! How could I do that?”

“Lady Struan asked me to advise you in that,” Sir Walter said. “Your grandmother was a considered expert on fairy lore, as you know, having written more than one book on folklore and superstition.”

“Given Grandmother’s beliefs, it’s not surprising,” William said. He folded his page and slipped it into a pocket. “I’ve been asked to do something similar. James?”

Frowning, James held the unopened paper in his hand. He wanted to escape this meeting and return to his geological studies; he had a journal article to complete on evidence of ancient heat at the earth’s core, and he had a lecture to prepare for his university
classes in natural philosophy and geology. He did not want to wait on this matter of the will any further, though he had little choice.

After the events he had endured at Waterloo years before, he had decided to lead as dull a life as possible—numbingly boring, lacking risk, involvement, and emotion, to the best of his ability. He had experienced enough drama and excess for a lifetime. Safe, dull—he had made himself appreciate its merits, if he could not enjoy it.

Marrying a fairy, even a supposed one, would not be part of the satisfyingly dull bachelor existence he had planned for himself.

Fiona slipped her letter into her black net reticule. “I am to continue the charitable work that I’ve been doing, teaching English to Gaelic-speaking Highlanders,” she said. “I am also expected to marry a Highland gentleman with fortune and breeding. Nothing to dispute there,” she said with a smile. “But I must also draw fairy images from life. That’s unlikely, either finding fairies, or drawing them well.” She laughed. “But the drawings are for James. Why so?”

His siblings, and the lawyers, all looked at him. Sighing, James opened his letter, studied its contents, while a muscle bounced in his jaw. “I am expected…to stay at Struan House as its viscount,” he said, “and complete the book that Grandmother was working on before her death. I don’t know what book it is, though.”

“Grandmother’s big book of fairies,” Patrick drawled. “She was writing something of the sort. Certainly not a topic to suit Professor MacCarran, who has written a thick tome on geologic strata.” He smiled wryly.

“What else?” Fiona, as usual, knew when he was withholding something.

“And I am to marry a Highland bride of fairy descent,” James admitted.

“Good Lord, all of us,” Patrick said, shaking his head.

“What if we cannot meet these requirements, Mr. Browne?” Fiona asked. “Who would inherit the bulk of Grandmother’s accounts?”

Mr. Browne glanced at the page. “Nicholas MacCarran, Earl of Eldin.”

“Cousin Nick,” Patrick growled, “that damnable, rotten, scheming scoundrel—sorry, Fiona,” he apologized.

“The lying rogue,” Fiona continued, “who stole our clan seat, Duncrieff Castle, away from our chief, his own cousin, after his death at Waterloo. Even now Nicholas enjoys the profits of that estate, while we—” She stopped, looking away. James knew that she still felt a keen heartbreak over their cousin’s death—after all, their young chief, Archibald MacCarran, had been Fiona’s betrothed.

“Nick called it a good business arrangement,” Patrick said, scowling.

“So if we do not comply, Eldin inherits all,” James said, low and flat.

“But for the lesser funds apportioned to each of you, yes,” Mr. Browne said.

“Why would Grandmother do this?” Fiona asked.

“So that we would meet her conditions,” James drawled.

“Your grandmother was working on a book about Highland fairy lore,” Sir Walter said. “She hoped to restore the legendary fairy luck of the Mac
Carrans, which she feared had become dilute over generations.”

William snorted. “I could find any Highland lass and call her part fairy.”

“That is why Lady Struan asked me to help,” Sir Walter said. “She wanted you to do this—or it all goes to Lord Eldin. Let that be your incentive,” he added.

James stepped away from the door. Write a damned fairy book and find a fairy bride, of all things. He did not want a wife of any sort yet. The fortune itself meant little to him, but his siblings had scant resources for their own plans and futures. And like the others, he wanted to be sure that the funds were protected from Lord Eldin, the only man he had ever truly despised.

He should have shot the blackguard when he had the chance.

“I must go,” he said abruptly. “A meeting at the university. And now, it seems, I shall have to request a sabbatical. Until later, then.” He bowed his head, made his farewells. Snatching up his cane, he turned and limped away.

Edinburgh, Scotland
August
1822

L
ifting the embroidered, flounced satin of her silver-blue court dress in one gloved hand, Elspeth MacArthur moved with a surge of overdressed, perfumed women, and glanced around for Lucie Graeme. She had lost sight of her cousin in the sea of satins, silks, damask, lace, jewels, feathers, and Highland tartan. The feathers in her own hair felt as if they were slipping loose from her dark curls, held in place by pearled pins. She lifted a hesitant hand to that softness and looked around.

The press of the crowd was unbearably warm and close. Perhaps she should flee entirely, Elspeth thought, like Lady Graeme, Lucie’s mother, who only moments before had pleaded faintness, and had been quickly escorted out by Sir John, Lucie’s brother. And then Lucie, following them, had been swallowed in the spectacle: more than two thousand ladies and gentle
men were crammed into a few rooms and corridors in Holyroodhouse, while each Scottish lady awaited her chance to be presented to King George the Fourth, lately arrived in Scotland.

With Lady Graeme taken ill, Elspeth wondered how she and Lucie would be introduced to the king, since only those who had met King George previously had the right to introduce ladies to him today. Oh for the gift of vanishing just now, Elspeth thought, looking around—if only such were possible. Her grandfather claimed that the purest fairy blood ran in her veins, and could give her wonderful abilities, but she had her doubts about all of that. To be sure, she did have a touch of Second Sight, but it was inconvenient more than magical, and the Sight was common enough in the Highlands.

No intuition had warned her to keep clear of the palace on this long, hot day, where the waiting had been interminable, and the reason for coming—greeting the king—now looked to be canceled altogether for Elspeth and Lucie.

She was glad that her grandfather had let business meetings keep him away, though he would have relished the event, dressing to the teeth in tartan of his own make, as the Highland laird and weaver he was, and he would have spun exuberant tales of his early smuggling days and his personal encounters with fairies. And he would have soundly embarrassed their Edinburgh cousins, Elspeth was sure; Donal MacArthur was like strong whiskey, best taken in small quantities.

He had insisted that Elspeth go in the company of her cousins. “What other chance will you ever have
to meet Fat Geordie?” he had boomed, shushing her protests.

None at all, now, she thought, as she edged through clusters of women dressed like plumed, chattering birds, all waiting to meet Fat Geordie, as many Highlanders called the king, formerly the Prince Regent. The men accompanying the ladies wore either tartaned splendor or austere black and white. Most ignored her as she passed, though she caught several interested male glances as she walked through the crowd until she neared the huge set of doors at the far end of the room. The entrance to the reception room was guarded by Royal Archers in green; inside, the king greeted hundreds of Scottish ladies one by one with their small escort parties.

Elspeth wished he would just greet them all at once and have done with it.

Bumping against the lush, satin-draped curves of a large woman, she stumbled in her borrowed slippers, and clutched the gauzy flounces of her gown to keep from tripping further. The confection of a gown, sheer silk over pale blue satin, the layers embroidered in silver, had been remade from a gown belonging to Lucie. Avoiding another woman, Elspeth turned again, only to connect with the angular jut of a male elbow.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” came a deep, murmured apology. A solid arm clothed in smooth black wool brushed her bare shoulder, and a hand came swiftly to her elbow in support, while she leaned inadvertently against the man.

Elspeth looked up at the tall stranger. His broad chest and wide shoulders were clothed in a fine black coat, cream brocade waistcoat, and snowy neck cloth.
Afternoon sunlight, cascading from tall windows, gilded his brown hair. She glimpsed a firm jawline, straight nose, the slant of sideburns. His touch, through her ivory elbow glove, was warm, strong, brief—and made her heart jump a little.

“Pardon,” he repeated.

“Quite all right, sir,” she answered. “The crowd—”

“So true. Enchanted,” he murmured in farewell, as he moved past her. The mingled scents of spicy soap, of green and outdoors, wafted after him. Elspeth closed her eyes, took a breath. Something about the man heightened her senses.

Indeed, for suddenly she felt light-headed, the odd sensation that sometimes preceded a “knowing,” when the Sight spontaneously showed her images or told her truths about others. Touch could trigger it, and the gentleman had just grasped her arm.

Oh please, not now,
she thought. When the Sight came over her, sometimes her tongue loosened with it, so that she spoke her mind too freely. She could not make a fool of herself here. Rising on her toes, feeling a little anxious, she was relieved to finally see Lucie in the crowd, looking around as she did. Elspeth hurried toward her.

“Oh, Lucie,” she said. “How is Lady Graeme feeling?”

“There you are!” Lucie linked arms with her. “Mother is better now that she’s out of the crowd. John left her with friends for a few moments and came back with me—but Sir John did not attend the Gentlemen’s Assembly the other day, and so cannot introduce us himself. But he’s found a substitute. You look as lovely as Cinderella at the ball,” she added, patting Elspeth’s arm, “and we will find you a prince today!”

“Aye? If it were midnight, I could go home,” Elspeth said. “Any prince would expect me to live in the Lowlands, and I intend to stay in the Highlands. But Grandfather is determined to marry me off to some Lowlander—that’s why he brought me here to Edinburgh, I think. Not for the king, but to find a prince.” She made a face, and Lucie laughed.

“You are both stubborn. Come with me. John has arranged for his friend Lord Struan to introduce us.”

“Struan?” Elspeth looked quickly at Lucie. “Is he from the Highlands? Struan House sits at the head of our glen—”

“He’s a Lowlander I think, but possibly he has inherited there. He is a viscount now.” Lucie leaned toward her. “And he could be anyone’s prince, if he wasn’t such a scowler. Even John says so. Struan teaches at the university, and John attended some of his lectures. Lord Struan is very knowledgeable, says John, though somber. Still, he’s a catch, and does not attend many social events, so it is pure luck to see him here.”

“I am not looking for a catch. I shall be a spinster.” Her grandfather wanted her to make a good marriage in the South, but that went against her own dreams.

“You are not suited to spinsterhood,” Lucie said. “But you will never find the right match to please you or your grandfather if you stay in the Highlands weaving your tartan and rarely coming to the city. Nearly two years have passed since we made our debut together here in Edinburgh, and I’ve gone to many parties, and even had a few suitors, and still no one pleases, quite. Truculent fellows. Look, there’s John with Viscount Struan.”

“Perhaps you will find a prince instead—” Elspeth stopped, and stared.

Beside Cousin John, whose blond handsomeness, in severe black and white, made him look near angelic, stood a tall gentleman—the same man who had brushed against her earlier, and had made her heart flutter madly. But that was nothing to do with him, she told herself; just the close crowd, the August heat, and too few open windows.

The viscount stood with John, both dressed in black and white, and as she walked forward with Lucie, she studied him a little. He had a classically balanced profile, his hair thick and golden brown, his dark sideburns emphasizing the stern set of his jaw. He was tall enough to lean slightly as he listened, and despite his sober expression, his features had a touch of beauty. But she would not tell Lucie that, and sound like a romantic ninny.

“He is indeed a scowler,” Elspeth whispered.

“But so handsome. Let him frown, it suits him,” Lucie said.

“The room is full of handsome gentlemen, John among them,” Elspeth replied.

Now the strange feeling returned—she felt light-headed, even breathless. She felt as if a knowing might come over her—either that, or the oppressive air in the room was finally too much. She flapped her painted ivory-and-paper fan a bit frantically.

Lucie, with feathers in her blond hair and wearing a flounced pale pink gown, was not the delicate porcelain doll she appeared as she pulled Elspeth forward through clusters of women, where shawls slipped from smooth shoulders, pearls and jewels flashed, and the wider hooped skirts peculiar to court dress swung gently.

“Ah, ladies,” John said, smiling. “Lord Struan, may I introduce my sister, Miss Lucie Graeme, and our cousin, Miss Elspeth MacArthur of Kilcrennan.”

“Charmed,” Struan said, taking Lucie’s gloved hand and then Elspeth’s. She offered her fingers to him and looked up.

Breathless indeed. She felt as if she had come face-to-face with a magnificent warrior angel come to life. Standing in a shaft of sunlight, the man was even more attractive than she had realized, with clean masculine features and wavy chestnut hair liberally threaded with gold. His eyes, brilliant blue, seemed cool and reserved.

“Miss MacArthur,” he said, his voice deep and quiet, a harmonic comfort in the cacophony of the room. “Kilcrennan sounds familiar.”

“Her grandfather, our cousin, owns Kilcrennan Weavers,” John supplied.

“Ah. Excellent cloth, I’ve heard it said. Sir, I would be delighted to include your sister and cousin in my own party until you return.” The viscount inclined his head.

“Thank you, Struan,” John said, and within moments, took polite leave of them.

“We appreciate this very much, Lord Struan,” Lucie said. “We are so excited to be here. King George is the first British monarch to visit Scotland since Charles the Second, I believe,” she went on in an overly bright tone. “I wonder how long before we will be admitted to the reception room.”

“Not long, Miss Graeme,” Struan answered. “The crowd seems to have inched forward in the past hour.” Elspeth raised her fan to hide a smile.

“We waited simply hours,” Lucie said, “first in that awful line of carriages—miles long, that was—and then these dreadful crowds in the palace rooms. It is taking all day. But we shall soon have our introductions, and our kiss.”

Elspeth blinked. “Kiss?” She glanced at Struan—could not help it, though she did not want to, so pointedly. The viscount was watching her with those cool blue eyes.

“Every lady here will receive a kiss of courtesy from the king,” Lucie said.

“Are we expected to swoon?” Elspeth said, without thinking.

“Not at all, Miss MacArthur,” Struan said, looking mildly amused. He offered an arm to each of them, and Elspeth took his left, noticing that he carried a cane, as did many fashionable men, this one hooked above her hand at his elbow. A slight limp favored his left leg, she saw—unlike many, he required the cane’s assistance. She frowned, wondering at the cause of it.

Suddenly she knew why; as her hand lightly touched his arm, Elspeth saw a quick image in her mind of men running, falling, and smoke drifting over a field, while explosions sounded faintly. Then it was gone, and she gasped. “Oh—the war—”

Struan looked down. “Miss MacArthur? Pardon, I did not hear what you said.”

“N-nothing,” she said, flushing with embarrassment. Lucie leaned to peer at her, puzzled, and Elspeth looked away. Though she had known Lucie all her life, she had told her city cousin little about her gift of Sight. Lucie, with her good heart and practical head, was not very curious about such things.

Struan guided them toward an elderly woman standing with two young women, all silk and feathers, elegance and hauteur. Two gentlemen stood with them, one in somber black, the other in a red plaid Highland kilt, jacket, bonnet, sporran, and socks. The outfit even included the
sgian dubh
, or small black knife, tucked in the top of his sock. Yet Elspeth sensed that he was not a Highlander.

When Struan made quick introductions, Elspeth barely caught the names. “My great-aunt, Lady Rankin of Kelso, my sister, Miss Fiona MacCarran, and Miss Charlotte Sinclair. My brother, Dr. William MacCarran. And Sir Philip Rankin.”

“Pleased,” Lady Rankin said, not sounding so. She was tall and buxom in cream silk trimmed in chocolate brown flounces, the skirt filled out by wide hoops, though fashion no longer required it in court dress; her white-plumed headdress made her look like an eight-foot tall ostrich, Elspeth thought. Feeling like a pale mouse by comparison, she lifted her chin and smiled.

Both Struan and his brother were impeccably dressed in black cutaway coats and trousers, with waistcoat and neck cloths of white and cream. Not a hint of thistle, heather, tartan, or lightheartedness about them, though Sir Philip wore a bright red plaid. The ladies all wore formal court dress, though Fiona’s dress was of somber plum satin with touches of black, as if for mourning. Elspeth tilted her head, wondering who had passed away to affect the siblings and not the others.

Ah, Lady Struan
, she remembered, wondering if the kind, elderly lady of that estate, an acquaintance
of her grandfather’s who had passed away earlier that summer, was related to Struan and his siblings.
Grandmother,
the word came to her then, and she bit her lip to keep from saying it aloud.

“Where is Kilcrennan located, Miss MacArthur?” Lady Rankin asked.

“In the Trossach Mountains, madam, in the central Highlands.”

“Oh yes! We are planning a trip there soon, to visit my nephew in his new estate,” Lady Rankin said. “We hope to tour Loch Katrine and the other sights described in Sir Walter Scott’s marvelous poetry. They say the views are magnificent.”

“Truly beautiful,” Elspeth agreed.

“I was not aware that you plan to travel north, Aunt,” Struan said.

“Did I neglect to mention it? I am quite excited. The Highlands are marvelous to behold in the autumn. I have persuaded Miss Sinclair to accompany me, with perhaps Sir Philip or your cousin Nicholas as our traveling companions.”