Lowland Romance Collection - Books 1-3 E-Book

Helen Susan Swift

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The first three books in 'Lowland Romance', a series of Scottish historical romance novels by Helen Susan Swift, now in one volume!
The Handfasters: Scotland, 1811. Coming from the Highlands to Edinburgh in search of a husband, Alison Lamont finds herself in all sorts of trouble. Thrown out of a fashionable ball for a stolen kiss, she flees from a riot in the notorious Old Town and ends up staying the night with Willie Kemp, an eccentric boatbuilder. While Alison falls deeply in love with Mr. Kemp, her aunt wishes her to marry the obnoxious but rich John Forres. But who left the mysterious footprints outside her cottage, and what secret is Mr. Kemp hiding?
The Tweedie Passion: The Scottish Borders, 16th century. Jeannie Tweedie of the Lethan Valley is a woman of her time and place: loyal to her man, and to her family. She is betrothed to Robert Ferguson; a man who others do not believe worthy of her. When the mysterious Yorling kidnaps Jeannie, she discovers a new side to life. Torn between two men, she must find who is most suitable for her. But who is her chosen one, and will she discover her Tweedie Passion?
A Turn of Cards: Edinburgh, 1804. Dorothea Flockhart is hiding her past. A woman alone, she avoids men; even the personable Captain Rogers fails to stir her heart despite all his efforts. While Napoleon's armies threaten invasion, Scotland's capital still hosts balls, although the atmosphere is hectic and men don uniform to meet the impending turmoil. Carrying many secrets, Dorothea wends her way through the wynds of Edinburgh. But when a personification of the past returns to recreate the nightmares that have haunted her for a decade, which will triumph: love or fear?

Leseprobe

LOWLAND ROMANCE COLLECTION

BOOKS 1-3

HELEN SUSAN SWIFT

Copyright (C) 2023 Helen Susan Swift

Layout Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

CONTENTS

The Handfasters

The Tweedie Passion

A Turn of Cards

About the Author

THE HANDFASTERS

LOWLAND ROMANCE BOOK 1

This book is dedicated to my Mum and to Cathy 'Mumski' Draper

With love

PRELUDE

Should I tell you?

Should I tell you everything?

Should I tell you everything that happened, or should I leave out the terrible secrets, the shared guilt, and the intimacy and only mention the romance, and the eventual outcome, how I came to be here and how everything was changed?

I am not sure what would be best.

If I write the whole story, you might think less of me, and wonder that somebody with my past can be in such a position, but on the other hand, if I only tell the good parts, you will know only the face of me that I allow the world to see. No: you are my blood; you deserve the truth, and nobody can alter what has already happened.

So I shall tell everything; every single detail, the good, the bad and the passionate, then you may judge for yourself what kind of person I am. By the time you read this, all that will be left of me will be a memory whispering in the haunts of the hills, but maybe the autumn winds will carry the tune of my life. I hope so, for I have sung long and often here, the lifting songs of triumph, the soft sighs of love and the melancholic laments of loss.

You will never meet me, you girls and boys, but you may see my picture, hanging on the wall in its gilded frame. That is me, halfway up the stairs, with my favourite blue dress trim around my hips and my hair as black as coal. It is dyed of course, for I am a lady of advanced age, and a grandmother and great-grandmother and probably a great-great-grandmother by now, knowing what sort of things you youngsters get up to. A lady of my age is entitled to grey hair, but I demand my vanity, and I will have it, and the raven hair that was my curse and my pride.

So I am watching you whenever you mount these stairs, and you may look on me after you read my words, and know what adventures and misadventures I had, and from what stock you come. And when you leave this house and walk in the surrounding hills you will take a little bit of me with you, in your heart and in your mind and in your soul, I hope.

For these are my hills, more than anybody else's, and here is my story. If you read it, you may perhaps not judge me too harshly. But remember always that I am part of you, so to condemn me is in great measure to condemn yourself.

CHAPTER1

I was a stranger to the wynds and closes of old Edinburgh, where the mists swirl around the tall stone tenements and the rain washes clean the cobbles in the morning. I did not know, then, that the ancient city claims a thousand secrets, and nobody is ever what they seem at first. Call me naïve, if you will, but we are what life makes us and small blame to ourselves until we learn from bitter experience.

You may know Edinburgh, but nevertheless, I will remind you about our Scottish capital. It is like nowhere else in the world, in my world at least, for it is a divided city, with Princes Street Gardens, the Nor' Loch that was, an oxymoron between two opposites. On one side sits the graceful squares and classical lines of the Georgian New Town, that most elegant of creations, where modern houses sit in grandly refined rows and people talk in quiet undertones. However, cross to the south side of the gardens and you enter the mediaeval hotchpotch of original Edinburgh, the Old Town of romance where queens once rubbed shoulders with commoners, devout ministers preached at unremitting blackguards and grand ladies exchanged bawdy wit with unlettered gutterbloods.

“This must be the most romantic city in the world,” I said that December day in 1811 as I stared at the serrated skyline of the Old Town.

Louise laughed out loud, rather rudely, I thought, but I immediately forgave her when she favoured me with her smile. Everybody always forgave Louise, for she had such a winning way about her.

“Romance is what romance does,” she said cryptically and tapped her ivory fan against my leg. “But what do you understand of romance, Alison Lamont?” Her eyes mocked me, their brilliant blue as beautiful as an angel's kiss and as innocent as the devil's tail.

I said nothing, for she had touched a sore spot in my life. I knew nothing of romance, or of much else, really, although I could speak fluent French, sew perfectly, and paint as well as any young woman of eighteen. Only two years older than I, my cousin Louise, the beautiful, sophisticated Miss Ballantyne, had more experience in her little finger than I had in my whole body, and did she not know it?

Louise smiled again, displaying the perfect teeth that were her pride. “Don't you worry, Alison,” she advised. “I'll soon introduce you to the ways of romance. A few weeks with me and you will be flirting with the best of them and teasing the most amiable men to the point of distraction.” Opening her fan, she half hid her face behind it and peeped lopsidedly at me. “We'll take this city by its clacking heels,” she said, “and shake loose the gaiety it tries to deny.”

We were sitting side by side in Aunt Elspeth's coach at that time, jolting along Princes Street with the fine new houses rising to our left and the castle standing a grim sentinel over the murky waters of the Nor' Loch on our right.

“Now there's a sight to take the edge from a bright day.” Louise was stretching across me, balancing with one hand on my knee as she peered outside.

I looked over, first at the castle, then at the loch, which had what I took to be a burning boat on it. “That boat's on fire,” I said, and Louise gave a disparaging little laugh and tapped me again with her fan.

“Indeed, it is,” she told me, “for there is a strange creature down there that sends boats out to the water and then burns them.”

I understood strange creatures, for I had been reared on stories of water kelpies and uruisgs and fairy dogs, but I had never heard of anything that burns boats before. I stared out of the window, expecting to see a horned monster at the side of the loch, but instead, there was only a tall and rather dishevelled man.

“There's no creature there.” I was vaguely disappointed at the sight.

“That's Willie Kemp,” Louise said, hiding her giggle behind her fan. “He's the strangest creature that ever was. They say that he does not talk to women, or to anybody else, but spends all his time making strange machines that don't work.”

“Oh!” I looked away again, for I had no interest in a man who made strange machines. And why should I have had, when there were the delights of Edinburgh before me, and Lady Catriona's ball that very evening?

“Does he not amuse you?” Louise was still staring out of the window, obviously amused at the antics of this Willie Kemp. “He is such a strange creature.” Lowering her voice, as if we were in a crowded room rather than alone in Lady Elspeth's carriage, she bent close to my ear. “Do you know what some people say about him?”

I shook my head, “No,” I said, for I was indeed very naïve in those days. “What do they say?”

Louise told me, in deliberate and terrible detail, stories that would scandalise me even now, let alone then, and I am sure I was as red as any summer apple by the time she was finished.

“Oh,” I said, as Louise widened her eyes at the expression on my face.

“Oh, my dear Alison,” she said, placing a reassuring hand on my arm. “I hope that I have not shocked you.”

“Not at all,” I lied, wishing desperately for a corner in which to hide. I was an innocent in most matters, apart from the most basic.

“That's all serene then.” Louise sank back in her seat, her eyes still amused. “But it's best to know these things, don't you see? And better for you to hear from me, who loves you as if you were the dearest of sisters, rather than from some stranger who does not have your best interests in her heart.”

“Of course, Louise.” I forgave her at once, for she was always thinking about others, was Louise. “Will it be long before we arrive at the ball?”

“It will be no time at all. We just have to ascend the Earthen Mound and we'll be nearly there. The Forres Residence is about halfway up the Castlehill.”

I had heard of the Earthen Mound, that great accumulation of dirt and rubble from the building of the New Town that the thrifty burghers of Edinburgh had utilised as a bridge-cum-road to take them to the Old, but I had never seen it before. The coachman made the most of the incline, whistling and yelling to the poor horses in the coarsest possible manner as he drove up the ugly curve.

“Oh, I do hate this part.” Louise held on to her hat as if the angle of the coach would remove it from her undeniably pretty head.

I sighed and tried to look as composed as I knew how; I had not so quickly forgotten her scandalous stories. Opening my fan, I stirred the air in what I hoped was a languid fashion. “It is a trifle tiresome,” I agreed, “but can hardly be compared to the mountains we have in Badenoch.” I let her think of that for a while as I watched the view alter. The New Town looked even more impressive from here, with the grey squares so regular against the drab green of the winter countryside.

The Old Town, however, was less pleasant and much less romantic at close quarters than it had seemed from a distance. I do not know what I had expected, knights in armour, perhaps, and gay cavaliers on prancing horses, but instead we entered a long, sloping street that seemed like a ditch stuck between high cliff-like tenements, or lands as the gutterbloods of Edinburgh term them. Where I had expected romantic heroes, instead the streets were populated with ragamuffins in various attires, from Highland plaid that made me quite homesick to ragged breeches and torn shirts that would have disgraced a scarecrow on any Speyside field and were often quite short of decency.

“Welcome to the High Street.” Louise seemed not to mind the pell-mell of people. “We'll be leaving the coach soon.” Her eyes were as bright as I had ever seen them, shining with anticipation as she readied herself for the ball.

The coachman stopped at the entrance to what appeared to be a back alley, but which I was assured was the entrance to a wynd, one of the side streets that delved at right angles from the main road to the unseen heart of the old city. Rather than walk, Louise sent the man ahead, and he returned a minute later with two burly fellows carrying a sedan chair. I had never seen the like before, but Louise assured me their use was normal amongst civilised people, and she slipped herself in with a great rustle of satin and a hint of exposed ankle that captured the porter's attention but must surely have been a mistake.

Now, I am aware that such vehicles are not common in this modern age, and so for the benefit of those of you who have never seen one, I shall describe a sedan. They were not large, being little more than a box big enough to hold a seated lady, with curtained windows at the sides and two long poles protruding at either end. One man lifted the poles at the front, another took the poles at the rear, they lifted the weight and walked away, carrying their passenger with a degree of comfort and as much privacy as drawn curtains would allow.

Unfortunately, there was but the one sedan, and two of us, which meant I had to walk a few steps behind, just like a common servant. So, my introduction to Edinburgh saw me following the chairmen as they slithered down the greasy cobbles of the wynd; a fine welcome to the Capital city, you will agree, but worse was to come, by and by.

I had no idea how malodorous an Edinburgh wynd could be, but that short walk was a revelation. I seemed to be walking into the very bowels of the earth, with the buildings looming so tall on either side that they blocked out what light December allowed, while the ground was an abode of every kind of filth imaginable. Well, I admit I was young, but even so, I was disgusted by the stench, and I envied Louise her carriage, vowing never to walk abroad in the older part of Edinburgh again.

Then we stopped at what could only be described as a gap in the cliff-like wall of the building. I had expected the entrance to Her Ladyship's dwelling to be something grand, with great sweeping stairs and liveried footmen on hand, but instead, it was a poky little hole in a projecting circular tower. The only saving grace was the carved coat armorial above the massive and studded door. That was indeed impressive, being of solid stone and was obviously ancient, with Her Ladyship's coat of arms as permanent as Scotland herself.

“Take me right inside,” Louise ordered, as the chairmen halted outside the door, and the poor fellows, huffing with exertion, had to lift the whole contraption again and manoeuvre it through the doorway.

Once inside, all my preconceptions were removed. That short walk down the stinking wynd had prepared me for a vile, wretched abode of dark rooms, but the reality could not have been more different. As Louise extricated herself from the chair in a great flurry of satin, silks, skirts, and artfully revealed petticoats, I stepped from the stone lobby past a spiral staircase and right into the most amazing room I had ever seen. Sir Walter Scott himself could not have conceived of anything so delightful, with a massive oaken wainscot, a portrait, by Norrie, I fancied, although it might have been Raeburn, glowering moodily down, and a fireplace so large that half a herd of cattle could have been roasted there. There was a long oval table so heavily polished it could have reflected my face and a whole regiment of padded chairs standing at attention round about. It was like something from the court of King Arthur, except lit by a slowly swaying chandelier and presided over by two of the most delightful figures it had ever been my pleasure to behold.

One was simply the most elegant of elderly ladies imaginable. She must have been eighty if she was a day, and she wore the wide skirt and low neckline of fashionable France in her youth. She could have stepped straight from a picture of the court of King George, except for the great green turban on her head and the ivory fan she languidly wafted in front of a face that was white with powder and enhanced by dark beauty spots. I dropped in a fine curtsey, for only a truly great lady could dress with so much style, and she acknowledged me with a gracious nod of her head.

“Young lady.”

Her companion was tall, with a long green travelling cloak and a shiny tall hat of black beaver that he doffed as soon as I stepped inside the room. He made an elegant leg, but the effect was somewhat spoiled as he had to grab for his hat, which toppled dangerously from his head and nearly landed on the floor at my feet.

“Miss Ballantyne?” he said when he straightened up, speaking in a soft accent with a strange drawl the like of which I had never heard before.

“No, sir,” I corrected gently. “Miss Ballantyne is my cousin. I am Alison Lamont.”

“Ah.” The gentleman belatedly doffed his so-lately-clutched-at hat, which sent his wig askew and allowed a quiff of auburn hair to flop forward over a face that was too tanned to be fashionable but still appeared most agreeable.

I stared at that face, wondering what sort of man could possess it. Although it had the features of a stranger, it possessed such amiability I could not help but smile. His eyes were as green as a mountain lochan, and his nose as Highland as peat, long and straight and imposing.

“Alexander Forres,” he introduced himself. “And this is my mother, Lady Catriona Forres, of Forres House and the Forres Residence.”

I curtseyed again, to which he made a much more successful bow.

Louise entered then, hurrying in with one hand holding up her skirts and the other clutching her fan as if it were a weapon of war rather than a folding sliver of carved ivory.

“Then you are Miss Louise Ballantyne.” Alexander Forres made the correct deduction, bowing once again.

Louise dropped in her most elegant curtsey, deliberately displaying her far-too-impressive cleavage to the eyes of Forres, who looked away as a true gentleman should. I liked him immediately and vowed that if I should ever be fortunate enough to find a suitor, he should be of the same calibre and possess the same fine manners as the honourable Alexander, although he would have to be considerably younger.

“Well now,” Lady Catriona spoke for the first time, and everybody in that room paused to listen. “Now that we all know each other, perhaps we can repair upstairs, for I am sure that there will be no dancing in this room.”

We followed her, of course, and you never saw so many butterflies and beaus before, for others had followed Louise and me so that great room was already overflowing with fluttering women and preening men. Ignoring any pretence at delicacy, Lady Catriona floated up a turnpike stair, with her wide skirt rubbing on both sides at once and her yellow high heeled shoes clicking and clacking on the bare stone beneath. Where Lady Catriona led, we must of necessity follow, and as she made no complaints about the starkness of her surroundings, why, then neither could we. All the same, I was surprised at the lack of decoration in that turnpike and the old-fashioned torches that illuminated our passage. There was nothing modish at all, to be sure.

We hesitated outside a varnished door on which some long-gone master craftsman had carved the Forres crest, and through which floated the sounds of revelry and music. I took an audibly deep breath.

“Whatever are you doing?” Louise enquired, and I informed her it was most fashionable to have colour on one's face before entering a ball.

“But not like that,” Louise said and pinched her cheeks so the flush arose.

I copied her, but with more timidity so my face retained its creamy complexion.

“Oh, my,” Louise said with a disapproving shake of her head. Removing her right glove, she gave me a resounding slap on my left cheek. “There now,” she said with satisfaction and repeated the procedure with great energy on the other side. “That's much better.”

Too astonished to scream, I could only stare as Lady Catriona nodded her approval.

“We all must suffer for fashion, must me not? That was a very sisterly thing to do, Miss Ballantyne.”

With my face burning and without bothering to thank Louise for her kindness, I followed directly behind Lady Catriona as she pushed open her own door and swept into the upstairs room.

I did not step far in, for I had to stop and stare. The upstairs room was vast. It must have extended the entire length of the house, with an elaborately plastered ceiling and an array of windows that stretched along two entire walls. Crystal chandeliers splintered their light onto panelled walls, while a fire of near mediaeval proportions was bright in the fireplace.

All these details, of course, mattered nought compared to the company, and here Lady Catriona's guests excelled anything I had seen before, and most that I have seen since. I mentioned the butterflies and beaus on the turnpike, but they were only a shadow of what waited in that upper room. I may have seen the cream of the company in Badenoch, but until that evening I was a baby in sophisticated company.

My first impression was of scarlet and feathers, with the occasional military kilt and sporran thrown in. I grew up deep in the heart of the Highlands, but I had never seen kilts like them before and the sight made me stifle an unladylike and very impolite giggle. Wherever did they get their ideas about Highland dress? I must have gaped at the tall feather bonnets and over-elaborate sporrans, the pointless plaids and cairngorm-decorated dirks that were about as Highland as they were Chinese, but I was also awed by the overall sense of splendour.

Nevertheless, I did think the wearers of these exotic costumes more than made up for their strange appearance. To a man, they were tall while those who were not young and handsome were dignified and imposing and all were military enough to frighten Bonaparte. I could feel Louise drawing herself taller, even as she arched her back and put on her most imperious expression.

“My, my,” she said softly, “what a delicious display of officers. Now you follow my lead, young Alison, and we can find a fine husband for you.”

“Husband?” I said, or rather squawked, for I am sure my voice rose a score of octaves, “I did not come here for a husband!”

Louise's look was a mixture of astonishment and amusement, and once again she wielded that fan of hers, closing it and poking it sharply against my arm. “You did not come here for a husband? My dear, dear cousin Alison, pray tell me for what other reason you would possibly attend Lady Catriona's ball?”

I could not answer that I was only here for the dancing and because Aunt Elspeth had decided I should go, so I gaped at her with my mouth open instead.

“Exactly so.” Louise chose to take my silence for agreement. “So let us dance.”

And so, we did.

I have danced in many fine places since, but I will always remember that night as we bid a fond farewell to 1811 and welcomed the infant 1812. And what a year it was to prove, but of course we did not yet know that as we pirouetted and bowed and whirled away the night in a riot of bright colours and flashing shoulders and swirling kilts.

“You dance uncommonly well, Miss… Miss… I am sorry, but I do not know your name?”

My companion of the moment was as tall as any guardsman, with dark hair fashionably ruffled and a scarlet tunic that did nothing to conceal white breeches so tight they could nearly have been painted in place.

“Nor I yours, sir, for we have not yet been formally introduced,” I said, somewhat stiffly, for I was unused to such forward behaviour from a man posing as an officer and gentleman.

“Well now, that's an easy matter to put right,” said he, unconcerned at my offhand attitude, and within a moment he had whisked me across the crowded room to the honourable Alexander Forres who made the necessary formalities.

“My dear Miss Alison,” Alexander gave his elegant bow, “may I present my own younger son, the Honourable John Forres, Lieutenant in the Edinburgh Militia?”

The exquisite gave an elaborate if slightly mocking bow.

“And, John, it is my greatest of pleasures to present Miss Alison Lamont, niece of Lady Elspeth Ballantyne, come all the way from Badenoch just for this ball, and some other family business, I believe.”

John Forres gave another bow, so low I feared, or rather hoped, his trousers would split and embarrass him in front of the entire company, but the devil favours his own and instead he only delighted everybody with his elegance. He put out his hand, but I declined the tease of a kiss and withdrew. Unfortunately, my most aloof formality was spoiled when Louise came close and stepped on my trailing gown so I jerked to a somewhat abrupt and very inelegant halt. I am sure she did it deliberately, the minx.

“And this is Miss Louise Ballantyne.” Alexander Forres seemed not a whit put out by Louise's forward behaviour.

The bow was just as low, but Louise did not pull back her hand, and Lieutenant Forres made the most of his opportunity. It must have been a good minute before he rose, but Louise did not mind in the least. There was no mistaking the sparkle in her eyes when she looked at me and no ambiguity in the look of triumph I was too young to then understand. I learned though, as you will hear, by and by.

Lady Catriona had hired a small band to play for us, and once we started dancing, we did not stop save to nibble at the table of snacks or engage in light conversation. I cannot remember exactly what we danced, country reels, I believe, and the occasional Highland dance, complete with high screeches and the most intricate of footwork. The waltz did not make its way into Scotland for a year or so, as it was considered most indelicate. Honestly, my dears, you have no idea how much hypocrisy ruled our lives when romantic affairs were considered normal, and only became a scandal if they were broadcast in public, yet to wear even a fraction of makeup was to chance being ostracised from all respectable society. Life is so different today.

Lady Catriona was not conservative in her taste, and soon we were executing a quadrille, with gentlemen and ladies all higgledy-piggledy together in that upstairs room. If I close my eyes, I can picture it now, all the swirling kilts and flowing gowns, the sheen of exertion on noble foreheads, the bright eyes and laughing mouths and the shimmer of silk and satin. I can nearly hear the rhythmic drumming of feet on that polished floor and see the reflection of the chandelier on the windows. You might never have heard of the quadrille, a most enthralling dance with complex movements you youngsters would never enjoy or probably understand, but while we were engaged, that Lieutenant John Forres arrived again, all tight breeches and pride, and seemed intent to partner me for the remainder of the evening.

A lady cannot object openly, as you know, but she can do her best to make a gentleman's life disagreeable if she so wishes, so I returned his pleasantries with formal disdain and rejected his advances with a politely cold shoulder.

“My dear Miss Alison,” he said at length, stepping back, “I do hope that I have done nothing to offend you? Why, in the Peninsula the society ladies were falling over themselves for only a whisper of our company…”

“Why, Mr. Forres! Were you in the Peninsula? How brave of you!” Louise had appeared like a perfumed ghost, and without a by-your-leave, she stepped between us as if she were taking a French prisoner from a battlefield.

Lieutenant Forres only looked surprised for a moment, then he proffered his arm, which Louise accepted with a sidelong smile I would have loved to have removed if I were not so much of a lady.

Now, I had no great liking for the dashing Lieutenant, but even then, I knew when I was being insulted, and I resolved to strive with Cousin Louise for his attention. For the remainder of that evening, we competed for the favours of John Forres, and he lapped up our attention like a cat licks up the top of the cream. When he was not dancing with me, he was exchanging small talk with Louise, and when she was not whispering grave secrets behind her fan, she was watching us with her face green tinged with envy and those slanted eyes as malicious as a slighted politician.

“He's far better suited to me, you know,” Louise told me as we circled around each other in one of those devilishly complicated quadrilles.

“I believe that he spoke to me first,” I gave back, as sweetly as any serpent and we exchanged venomously insincere curtseys and parted, with John Forres smiling on us both indiscriminately. The smile I could thole, but when his hands followed his too-bold eyes I withdrew again, much to Louise's amusement.

“La, Lieutenant Forres,” she said, “I do believe that you have scared the child. My cousin Alison is far too young for such adult pleasures.”

“And you, madam, are not?”

“Indeed, sir, that would entirely depend on the owner of the hand,” Louise invited shamefully, but Lieutenant Forres acted more of the gentleman than I had expected when he merely smiled.

Louise did not appear pleased. “La, sir, but I believe that you are nothing but a tease.”

“La, madam, but I am the best judge of my own actions.” He withdrew for a space, and Louise's eyes wandered to the door which had opened to allow a small and compact group of men to enter.

I have few gifts in this world, but I am able to determine atmosphere, and as soon as these men walked into that room, I felt a shift. It was nothing tangible, nothing I could put my finger on, but I knew something had changed. So did Louise, of course, and she was pressing forward to see what was happening and what she could gain from the alteration.

“Who are these men?” I whispered to Alexander Forres, who had moved to my side like a guardian sheepdog to his prize lamb.

There were four of them, and although two wore uniforms, and two did not, there was no disguising the essential militariness of them all. Perhaps it was the compact way in which they stood or the quiet fire in their eyes, but they did not look out of place among the kilties and the scarlet jackets. I did not recognise their uniforms but that was not unexpected, given the amazing array of regiments and units that had been founded to fight Bonaparte's never-ending war.

“They are French prisoners from the castle,” Alexander Forres told me quietly, “out on parole. Some are allowed freedom from their confinement and Lady Catriona always invites a few to the Hogmanay ball.”

“But they are the enemy.” I did not hide my bewilderment.

Alexander's smile contained only fatherly tolerance. “My mother, Lady Catriona, insists that we have been friends with the French far longer than we have been enemies, and we shall be friends again just as soon as the warfare ceases.” His laugh seemed to mock the entire edifice of society. “Anyway, Miss Alison, they are jovial company and they add a little spice to the evening, rather than just the usual manoeuvring for husbands, wives, and fortunes.”

I am still not sure if he was laughing at me, but Alexander was such a gentleman that it was even a pleasure to be teased by him. I accepted his comments with a smile and watched as the Frenchmen strolled in. Now you must understand that for most of my life, this country had been at war with France, and we had been brought up to regard Frenchmen as ogres that ate babies and spread republicanism, while Bonaparte was the devil's cockerel with a Corsican accent. However, we were also imbued with French culture, so anybody with any pretence at education spoke French, while French furniture was never out of fashion, so you must excuse my mixed feelings when this quarter of Frenchmen entered our ball.

On first sight, I must admit to a certain disappointment. They were neither one thing nor the other, neither ogres nor icons of fashionable culture. I could not see a single forked tail or cloven hoof, although I confess that Louise was far more adept at investigating for such things, but neither did they bring the place alive with new ideas, indeed they looked decidedly ordinary. In different clothes, they could have fitted into the ranks of the kilties, or the militiamen.

It was more intriguing to watch the reaction of our soldiers. While the militia officers were a bit stand-offish, the Highlanders welcomed them like brothers in arms, extending a true hand of friendship and inviting them to make free with Lady Catriona's whisky, brandy, and claret. The French responded in kind so there was uproarious laughter from at least one section of the room.

Louise, of course, scented new men and hurried elegantly toward them, while Lady Catriona sat in her chair in the corner of the room, quietly smiling under her turban. She had created the scene and she obviously intended to enjoy it. Ordinary conventions did not concern her ladyship, so long as the basic proprieties were observed. Other ladies, as you will see by and by, were not quite so easy-natured.

Well, that evening passed in a haze of swirling tartan and emptying glasses, of sparkling conversation and hectic flirting, of rustling silk and drumming heels on the dance floor, until somebody announced it was almost midnight. Of course, we all scurried to the decanters and observed the sacred minute, standing with our brimming glasses in hand while Alexander counted off the seconds to the beginning of the New Year.

I can picture the scene as if it were yesterday, rather than sixty, or is it seventy-odd years ago? All the brave uniforms standing to attention with the eager young ladies at their side, Louise gripping the arm of John Forres as if he were a prize she had won at the local fair and the tallest and most personable of the Frenchmen edging ever closer with his lips slightly open and his eyes burning with Gallic ardour.

“Ten… nine… eight…” Alexander held an enormous gold watch in his hand as he solemnly intoned the seconds as if we could not see the massive grandfather clock only a few feet away.

“Seven… six… five…”

Louise gave a little scream of anticipation and sipped at her ratafia. That was a light wine, dears, favoured by ladies, and Louise could try so hard to appear ladylike when it suited her purpose. Society does not favour ratafia nowadays, which is a shame; it was an innocuous kind of drink and rarely did much harm.

“Four… three… two…”

There was a tremendous sense of anticipation in that room, with everybody holding their breath. Except for Louise, who was holding the arm of John Forres and giggling as the Frenchman whispered something in her ear.

“One!” Alexander raised his glass. “Happy New Year, everybody, and let us hope that 1812 is successful and prosperous.” I could see he wanted to ask for a victorious conclusion to the war against Napoleon Bonaparte, but for the sake of politeness to the French officers present, he refrained. “And let us all hope for a lasting and just peace.”

“Success, prosperity, and peace!” The gathering intoned solemnly, but when Louise lifted her lips for a New Year kiss, John Forres slipped free, grabbed hold of me and planted a flattering, but extremely unwelcome, kiss square on my mouth.

I must have screamed at this unwarranted assault, but it is difficult to make any real noise when somebody is effectively covering your lips. Louise, however, was not so restrained and she made some very unladylike remarks just as John released me. I looked at her in astonishment while the colour rushed to my face.

“Madam…” She had her hands on her hips and her head thrust forward so she looked just like one of the hens that scratched around the townships alongside the Calder River in Badenoch.

“Yes,” I said. I was unhappy at the assault, but secretly quite pleased that a gentleman, of whatever character, had chosen me over my forward and quite beautiful cousin.

“Madam…” Louise repeated but stopped. After all, what could she say? Turning with a fine show of indignation, she quite accidentally twisted the heel of her shoe, slipped, and crashed against me.

We must have made a fine display as we fell in a flurry of skirts and tangled limbs, with our legs a-flailing and arms waving uselessly. Strangely it was the tall French officer who was first to offer assistance, raising Louise with a grace I still find it hard to fault, while John Forres merely smiled and thrust out an ineffectual hand while her Ladyship frowned beyond her fan.

“Whose fault was that?” Her Ladyship's voice had lost any pretence at amiability as the concordance quietened.

“I believe it was Miss Alison,” Louise gave voice, rubbing at her ankle as the French officer directed her to a chair. She looked at me balefully.

“Then Miss Alison should leave the company,” Lady Catriona pronounced. “Send for the sedan chair. The chairmen can carry her to Lady Elspeth's town house immediately. I will not tolerate such disgraceful scenes in the Forres Residence. This is Edinburgh, Miss Alison, and we have no place for your wild Highland ways.”

CHAPTER2

You may be used to the Highlands being lauded and Highlanders being treated with respect equal to people in any other part of this kingdom, but you must remember that this was 1811, before Queen Victoria chose to bless Caledonia with her presence. There were still memories of the rising of 1745, and in my time, Highlanders were reckoned as of no more account than Irishmen or Africans. They called us Donalds, among other less savoury things, and told tall tales of our backwardness and savagery, despite the many thousands of Highlandmen who were even then fighting their wars for them. For Lady Catriona to remark on my Highland blood was tantamount to a terrible insult, and one to which I could not reply, for it was only the truth. I had been born and raised among the mountains of Badenoch and was as Highland as peat.

There was no reprieve from such a pronouncement of rejection. In my youth, you see, we did not question the wisdom of our elders and betters. Indeed, we dared not, for the consequences could be… well, I will leave that to your imaginations but.

It was unpleasant to be banished in disgrace, but to be honest I had experienced quite enough of Lady Catriona's ball. My anticipation had been disappointed, my hopes dashed, and my lips assaulted. In truth, I was not unhappy to climb inside the padded and very ornate sedan chair and have the stalwart Highland chairmen lift me. I would have preferred to travel by coach, but I do not believe Lady Catriona would have countenanced such luxury for somebody she obviously considered a blackguard and an out-and-out rogue. I also knew I was in disgrace and wondered what Lady Elspeth would say about the situation when I arrived back in her house. However much I reasoned that such things were probably not uncommon in such a cosmopolitan city as Edinburgh, and if I were home first, I would have the first opportunity to state my side of the argument. I knew it was natural for Aunt Elspeth to take her daughter's side against me.

Such thoughts occupied me as the chairmen ported me up the wynd and into the bustle of the High Street. Tears were not far from my eyes as I considered Lady Elspeth's reaction, for I knew Louise would put all the blame on my shoulders, and I would be doubly disgraced. I had no ideas what penalties her ladyship would inflict, but I suspected they might be grievous. She may even send me back to Badenoch, where my chances of finding a suitable husband were limited in the extreme.

However, events in the High Street soon chased the tears away and gave me much more serious matters to worry about than the displeasure of an eccentric old crone such as Lady Catriona and my stern, but probably fair, aunt.

I heard the roar before I saw anything untoward, for a sedan chair does not have the best of visibility and I was engaged in a monumental sulk, combined with great self-pity both for my present position and the niggling pain of what I was sure was a blister developing on the large toe of my left foot. So when the front chairman let his poles go with a thump, I only complained a little before I opened the door and peered out.

The High Street was in such a state of consternation that I thought the French had landed and was attempting to assault Edinburgh Castle. There were people everywhere, mostly youngsters in their teens and early twenties, shouting and gesticulating, using the most commonplace language I had ever heard, throwing rocks and bottles at the houses and at the poor Watchmen who attempted to restore peace, fighting with fists and feet and generally behaving as if there was no God and Lucifer had descended to claim the kingdom.

“Whatever is the commotion?” I enquired, but nobody seemed to take heed of me, even though I stamped my foot quite forcibly on the ground.

I could hear the chairmen talking, their Gaelic easily comprehensible to me, for Lady Catriona was correct in that at least. Being a native of the Highlands, I understood the speech quite as well as I understood English.

“We can't get through that lot,” one chairman said, pointing to the crowd.

“We'll have to, or Her Ladyship will have our jobs,” the second reminded. “Lady Catriona is not the sort of person to give an order and not have it carried out.” He added a few more comments about Lady Catriona which, although I agreed with, I think it best not to commit to paper at this time. They were certainly not fit for tender young ears, and I would have blushed if I was not perfectly pleased to hear the old harridan so insulted.

“Down the closes then,” the first man said, and only then did he notice I was standing outside the chair and listening to his conversation.

Switching to English, for he was naturally unaware I spoke Gaelic, he gave the shortest and quite the most disrespectful bow I have ever seen. “We not going that way,” he told me, jerking a stubby thumb at the mob, “we'll have to go through the closes and around the loch. It will take longer.”

There was no by-your-leave, you'll notice, and no “my lady” or any other term of respect. Highlanders are like that; you have to earn their respect and if you give them an inch, they'll take three yards, and anything else they can lay their hands on.

“You'll do as I tell you,” I bristled, for I was young and full of fire and foolish spirit.

“Aye, right,” the spokesman replied, with no thought at all for my dignity. “Just get in, sit tight, and hold your tongue. God knows what these blackguards will do if they see Her Ladyship's sedan in the streets.”

Nearly pushing me inside the chair, the Highlanders lifted it and ran to the nearest close—that's a narrow alleyway, dears, nearly unseating me in the process. I do not know the name of the dark ravine into which we plunged, but the smells were abominable and the darkness stygian. We could well have been in the Pit or any of the famous stews of London, but for all their caution, we had been seen.

Once again, I heard the roar of the crowd, and something hard and heavy smashed from the side panel of the chair. I remember thinking Her Ladyship would not be pleased with this disrespect even as I stifled a small scream.

“That's enough of that, you scoundrel!” The porter had returned to his native tongue, and he continued to berate the thrower in language that was quite choice and far too colourful for you ladies to know. We might not have been quite as ladylike in our youth as we pretended, for we did know the meanings of some of these horrid words. You, of course, should not.

Anyway, another missile clattered from the coachwork and the porter yelled again. “I know you, Hughie McIntosh, and I'll attend to you tonight when I'm not working.”

The reply was confused as if the said Hugh McIntosh was drunk, but there was no mistaking the thunder of boots down the close and against the side of the sedan, rocking it dreadfully and quite upsetting my temper. Somebody yanked the door open and I peered out, to see a whole bunch of rogues staring in.

“Get you gone, you drunken blaggards!” the second coachman shouted, still holding the poles and trying to walk forward. “This lady is under our protection and she's done you no harm at all!”

Until that second, I had been annoyed and intrigued, but now I began to feel fear. There must have been twenty people in that mob, and all appeared to come from the very dregs of society. Malice oozed from every predatory face, and I cannot repeat one word of what they said. Some spoke in Gaelic, some in Edinburgh Scots, but they seemed to be united in the common purpose of causing as much mischief as possible.

“Tip her out!”

A dozen grimy hands descended on the sedan, until my coachmen, Highland heroes both, placed it ungently on the ground and pushed them back with great shouts and violent action.

“Run, Miss Alison,” the front chairman said. “We can't hold them for long and there's no knowing what they might do. Run!”

I hesitated of course, between the devil of that crowd and the deep blue sea of the dark closes of old Edinburgh, and, I am loath to admit, somewhere within me there was the genuine desire to stay and help my impolite porters.

“Run, woman!” the second chairman ordered and gave me a push in the back to help me on my way.

For the second time that evening I stumbled, but fear helped me recover and I lifted my skirts and ran down that close as fast as my legs and my oh-so-fashionable high-heeled shoes would allow.

Now, you girls nowadays live in a very civilised world, with gas lighting in the streets and piped water in nearly every house. In my time, Old Edinburgh did not have such conveniences, so the close I ran down was dark, foul, and dangerous. I had only a vague knowledge of where I was going, but I knew I had to leave the Old Town, cross the Earthen Mound and reach the graceful squares of the New Town where my Aunt Elspeth would be waiting to greet me with cakes and tea, or more likely a verbal assault that would blister my ears. Either was preferable to the deep darkness of that terrible lane or the horror of the mob at my heels.

You will notice I had no thought of returning to the Forres Residence. Lady Catriona had sent me away, so away I must go, and quickly, my dears. Disobedience was not so much frowned upon as quickly and effectively squashed.

That close descended steeply, to open on to a winding street whose name I quite forget, but which was crammed with more raucous youths celebrating the advent of a new year by riot and dissipation. Conspicuous in my bright dress and fashionable cloak, I tried to hide, but somebody caught sight of me, and I was soon running again, with my heels sliding on the cobbled ground and my ankles screaming their protest at this ill treatment.

The noise behind me diminished in direct proportion to the darkness of my surroundings and I realised my feet were sinking into something deeper than the normal noxious surface of Edinburgh's ground. I hesitated, unsure whether to continue, but a glance over my shoulder revealed an orange light over the city, and I feared the whole of Edinburgh was aflame with the mob in charge like some hydra-headed republican monster.

I might have sobbed then, but I cannot recall exactly, but I do know I looked outward for the lights and security of the New Town. They were there, plain and serene as a summer's morning, but despite all my efforts, I seemed to be no closer. I plunged on, holding up the trailing skirt of my gown that descended beneath my cloak, and felt something sucking at my shoes.

“Mud,” I said gloomily, and plunged on, hoping I could reach the Earthen Mound and cross the physical and metaphysical chasm that divided Edinburgh's two worlds.

Unfortunately, my dears, my sense of direction has never been good. I thrust myself into that mud with my feet sinking deeper and my heart pumping in a most unladylike manner, but although I did not realise it, I was moving ever further from my goal. The Earthen Mound and my road to Aunt Elspeth's lay to the east, but I was heading west.

I only became aware of my predicament when I saw the great sheet of water stretching before me, rippling in the starlight. If I were a man I would have sworn, but of course, I did not. Instead, I nearly gave way to a fit of temper, which did no good at all but only served to exhaust me further.

“I will follow the banks of this loch,” I told myself, “and it will take me to Princes Street, for we drove that way only this afternoon.”

Accordingly, I kept on until the mud sucked off my right shoe and I fell, for the third time that night. By now I had no idea for how long I had been moving, but my legs were aching, and mud covered me from my face downward. I was sobbing, wishing John Forres had chosen to kiss anybody but me, and wondering if I were destined to spend the entire night outside this Godforsaken city.

It was cold. I had forgotten just how bitter a winter's night could be, and I shivered.

“Oh, just let me go home,” I prayed.

The noise from the city had long since faded everywhere but in my memory, so I felt as if I were the last woman left in the world as I struggled along in the dark, with that rippling water a barrier between me and sanctuary and the thought of the predatory mob in the rear.

The cry of a goose was terribly lonely, and I sank down, holding my head in my hands, and nearly giving way to despair. I didn't, of course, for I knew I was only a few miles from safety, but when you are young and alone and in a strange place, the imagination can take control of your senses and you create all sort of terrible things that reality dispels.

It was then I saw a faint yellow glow reflecting from the dark waters.

“What's that? Who's there?” I said the words faintly, not really sure I had seen anything and not really sure if I wanted a reply, for anybody out here at this time of night must be a desperate character. Brought up on the fearful gothic novels that were prevalent at the time, I could imagine any sort of horror, ghosts or vampires or even some of the phantom dogs or water kelpies of my Highland childhood.

I nearly collapsed when there came a bold reply.

“Hello!”

I halted, unsure whether to go on or to return. There I was, barely eighteen years old and lost beside a dirty loch halfway between old and new Edinburgh and with a strange and definitely male voice calling to me. I was in that wonderful state where reality and imagination merge, when I was unsure if I was dreaming or awake, real or unreal, the twilight of existence where even the solid seems insubstantial.

The voice sounded again. “Hello?”

I sat tight, saying nothing and hoping for solitude nearly as much as I hoped for discovery.

A lantern flickered, the reflection of its light on the placid waters disturbing a goose into explosive flight.

Still, I waited, unsure what to do. There is no disease worse than uncertainty, my dears. My advice to you is to decide on a course of action and carry it through. It is always far better to regret what you have done than regret that you lacked the courage to do anything.

For a third time, that male voice sounded. “Hello? Is there anybody there?” The lamplight circled, flicking over the water and through the sedges on the bank, casting weird shadows and making the surrounding dark even blacker by contrast.

Still, I did nothing, with my opportunity for help fast passing me by. Was I scared? Yes, but not of that unknown voice, more of my own fears. I thought of pirates and smugglers and sorners, but never of the truth.

The light vanished, somebody muttered something I could not catch then I was alone again in the somehow greater darkness, and I felt lonelier than I had ever felt before.

“Help!” The word was out before I knew it. “Please help me!”

But there was no friendly beam of light. The darkness remained as dark, the solitariness as solitary and my feelings as confused as before, except now I knew I was scared and after that hint of companionship I desperately sought human company. I could smell smoke, so in my disordered mind, there must be a house nearby. I did not consider that we were no distance of Edinburgh, which had well earned its sobriquet of Auld Reekie.

“Hello! Please help me!”

I blundered forward, hoping for the source of that light. I had passed the point of caring about my appearance or my dignity, all I wanted was somewhere to shelter, a fire to sit beside, and the sound of a human voice. Ignoring the mud that splashed higher with every lumbering step, ignoring the sodden mess of my best cloak and the only ball gown I had ever possessed, I staggered on, until I fell against the harsh wall of a hut.

My mind only fixed on one thing. A hut meant shelter from the night. True it was humble, but I was no great lady to disdain simplicity, but a Highland girl lost near Edinburgh. Fumbling around the walls, I found a door handle.

Yanking it open, I nearly fell inside, aware only of a welcoming fire and the scent of something that could have been newly baked bread.

The tall man stared at me in astonishment.

“What the devil!”

And I looked into the angry eyes of Willie Kemp.

There was no mirror inside that hut, but I can imagine what sort of picture I must have presented. Hatless, for I had lost my hat in the mad dash from the sedan, and shoeless, for I had lost both while blundering along the loch side; with mud thick on my cloak and my person, and dripping with water, I must have appeared more a ragged beggar woman than the young lady of fashion who left home a few short hours before.

“Who the devil are you?” Willie Kemp asked.

As I stared back at him with my mouth working and my clothes leaving a spreading puddle on his floor, I remembered what Louise had said about this man. He was a strange creature, a solitary man who spent his time making machines that did not work, and now I had barged into his hut beside the loch.

“I am Alison Lamont,” I told him, and for reason, I added, “from Badenoch.”

“Was it you yelling a few minutes ago?” He remained a few steps from me, standing beside a very handsome fire. I could see the breadth of his shoulders and the line of light on a jaw that was more stubborn than I liked. Not that I really cared, of course, but one does tend to notice such things, even with men as coarse and uncouth and tall as Willie Kemp.

“I asked you a question.” There was no doubting the authority in his tone, which I resented as he was a mere tinker and I was the niece of Lady Elspeth Ballantyne.

I resolved to be as stiffly standoffish as I knew how. “I am lost,” I wailed. “I can't find my way home.”

I did not see him move, but he was there to help me on to the only chair in that shed, and he was easing the cloak from my shoulders and tutting at my lack of shoes and the shocking condition of my feet on such a biting winter's night.

I was shivering as the reaction of my adventures hit home, and I hardly objected when he placed a great mug of soup in my hand.

You're cold,” he said, and although his voice was deep, it was also surprisingly cultured.

I nodded. I knew I should leave at once rather than be alone in the presence of an unknown man, but I was too frightened and too cold and too exhausted to think straight. I was, you will please remember, only eighteen years old and unsure of my surroundings.

Willie Kemp seemed unsure what to do. He watched me for a moment, frowning, then he shook his head. “Well, you'd better get out of these wet things,” he said, “or else you'll catch your death of cold.”

I looked up, suddenly frightened as all the gothic stories returned. I could feel the hammer of my heart and realised I was indeed alone with a strange man in an out of the way place and nobody knew where I was. “No,” I whispered, and his frown deepened.

“You are cold,” he said, and his voice was as harsh as a metal bar running across a granite cliff. “You are tired, and you are wet. Unless you change into something dry and warm, you will catch a cold, if not pneumonia.” He disappeared for a few moments, returning with what looked like a bundle of old cloth.

“I'll go away,” he said, “and you put these on. I'll knock before I return.”

Ungrateful wretch that I was, I said “no” unthinkingly, but the prospect of dry clothing was too great a temptation, even for such a headstrong miss as I was. As soon as Willie Kemp was outside, I placed the chair behind the door to ensure it was secure and peeled off my clothing.

I was very lucky that the fashion in Edinburgh that year was for simple gowns, but even so, have you ever disrobed from a sodden ball gown without even a fumbling servant girl to help? I struggled with buttons and hooks, fought my frustration over eyes and stays, and eventually, and without a thought for Willie Kemp, stood stark naked in front of the fire. Strangely I lingered for a while, allowing the flames to ease away some of my chill before I turned to the clothing Willie Kemp had given me.

I could have cried. Rather than the fashionable apparel I was used to wearing, he had given me nothing but rough homespun, with not even a hint of an undergarment to protect my tender skin. If I say 'chafing' you will know what I mean, girls, without me needing to elaborate.