Storm Of Love E-Book

Helen Susan Swift

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Torn between her taciturn longtime sweetheart and a charming, affluent new flame, Scottish mill girl Catriona Easson finds herself struggling to choose between her head and her heart.

As new connections bloom and old relationships are threatened, Catriona finds her romantic future foggy as extraordinary escapades force her to navigate through mistakes and misconceptions.

With familial and financial hardships clouding her emotions, will Catriona discover true love - despite the path being stormier than ever?

Leseprobe

STORM OF LOVE

LOWLAND ROMANCE BOOK 5

HELEN SUSAN SWIFT

CONTENTS

Prelude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Historical Note

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2019 Helen Susan Swift

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Terry Hughes

Cover art by CoverMint

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.

PRELUDE

DUNDEE, SCOTLAND, MAY 1827

Scudding clouds slid over a half-moon, sending shifting shadows across the serried gravestones, while a slight breeze whispered through the near-naked branches of the trees above us.

“This way.” Barbara crouched in the shelter of a marble angel, gripping her canvas bag to prevent the contents from rattling. “Keep your head down.”

She did not need to warn me. We moved from gravestone to gravestone, keeping in the shadows and cursing the fitful moon. I had hoped for full dark, or at least a cloudy night, but here, nature had not proved our ally as it sent God’s lantern to betray our mission.

“This one.” Barbara stopped beside a weathered yew. Somewhere in the dark, an owl called, the sound echoing. I pushed away the sinister images that filled my mind.

“Are you certain?” I looked around; it was only a few hours since we had watched the funeral but, in the dark, nothing looked familiar.

“I’m quite certain, Catriona.” Crouching at the side of the grave, Barbara opened her bag and handed me a short-handled spade. “Come on, before the grave watchers see us.”

Hitching up my skirt, I knelt at the side of the grave and plunged the spade into the earth. “Sorry,” I apologised to the man who lay beneath. “I’m dreadfully sorry.” The first few spadefuls were easy, and I shovelled the earth to the side, making progress with little effort. At my side, Barbara did likewise, gasping as she delved into the dirt.

I started as the owl called again, the sound eerie in these surroundings.

“Don’t stop,” Barbara urged. “The watchers could be on patrol at any time.”

I glanced up at the squat stone watchhouse, where the flicker of a candle was visible through the small window. Somebody laughed. “I think they’re having a celebration in there,” I said.

“They bring in whisky against the cold.” Barbara shovelled as she spoke. “Now be quiet.”

We made rapid progress, creating a hole so deep that soon we had to slide inside. The walls of the grave seemed to close in on me, crumbling slightly, so I shivered at the thought of my own mortality. “We’re lucky there’s no mortsafe,” I said. I had dreaded finding a mortsafe, a heavy cage that relatives placed over the grave to deter such activities as that in which we were engaged.

“Keep quiet! Here.” Barbara tapped her spade on something wooden. “We’ve reached the top of the coffin.”

I stopped for a moment as a renewed burst of laughter and snatches of a bacchanalian song came from the watchhouse. Somebody left the building, swinging a lantern. The light bounced from the gravestones, heading in our direction. Peering across the top of the grave, I saw the figure of a tall man in a high hat, striding purposefully with a shotgun in his hand.

“I see you!” He roared. “Get out of that grave!”

“Keep still,” Barbara hissed. “For God’s own sake, keep still!”

What am I doing here? I asked myself as I crouched on top of the coffin lid with small pieces of earth from the grave crumbling around me. Why am I digging up a grave with a woman I do not like, in the middle of the night? I sighed, and thought back to the beginning of this whole sorry episode and the men who seemed set on ruining my life.

CHAPTER1

GLACK OF NEWTYLE, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1827

It was raining that morning as I walked southwards towards the Glack of Newtyle, a narrow pass through the Sidlaw Hills in eastern Scotland. I hunched my shoulders, slithered on the muddy track and wished for better weather. As well wish for the moon, of course, in a Scottish spring, but I was so concerned with passing the road and the miles to Dundee that I nearly failed to notice the old man who was walking in front, gathering sticks and adding them to the bundle on his back.

“Halloa,” I called to him. “What’s to do?”

The poor old fellow nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of my voice. After he recovered his composure, he turned to face me. “Hello, young lady.” His voice was as cracked and ancient as his face, while he peered at me through narrow eyes.

“That’s a heavy load you have,” I said, thankful for the company, for the Glack can be a lonely place. “Are you going far?”

“As far as I have to,” the man answered cryptically. “You’re welcome to share my load, young lady.”

I balanced half the man’s bundle on my shoulder, and we walked side by side for the next mile, with him panting and peching with the weight and me trying to sweeten the journey with a conversation.

“It’s a coarse day,” I said at last as the old man responded to my sallies with nothing but grunts.

“It’s worse than it might be and better than you know,” he said at last. “I’ll take my sticks now.”

I looked around. We had walked perhaps a mile on the deserted road. “Are you sure, Grandfather? There’s no house here unless it’s in that copse of trees up on the hillside there.”

“I said, I’ll take my sticks now,” the grumpy old fellow repeated and, not wishing to offend him, I obligingly handed them over. He took them with neither a smile nor a thank you, although some trick of the light caught a surprisingly ornate ring on his little finger. “It’s a long road behind you.”

“It is,” I said, looking back instinctively. When I faced forward again, the old man had vanished, presumably into the copse. “Silly old rogue,” I said to myself. “Why is he collecting firewood elsewhere when there are scores of trees around him?”

Sighing, I walked on, with the rain now harder than before and the wind buffeting me forward toward distant Dundee.

I stepped aside when I heard the drumbeat of hooves and the grinding of wheels on the road behind me. Fortunately, a nearby tree provided welcome shelter from the rain as I watched the coach whirr past. One can tell the quality of a coach by the noise it makes, from the groaning and creaking of a farmer’s cart to the rattle of a decent dog-cart and the whirr of a stagecoach. This coach was different; it purred, even on the rutted road over which it passed. Skilled hands had created that masterpiece of travel, and wealthy people had paid for its construction.

I watched in admiration and not a little envy as this chariot passed me. Drawn by four matching black horses, the coach had two sedate servants sitting in full livery at the back and a tall driver who politely saluted me with a sweeping gesture of his whip. It was a poem on four wheels. I tried to recognise the coat-of-arms, but I was foiled by the spatters of mud that concealed most of the device. I could see only the unusual depiction of an elephant standing on its hind legs. And then I saw the face at the window. He was undoubtedly the most beautiful man I had ever seen, a face that would gracefully adorn any statue of David or even a classical god, an Apollo of the road. I could not help but stare as he looked curiously at me as I stood at the side of the track. Even in that short time, I noticed his bright smile. He raised a slender hand in acknowledgement and then the coach was gone. I watched as it splashed around a bend in the road and vanished beyond a copse of trees.

Sighing, I walked on, wishing that I had been born into a household that could afford such a luxury as a coach. I shook my head, thinking: Don’t be silly, Catriona. Hardly anybody can afford a coach, and you have a good life. All the same, the image of that splendid carriage with its godlike passenger kept me company for the next mile of the muddy road. The two farm-carts that passed were dull in comparison, even when the collie dog yapped at my heels and looked for attention.

I did not see the woman until I turned a sharp bend. She sat outside her tent, smoking a long-stemmed pipe and looking directly at me.

“Aye, grand weather,” she said, lifting the stem of her pipe in acknowledgement.

“It’s fine soft rain,” I said, wriggling as a drop slithered down my spine to rest uncomfortably at my waist.

“God bless the journey.” The woman looked about a hundred, with her wrinkled, weather-battered face and the rags she wore, yet her eyes were as bright as a kitten’s as she surveyed me. She replaced her pipe and puffed happily.

“Thank you.” I sought an appropriate reply. “God bless the pipe,” I said, knowing that it was a feeble response.

The old woman cackled and exhaled blue smoke. “You’ll be Catriona Easson, then?”

I started at that. “How do you know my name?”

The woman chuckled again. “I know.”

I looked around, where the grey-green slopes of the Sidlaw Hills slid into the rain to my right, and to my left, the ground dipped into a mist-shrouded hollow before climbing toward Kinpurnie Hill. Everything was wet and dismal under the relentless rain.

“Sit beside me, Catriona.” The woman tapped the damp ground at her side. “It’s all right; I don’t bite.” Her eyes were intense as she examined me.

Although I wished myself elsewhere, I sat at the woman’s side, pulling my legs under me and laying my basket nearby.

“You’re going home to Dundee.” The woman spoke around the stem of her pipe so that a spurt of smoke accompanied each word.

“Yes,” I said. “How do you know that? Who are you?”

“They call me Mother Faa,” the woman said. “You’ve come from Meigle, where you took your mother’s baking to your grandmother.”

“Yes,” I said again. “But how do you know that?”

“I am Mother Faa. How much money do you have with you?”

“A little,” I replied cautiously, wondering if half a dozen sorners were hiding in the tent, just waiting to leap out and rob me of all I had. Well, they would be vastly disappointed for I had hardly a penny to scratch myself with, as the saying goes.

“Do you have any silver?”

“I may have.” Turning my back so that Mother Faa could not see what I was doing, I opened my pocket-book and scrabbled inside, where a single threepence gleamed silver among the copper pennies and halfpennies.

“Give it here, and I’ll tell your fortune,” Mother Faa commanded, spreading a hand like a claw. She bit into the threepenny bit and secreted it away somewhere inside her rags. Strangely for one so old and so shabbily dressed, she was clean of person and her clothes had been recently washed.

“I’ve never had my fortune told before,” I wondered what Mr Grieve, the church minister, would think of such a superstitious practice.

“Give me your hand.” Mother Faa’s claws gripped my wrist and held it tight as she pored over my palm. She turned it this way and that, while a long, if clean, nail traced the various lines.

“What can you see?” Interested despite myself, I found myself relaxing in Mother Faa’s company. I could not sense any danger from this woman.

“Everything,” Mother Faa said. “I see your past, your present and your future.”

“My past is not much to shout about,” I said, “my present is wet, and my future is a walk to Dundee.”

Mother Faa did not smile at my attempt at humour. “Your past is no secret, Catriona Easson. There is a tragedy there.”

“Aye,” I said. “My father’s ship went down about a year ago. The sea claimed him.”

“The sea has a habit of that,” Mother Faa said. “The loss of your father affected your mother.”

“Yes.” I did not say more. My mother’s present fragile state of mind was not this woman’s business.

“Don’t you worry, Catriona. Better times are coming for her and faster than you think.”

Mother Faa’s words did not convince me. She continued to study my palm. “Your present includes somebody with the letter K.” She looked up, her eyes soft. “K?”

“Kenny.” I could not hide my smile. “My intended.”

“Kenny is your intended.” Mother Faa looked into my face. “Yet you are not entirely happy with him.”

“I am so,” I denied hotly, too hotly.

“You think that he lacks something.” Mother Faa ignored my outburst as she pushed my hand away. “You may be right, Catriona. Perhaps he does, but there is another man in your future, and nearly in your present.”

“I don’t want another man,” I said.

“You will,” Mother Faa told me with perhaps the hint of a smile. “This man will help you see your Kenny as he truly is.”

I shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in the presence of this woman. “I’d better be on my way,” I said.

“Wait.” Mother Faa seized hold of my sleeve. “You have a lot of good in you, Catriona Easson, and a lot of uncertainty. Be careful in the days ahead for there is a storm coming.”

“I’ll be careful.” I was suddenly desperate to escape from Mother Faa with her gimlet-sharp eyes that saw right through me to find out truths that I hid even from myself. I had no notion what she meant about Kenny. True, he had his faults, but I loved him, didn’t I? And was love not blind?

“Choose carefully, Catriona Easson.” Mother Faa gave her final unsettling advice. Not until I walked away did I realise that Mother Faa had been wearing the same style of ring on her finger as the old man carrying the sticks. That was curious, if hardly important.

I was not happy as I hurried towards Dundee. Mother Faa’s words had disturbed me, so I was less careful where I placed my feet and splashed into more than one of the deep puddles on the road. Sighing, I contemplated the mud that now caked my boots, the bottom of my cape and my skirt. That would take some cleaning when I got home. I was still thinking about the mud on my skirt when I came across the coach for the second time on that eventful journey.

CHAPTER2

FORFARSHIRE, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1827

The coach stood at an acute angle at the side of the road with the driver and both footmen staring at it and the oh-so-handsome passenger standing beside them, scratching his head and smiling in high good humour.

“Well now,” the handsome fellow said, “there’s a thing.”

Being of a naturally curious nature, I walked across. “What’s to do?” I asked.

“Halloa,” the handsome fellow greeted me cheerfully. “You don’t happen to know anything about chariots, do you?”

“Not a thing,” I confessed. “What’s happened?”

“We’ve toppled into the ditch,” my handsome traveller said.

“Well, untopple out of the ditch,” I advised.

“That’s the trouble,” the driver said. “We can’t.”

I stood back, shaking my head. “Surely, with the horses pulling and four strong men pushing, you can get the thing back on the road.”

“We can only try.”

I could plainly see by their muddy clothes that all the men except my princely passenger had already attempted to push the coach free. Already dirty from the road, I decided to shame him into action, for he looked strong and fit enough to make a difference in such a small matter. “Come along then,” I said. “Four strong men and one weak woman may succeed where three strong men have tried and failed.”

Wondering if my words could shame the elegant one into action, and without sparing him a glance, I slid behind the coach and applied my slim shoulder, knowing that at least three of the men would follow my example.

“It might be best if you led the horses, miss,” the driver said, touching his forehead. “You’re only a lightweight.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “That fellow there,” I indicated the handsome one with an imperious wave of my hand, “can lead the horses. He’s doing nothing else, after all.”

“You’re used to giving orders, aren’t you,” the useless fellow said, but as I had hoped, my words had the desired effect, and he stepped across to the horses, delicately, as if afraid that mud would rot his elegant boots. Men are quite easy to manage if you handle them in the right way.

The driver took charge now. “On my word, lads and, sir, pray, sir, could you could guide the horses to pull in conjunction with us?”

When the handsome one lifted a languid hand in reply, the driver gave a shout, and we all pushed with might and main, whatever that means. In my case, it meant that I laid aside my basket, put my shoulder behind the boot of the chariot and shoved, while the men on either side of me grunted and strained. The coach moved a fraction of an inch, shuddered and sunk back to its original position with the two nearside wheels nearly hub-deep in the mud and the nearside horse floundering up to its hocks.

“We failed,” the handsome one said at once.

“So try again,” I replied, wondering at the ease with which such a strapping fellow gave up. I did notice him looking at me as if wondering who this strange woman might be.

“On the count of three,” the driver shouted. “One, two, three!”

We pushed again, this time to see the wheels slide forward an inch before falling back. The driver swore, softly, and looked to me, ready to apologise for his language.

“I’ve got an idea,” I said. “When the wheels move, somebody can put a stone or something behind them.”

“That’s your job then,” the driver agreed at once. “You’re the lightest here, so we’ll hold the coach in place while you do so.”

I agreed, and one of the footmen cast around for suitable stones, which he placed near to the wheels. All the time, the handsome one patted and soothed the horses while glancing surreptitiously at me from time to time.

The driver nodded to me. “You know what you’re doing?”

“I do,” I said.

“Right lads,” the driver said. “We’ll try again. Are you ready, sir?”

The handsome one responded with a smile, and we shoved again. This time, as soon as the wheels shifted, I slid the stone underneath. It was only the width of my thumb, but any gain is better than no gain.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” the handsome one said. “Find some more stones.” He stood as the footmen scurried around the area, gathering armfuls of rock and getting muddier by the minute. I also watched, with my eyes straying to Adonis, the name I had coined for the useless if god-like figure. Adonis suited him, I thought, being the mortal lover of the goddess Aphrodite. Twice my gaze met his, and we both looked rapidly away.

“Ready, lads and lassie?” The driver was slightly more cheerful as we tried again. This time we lifted the carriage a further fraction so I could slide another stone beneath the wheels.

Inch by inch and with much toil, we moved the coach until, with one final push, it was back on the road and, save for Adonis, we all looked like we had been rolling in mud, which, in a way, we had.

“We’ve done it,” said Adonis, whose boots at least were now less pristine. When he brushed some imaginary dirt from his shoulder with the back of his hand, his gold signet ring boasted a stone as large as the nail of my little finger.

“We have,” I agreed, emphasising the first word.

Adonis smiled and opened the coach door. “Where are you bound, my pretty one?”

“Dundee,” I said, and bit off the words “my handsome man” at the end of my statement.

“That’s a coincidence,” the handsome one said. “So am I. I’ll take you wherever you are going.”

At 25 years old, I was not stupid enough to accompany a strange man into a coach without assurances of my safety. “You’ll ruin my reputation,” I said, shaking my head.

“I will not,” my handsome dandy denied. “Come on – you’re safe with me. You do know who I am, don’t you?”

“I do not.” I flinched as a distant peal of thunder indicated that the weather was about to take a turn for the worse. The patter of rain on the roof of the carriage increased.

The dandy tapped the coat-of-arms on the door of his coach. “I am Baird MacGillivray of Mysore House.”

“Ah.” I knew the name. Mysore House stood on the western fringe of Dundee, off the Perth Road. In common with most folk in the area, I had never seen the house, as it sheltered behind a screen of trees amid a 20-acre garden that included some very exotic plants that the owner had imported from foreign parts.

“My father is Donald MacGillivray, you see.” Baird had decided to become garrulous. “He named me after General David Baird.”

“I see.” I watched as dark clouds gathered above the road to Dundee. The rain had never ceased, but now the drops were heavier, a warning of what was to come. I balanced walking through a torrent against trusting Baird MacGillivray with my reputation, and anything else I hoped to retain until marriage. I touched the long pin I carried in my basket, knowing that I would use it if necessary.

“You will also have a name,” Baird said, leaning closer to me, “although I suspect that I already know what it is.”

“I am plain Catriona Easson,” I said.

Baird gave an exquisite bow. “Well, Catriona Easson, who is anything but plain, we’ll keep the curtains drawn.” Baird was very persuasive. “Nobody will know you have accepted an unchaperoned lift from a man, and I promise you faithfully,” he swore, pressing a hand over his heart, “that I will act like a perfect gentleman.”

When the driver gave me a small nod of encouragement, I could only smile and finger my long pin. “Why then, sir,” I said, “I shall gladly accept your offer.”

I was only just in time, for the rain-gods opened their vaults and emptied the contents on to poor old Scotland. The rain hammered on to the roof of the coach and bounced off the surface of the road, making the poor horses walk with bowed heads. I pitied the two footmen and the driver on the outside.

“They’re used to it.” Baird closed the door firmly on my idea of inviting the footmen inside his coach. He tapped the ceiling to signal to the driver, and we pulled away with the wheels sliding this way and that.

“Do you like my little coach?” Baird sat opposite, allowing me to study him properly for the first time. He was indeed handsome, with a firm jawline and a straight nose, yet it was his eyes that held my attention most. They seemed to laugh to me, or perhaps at me, I was not sure which. He was undoubtedly aware of the power they had, for he kept them busy on my face and figure, yet without being in the least offensive.

“Your little coach is magnificent,” I said, without any exaggeration. With padded sides in soft dark-red leather and seats of the same material, the carriage interior was as luxurious as anything I had ever seen.

We had to speak loudly to be heard above the sound of the rain. “Thank you,” Baird said. “Where are you going?”

“We live in Milne’s Close off the Nethergate,” I said.

“Oh?” Baird raised his eyebrows. “Have you been there long? No, don’t tell me. You said we. Is there a Mr Catriona Easson?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I was referring to my mother and me.” I wondered how much I should tell this Adonis.

“Ah.” Baird nodded sagely. “Your mother.” I did not know why he emphasised the last word and gave a little smile. “I see. You do not have a husband.”

I shook my head. “As I said, Mr MacGillivray, not yet, although I am spoken for.”

“That is a great shame,” Baird said. “I congratulate you, and congratulate the fortunate man even more so.”

I favoured him with a small smile. “He is less fortunate than you believe, Mr MacGillivray, for I have the very devil of a temper.”

Baird leaned back in his seat to survey me before he replied. “I wager that your temper would be worth watching, Miss Easson.”

“I wager it would be worth avoiding, Mr MacGillivray,” I returned, somewhat tartly, with my hand firmly closed on the pin in my basket.

“Touché,” Baird said with his eyes more intense than I had expected.

We lurched to the side as the coach slithered. Baird laughed as he righted himself. “Are you all right?”

“It’s impossible to get hurt in here,” I said. “The coach is so well padded.”

Baird laughed again. He seemed to find everything amusing. “I like to travel in comfort. It’s one of the benefits of wealth.”

I raised my eyebrows, not used to people boasting of their financial situation. Although it was somewhat vulgar, it was also refreshingly honest. I could not help my smile. “It’s better to be comfortable than the reverse,” I indicated the battering rain outside. “I wager that your footmen had rather be inside than out.”

“I do not doubt that,” Baird replied at once, “but four would be rather a crowd, don’t ye know, and I rather like having you all to myself.”

“I’m nothing special,” I said.

Baird smiled and changed the subject. “We can’t take you home looking like that,” he said. “Your mother will be most displeased to see her daughter in such a state.” He smiled. “Why, she’ll think you and I have been rolling in the mud together.”

I looked down at myself. The mud had dried on my cloak and skirt, leaving me looking like a wandering tinker rather than a respectable churchgoer. I contemplated what Baird had said and wondered if he was Mother Faa’s man in my future and nearly in my present. “I’ll have to brush myself down the moment I get home.”

“I can do better than that,” Baird said. “Come to Mysore House and we’ll get you properly cleaned up.”

“I can’t do that.” The thought of stepping inside a strange man’s house was appalling to me.

“You’re safe with me,” Baird repeated his earlier assurance. His smile returned. “If the chariot impressed you, I am sure you’ll love Mysore House.”

Turning away, I looked out of the window with my mind in a whirl. I had long wanted to see what Mysore House was like, and now I was being offered to step inside, although it would probably be only the servant’s quarters. If Baird had wished to take advantage of me, he had shown no sign during the past half-hour in the coach. Indeed, he kept a respectable distance away and even when the jolt had pushed us together, he had extricated himself in seconds. On the other hand, Mother would be fascinated by any snippet I could tell her about Mysore House and, of course, I was never backward in coming forward to satisfy my curiosity.

“Thank you, Mr MacGillivray,” I said. “I should be glad to accept your very kind offer.”

“Then that is settled, Miss Easson.” As Baird sat back in his seat with a face like a cat who found himself in a whole dairy of cream, I wondered if I had made the correct decision.

Although I must have walked along the Perth Road a hundred times, it was utterly different travelling in a coach, with most other traffic making way for us. Truly, wealth did give a feeling of power. I wondered what it would be like enjoying such luxury as a right, and I rather enjoyed leaning back in the yielding cushions and staring out of the window as the rain eased.

The driver steered us around to the lodge that guarded the tall iron gates of Mysore House. I had often stood on the outside and watched, but now the lodge-keeper opened the gates for us and then we were rolling up the curved drive with the iron-shod wheels grating over gravel and the grounds spreading like a botanical heaven.

At a signal from Baird, we stopped opposite Mysore House. Baird threw open the coach door, so I had a better view of his home. “Well,” he said with justifiable pride in his voice, “what do you think of Mysore?”

“It’s wonderful,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The name, Mysore, should have given me a clue that this house would be different from every other house in knew. While the centre of Dundee was composed of grey, weathered tenements and narrow closes of two-storey houses, the suburbs had their quota of substantial Georgian or Regency square-fronted mansions. Mysore House was unlike any of them. It was how I would imagine an Indian palace to appear if it had been plucked from that exotic, feverish land and transported bodily to our damp climate. It was a place of unusual towers and strangely elaborate balconies, of fancy ironwork and pointed doors. The coat of arms above the main entrance was carved in granite and freshly painted, with two elephants standing over a shield on which sat a cat with its right paw over its tail.

“It’s nothing like anywhere I’ve ever seen,” I said.

I heard the delight in Baird’s chuckle.

“I thought you’d like it,” he said.

I pointed to the coat of arms. “Why the cat?” I asked. “I can understand the elephants from your Indian experiences, but what is the reason for the cat?”

“We are associated with the Clan Chattan confederation,” Baird explained. “That means the clan of the cat.”

I nodded. “It’s very distinctive.”

Baird grinned. “Come on. We’ll get you cleaned up, and I’ll give you the grand tour.”

I looked at him in astonishment. The best I had expected was the loan of a brush in the servants’ quarters. “Do you mean it?”

“I most certainly do,” this strange Adonis said. “Come on, Miss, eh, Easson. We’ll leave the servants to care for the coach and horses.”

The smiling, insipid fop of the road had gone, with an energetic man taking his place as Baird strode up the seven steps to the main door of Mysore House. As if by magic, a faceless servant opened the door.

“Thank you, Henry,” Baird said.

I remained outside, clutching my near-empty basket, feeling slightly hesitant until Baird gestured me forward.

“Come in and welcome, Miss Easson.” He raised his voice to a shout. “Mrs Mahoney!”