Journey to Enchantment (3 page)

Pale and trembling, her head bowed, she was silent.

“Do you understand me?” demanded the MacTavish.

“Aye, sir,” she whispered, fighting tears.

“Thank you. Tomorrow, is he well enough, I shall take you up and introduce you to our Captain. You will please to be available at two of the clock.”

Dinner was not a pleasant meal that evening. The servants were as quietly efficient as ever but by their tight lips and flashing eyes conveyed their resentment of the situation. Hortense was in a reminiscent mood, and her soft voice prosed on interminably about her late husband's bosom bow, Major Flitton, who had fallen at Prestonpans. It was an unfortunate topic that did nothing to ease the tension. MacTavish maintained a politely attentive attitude and made an occasional attempt to change the subject. Not a sullen girl, Prudence was devastated by this first serious quarrel with her father and could scarcely touch her food, much less contribute her share of the conversation. She had seldom been more relieved than when the meal came to an end and her aunt led the way to the drawing room.

“Now, my love,” said Hortense, as soon as the butler had served them their coffee and departed, “what is it that has you so up in the boughs? Is it the Englishman?”

“Papa said … that I must be polite to the wretched creature. And him lying above stairs in comfort and luxury while fine gentlemen like my dear brother and—and Jamie MacDougall fly for their lives with those damned hounds behind them, fairly slathering to haul them to the nearest firing squad!”

“Prue!” squealed Hortense, so agitated that two of her scarves slithered to the floor. “If your papa did but hear you
swear!
”

Dashing away tears with an angry hand, Prudence said, “Och, awie! He couldnae be more displeased wi' me than he is the noo! We never quarrel, Aunty Mac. Never! And now, because of this—this Englishman! Oh! I hate Captain whatever his name is! I
hate
him!”

“I warned you, child. Remember?” The widow's large hazel eyes took on the expression that Robert MacTavish had been wont irreverently to dub her ‘Ophelia look.' “The stars told me,” she half whispered, “that with his coming this family would be rent asunder. That our lives would be changed forever and ever.…”

Her ready sense of humour reviving, Prudence resisted the impulse to add ‘Amen,' and instead gave a snort. “Huh! Then they were right for once! Only look at us—poor Rob an outcast; the cursed redcoats spreading death and destruction through the Highlands; the castle at Achnacarry burned doon, and the old fortress blown up—”

“The Jacobites did that,” Hortense pointed out sighfully.

“Aye—and for good reason! The thing is, it's
him
”—Prudence jerked her head towards the upper floors—“and his kind we've to blame. But I'm to curtsey and simper and wish him well, lest my dearest papa never speak tae me again. I'd as soon smile at a snake!” She snatched up her aunt's fallen scarves and stretched them between her hands, scowling down at the taut fabric.

Hortense gasped, “Prue! You never would…!”

Her eyes dark with anger, Prudence said grittily, “Och, but 'twould do me hearrrt guid!”

Fanning herself and gazing at her niece with wide, awed eyes, Hortense murmured, “But whatever would we do wi' the poor laddie's corpse?”

The thought brought a glint of laughter into Prudence's eyes. “Take it doon tae the loch and give it tae the Monster fer his supper!”

*   *   *

At precisely two o'clock on the following afternoon, Prudence presented herself at her father's study door, and enquired innocently, “Will ye be wanting me to change my dress, sir?”

MacTavish ran a glance over her wind-blown, unpowdered hair, the glow the fresh air had brought to her cheeks, the dusty blue riding habit, and battled a smile. He realized that she thought she looked unattractive. “I doubt you can do better, my dear,” he said gravely, and had to turn away as he saw indignation come into her betrayingly expressive face.

It was a fine thing, Prudence thought, as she accompanied her sire up the stairs, that the father you had worshipped all your days could turn on you like a viper when you least expected it.

The door of the enemy's room loomed ahead. She tightened her lips. She'd show this wretched little Sassenach how a proud Scotswoman could put him in his place. Unless, perhaps, he'd had the good manners to pass to his reward even as they came up the stairs.

Her morbid hopes were unwarranted. Lockerbie answered her father's knock, assured Mr. MacTavish that the Captain was awake and waiting eagerly to meet Miss Prudence, and bowed them into the room.

Keeping her eyes downcast, Prudence curtseyed through the introduction and heard a weak but pleasant voice murmur, “How do you do, ma'am? My apologies for intruding on you. I fancy you do not like to have a Sassenach in your home.”

Her head jerked up. Her first reaction was shock. She thought, ‘Why, he's only a boy!' The white, long-sleeved nightshirt and the wan face against the pillows gave an impression of defenceless youth, and pain had left its mark on the Captain. Dark shadows ringed the dusky brown eyes, and deep lines were etched between his heavy brows. His hair, almost black, had been brushed back severely, but was already starting to curl about his face, further emphasizing his pallor. A tentative smile tugged at his wide mouth, and his initial rather wistful look was replaced, as she watched, by admiration.

Geoffrey Delacourt was as surprised as was Miss MacTavish. Robbie's only comment about his sister had been that she was ‘a very good sort of girl.' Now, Delacourt saw an exquisite little creature, all blue eyes, gleaming red-gold hair, and prideful arrogance. The little uptilted nose he thought charming, and the full lips very kissable. His gaze drifted lower. Gad, but she'd a shape to her, this Scots lass!

Prudence saw the gleam that came into the long, dark eyes, and pulled herself together. “I cannot but welcome whomever my father invites here, sir,” she said meekly.

She meant, of course, I have no choice.' Amused, Delacourt murmured, “Thank you, ma'am. Have you been riding? You fairly radiate robust health! How I envy you!”

Prudence stiffened. ‘Robust…?' Could she have caught it from Aunty Mac?

A faint tremor in his voice, MacTavish said, “Aye, Prue's none of your dainty clinging-vine types.”

Reeling, his daughter riposted, “Speaking of which, Captain Delacourt, I met your friend Lord Briley yesterday. He spoke well of you.”

Shocked, MacTavish darted a quick look at her, noted her heightened colour, and intervened hurriedly, “We must not tire you, my dear fellow. How do you go on today?”

The long thin hand on the coverlet lifted feebly. “Tol-lol, sir,” sighed the invalid. “Not very much better than yesterday. But—I thank you.”

‘Tol-lol!' thought Prudence, contemptuously. “We will hope your recovery is rapid, Captain,” she said with a bared-teeth smile.

‘I am sure you will, you little vixen,' he thought. “Will you remember me in your prayers?” he begged, his voice noticeably weaker.

She answered truthfully, “You have been in them since I heard of your arrival here.”

He raised a hand to his lips and coughed. It was a thin, painful sound, and tore Prudence's antagonism to shreds. She curtseyed again, murmured an appropriate farewell, and walked past Lockerbie as he swung the door open, quite forgetting to thank him.

II

Aside from the fact that he appeared to have a great number of friends who visited him at rather odd hours, one would hardly have known Captain Delacourt was in the house. And yet, in a subtle way, his influence was everywhere. The frigid demeanour of the servants began to melt on the second day of his occupation, and by the fourth was gone. The housemaids soon were competing for the privilege of waiting upon his rarely rung bell, and when it was believed he slept, a funereal silence descended upon the house. His man was a quiet type, not given to making friends easily, and the thaw did not appear to extend to him so that he became even more morose and silent. The housekeeper affected to be unaware of Lockerbie's existence and, on the few occasions that it was necessary for her to address him, would either talk right through him or at the wall beside him, but never rest her eyes upon what she referred to as ‘his putrid visage.' The military doctor, who came every few days to check on his patient, encountered Mrs. Cairn early one breezy afternoon and was subjected to the same treatment. Himself a Scot, the rotund physician reached across the stairs as the housekeeper made to sweep past him. “Ye're a right bonnie lass,” he said gruffly, “and I'll no hold it against ye that ye've no love for the English, but if your soul matches your face, ye'll no vent y'r hatred on that boy above stairs. He's got all he can manage tae survive, ma'am.”

“D'ye take me fer a heathen, Dr. Cauldside?” she replied, bristling as she lowered her eyes from the landing to glare at him. “Fer all we may need tae disinfect the premises when he's gone at last, I'll no add tae his misery.” And on she marched, pausing at the landing to peer about and call in her softest voice for Señorita.

Prudence had returned from a visit to the buttery in time to overhear this little exchange. She nodded coolly to the physician and came up with the housekeeper halfway along the east hall.

“Are Captain Delacourt's friends becoming a nuisance, Carrie?” she asked, unfastening the silken scarf she had tied about her curls.

“Aye, they are that. Traipsin' in and oot at all hours. One might think the guid doctor would be more concerned for his patient than tae allow it. And a more sullen, scrrruffy lot ye'd never wish tae meet. Not a worrud out of 'em. Slink past wi' their heads doon and their tongues twixt their teeth, fer all the worruld as if they were ashamed—as well they should be, consorting wi' a redcoat! That lord chappie is one o' the few as will gie me the time o' day, and him lisping and fluttering like any dandified milksop! Señorita? Now where on airth has that wee besom taken hersel' tae? Señorita…? Ye know ye're not allowed above stairs!”

Señorita, a small grey kitten, had been presented to Hortense a year ago by a Spanish gentleman visiting the MacTavish. She had been received without much enthusiasm, but had soon become the pet of the household. She was now large and independent and regarded the occupants of Lakepoint as
her
pets, and quite sure the animal would not be far away, Prudence went on to her room.

She was to drive into Inverness with her aunt that afternoon, and Kitty already had the cream silk Watteau gown laid out on the bed, with the hoops hanging from the wardrobe door. The abigail was agog with excitement, for it seemed that the military hunters had been foiled once again and Jock Cameron had slipped from their net, leaving his pursuers baffled. Beaming, Kitty watched Prudence clap her hands and dance a small jig. “Aye, I knew that'd please ye, miss!”

Prudence was rather more than merely pleased. Jock Cameron had been one of her most persistent beaux and she had been not at all offended by his declarations of undying affection, for he was a fine-looking lad with a grand physique and an amiable disposition, to say nothing of a respectable inheritance. Jock had been wounded at the Battle of Culloden and, despite a bold dash for freedom, was rumoured to be trapped near Beauty Firth with the redcoats enjoying a merry game of cat and mouse before seizing him. “'Tis a miracle,” she cried gleefully. “I'd been fairly dreading tae hear he'd been shot. However did he get away?”

“Ligun Doone again, so they're saying at The Bonnie Heather. Risked his own skin tae lure the redcoats intae a wee defile, then threw weighted nets doon. By the time they'd got free, so had Jock!” She laughed as Prudence squealed with joy, and went on, “I reckon it's truth. Mr. Doone is worth four hundred pounds now, if taken alive. And two hundred if killed.” Her eyes became very round. “Four hundred pounds! Losh! 'Tis a great fortune!”

Prudence sobered abruptly. “Aye, it is,” she said, frowning. “A dreadful temptation for a poor man. Oh, Kitty! How awful if Doone should be betrayed, when he's done so much for our fighting men.”

“And their families, miss! Certain it is that no Scot would betray him. Look at the time! We'd best get ye ready.”

And so Prudence was relieved of her simple morning dress, hot water brought for her to wash, the hoops secured about her tiny middle, and the silken gown draped over them. Her hair was tidied, dainty slippers replaced her pattens, and a pearl pendant was fastened about her throat. And while all this was going forward, the two girls chattered on about the exploits of Mr. Ligun Doone.

The Battle of Culloden Moor had ended the hopes of Charles Stuart and the Jacobites to put King James on the throne. Their defeat had been crushing, but the victorious young Duke of Cumberland had sworn to stamp out rebellion in the Highlands once and for all. He had unleashed an unparalleled tide of savagery; murder, rapine, and looting were encouraged rather than prohibited, and many an English officer, horrified by the resultant blood-bath, had sold out and gone home rather than be a party to it. Women and children were not spared by the predatory soldiers, and soon even the staunch Highlanders feared to help the fugitives lest their own families pay a hideous price for their compassion. And then had come Ligun Doone—a man with a genius for devising escape routes, whose daring plots so often prevented the pursuit and slaughter of rebels that he had in short order become an infuriating thorn in the flesh of the military.

It was generally believed that his name was assumed, and there was a good deal of betting among the Scots as to his true identity. Kitty and Prudence had their own small wager, the abigail favouring one of her admirers, a large young man known as Little Willie Mayhew, and Prudence opting for Alec Carlton, a fiery, proud, and intelligent boy who would, she thought, be the very type to take such frightful chances.