My Laird's Castle (5 page)

“Ye said she
was
fond of genealogy. Has yer mother passed then?”

I sighed heavily, and then a thought came to me, and I smiled.

“In my time, she has passed, but as it happens, in your time, she hasn’t yet been born. So that’s the good news. I miss her terribly.”

“Aye,” he said softly. “I miss my mother as well. She was taken by the grippe.”
 

I knew that meant flu.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “How long ago?”

“Four years ago now.”

I thought about his wife and baby dying, but I didn’t want to bring the subject up, so I said nothing.

“And yer mother?”

“Last year,” I said. “She died of heart disease.”

“Ah, the heart. Such a fragile thing, it is.”

I nodded.
 

The softness in his face almost brought me to tears.

“And yer father?”

“He passed away when I was a little. I don’t remember him. My mother never remarried. It’s always been just her and me.”

He clucked sympathetically.

“My father died shortly after Culloden. We are a fine pair of orphans, are we not?” he asked with a sympathetic smile.
 

I couldn’t help but smile in return.

“Come, lass. We must get ye to bed. We canna solve the riddle of yer travel through time this night, but perhaps with some sleep, we might be more clear headed in the morning.

I rose, stepping on the edge of my skirt and lurching forward ungracefully.

Colin caught me by the shoulders and steadied me. He dropped his hands quickly, far more quickly than I wanted.
 

“Oops, sorry about that. I’m not used to the length of this dress.”

“Ye dinna wear dresses in yer time?”

“Oh, sure we do,” I said airily. “Just not me. I prefer my jeans.”

“Alas, I think ye must continue to wear such clothing while ye are here. The servants have gossip enough. I dinna wish it to be known by all and sundry that ye are here or where ye come from.”

“I understand,” I said.
 

“Come then.” Colin tucked my hand under his arm and led me from the room, taking me up the stairs and delivering me to my door.
 

“Is all to yer liking in the room?” he asked as I opened the door.

I peeked in. The fire was still going and looked as if it had recently had wood added to it.

“Yes, it’s toasty warm. Thank you. It’s a beautiful room.”

“Aye, the Red Room, we call it. It was my sister’s favorite.”

“Your sister?”

He nodded. “Aye. Good night then, Mistress Pratt.” He bowed and stepped back from the door.

I wondered where his sister was, but he seemed ready to leave, so I didn’t ask him anything else.

“Good night,” I said, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind me.
 

I leaned against the door, willing the strong oak to hold me up. My legs were weak, whether from exhaustion or traveling two and a half centuries into the past, I didn’t know.
 

I crossed the room and noted a white garment lying on the bed. Mrs. Agnew must have brought the nightgown in while I was downstairs. I wondered if this too was a garment worn by Colin’s wife. I was a bit squeamish about wearing such an intimate garment belonging to a dead woman, but then again, the alternative was my still-damp jeans and shirt or the beautiful velvet gown that I now wore. No, nightgown it would have to be.

I unlaced my dress and slipped out of it, laying it out across a wooden trunk at the end of the bed. Slipping the nightgown over my head, I marveled at the softness of it. If I had to guess about clothing in the eighteenth-century Highlands, I would have thought everything would be wool, but this nightgown was definitely silk. In fact, I would not have imagined the porcelain tea service or the luxurious hangings, but then again, I was no historian. Or Colin was very wealthy indeed.
 

I became aware of a discomfort in my nether regions, and I swallowed hard. Where on earth was the bathroom? I had to use it, and I desperately wanted to wash my face.
 

A white porcelain pitcher and bowl on a side table caught my attention, and I hurried over to it. Next to the bowl was a small chunk of something that looked like soap, and a linen towel. I looked inside the pitcher. Yes! The water was warm. Mrs. Agnew was a saint, she really was.

But toilet first. Where was it? I searched the room for a connecting door but could find none. I couldn’t very well wander the castle at night, knocking on doors. Well, perhaps I could, but I wasn’t going to. I couldn’t hold it till morning either. If nothing else, I supposed I could sneak out to the woods. I rolled my eyes. The sooner I found my way home, the better off I would be.

I plopped down on the bed, contemplating the awful certainty that I was going to have to head for the woods, when my foot hit something cool and hard just underneath the frame. I bent over and looked under the bed, not without some fear.

A fairly large porcelain bowl came into view, and I blinked.
Oh, please no.
Please tell me this was not a chamber pot!
I retrieved the bowl and stared at it.
 

What could I do? Even if it wasn’t a chamber pot, it certainly beat heading out into the cold, rainy night to do my business.
 

I won’t describe the next few moments except to say that I should probably have taken the nightgown off before attempting to maneuver myself over the bowl. However, I relieved myself without mishap and pushed the bowl back under the bed.
 

 
I fairly leapt for the pitcher of water on the sideboard, poured some into the basin and washed my face and hands. The soap had a faint smell of lavender, quite pleasant really. I dried my face and hands, feeling much, much better. A hairbrush would have completed my toilette, and I moved over to the dressing table to search it.
 

Yes! Mrs. Agnew had come through again, for there on the table was a very fine silver comb. I combed my hair with the heavy thing, wondering again at Colin’s financial worth. But what did I know? Maybe all Scottish lairds had silver combs.

I saw my blouse and jeans had been picked up off the floor and draped over some sort of blanket holder near the fire. Mrs. Agnew must have retrieved the stand from another room, because I hadn’t seen it earlier.
 

Face washed, hair brushed, I climbed into the bed, drifting down into the mattress. No foam mattress this, I felt myself enveloped in its softness as I pulled silk sheets and a velvet coverlet across my body. Expecting to lay awake for hours as I fretted about how to get back home, I surprised myself by falling instantly asleep.

I awakened suddenly to a raucous sound, and I pushed myself upright. At first, I couldn’t orient myself. Where was I? What time was it? Darkness continued to surround me, and I suspected I hadn’t been asleep for long.
 

Embers across the room caught my eye. The fire had died down, and the room was cool. Then I remembered. Scotland! The eighteenth century.
 

Pppffftt...nonsense! It wasn’t possible. My host, Colin, was a historical admirer—in a rather obsessive, fantastical way—but still, nothing more than a history buff. I had not traveled through time, but had somehow ended up in the castle of a very eccentric Scotsman.
 

The noise continued—a banging sound somewhere in the castle. Shades of Emily Brontë, I hoped he didn’t have a mad wife locked up in the attic! I slipped out of bed, my feet touching down on the woven tartan rug, one of several scattered about the room. I felt for the candle I remembered seeing on the small table by my bed and, locating it, felt around the base of the candlestick for a box of matches. I knew the silly man must have electricity, but I hadn’t noted any light switches or outlets when I’d searched the room earlier.

I found nothing else on the table though. No matches. Not even a handy lighter.
 

The banging grew louder, and my heart, already racing, sped up with the forceful immediacy of the noise. I trotted to the door and felt around the edge for a light switch. There had to be one, didn’t there? I dropped my hands when I remembered that I’d seen no overhead lighting in the room either, and certainly no lamps. Mrs. Agnew had taken the oil lamp away with her.

The embers of the fire caught my eye again. Aha!
 

I headed back for the bedside table, grabbed the candlestick, which surprised me with its weight, and I made my way toward the fire. I bent over and tilted the candle, praying the wick would take hold. Thankfully, it did. I turned back toward the bed, set the candle down, picked up the tartan and draped it around my shoulders before slipping into my shoes.
 

Picking up the candle again, I approached the door and eased it open. A hum of male voices caught my ears, and I thought they came from downstairs. What on earth was going on?
 

I peered out into the hallway, now dark. No one was about. I pulled the door wider and tiptoed out, making my way toward the end of the hall, to the landing above the foyer.

Lights flickered downstairs. My first impression was of bright red, the red of a uniform of some kind. I rested the heavy candlestick on the bannister and stared down at the group of predominantly red-uniformed men standing outside the doorway. One tall man stood inside the foyer. Soldiers, or at least men who were dressed as historic soldiers. British?

Colin, dressed in trousers and a white shirt, faced them.

“It is verra late, Captain Jones,” he said. Even from this distance, I could hear the anger in his voice. “Couldna ye have advised us ye were coming?”

“I apologize for the late intrusion, Lord Anderson. Truly. But the river has overrun its banks, and we are trapped on this side of the bridge. We shall not remain overly long, just until the flooding subsides.”

At that moment, the tall captain looked up and saw me. His eyes widened, and he took off his hat, a tricorn of some kind, and bowed at the waist. Smooth, golden hair, caught up in a black bow at the back of his neck, shone under the candlelight.

“Madam,” he said, straightening and throwing me a handsome smile.
 

Colin, his long hair curling rather wildly around his face at the moment, swung his head around to see me. I gasped at his angry expression.

“Mrs. Agnew, see to Mistress Pratt,” he said.
 

I then noticed Mrs. Agnew standing back, holding a candle aloft. George and a short, plump woman, whom I assumed to be his wife, stood by as well. All appeared to have dressed hurriedly, their clothing haphazardly unbuttoned and unfastened, the women’s hair hanging down in braids from under caps.
 

“Mistress Pratt,” Captain Jones repeated. He nodded at me again and flashed me an even brighter smile. “You have a guest, Lord Anderson?”

I jumped back from the landing and lowered the candle, which must have highlighted me in the darkness at the top of the stairs.

“Aye,” Colin said. “A cousin from the colonies.” He had turned away and faced the soldiers once again.
 

Mrs. Agnew had reached the landing and took me by the elbow.

“Good night, Mistress Pratt,” Captain Jones said.

I said nothing but allowed the housekeeper to propel me back down the hall.

“Och, now, mistress! Ye shouldna have come out of yer room. Yer presence will raise questions. Cousin indeed!”

“What’s going on?” I asked, almost missing the fact that she didn’t think I could be Colin’s cousin. “Colin looked pretty angry.”

“As ye can see, the soldiers wish to bed down again in the castle. This will be the third time this summer. And they eat a fair amount.”

I almost got caught up in the time travel thing again, and gave myself a good shake. Mrs. Agnew had thrown open my bedroom door and was busily stoking the fire.

“Come on, Mrs. Agnew. Can’t you at least let up on the historical act for just a minute? I swear, this is the most bizarre thing that has ever happened to me. And I could deal with it...I could even enjoy it, if someone would at least give me a wink or something.”

“Historical act, mistress? Whatever do ye mean? I fear I canna wink. Why would ye want a wink?”

I set my candle down and tossed myself onto the bed, dangling my feet over the edge as I kicked off my shoes.
 

“Man, you guys are good! No one comes out of character for a moment. So, are these friends of the laird?” I exaggerated my
r
’s.

“Friends? Och, nay. They be no friends of the laird. No matter what his father did, the young master is a Scotsman through and through.”

“His father?”

Mrs. Agnew rose, straightened her shawl and turned to me.

“It’s nae proper for me to speak of the family,” she said. I was mesmerized by her dialect. She continued, no matter how improper it was.

“The auld laird sold his soul to the devil, to the English, and he fought on the wrong side in the ’45. But it did him no good. The English still forced themselves upon us as if this house had fought against the Crown.”