Once Upon a Christmas Past Page 15

  “Did you follow them?”

  “I would have done, but a fist in my shoulder delayed me at the door.” Nash rubbed his shoulder, still sore from the man’s punch.

  “No wonder you’re in a foul mood.” A look of concern crossed Robbie’s face “Are you hurt?”

  “No, and you can stop your worrying. I do not need you to rescue me from every fight that comes my way. I can well defend myself.”

  Robbie glanced at him with raised brows. They were both thinking of that day at St Peter’s Field, but there had been other times as well. At Eton, Robbie had once stepped in to take the punch of a swaggering bully that had been meant for Nash. And last year when their work for Sidmouth took them to the cotton spinners’ strike in Lancashire, Robbie had pulled him from an angry mob.

  Ignoring his brother’s look of disbelief, Nash continued. “When I was finally able to extricate myself, which, I might add, I did with little trouble, George and his companion were nowhere to be seen. With the sun nearly down, I had to return.”

  “You’ll need to describe them for me so I’ll know what to look for when I venture into town again.”

  “Not only can I describe them, but I can tell you some of their names.”

  Ailie watched in the mirror as Rhona attempted to arrange her hair in a new style.

  Twisting a long strand into a curl, she said, “’Tis how the ladies wear their hair in London, or so Lady Emily tells me.”

  “It takes more time and requires more pins,” Ailie complained, wanting to hurry to meet Nash.

  “Aye, but ye’ll like how ye look when I’m done. Yer hair will be curled on top of yer head and the rest long over yer shoulder.”

  Ailie wondered if Nash would like it. She thought of his kisses in the library, a bit different than the first in the woods. She hoped it signified she was more to him than a passing fancy. But what if she were? Would she take an Englishman for a husband? Muriel might urge it upon her and William would accept such a match given his own choice. But what did she want?

  There were times when Nash had been endearing, like when he encouraged her to believe the Ossian would be built one day, and when he accepted her wearing breeches. He was even tolerant of her teasing him about kale and haddies. She smiled, remembering him in spectacles, like a professor buried in his horticulture book. Though she knew shipmasters who read when at sea, their books were not about growing things on land. But then, Nash didn’t speak much of sailing. Perhaps, like her, he spent his days ashore.

  “I like this blue gown on ye, Mistress,” said her maid.

  Ailie thought the blue velvet edging around the bodice, cut lower than her other gowns, and short puffy sleeves would go well with her small tartan shawl. “I like it, too. It’s the same indigo color as Grandfather Ramsay’s knitted Ganseys.”

  When Rhona set down the brush, Ailie eagerly asked, “Are you finished?”

  Rhona chuckled. “Aye. Whoever ye’re so eager to meet will be pleased at the sight of ye. Ye’re a bonnie lass.”

  “Thank you.” Her cheeks flushed at the thought of being so transparent.

  “I’ll get yer shawl.”

  Ailie rose and Rhona slipped the blue tartan shawl over her shoulders. “No need to wait up for me tonight, Rhona. I’ll ready myself for bed.”

  By the time Ailie entered the parlor, Nash was surrounded by their guests engaged in lively conversation. All were present, save Nash’s brother Robbie. Her work at the shipyard that morning had kept her from joining them in their pursuits. She had been so consumed by Nash’s kiss in the library, she had forgotten to ask him if he’d been reading all morning.

  She looked toward Nash, the only man in the room she wanted to see. He must have been waiting for her, as he smiled and crossed the room with two glasses of wine in hand.

  “The claret I promised you,” he said, passing her one of the glasses.

  “You don’t mind everyone else is drinking wassail?” She had noticed the distinctive smell of apples and cinnamon when she’d first arrived.

  “Not at all.” His gaze shifted to her hair. “You’ve fixed your hair differently. Most becoming.” He lifted a long strand, curled at the end, touching her skin at the base of her neck in the process. “Very pretty.”

  A shiver ran through her. “It was my maid’s creation,” Ailie said, trying to recover from the touch of his fingers. “I did not mean for it to take so long.”

  “No matter. The effect is splendid and worth the wait. Shall we join the others?”

  “Aye. But where is Robbie? When we were in the library, you mentioned he had not gone far.”

  Nash hesitated. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be down in a bit. He is changing for dinner.”

  “He’s probably freezing if he’s been outside. Was he gone long?”

  Nash appeared to hesitate. “I didn’t ask.”

  “Next time, he might try the orangery.”

  “Robbie? I don’t think so. He’d prefer the woods, cold though they may be.”

  She gave him a lopsided grin. “So would I if I were with you.”

  “I shall remember that,” he said, gently taking her elbow. He led her toward the cluster of people gathered in front of the fire, the dancing flames casting a warm glow over their faces.

  Emily was the first to greet them. “Why Ailie, you look lovely.”

  “Doesn’t she?” agreed Will.

  Ailie felt herself blushing at the compliments.

  Smiling at Nash, Emily said, “Good evening.”

  Since Emily had not added a name, Ailie felt the need to say, “He is Nash, Emily; Robbie has yet to appear.”

  “I do apologize, Nash, for not recognizing you.”

  “Worry not,” Nash quipped. “It happens quite often, I can assure you.”

  Emily gazed up at Will. “I do hope you and Ailie won’t have to spend the whole of tomorrow at the shipyard. I was hoping we might go skating on the pond. I’m certain it’s frozen by now.”

  “A most excellent idea, Leannan. With hot wassail and warm brandy to follow.”

  Ailie took a sip of her claret. “I might have to check on matters at the yard in the morning, but, after that, I would look forward to skating.”

  “Me as well,” Nash agreed.

  A lock of his dark hair had curled onto his forehead and Ailie wanted to reach up and brush it aside, a wifely gesture to be sure and one that had her looking at her hands holding her glass. She must not give in to such thoughts based on a few kisses. They must find a place to be alone so he didn’t feel the need to cut short their time. She remembered with particular fondness their first kiss even though it had been in the snow-covered woods.

  They were almost finished drinking their wine when Lamont summoned them to dinner.

  Robbie arrived a bit later and took the seat next to Muriel.

  Dinner began with oysters and Madeira handed about in tall glasses on a tray.

  “The Madeira is for Muriel,” said Emily. “It’s her favorite.”

  Then came the fish course, baked salmon in cream sauce, which was followed by roast chicken and a ragout with vegetables. And more wine. Dessert was a pudding, for which Ailie had no appetite.

  “I thought we might have coffee and tea in the parlor as a group tonight if it pleases you,” offered Will. “And there will be games of chess for those interested. But before you go, since we all went our separate ways today, Emily has suggested for the morrow, we might ice skate on the pond. What say you?”

  “So that’s why you told us to bring skates,” said Mary.

  “’Tis a grand idea,” said Tara. “When I was younger, my family in Baltimore always skated on the pond near our house.”

  “I’ve not skated for an age,” said Kit, “and I really want to do some sketches of the rest of you demonstrating your skill on the ice.”

  Martin inclined his head toward his wife. “I insist you join me on the ice. Christmas in the country with snow wouldn’t be Christmas without ice skating.” />
  “Do you skate, Muriel?” asked Robbie.

  “Definitely not. But I will watch the rest of you and keep Kit company when she takes up her sketching.”

  Nash turned to Ailie. “I look forward to sharing the ice with you.”

  “Are you a very good skater?”

  He winked at her. “That’s one of the things I can do better than Robbie.”

  She thought of their kisses in the woods. If they had been alone, she might have told him she was sure he was better at kissing than Robbie.

  Robbie was anxious to know where Kinloch lodged. Catching him there might save them a tavern brawl. He had thought to go to Arbroath town the next day and see if he could find the man’s lodgings. But upon reflection, the better course just now would be for both he and Nash to participate in the ice skating. Since everyone was attending, his absence would be noted, concluding he was either ill or being unsociable.

  Having decided to participate, when he and Nash retired to their chamber after a game of chess, Robbie made his intention known. “I think we should both attend tomorrow’s ice skating.”

  “Probably wise. Even Muriel means to attend.”

  “The day after, assuming it’s not snowing again, I will go to Arbroath while you and the others can engage in whatever William has planned. Hopefully, I can find Kinloch and follow him to wherever he is staying. It may mean I’ll be late and you’ll have to cover for me. Say I went to see William’s ships or some such excuse.”

  “I doubt if any will suspect you have gone to town,” said Nash. “Upon your return, you can always say you were in the orangery where you became fascinated watching pineapples grow.”

  Robbie sailed his boot through the air nearly colliding with Nash’s head.

  22 December

  Ailie shot up in bed, the dream still clear in her mind, vivid images of scenes she had experienced deep in the night.

  What had begun with gruff men sitting around tables quaffing ale had changed to men running toward a ship docked at the harbor as shots were fired. She could still hear the loud crack of the pistol as it belched fire and smoke.

  Breathing heavily, she dropped her legs over the side of the bed and brought her palm to her chest, trying to calm her racing heart. Once, she had experienced a cannon being tested and it had been very loud. But she had never lived through the chaos of men firing pistols and muskets at each other. The war with Napoleon had raged for years, yet she had never witnessed a battle. How horrible it must have been for Will, who had endured many before he was captured.

  The light coming through her window told Ailie the sun was just rising, which meant it was late. Goodness and Mercy would be waiting for her. Undoing her plait, she ran her fingers through her long thick hair, thinking the dream must have been the result of too much wine last night. First she’d had claret with Nash, then the Madeira with the oysters and then more wine at dinner. The coffee served in the parlor with their games of chess had helped her stay alert. By the time she found her bed, many thoughts swirled in her head, not the least of which was her exchange with Nash.

  “Do you really believe the man from Dundee is in the right?”

  His question seemed to come out of nowhere. Just a minute before they’d been sitting by the fire, calmly discussing the new ideas for greenhouses he’d read about that morning.

  “The laird from Dundee,” Nash repeated, as if to jog her memory. “The one who gave the speech and has been charged with sedition. Do you believe he is in the right?”

  “Why, of course! Did I not say that? He speaks for his fellow Scots demanding only fairness. I read his speech, reprinted in the weekly, and what I read urged reform, not rebellion. He did criticize the government for the massacre at Manchester, but I thought the criticism fair.”

  Nash frowned at his coffee. “London fears the large crowds speaking against the government will lead to a revolution like the one in France.”

  Anger rose in her chest. “If those in the government do not treat the workers more fairly, they will certainly have another rising on their hands—one led by Scots. Only this time, the Scots will not be seeking their freedom but, led by the weavers, they’ll be after fair pay and equal representation.”

  She had watched him closely as he nodded, but it seemed to her he displayed little enthusiasm. His expression spoke only of resignation.

  “Do the gentry in London agree with the government?” she had asked, hardly believing anyone could.

  “The Crown approved of the yeomen’s harsh actions in Manchester and supports Lord Sidmouth’s new legislation. Many in the upper classes do as well. But perhaps not all.”

  “Aye, one of our own, Alexander, the Duke of Hamilton, has given money to the relief being raised for the Manchester victims. Will told me the duke has written to your Sidmouth to warn him that using force like they did in Manchester could lead to insurrection in Scotland.”

  “That is precisely what worries the government,” said Nash with a look of regret. “But still, you would have the man Kinloch go free?”

  “I would. Can you not see, Nash? If Kinloch were thrown into prison, or worse, it would only give the weavers another reason to revolt.”

  The whole discourse had reminded Ailie of the gulf that existed between them. Not just the place of their birth and their faith, but their politics. That being the case, it might be wise for her to remember that he would soon sail back to London and it would be as if he never came. Or would it? He had awakened her to passion and perhaps more. Could she ever forget him?

  Before meeting her dogs and seeing to breakfast, Ailie wrote again in her diary.

  22 December

  A most troubling conversation with Nash Powell last eve has made me see the difficulty of any relationship with an Englishman. Or, perhaps ’tis just a relationship with a member of the gentry who believes the British Crown can do no wrong. But how can anyone believe that with the events in Manchester so fresh in everyone’s mind? The government still pursues the laird from Dundee, George Kinloch, in whom Nash and his brother Robbie appear to have an interest. I must ask them about that.

  Another disturbing dream troubled my sleep last night. This time, I heard pistols being fired and saw men running through the streets of Arbroath. It was so real. What can it mean?

  Chapter 13

  Muriel relaxed onto the bench facing the frozen pond, warmed by the fire William had built for those retreating from the ice. Bundled up in her blue pelisse and hat, her hands warm in her large fox muff, she watched as her charges skated over the ice, laughing at near disasters averted only by quick action at the last moment.

  The two black setters came to sit by the bench, their eyes fixed upon Aileen, turning their heads with their mistress’ every move. Muriel slipped one hand from her muff to pat their dutiful heads. She did so love a faithful dog.

  Muriel patted the front of her coat, feeling beneath it the long strands of pearls she was never without. Into her mind came the memory of another day long ago. It was her first—and only—season and the man skating beside her was the young Earl of Claremont she’d only known a short while. The watchful gaze of her chaperone, a maiden aunt, had never left them as they glided over the ice.

  “With your soft gray eyes, Muriel, you should wear pearls,” he had said, taking her hand. “Marry me and I will see that you have a strand fit for the most beautiful girl in all of London.”

  She had laughed at his flattery, but she thrilled to his decisive candor. At the end of their skating, captivated by his sincerity, his intelligence and his determination to forsake all others for her, she had agreed to marry him. To this day, she was never without the pearls he had given her when they were wed. Their time together had been a joyous celebration of their love, his early death a torture. But she had no regrets, for the memories were sweet ones.

  In the years that had passed, she had devoted herself to helping others find the same love she had known. If the Lord had granted her an eye for a good match, wel
l then, Muriel would use it. She could credit several matches to her efforts.

  Dismissing the memories, she looked toward Aileen, skating over the frozen pond with one of the Powell twins. From this distance, she could not discern which one, but recalling the way Nash Powell had looked at the girl the evening before, Muriel guessed it might be him.

  Sir Martin’s wife, the young woman everyone called “Kit”, glided to a graceful stop in front of Muriel. “May I share your bench?”

  “Please do and take me away from my reminiscing.”

  “We can’t have that, Muriel, not with so much life going on around you.”

  She offered Kit a hand as she stepped from the ice. Once seated, Kit unbuckled her skates and greeted the dogs. Gazing at the skaters circling around the pond, she said, “I want to do a bit of sketching before they tire of the ice.”

  “How are your sketches coming?”

  Kit picked up her sketchbook and pencils she had left on the bench when she took to the ice. “Quite well. I’ve only a few left and then I’ll add some at Christmas and Hogmanay.” She turned to a new page. “I’d like to do one of all of them skating on the pond. It’s so picturesque with the tall evergreens on one side and the sun low in the horizon silhouetting the skaters.”

  “It is lovely here,” Muriel remarked, “but they do lose the light awfully early this far north.”

  “’Tis worse than London,” said Kit, “but the light on the ice just now is truly magical.”

  The dogs ran off just then, circling to where their mistress drew close to the edge of the pond.

  Muriel considered her mood. “I find myself content to be in Arbroath. The company is good, the fires are warming and the orangery like the tropics. I think it will be a Christmas long remembered.”