The Highlander's Yuletide Love (25 page)

Sophy awoke on
Christmas morning to the sound of the wind howling past the walls of Glencairn.
She snuggled down into the covers for a moment, reluctant to arise and face the
chill of her room. She yawned. She had slept very little the night before, as
she had lain awake for hours, pondering her experience of the previous evening.
Had she truly spoken to her mother, or had it been mere wishful thinking? Now,
in the cold morning light, it seemed very unlikely.

Wallis bustled
into the room and came to stand by the bed. “You must get up, Lady Sophia, if
you are to join your parents in church this morning,” she said.

“I know.” Sophy
reluctantly crawled out of bed and slipped her arms into the wrapper Wallis
held for her. She followed the maid to the dressing table and seated herself on
the little stool in front of it. Wallis unplaited Sophy’s hair, then picked up
a brush and began to try to stroke her unruly locks into some semblance of
order.

“Wallis, do you
believe that there are ghosts and that they can speak to the living?”

The maid’s eyes
grew very big as she stared at Sophy in the mirror. “Of course, Lady Sophia. Why,
they’re everywhere here at Glencairn.”

“Everywhere?” Sophy
looked around the room.

“Aye. You need
to have the sight to see them, of course. I don’t have it myself, but my mother
does. She’s told me many a tale. They say the fifth earl—that would be your
great-grandfather—walks the grounds at night, keeping the castle safe.”

“They do?”

Wallis nodded,
warming to her story. “Indeed. They say he carries a giant claymore but you can
see right through him, and he moans something dreadful. He’s given many a
gardener a start, I can tell you.”

“Oh.” Sophy
pondered this. “Has anyone—have you heard any tales of my mother’s ghost?”

“Your mother,
Lady Sophia?” Wallis shook her head. “I’ve not heard of that, though she did
die in the castle, so you can never know for sure. She was much loved, and
people who loved and were loved in turn rest easier, they do say. You and your
brother are happy and cared for, so I doubt she has any reason to return.”

“So ghosts
return to help people?” asked Sophy.

Wallis shrugged.
“Sometimes. If someone they loved is in great trouble, they try to reach across
and help. But others—like your great-grandfather—just seem to want to scare
people!”

“I see.”

Wallis put the
brush down, having gotten the tangles out of Sophy’s hair. “There you go,” she
said. “I’ve put some warm water in the basin. Go and wash up and we’ll have you
dressed in a trice.”

Fifteen minutes
later Sophy left her bedroom, dressed warmly in a dress of dark blue wool, with
a gray, fur-trimmed pelisse over it. She hurried down the hall, knowing that
the sleigh would soon be at the front door, piled high with furs to keep them
warm on their trip to church. As she hastened along, her eye fell on the door
to the Long Gallery. She touched the knob, hesitating a moment, but then turned
it firmly, throwing the door open and staring into the room. It looked as it
always did, the portraits marching down the wall, the velvet curtains framing
the windows. There was nothing of the mystery she had felt the night before—the
cold daylight had chased away the intimacy of the night.

She stepped
inside, pulling the door shut behind her, and walked slowly down the polished
oak floor. When she came to her mother’s portrait she looked up hesitantly, not
quite sure what she hoped to see. Whatever she might have wished for, she was
disappointed. Her mother gazed down at her as she always had, warm and vibrant,
but made of paint and canvas, not flesh and blood. Sophy sighed.

“I must have
fallen asleep and dreamed it all,” she murmured, crestfallen. She had let her
thoughts of Ranulf carry her away, and had tried to turn her wishes into
reality. It was silly of her to think that he might still want her. He
doubtless rarely thought of her at all.

She began to
turn away, but as she did so, she caught a movement with the corner of her eye.
She spun back to face the portrait, and watched in amazement as the cat
stretched out one lazy paw and looked directly at her. It yawned, showing
little pointed teeth, and then mewed once, before settling back into the silken
lap in which it lay.

Sophy turned on
her heel and ran from the gallery. She hurried away, and emerged into the Great
Hall, feeling flustered and bewildered. Harriet and her father were there,
smiling at each other as though they had just shared a secret, and she halted
abruptly.

“Oh, there you
are, dear,” said Harriet. “I was wondering if you were still abed. You’ve not
had breakfast, and we must leave for church soon.”

“I—I’m not
hungry,” Sophy assured her. She wondered what would happen if she told her
parents about what had just happened. She had no doubt they would think she had
taken leave of her senses.

“You can eat afterwards,”
said Harriet blithely. “How pretty you look. I think back on the little girl
you were when I first met you, and it seems so long ago. I sometimes feel as
though I’ve always lived at Glencairn, though it has been only a few years.”

Sophy blinked and
tried to pull herself back to the moment. “We are lucky to have you here,” she
replied honestly, affection for Harriet welling up in her. “Especially Papa,
for I have no idea what he would do without you to order his life.”

“Nonsense!” But
Glencairn was smiling, and took Harriet’s hand in his. “I consider myself a
very lucky man that you married me seven years ago today. I will never forget
what I almost lost with my thoughtlessness.”

Harriet smiled
up at him mistily, and Sophy looked away, not wanting to intrude. The sight of
them together both filled her with joy and made her heart ache, thinking of the
man whose love she had spurned.

She did not have
long to ponder her predicament, for Douglas entered the hall, and, in the fuss
of putting on cloaks and bonnets and going outside to the sleigh, she managed
to pull her thoughts together. The snow that had fallen the night before made
everything fresh and white, and the wind whipped along briskly, bringing roses
to her cheeks. Glencairn assisted Sophy and Harriet into the sleigh, where they
nestled down into the furs, and then climbed up on the seat with Douglas. With
a crack of the whip they were on their way, the horse’s harnesses jingling
slightly in the frozen silence.

Sophy sat for a
moment, looking about at the beautiful scene, and then slowly turned to
Harriet. “Mama—“ she began, but then stopped.

“Yes, dear, what
is it?”

Sophy screwed up
her courage. “Mama, I may have made a terrible mistake.”

“What? Oh no,
dear, I think the dress you are wearing is lovely. You need have no concerns
about that.”

Sophy laughed. “No,
it is not that. It is—how long do you think it would take to get to
Spaethness?”

Harriet blinked.
“To Spaethness? Why dear, it is a two-day journey in the summer. I cannot
imagine trying to reach it at this time of year—with this snow, the carriage
would be in the ditch for certain, and you would freeze to death. Why are you
asking? Surely, Spaethness is the last place you would wish to go.”

Sophy squirmed
slightly. “I might have not known my own heart, Mama,” she said softly. “I
think I am in love with Ranulf.”

Harriet’s eyes
opened wide, and then turned sympathetic. “Oh dear, I was afraid this might
happen. You Learmouths are all so hardheaded and stubborn. You will not admit
the truth though it stares you in the face and then, one day, out it all
tumbles!”

“You are
thinking of my father,” said Sophy.

“I am. You are
far more like him than you know.” Harriet took her gloved hand in hers and
patted it gently. “Child, you cannot go haring off to Spaethness. Your father
would not allow me to accompany you, and even were the weather less inclement,
you could not go alone. Perhaps you can write him a letter, telling him of your
change of heart, or he may visit Isobel and Francis again next summer. You will
see him again sometime, my dear.”

“But I wish to
see him now!”

“If wishes were
horses—“ murmured Harriet. “Your father and I will do all that we can to help
you, but you cannot travel to Spaethness in the dead of winter. There is
another storm brewing, and his land not only lies north of Glencairn, it is up
in the hills! No one will get in or out of the Trossachs until spring!”

“I was very rude
to him, and I’m sure he no longer wants me, but I need to tell him how I feel,”
said Sophy, tears coming to her eyes.

“Of course you
do,” soothed Harriet. “Oh, what a bind you are in, my love. But you certainly
cannot go off to Spaethness and ask the man to marry you. I do wish you were
not so hotheaded. If only—well, there is no point in fretting over what cannot
be undone. I will talk to your father, and we will see what we can do to help
you.”

“Thank you,”
murmured Sophy. She curled up against Harriet, resting her head on the other
woman’s shoulder. It felt good to tell someone of her heartache, though she
realized that it was very unlikely she would have the happy ending that she
wished for.

They had arrived
at the church, and Sophy dashed the tears out of her eyes as Douglas and her
father assisted them out of the sleigh. They entered the parish church, a small
Gothic gem in grey stone, with ancient stained glass in the high arched windows
along the nave and apse. There was no sun that day, but hundreds of candles had
been lit, illuminating the medieval altar with its Madonna and child, and
casting light as high as the delicate stone tracery in the vaulted ceiling. All
eyes turned to them as they walked down the aisle to the family pew, Harriet
and Glencairn greeting friends and tenants as they went. The organ began to
play as they seated themselves, and the vicar entered, his white vestments
shining in the light. Sophy let out a quavering sigh as she gave herself up to
the familiar words of the service, and whispered a small prayer, asking that
she might be given a second chance at happiness.

The next days
were a whirl of activity, though little of it was Ranulf’s responsibility. Stirling
cousins came to Spaethness from Argyll and Perthshire for the wake, and
neighbors were in and out of the castle at all hours. Ranulf moved through it
in a near trance, welcoming visitors, standing in the drawing room where the
coffin lay as family members paid their respects, and approving the details of
the funeral feast for the Stirling family, as well as the estate’s tenants. It
was only when the first shovel of dirt fell on his father’s coffin in the
churchyard that the finality of it came to him. His father was gone, and he was
the new Laird of Spaethness. All of the responsibilities that went with it were
now on his shoulders, and his alone. He realized, once again, how much he
needed Sophy.

After the
funeral lunch, and before the last relative had departed, Ranulf was in the
stable yard, watching as Sandison tacked up his horse, a strong, dark bay that
would have served him well as a cavalry mount during his years in the
Peninsula. Under the saddle the groom placed a wool quarter blanket, and bags
on either side held a change of clothing, a bottle of whiskey, a loaf of sweet
brown bread from the Spaethness kitchen, and small bag of salt. Behind the cantle
a heavy winter cape was rolled up and tied, along with an oiled linen cape like
those used by the local fishermen. A clay flask carefully placed in a leather
bag full of straw held strong sweet black tea and whisky against the chill of
the road. Behind Ranulf, another groom was saddling a horse for Grievey, his
bâtman.

As Ranulf
mounted and pulled the front panels of the quarter sheet up over his thighs, he
was thankful for the additional warmth, even though he already wore a wool coat
and scarf, gloves, and a hat. There was no snow, but a biting wind blew out of
the north-northwest, bringing cold damp air off the ocean, a mere twenty miles
away. It did not bode well for easy travelling.

“Do you feel
snow in the air, Sandison?” Ranulf asked.

“Aye, that I do,
sir. I don’t think you have an easy road ahead.”

“Fortunately,
Jock here is built more for stamina than speed.” Ranulf leaned forward to pat
the neck of the horse. “He can make the distance easily, and won’t waste his
energy or mine with being too forward.”

As he gathered
up the reins, and prepared to turn away, Sandison tipped his cap. “See to it
that you bring that young lady back to Spaethness, sir. I can’t think of a
surer way to do honor to the old Laird’s memory,” he said.

“I have every
intention of doing so,” Ranulf replied with a grin, and rode out of the yard,
with Grievey in his wake.

They picked up
an easy, mile-eating trot as they left Spaethness behind, passing through
Arrochar and along Loch Lomond, and down through the hills towards the border
country.

“Not as pretty
as it was when we came here this summer, is it sir?” Grievey remarked as they
led the horses to the edge of the loch to drink.

Ranulf looked
around at the brown grass and the sullen grey of the loch before them. Without
their leaves, the silver-white of birch bark stood out against the green of the
pines, creating the only brightness in the landscape save for the distant snow
that covered the tops of the hills above.

“I suppose not,
but there is a certain harsh splendor to it. If we had not the grey winter to
compare it with, how should we appreciate summer?”

Grievey grunted.
“Well sir, I would take the heat and dust of India or Spain over the
everlasting dark, cold, damp of winter here. Even in the mountains of Spain,
there was a good deal more daylight in winter, and spring came sooner.”

Ranulf chuckled.
“If I succeed in my objective, I will take Lady Sophia on a honeymoon trip to
Spain, you old villain. You will have to come along, as well as her lady’s
maid. Will that please you?”

“That would make
a two day ride in the winter seem worthwhile,” Grievey agreed. “I could
definitely find it in me to enjoy a glass of
vinho roja
and a plump
señorita
.”

The two men led
their horses back to the road. The wind had picked up a bit, and Ranulf
unrolled the cloak from the back of his saddle, swinging it over his shoulders
before remounting.

“Shall we trot?”
he asked. “I’m hoping to reach Lanark before we rest.”

As the shadows
lengthened in the short winter afternoon, it began to snow in earnest, and the
wind whistled around them. But the road remained easily visible, and they
continued past dark, finally seeing the lights of Lanark ahead.

Both men were
relieved to ride under the arch of the New Inn, to see the ostler ready to
stable their mounts. Ranulf left Grievey to help, and went in to bespeak a pair
of rooms. They ate their supper in the taproom, and, going up to bed, soon fell
into a dead sleep.

The following
morning Grievey brought hot coffee up to Ranulf’s room. He pulled open the
shutters, looking out with a grim expression. “It’s very bad out there, sir. A
good deal of snow fell last night, and the wind is up. It’s still coming down,
too.”

“We’re more than
halfway there, Grievey. It’s only a matter of forty or so miles now.”

“Aye, but we’ll
be walking the whole way, I fear. With all that snow, there’s no trusting the
footing. Can’t see a hole under the snow now, can you?”

Ranulf frowned. “I
will be at Glencairn for Hogmanay if I have to walk on my own two feet for
forty miles.”

“No need for
that sir, but it will be a hard ride for man and beast.”

The winter capes
and oiled linen covers started the day on the men, for the snow was not only
heavier than before, but also far wetter at this lower elevation. Grievey took
the pottery flask to the taproom to have it refilled with coffee and whisky
before they set off. When he returned to the stable yard, he had more bad news.

“The tapster
says that there was a heavy snow south of here over Christmas, and it didn’t
melt off. So it’s likely that the snow will deepen as we go.”

Ranulf shook his
head. “He simply wants to see a well-breeched traveler stay on another day to
spend his money in the taproom and on a good bottle of wine with his dinner.”

“I’m not so
sure, sir. I’d like to think that after all these years serving you in
different places I know the difference between well-meaning advice, and the
words of a man who wants only to line his pockets.”

Ranulf glared at
him. “Nothing is going to stop me from getting to Glencairn by midnight for
Hogmanay. I lived through the retreat to Corunna and the sieges of Badajoz and
Ciudad Rodrigo, I’ll be damned if a forty mile ride to Glencairn in the snow
will defeat me.”

Grievey said
nothing; he knew when to hold his tongue.

Five inches of snow
covered the ground as they left Lanark, but as the road was well maintained,
they were able to start at an easy trot. Ranulf grew more confident, thinking
that, as usual, the local folk were inclined to exaggerate danger. He was on
the verge of saying so to Grievey, when they crossed the River Clyde, and the
snow began to deepen quickly, even as the big, wet flakes falling increased in
number and size until visibility grew poor. The horses were nearly knee deep in
the snow, so it was no longer possible to trot, and they plodded along at a
walk. The men shared the flask of coffee, but after a few hours of travel, they
called a halt and stopped at an inn to feed and water the horses, while they
had a pot of ale and a bowl of soup.

Though it was
still afternoon, the short winter day was fading when they started off again.
There had been no good news about conditions to the south, and the
ever-deepening snow continued to swirl around them.

“Still more than
twenty miles to Glencairn, sir, and us not making more than five miles an
hour,” Grievey said.

“What of it?”
Ranulf replied.

“There’s only an
hour and a half of light left, sir. That means at least fifteen miles of
traveling in the dark. How are we to find the road with a heavy snow falling,
and the wind whipping it up?”

Ranulf didn’t
answer, only doing his best to press his tired horse forward a bit faster. Two
hours later, as the last faint light was disappearing behind the horizon, they
crossed the River Tweed, and entered Tweedsmuir. Ranulf, for all his desire to
press on, could see that both Jock and Grievey’s horse could go no farther, so
they pulled up at the Crook Inn. The ostler took the horses to feed, water, and
bed them down for the night.

“I need to be at
Glencairn tonight,” Ranulf told the head ostler. “Have you a horse for me?”

“I’ve got a
horse, but it’s not fit for man or beast out there, sir.”

“I don’t care, I
am going to Glencairn tonight. If you will not loan me the horse, I will buy
it,” Ranulf replied.

The ostler
looked him up and down, and finally came to a decision. “Very well, sir. I have
a horse you may use. He’s not particularly handsome, but he has plenty of
stamina. You both will need it.”

“Thank you. When
the weather improves, I’ll send him back with a groom from Glencairn, who can
bring then my horse there, along with Grievey.”

Grievey had been
standing by silently, but now spoke up. “Let’s get you a bite to eat, and fill
that flask again, Colonel, while they tack up that horse. You’ve got a short
ride, but a long night, ahead.”

Fifteen minutes
later, they returned to the stables. When Grievey saw the horse with Ranulf’s
saddle on it, he burst into laughter.

“Artillery, not
cavalry, sir,” he gasped through his chortling.

“He’s got the
strength and bottom to walk nearly fifteen miles in this snow,” the ostler said
in an offended tone. “Your gentlemen’s hunters look all very well, but they are
done for today.”

“Yes, yes, we
appreciate his strength and stamina,” Ranulf replied with a laugh, “However, he
does look far more like he should be pulling a gun than he does like a
trooper’s mount. But no matter, it is dark as Hades out there and nothing but
that banshee of a wind to see me on him.”

He swung up into
the saddle, and turned to Grievey. “The weather is sure to break soon. I’ll
send someone from Glencairn here when I can.”

“Be careful,
sir,” Grievey responded, with a little salute.

Ranulf gave him
a smile in return and walked the horse out under the archway into the storm.

“That’s a hard
man,” the ostler said.

“Like his father
before him,” Grievey answered.

“I suppose
there’s a woman involved?”

“Never say so. It’s
a lady that the master wants to wed.”

“Ah well, he
looks like an honest fellow. Good luck to her.”

Grievey watched
until his master was out of sight, and then went to the taproom, calling for a
mug of ale.