Chapter Four

By the time the two carriages finally reached the shores of Loch Lomond over a sennight later, tempers were most definitely beginning to fray. The journey had been largely uneventful though slow as they'd sacrificed speed to retain the same horses throughout the journey. Jennifer had had no idea how difficult it was to simply pin one's hair up. Truly she was beginning to resemble the scarecrow in Mrs. Higgins's raspberry patch. And all her cajoling and pleading with her grandfather concerning Queen Charlotte's mishap with the duck pond had been for nought. She could never have imagined the Reverend actually had it in him to be so closemouthed.

More worrying, however, was the fact that throughout the journey, he'd seemed determined to lecture her on various passages of the bible - mainly on the wages of debauchery, avarice, wrath and … what was the other one? Oh, sloth, that was it.

In truth, debauchery was a subject that had never really come up in their previous dealings. Jennifer thought for a second and came to the conclusion that neither had avarice, wrath or sloth. True, her grandfather most definitely enjoyed the finer things in life, had always relished a good sparring match and she could certainly vouch for the fact that he'd never had a particular problem with inactivity, aside from the times he was in a meddling mood.

But such was his zeal at the beginning of the journey, she couldn't help wondering if he was becoming a little dicked in the nob. Fortunately, the further north they got, the more his enthusiasm for pointing her towards the light appeared to wane. Indeed, Jennifer noticed he seemed to be having an internal battle in particular with wrath - severely testing even Felicity's legendary aplomb when he crossly declared the matron to be notoriously picksome and stomped off to get himself a third tankard of ale.

Of course, his action could also have been an indication he was losing his internal battle with debauchery…

After that, conversation between the five of them had gradually dwindled to monosyllables.

As Loch Lomond came into sight, Jennifer felt she'd never been so glad to see a body of water in her life. Excitedly she peered through the window trying to get a glimpse of Caerlaverock. She was sharing the carriage with Felicity as the matron had suggested they might wish to assist one another in repairing their toilette, declaring it would not do for them to arrive at their destination looking like tag-rag and bobtail.

Consequently, Jennifer's hair was now adequately coiffured, and her dress still damp from the cloth Felicity used to remove the dust. As they turned a bend, the young woman gave a squeal and turned to her companion. ‘Is that Caerlaverock?' she breathed, pointing to a large house standing on a craggy outcrop overlooking the loch.

Felicity leaned forward and gave a relieved nod. While she'd only visited Caerlaverock on one previous occasion, the memory of her visit had stayed with her ever since. It was seeing Malcolm's sheer joy at being back in the home of his birth that had reaffirmed her feelings for the Scot.

She experienced a sudden lightening of her heart. She knew it was her husband's dearest wish to one day retire close to his birthplace, though he would never abandon the Duke while he believed Nicholas had need of him. But perhaps one day, they would come here and live openly as man and wife.

The carriages turned onto the road bordering Loch Lomond, and Jennifer gazed in wonderment at the majestic scenery surrounding it. Truly, she could never have imagined anywhere quite so beautiful. It was late afternoon, but this far north the sun was still high in the sky casting moving cloud shaped shadows on the purple covered hills rising steeply on the other side of the loch. In awe, her eyes rested on the huge mountain, dark and mysterious towering above the water in the distance.

‘Ben Lomond,' Felicity clarified, pointing at the moody peak. ‘The word Ben is from the Gaelic bheinn. It means mountain or hill.'

Jennifer threw Felicity an arch look. ‘You sound like Malcolm,' she grinned before turning back to the window and watching avidly as they approached the peninsula on which Caerlaverock was situated. Finally, the carriages turned off the road and a few minutes later approached a set of large wrought iron gates.

After a couple of minutes waiting, a large, gruff man came out of a tiny cottage situated to one side of the entrance. Without speaking, he quickly doffed his cap, then set to, unlocking, then dragging the gates open. The narrow drive beyond was a gentle climb towards the top of the bluff, taxing the skills of their coach drivers as they made sure to keep the horses moving at a pace that would keep their hooves from slipping on the cobbles but wouldn't tax them too much at the end of such a long journey.

Finally, the road levelled out and bent to the right to follow a high wall - clearly, the boundary of the formal gardens though the house wasn't yet visible. Eventually the road curved back to the left, and the loch suddenly appeared through a copse of trees in the distance. Still following the line of the wall, the carriages slowed as they came upon a large gate. Seconds later, they clattered through a high archway and out into a large courtyard.

As the carriages finally drew up outside the wooden doors, Jennifer suppressed a gasp. She'd had no idea that Caerlaverock was so considerable. Before leaving Blackmore, her father had given her an impromptu history lesson, so she was already aware that the house was Jacobean. Climbing thankfully down from the carriage, Flossy in her arms, she spied an older man with a shock of white hair bowing to her brother.

‘Welcome tae Caerlaverock, ma lord,' he beamed, clearly delighted to have visitors. ‘May ah be so bold as tae say you're a wee taller since last ah saw ye.'

Peter laughed and shook the elderly steward's hand. Clearly, this was Gifford. Smiling, Jennifer stepped forward.

‘Ma lady, tis a pleasure tae welcome ye. For a wee minute there, ah thought ah was lookin' at her grace.'

‘It's very good to see you too, Gifford,' she responded with a small curtsy before putting Flossy on the ground. The little dog promptly stood on her hind legs and wagged her tail.

‘She loves an audience,' Jennifer laughed. ‘Her name's Flossy.'

‘It's guid tae meet yer, Flossy,' the steward smiled, bending down to give her a quick fuss. ‘Ah dinnae ken what auld Fergus'll make o' ye.'

Straightening up again, his smile broadened. ‘Malcolm Mackenzie, as I live and breathe, yer nae lookin' a day older than the last time ye were here.'

‘Clearly my wife is taking good care of me,' Malcolm beamed, stepping forward and holding out his hand. Both Jennifer and Felicity looked at him in surprise.

‘Ah didnae ken you'd wed, ma auld friend, that be guid news indeed.' The old steward took Malcolm's proffered hand in a firm grip, and the two men shook hands, clearly well acquainted.

Then, taking hold of his wife's hand, Malcolm pulled her towards him and made the introductions. ‘This is Felicity Mackenzie. My wife. She's made me the happiest man alive.'

‘It's an honour tae meet ye, Mrs. Mackenzie. A braw woman was well o'er due to keep this auld ne"er-dae-weel in line.'

This was the first time Felicity had ever been introduced as Malcolm's wife, and the matron found herself fighting back tears, but before she could respond, a loud snore erupted from behind them. ‘Grandfather!' Jennifer gasped, turning and hurrying back towards the carriage, Flossy in tow.

Gifford blinked and looked towards Peter who offered a rueful grin. ‘Another unexpected addition to our party, I'm afraid.'

‘LET US PRAY,' a voice bellowed abruptly from inside the carriage. There was a pause, then, seconds later, ‘Thunder an' turf, Jennifer, you nearly gave me a deuced apoplexy. Are we nearly there yet?'

∞∞∞

The inside of Caerlaverock was a testament to the Scotland of a bygone age. Wood panelling, high, intricately decorated ceiling and colourful tapestries decorated the entrance hall, though the large square room was dominated by a huge ornate staircase that put Blackmore's to shame. Jennifer gazed around her in wonder as they were shown into a cosy sitting room where a cheerful fire burned to ward off the late afternoon chill.

‘Ah ken ye must be nigh on exhausted, and yer bedchambers'll be aired and ready within the hour. Until then, can ah offer ye a wee dram tae gae along wi' yer tea?'

Naturally Peter, Malcolm and the Reverend acquiesced eagerly. Jennifer and Felicity however, decided on a large slab of the delicious homemade shortbread ready and waiting on the sideboard.

‘So who is the fellow you'd like to put forward as the new steward?' Peter asked, taking a cautious sip of his whisky. From the first eye watering swallow, he sensed the fiery liquid would put him on his back if he was foolish enough to overindulge – especially on an empty stomach.

‘His name be Brendon Galbraith. His clan were the original landowners hereabouts.'

‘Dougal's son?' Malcolm queried with a frown.

‘Aye. Tae be fair, old Dougal might hae been a tad fiery when he was a lad, but he's nae likely tae be causing trouble fer his son.'

‘The Dougal I remember would cause trouble just fer the hell of it,' Malcolm retorted. ‘What makes you think he'll bide his tongue this time?'

‘Fer his son's sake I hope. Brendon's a guid lad. He was steward tae the MacFarlane up tae three months back. Ah dinnae ken exactly what happened, an' Brendon willnae speak o' it, but ah dae ken Alastair MacFarlane's no the full shillin.'

‘I hope he'll tell me the truth of what transpired,' Peter interrupted with a worried frown. ‘If he refuses to speak of it, I cannot risk putting my father's estate into his hands.'

‘Aye, ah ken,' Gifford sighed. ‘But ah reckon the lad'll come clean wi ye. The Gilbraiths need the coin. That place o' theirs'll be roond their ears come winter. But ah've told the lad the Duke values honesty above all things.'

‘Amen to that,' declared the Reverend, brandishing his empty whisky glass. Jennifer smothered a grin. Evidently, her grandfather had put aside his internal battle with debauchery for the moment.

Shortly afterwards, they were shown to their respective bedchambers. Jennifer's turned out to be a large airy room with the same highly decorated ceiling as downstairs. The polished wooden floor was covered with thick rugs and in the middle of the room stood an enormous fourposter bed. Her belongings had already been unpacked and a fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth of an exquisitely carved fireplace. But best of all, in front of it stood a large tin bath full of steaming hot water.

Without further ado, Jennifer shrugged off her stained travel clothes and dipped a toe into the water. Still deliciously hot. With a groan, she stepped in and sank to her haunches. Truly, it was bliss. Halfway through, a cheery lady's maid knocked and entered with a bale of towels in her arms.

‘Guid tae meet yer ma lady, ah'm Jenet,' she beamed with a quick curtsy. ‘Will ye be wantin' yer hair washin' noo?'

Jennifer gave a delighted sigh and nodded. Then she tuned out the maid's excited chatter and gave herself up to the simple enjoyment of being pampered. Forty-five minutes later, she was wrapped in a gigantic towel in front of the fire while Jenet brushed her hair to help it dry.

‘I think I may go for a walk before dinner,' Jennifer mused as the maid bade her turn the back of her head towards the fire.

‘Och, ye dinnae want tae be oot noo wi the midges, m'lady,' Jenet proclaimed in horror. ‘The wee beasties'll gie ye more'n a nasty bite.'

‘My mother mentioned the midges,' Jennifer answered. ‘I'd forgotten all about them. She says they're worst at dawn and dusk.'

‘Aye, her grace has the right o' it. Dae ye wait ‘til the mornin' when the wee beasties be abed an' ye'll nae end up lookin' like ye been skelped.'

Jennifer smiled at the maid, though she had no idea what skelped meant, she understood enough to recognise it wasn't something she'd relish.

‘Ah'll be back tae gae ye a hand in dressin' fer dinner,' Jenet continued, helping her into a robe and picking up the travelworn clothing. ‘Will ye rest until then ma lady?'

Wrapping the robe around her, Jennifer nodded her thanks. ‘I confess I'm done to a cow's thumb, and the bed looks wonderfully inviting.'

As Jenet departed, she climbed to her feet, intending to get into bed, but the orange and pink hues splashing across the sky like an artist's palate drew her to the window. Below her was the large courtyard they'd first arrived at. There was no sign of the carriages, and Jennifer guessed the horses would be getting a well-deserved pampering.

Beyond the courtyard, the ground sloped gently towards a copse of trees, and beyond them, the loch spread out in all its glory. The bluff on which the house stood was not so high, but enough to see a goodly way in both directions.

Resting her head against the mullioned pane, Jennifer drank in the scenery, wondering how her father could have stayed away for so long. The wild beauty of the land called to her in a way she couldn't even begin to explain. Already, she was dreading the thought of having to return to the mayhem that was London.

∞∞∞

Reverend Shackleford sat by the fire and brooded. This was so unlike him, he found himself actually brooding about his brooding. In truth, he couldn't put his finger on exactly what was wrong. The dinner had been more than edible and the company excellent. Flossy had clearly settled in very quickly if her deuced snoring was anything to go by - she was currently lying as close to the hearth as she could without actually setting her coat alight.

Mayhap he was simply tired. It had been a long time since he'd travelled so far, and his nether regions were currently taking it in turns to complain. A good night's sleep and he'd no doubt be corky. But despite his certainty that a few hours in the arms of Morpheus would cure all his ills, the Reverend wasn't yet ready to retire to his bed.

He thought back to the journey and his clumsy attempts to guide his granddaughter back towards the path of righteousness. In truth, he'd likely strayed further from the deuced path than she had. Sighing, the Reverend shook his head. He wasn't sure he was really suited to missionary work, and since their arrival at Caerlaverock he'd felt like a fish out of water. Scotland was so far from Blackmore it might as well have been deuced Africa. Especially since he couldn't understand a word of what they were saying. Abruptly, he was overwhelmed by a feeling of homesickness so acute, he even found himself missing Agnes's snoring.

He wondered what Percy was up to. Would Blackmore be running like clockwork despite the absence of its vicar or because of it?

Never had Augustus Shackleford felt so uncertain - so unneeded. Had the Almighty abandoned him? Allowed him to take a wrong turn? Of course he might also have had too much cheese at dinner.

Whatever the reason, this would not do. Wallowing in self-pity was for lesser men. There was a reason God had sent him here. He just had to hold fast to that. All would be revealed in good time – the same as always. He'd never been one to abandon ship and there were almost certainly a fair few skirt wearing heathens who'd appreciate his guidance.

The Reverend felt a little better, but he still wasn't yet ready for his bed. Perhaps he'd write a letter to Percy. That would keep the curate on his toes, just in case he started having ideas above his station. It wouldn't hurt to remind him that Blackmore's vicar hadn't yet abandoned this mortal coil for tea and toast with the Almighty.