Book Two
Calais, France 1764
The Sisters of Grande Mercie were certain they were doing the right thing. Penelope Maclean was of age now, and she was ready to be a governess. The household they had selected for her was just outside of London. She was to be escorted from Dover into London where she would meet Mr. Grenald, her new lord’s footman. And from there, be taken into Windsor where she would govern a girl of five and a boy of seven.
Penelope was scared to death. For as long as she could remember, she had been a part of the Abbey of Grande Mercie. She had learned and worked among the sisters, a quiet but happy group of women who saw it their duty to aid the sick and the poor. Penelope had worked alongside these sisters for almost eighteen years, all the while learning history, language, and mathematics so she could eventually teach as a respectable governess.
This life was all Penelope knew.
As she had many times before, Penelope pondered questions about her future as well as her unknown past, absentmindedly stroking the heavy silver locket about her throat, the only memento from a life she’d never know. She turned to the sisters who had gathered to see her off. So many kind and wonderful faces that I may never see again. She felt her eyes moisten with tears, but resolved to be strong for the sisters, not wanting to insult the efforts they had put into her upbringing. They had been preparing her for this day since she was brought to the convent as a babe.
Sister Hannah, one of her closest friends who had tutored her in languages, came to give her a goodbye hug.
“Go with God, mon amie,” Sister Hannah said as she kissed Penelope’s cheek, and then the other, in the French way.
“Thank you for everything, Sister Hannah. If you ever need anything, write to me. I shall come at once!” she whispered. Then, to the crowd of nuns around her she cried, “I love you all! I promise to write!”
Mother Elspeth stepped forward. She was more reserved than the other sisters, but no less warm.
Penelope curtsied. “Thank you, Mother, for taking me in so long ago.”
Mother Elspeth smiled just barely. “The Middletons are expecting you in less than a week. Do not tarry in London. The sights may try to sway you from your purpose. So remember you only have enough money to get you to Windsor.”
Penelope humbly took in the warnings. “Yes, Mother.”
Penelope thought that was all Mother Elspeth would say, used to the Mother Superior’s standoffish demeanor. So she turned to the little boat that would carry her to Dover.
Suddenly, she felt a hand on her arm. She turned and Mother Elspeth embraced her fiercely. “God be with you, my child.”
Penelope felt the tears begin in earnest. How could she leave these women who had been so good to her? How could she find the courage to face the unknown?
“Miss Maclean, we must embark,” said the old fisherman who was to take her to England.
She nodded. “Good bye!” she called to the sisters from the boat.
They waved back, and the boat began to pull away from the shore. Penelope waved until she couldn’t see them anymore. She felt her heart was breaking, wondering if she would ever see the kind sisters again.
When the shore was gone from sight, she turned towards where they were heading. The trip from Calais to Dover was less than a day’s sail, so the sisters didn’t think it necessary to send an escort. Captain Davners had sailed friends of the convent back and forth between France and England many times. He was trusted to take their precious charge safely to Dover.
“Ever been to England, miss?” asked Davners, a kindly man with gray hair and eyes blue like the sea.
“No sir,” she said immediately. Then, a bit more hesitantly, “Well, if I have, I don’t remember.”
He eyed her with curiosity. “Hmmm… Maclean is it? That’s Scottish. Do you know your parents, child?”
She sadly shook her head. She wished the captain would desist. She had already lost the only friends she had ever known. Why remind her of the parents that she would never know?
“Oh, I am sorry, child. I didn’t mean to upset you. Cheer up. Dover is only a few hours ahead. Wait till you see the sight of those cliffs!”
Sure enough, at sunset, they neared the coast of Dover, England. The famed white cliffs stood proudly against the shoreline like avenging angels, sent to protect England from invaders. The sun shone orange behind Penelope, casting an unearthly glow upon the rocks. Penelope felt herself hold her breath. Her first view of England was wonderful and terrifying all at once.
“Child, isn’t it a beauteous sight?” said the old fisherman, a touch of awe in his voice.
She nodded, growing anxious as the small boat reached the shore. She saw no one there to greet her.
“Where is my escort?” she asked.
“Well, miss, you’re going to have to walk into Dover. There, you are to find the Prattling Maid Inn where the Wistcots will be waiting for you. They are a decent family and are waiting for you to take you into Lon---“
“Where is Dover? Am I to walk there by myself? It is nearly dark and this is a strange land!”
He sighed. He told the Mother Superior this would happen. “I am sorry, my dear. But I have to get back to Calais. I have another run tomorrow morning. You are in Dover. The town is simply around that cliff, if you head west. You will be fine. Besides, there is still daylight…. If you hurry, you’ll be there before the first star appears in the sky.”
“Did Mother Elspeth know you would simply drop me off to find some inn?”
“Yes, child, she arranged it herself.”
Penelope sighed and said, “But how will I know what direction to go toward?” She looked around, growing more frightened by the moment. Never in her life had she felt so alone. There had always been the sisters there to guide her, and now suddenly she was completely on her own.
“West is to your left. It truly isn’t that far. Now I must go, child.”
He unloaded her valise, and shoved off to sea, leaving her standing on the beach, utterly alone. She wanted to cry like a baby, but refused. Obviously Mother Elspeth felt her ready to go out into the world on her own. Surely she could handle a little hike…
Penelope headed up the beach, west as he had told her. The cliffs were huge and she felt awfully intimidated by the vastness of the lay of the land.
As she rounded the corner of the cliff, the town of Dover did indeed appear. It was a small port town, with Dover Castle sitting on the hillside, watching over. She felt better having her goal in sight, not feeling so completely solitary.
She walked on until she reached the town itself. Now she surely couldn’t be far from---what was the inn called again? She couldn’t recall the name, and felt frustrated with herself. How stupid of her to forget! The Prancing Magpie? No… the Prittling Mind? No… What was it called?
Despite her memory lapse, she headed on into town, hoping she’d recognize one of the inn signs as the one belonging to the place that she was to meet with the Wistcots. As she walked about, for the first time completely alone, Dover’s streets and its quaint homes and shops charmed her. Most people were in for the evening, and only a few pubs had their doors open for customers. She circled several blocks, not recognizing the names of any of the inns. She was about to get entirely frustrated when she finally saw a sign that made her remember: The Prattling Maid.
She smiled with relief. She hoped the Wistcots wouldn’t be angry with her for being so tardy. Surely they realized it might take her till nightfall to reach the inn.
Penelope stepped inside. The inn was cozy, dim and smelling of fresh baked bread. It seemed respectable, and yet she didn’t see any family waiting for her.
Penelope approached the bar, trying to not notice the odd looks she was receiving from several of the customers. “Excuse me?” she asked the man behind the bar.
“Um, yes?” He turned around. “Hello, pretty miss. How may I help you?”
She blushed at being called a pretty miss, but managed to get out, “I am looking for the Wistcot family. I was to meet them here this evening.”
“Oh, I am sorry dear, they left a little over an hour ago.”
“They what?” she cried in disbelief, fear creeping over her.
The mistress of the establishment came out from the kitchen, having heard the Wistcots being mentioned. “Yes, their youngest daughter Beth got ill this afternoon. It seemed to get worse as the day wore on, so they figured they had best head on to London without you. I am sorry. But there are lots of respectable passersby that come through here on a day to day basis. Perhaps someone will come along tomorrow who can take you to London.”
“But the Mother Superior arranged it. She gave them money to take me. I haven’t enough to give anyone else to escort me, and even then I couldn’t afford to stay somewhere for the night!”
The mistress looked at her sympathetically, recognizing the child as green to the ways of the world, blurting out her circumstances so. “Dearie I am sorry, but why don’t you sit here a minute and gather your thoughts,” offered the mistress. “I’ll bring you a cup of tea---on the house.”
“Thank you,” Penelope mumbled. She was utterly frightened. She was in a strange land, without a friend in sight. Who could she turn to now?
A few moments later the mistress brought her a hot cup of chamomile tea. Penelope gratefully sipped it, thinking of the nuns back home. They were at Vespers right about now… But Grande Mercie was not home to her anymore. Home was a far away place that she had never been to, called Windsor. How on earth was she to get there on her own?
A man suddenly appeared from the shadows of the tavern. He approached the bar to pay his tab, and then turned to Penelope. He was a tall man, almost middle-aged, but still in the prime of his life. His hair was a color she had never seen before, burnt red, glossy and vibrant. His eyes were keen. He had the appearance of a man who had seen much and had been changed by it.
“Miss? I couldna help overhearing your conversation with the mistress. I am on my way home up north, and I would be glad to see you safe to Windsor.”
He spoke with a throaty accent, one she had never heard before. She looked up at him, trying to gauge whether or not she could trust him. But as she considered her options—which were non-existent---she figured she had nothing to lose.
“I have no coin to pay you,” she began, but he held up his hand.
“Then I shall ask for none. I have been traveling alone for many months, it would be good to have decent company.”
“Well, how can I trust you? I know nothing about you. How do I know---“
He smiled kindly, “I give ye my word as a Highlander.” Then under his breath, “That may no’ mean much to these folk here, but I tell ye true, I’ll see ye safe. My name is Alasdair Duggan.”
She looked sharply at him. So this was a Scot. He appeared less fierce than she had pictured them to be from the few stories she had heard about them. Based on her small pool of knowledge, she expected every one of them to be brandishing a huge sword and cursing colorfully. She never would have expected to meet a Scot so civil. Even Mr. Davners had offered his two cents when she asked about Scotsmen on the boat ride here. He had had a worried look on his brow as he had answered, “Stay away from them. Even the Romans had fear of the Highlanders.”
But this man seemed trustworthy. He was dressed in breeches and a rough-hewn shirt, and he looked like he had been in it for more than a few weeks. But he had a genuine smile and kind but alert eyes.
“Penelope Maclean,” she said offering her hand.
She saw a wry smile cross his lips before he leaned over her and took her hand tenderly, “Yer name is Scottish and yet ye speak like a French lass. I dinna understand.”
“So it is. I suspected it might be, but I---“ she stopped herself, thinking of the odd locket carved with thistles that hung about her neck, her only link with the past. Both her name and her locket posed too many questions to answer now, much less discuss with this Highlander. She smiled sweetly at him. “I am recent from France. I was raised at Grande Mercie by the sisters there.”
He nodded, hiding his thoughts. “Can you afford a night’s stay here? We can leave early tomorrow.”
She tried to remember how much Mother Elspeth had given her. Surely if he would take her to Windsor she wouldn’t need the other funds. “Perhaps I have just enough for tonight.”
“All right. Ye’ll be fine, lass. We will stay the night and then leave early tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” she said and went to find the mistress to tell her she would be lodging there that night.
“Aye, anything to help a fellow Jacobite’s daughter,” he whispered to himself.
~//~
They started out early the next morning. Alasdair had acquired for her a small horse, and she was much appreciative. She wondered why he was affording her such kindness, and prayed fervently that she wasn’t making a mistake in trusting him.
They headed northwest, to begin the journey to Windsor. She wondered if the footman was still waiting for her in London, but her escort seemed loath to enter its gates.
“Will we be stopping in London on the way? I was to meet my lord’s footman there, and I have long been curious about that city,” she asked, hoping to stimulate conversation. Except for a cordial ‘good morning,’ her Highland escort had been rather taciturn since they left the inn.
“No. I have no desire to see that stink hole. If ye do, then dinna expect me to take ye,” he grumbled.
“Forgive me for asking,” she began, wondering at his anger. “But, as I mentioned when we met, I have grown up in France, in quite an isolated convent, actually. I have little knowledge of what has transpired here. I am not even certain of my own origins.” She said this with slight self-pity, for next to this man, she felt to be without an identity nearly entirely. Alasdair Duggan was Scottish with every ounce of his body. There was no mistaking his broad shoulders, ruddy hair, or accent. His very soul screamed out that he had been born from the Highland hills. She was terrified by the very fact of it, when she had merely an old locket that only hinted at the truth of her birth.
He mumbled beneath his beard, shaking his head at her ignorance. “Well, despite your accent, I’d wager my best cow that yer Scottish, and no mistake. First, yer name and the fact that ye grew up far from these parts. It was wise of yer mother or father, or whoever to send ye abroad. Tis no place for young lassies now. And, that wee locket ye wear about yer neck. Tis laced with Scottish thistles.”
“What do you think happened to my family?” she asked, thumbing the locket that she had so often contemplated. A small part of her was terrified and yet excited at the prospect that this stranger may hold some answers to her past. “Was it something truly awful that happened here?”
“Lass, it’s terrible hard for one such as you to hear just now. Suffice it to say, the English are evil bastards---forgive me, lass---they are evil, though. They banished, and murdered more Scots than I can comprehend or care to think about too long without feeling ill and vengeful at the thought.”
He looked out at the hills ahead of him. He seemed to be picturing the Highlands just then, the hills and its homes set afire, the smoke blurring with the white clouds above.
She felt sympathy for him, yet not understanding the whole why of it. And here she was, on her way to an English home, absolutely unaware of what evils the English may have done.
She pulled her horse closer to his, and whispered, “What happened to your family?”
From the side, she could only see his profile, but his features seemed to squint into total hatred. He whispered something, then trotted up ahead of her. It took her a moment to assimilate what he had said and what it could imply, and she felt a distinct chill up her spine at the horrible loathing put into one word.
“Betrayed.”
~//~
Penelope was silent for a while, wondering what horrors her escort had faced to make him so full of bitterness and want for vengeance. She rode behind him, quietly observing him and fingering her locket, questions floating in her mind. She felt so completely at odds with herself, adrift between two different worlds. She realized she had always felt thus, except that she had been able to repress such disturbing feelings in the company of the sisters. But now, away from them and traveling with this Scot, she felt renewed excitement, as if she were just in reach of something that would answer all her questions. A thing was budding up within her, something she didn’t realize she had much of: hope.
She trotted up closer to her companion, eager to share with him this feeling and wanting that it would warm him as well. But as she drew closer, he tugged at her rein and motioned to be silent. His eyes scanned the area with practiced watchfulness. She gasped quietly as she realized they were being followed. He led her to a clearing and jumped off his horse, handing her the reins to his stallion.
“Wait here. Dinna move a muscle if ye value yer life, lass,” he whispered sternly.
Not knowing what else to do, she did as she was bid. He started making his way away from her, when he turned back to her.
“Here, lass. Take this dirk. Use it on anything that moves to hurt ye.”
“But---“ she protested, but then reluctantly took the weapon, as she didn’t want to break his concentration.
Alasdair scanned the area, and then at last a bush rustled and a man jumped forth. He was obviously some sort of renegade, but Penelope had the distinct idea that Alasdair had dealt with his like before, and they would make it through all right.
“Gi'e me yer purse,” said the ruffian, in a heavy London accent.
“Not on yer life,” grunted Alasdair as he lunged towards the man.
Suddenly Penelope was held in another outlaw’s grasp. “Then give us the girl.”
Without arguing with either, Alasdair threw his own dirk at the man’s leg, hoping to injure the man who was holding Penelope. He had just enough time to shout, “Dinna move, lass!” before the dirk hit its mark. While Penelope took this opportunity to wrest herself away from her injured assailant, Alasdair made quick work with the other man.
Penelope blindly thrust her dirk at her attacker, screaming in horror at holding a weapon. As she struggled, she discovered that instinct is stronger than fear and eventually landed the blade in his stomach. She reeled in horror at the blood oozing from the man’s body, and stepped away in shock from the man she had just killed.
“What have I done? Oh, good Lord, what have I done?” she cried, staggering into Alasdair’s arms.
“Dinna fash, lass. That was good work for a convent girl,” he said appreciatively, patting her shoulder roughly in congratulations.
“But I---I just committed murder. That’s a mortal sin! Oh, God, what have I done!” She started crying just then, but Alasdair would have none of it. He knew when she calmed down, he could explain that self defense is not the same thing as murder, and God would forgive her, just as He had absolved Alasdair here and there.
“Lass, get on yer horse. There’s like to be other reivers about, so we must be quick through these woods. Windsor is no more than a few miles.”
She stood, still quite in shock, not even able to get onto the horse. She merely stood with the reins in her hand, mumbling the Ave Maria for forgiveness, tears rushing down her face.
“Fer Christ’s sake, lass!” he cried, and scooped her up into his saddle, grabbing the rein of the other horse in one smooth motion.
She was silent for a time, still hiccoughing now and again from the tears she had shed.
“So, ye think I’m a savage now?” Alasdair couldn’t help but asking when she had quieted enough.
“No,” she said gravely. “I am.”
He laughed at that, and stopped the horse to turn around to face her. “Lass, yer no more a savage than I’m an Englishman.” Then seeing her distraught face, he became a bit more serious. “What that was back there was self defense. Ye dinna mean to kill the man, did ye? Ye didna set out to do him harm. But he sure as hell would have harmed ye, lass, and ye kent it well, otherwise ye wouldn’t have struck at him so.”
He lifted her onto her mount, trusting her to be sensible enough to ride. “That lass, proves you’re a Scot. To me, at least. It was the courage from yer forefathers, puiring through yer veins that saved ye from being raped or worse back there. I’m damned proud of ye.” He was silent a bit, but she could tell he was still thinking on it. “Aye, yer a lucky lass to have around. I think yer maybe like a wee penny, small and round, but mighty lucky and handy to have in yer pocket. Aye, I’ll call ye Penny, I think.”
~//~
She had probably made her decision sometime back in the woods after the incident, but it wasn’t until they reached the gates of Windsor that she voiced her idea.
“Mr. Duggan, take me to Scotland with you,” she said hastily, the words coming out at a tumble and surprising herself nearly as much as him.
He eyed her a moment, then asked quietly, “Why do ye wanna do that, lass?”
“Because---“ she began, at a loss for words. How could she describe to this man that he had somehow shown her a part of herself she never knew existed? That there was something in his accent and manner that read “home” to her. How was she to tell him that he gave her an identity, that she was not just another convent girl, abandoned and forgotten, but that there might be a family out there waiting for her?
She couldn’t say the words, but they were there, written on her face. Tears welled up in her eyes for the third time in two days.
At last she found words, even if they weren’t completely adequate. “I can’t go be a governess. It’s what I was trained for, but it never felt right in my heart. I always knew there was more… and I think for me, Scotland is that more.”
“Penny, yer only a bit more than a child, a wee lass who a had a wee adventure. Ye dinna know what yer asking. Scotland is a hard and sad land now. There isna much there, as the English have stripped it of everything. Go be a governess. Have a normal life, and dinna fash yerself about yer past. Ye are who ye are.”
“Then why are you going to Scotland, if there’s nothing left? Why? For revenge? Why? Tell me,” she pestered, not letting him go till he gave her a straight answer.
“Aye, perhaps for revenge. I hope to kill the bastard that threw me in prison and took my wife, aye. Ye wouldna understand lass. Ye have no ken of what it’s like to be alone in a cell, aching for yer life back, planning on how to get back at the bastard that done it to ye. Ye don’t know!” he screamed, his eyes fierce with the pain of prison and loneliness.
She was quiet a moment, and then nodded solemnly. “Aye, Mr. Duggan. I know. I lived alone in a tiny cell for nigh on eighteen years, with my only company God and a few sweet sisters. But I was also alone and isolated, wondering why I had been abandoned, and in a sense, plotting revenge. My sort of revenge, anyway. I intend to find my family, with or without you, and get some answers.”
He sighed, shaking his head, smiling ruefully. “Perhaps God intended us to meet after all, Penny. We may have more in common than either of us would have guessed.”
Last edited by mozartmaid; 07/06/14 07:34 AM.
