Nottinghamshire, Northern England 1767
“So, exactly how old are you, Mr. Duggan?” asked Penelope after a wealth of silence, not being able to bear it another minute.
“And why do ye wanna know that, lass? Why should it matter to ye?” he asked back, knowing full well he was teasing her.
She blushed slightly at this, for she had barely admitted to herself how much she admired Mr. Duggan. He was so new to her and thrilling. He was part of her somehow, and she was drawn to him inexplicably.
“Well, I don’t know… Only we’ve been traveling about a week, and we really don’t know much about each other. I only---well, I’m twenty one,” she offered, trying a different angle.
He grunted at this. “Aye? I took ye for a wee bit younger. I am thirty-nine, lass. A wee bit too old for ye, regardless,” he said gently.
“I—I didn’t mean to imply—I---“ she stammered, blushing furiously that her affection for him was so evident.
“Dinna fash, lass. It’s only natural. Besides, I’m probably the first man ye’ve had any ken of, possibly ever. I may be a bloody louse, for all ye ken.”
“You are not a louse. And you’re not the first. But perhaps of the first few,” she finished quietly.
He chose generously not to comment on her naïveté, but instead offered advice. “Lass, you’ll meet lots of lads in Scotland, lots younger than me. Give it some time, aye? Ye’ve got lots to learn.”
“Aye,” she echoed bleakly, mimicking him.
Again they slipped into silence. The woods were pretty here, the trees like green lace, letting the sun peek through. They were taking it easy through the woods, at a gentle trot, not in a rush to get anywhere. Penelope was tired from the journey, but her curiosity kept her persistent, as well as her need not to look weak or too dependent on Mr. Duggan. She felt obligated to show him her strength, that she too was a Scot and could endure.
“What are the Highlands like, then?” she asked, trying to picture how the landscape might change as they headed further north.
“Oh, like this, and yet no’ like this. The mountains that are a wee bit distant now, are right in front of ye in the Highlands. And some mornings, the mist is so translucent, like a wee butterfly’s wing, that the sun seems to light all the secret fey spots about. Scotland is a rugged land, aye, but verra beautiful. You’ll ken it in yer blood, when we get there, I think. The Highlands is home, lass, and it makes me sad to think her prime is near an end…” He shook his head, sadly. “Aye, I ken now that even if the Stuarts had won, it possibly would be inevitable, for the English are that hungry to see Scotland’s splendor destroyed. They’ve been intent on it for centuries. The bloody bastards…” He turned to her, as if he had forgotten her presence for a moment. “Sorry lass, only it upsets me so.”
“I see,” she lied. For she had no true knowledge of
the pain he felt. Though Scotland she decided was her true home of origin, the only one she’d ever known was the French convent. Even now she struggled to see past the mist in her memory. Was there anything that was there in her mind that might unlock the past? Or had she been too small when she was brought to the convent?
“What’s that yer humming, lass?”
She turned to him, taken aback. “I was humming? I barely noticed. I was just trying to think…” her sentence drifted off. How ridiculous he would think her, trying to summon such long forgotten ghosts of time. Her only hope in unlocking her past, was in embracing her future.
“Ye dinna ken the song, then?” he asked, interested.
“Well, I don’t know exactly. I remember hearing it when I was very small. Perhaps the sisters sang it to me.”
“Well, ‘tis a Highland air lass. I remember hearing it before---before Culloden,” he managed to get out.
She looked sharply at him, lighting on this bit of information. “Really? Do you know the words?”
“Oh, aye. In Gaelic, though. I dinna suppose it’d mean much to ye.”
She shook her head eagerly. “You’re wrong. It would mean a great deal to me. See, I was only trying to think, to see if I remember anything before the convent. And this song is what came to me.”
He sang it for her in Gaelic, the lilting language rolling off his tongue smoothly in a strong baritone. She didn’t understand the words, but she felt the melancholy in them.
When he was finished, they rode in silence, enchanted by the moment. Then she spoke, letting words flow as she tried to articulate the strange feeling of living a life that you weren’t born to. “Sometimes, I wouldn’t even think about what my life may have been. And the little I heard about the Scots, I thought them fearsome creatures and could never imagine myself being one of them, though the sisters hinted that Scotland was my place of birth. When we had visitors, especially English ones, I would hear stories of raids and savages, and something about these stories stirred my interest, though they didn’t sit right. I could hardly reconcile such incredulous stories to the beautiful locket that my mother left me with. At least, I believe it was my mother’s.” She pulled it out of her bodice now, fingering the gentle thistle engravings. “The only clue to my family…. VMH is etched onto it, and I guess it must be my mother’s name. But you see, these are just fragments of a whole world I know nothing about. And then I met you, and you are---“ She stared at him, trying to get out what she wanted to say.
“What, lass? What is it?” he asked encouragingly.
“Well, the sisters were always so mild. Through prayer and service, they seemed to have lost some part of life. And you—well you’re so full of life and vigor, that—well, sir,” she said somewhat breathless. “You overwhelm me.”
He looked askance at her, feeling sorry for her lack and yet wanting to remedy it in some way. He bit his lip, thinking, and then spoke. “VMH, aye? Well, I dinna think that’s yer mother’s name, lass. No. Though I may be wrong, I believe those are the initials for the Maclean clan’s motto: Virtue Mine Honor. Aye, lass. And what’s more, that places ye a bit too. Yer family more than likely came from the Isle of Mull. No’ verra far from where I’m from on Skye.” He saw her light up at this information and was loath to tell her more. The Macleans and the Duggans were not friends, as the Duggans had helped the Maclean fortunes to dwindle. But he couldn’t bear to burden the lass with this news yet. There would be time enough when they got into the Highlands to explain the realities. Besides, she needed to be prepared for more than just clan squabbles. The tales he’d heard about the destruction of the Highlands was enough to break even the toughest warrior’s heart.
~//~
After two day’s hard riding, with only a few hours for respite, they stopped for a whole night’s rest in York. Mari was ecstatic with joy until she found out that there was only one room left and the two of them would have to share it.
Just to tease her, Duggan told her this in all seriousness, looking for her expression. As hoped for, she blushed to the tip of her nose at the thought.
Then he laughed heartily and said, “Dinna fash yerself. I’ll sleep on the floor. Your virtue is safe, my lady,” he said, making a courtly bow.
He paid the stable boy a shilling and began unloading their things from the saddlebags.
“It’s not you I’m concerned about,” she whispered.
“Oh, it’s not?” he smiled.
“No,” she said seriously. “What will the people say?”
Again, he laughed, enjoying himself. “First of all, you’re nay likely to see any of these folk again in yer life. And secondly, I told them ye were my sister.”
“Your sister! That---well that just practically shouts that we’re guilty!” she said, waving her hands about.
“Guilty of what?” he asked innocently.
“Oh, you fool! You know very well---“ she began, but he cut her off.
“Either ye calm down, or sleep out in the stables. The way yer acting now, they’ll think yer my wife.”
At that, she saw for the briefest moments a shadow cross his brow, but it was gone nearly the same instant. She didn’t argue with him further, but followed him into the inn.
~//~
While Penny slept the sleep of the innocent upstairs, Alasdair stayed below and drank. Most of the men at the bar were from York, and Alasdair didn’t care much for them. Instead, he plied himself with liquor and took to the slightly less than honorable task of getting drunk. When he was quite far into his cups, he noticed some Scots, conversing nearby.
“Och, to hear that brogue again. Aye, I’m nearly home,” he whispered to himself before finishing the last of his whiskey. But as he sat down his cup, he became more intrigued by what he heard.
“Oh, aye. Duggan will no’ be saved by playing both cards this time. He’s in an awful bluidy mess between his clan and the English. Poor old bugger.”
The other man nodded. “Aye, and did ye no’ hear that he even went so far as to sell his men’s womenfolk into indenturing? I dinna ken the man.”
Alasdair’s hackles went up. He was sure they were talking of his old laird. He felt a moment’s sobriety and tried to get up to join the conversation.
“It’s good to hear Scots again,” he said, his voice soused in liquor.
“Oh, aye? And who are ye sir?” asked one of the men.
“I’ll tell ye after ye tell me who ye are, ye ken so much about my laird,” he answered, glaring at them squarely
One man raised his eyebrow in interest at that. “Oh, well, ye put it that way. I’m Donald Mackenzie. This here is my friend John MacDuff.”
Alasdair didn’t recognize either name, and questioned whether or not they gave him false ones. “I’m Alasdair Duggan. And I’d appreciate any information ye can give me as to the whereabouts of the Duggan.”
The man called MacDuff smiled agreeably. “Aye, we’ll tell ye. For a price.”
Mackenzie caught on. “Oh, aye, for a price.”
MacDuff leaned in towards Alasdair. “Who was that pretty piece ye walked in with?”
“My sister,” answered Alasdair curtly.
MacDuff shook his head, letting it slosh about like the brandy inside was doing. “I ken, Duggan, that the lass is no’ yer sister. And ye seemed keen to part company with her. We could oblige ye…”
This sobered Alasdair a bit. He fingered the hilt of his dagger, and suddenly wished he had drunk a bit less so he could better deal with these raggers.
“Leave her be, lads. She’s under my protection.” He motioned to his dagger casually in their sight, and they seemed to calm a bit.
“Well, that’s mighty disappointing, sir. So tell us, why’s it so important ye find information on Duggan?”
“Aye, did the man do something to ye to warrant yer wrath?” asked Mackenzie.
MacDuff eyed Alasdair keenly, as if divining his thoughts. “I think maybe the laird of Clan Duggan did something to get ye to hunt his blood. Possibly ridded ye of yer wife, aye?” he smiled, watching Alasdair’s face turn red with fury.
Alasdair felt his jaw tighten in anger and grinded out, “Tell me what ye know.”
MacDuff glanced at his companion, and saw the slight nod of encouragement. “I will tell ye two things. One a warning, and the other, a wee bit of information. And I willna charge ye.” The man smiled broadly, revealing a near toothless smile.
Alasdair leaned in intently, feeling his heart thump faster under his chest.
“One, watch yer back, son. And two, he’s in Edinburgh, and dying.”
~//~
Alasdair and Penelope reached Edinburgh three days later. It was much changed since Alasdair had been there last. His recollection of the city was one of celebration; the Scots were finally going to get rid of the English and have a king of their own. Scottish banners had filled the streets along with flags that proudly carried the fleur de lys of the Stuarts. But now, all that was gone. And although most of the English were no longer patrolling the streets, the city had lost some of its luster. There was an oppressive air about the place that had not been there before. Alasdair had seen more than enough dying and sick women and children in the streets to realize that the real plague of the English was poverty, for the streets of Edinburgh were turning into the sad slums of London.
“Welcome to the great city of Edinburgh,” Alasdair said to Penelope with a hint of sarcasm.
“It’s an imposing place,” she answered, taking in the towering effect of Edinburgh Castle, which sat on an ancient volcano.
“Aye, it is that. Now, let’s see… I’m to find Duggan at 64 Prince’s Street….”
“Why are we going to see this man? Who is he to you?”
“He was my laird. Now he’s---well, he may be my enemy. Depends on what kind of answer I can get out of him about---“ he suddenly stopped, having come to the correct street address.
It was in a very distinguished part of town, and Alasdair felt his gut wrench in hatred. This man who cost him his love, who separated them… Who he believed had put him in prison… This man who was dying may finally give him the answers he had been searching for.
He knocked on the door and was surprised when a maid answered it. He didn’t know what he expected, but it surely wasn’t this semblance of an English household.
“Is the Duggan in?” he asked.
“The Duggan?” she responded, her voice warm with cockney.
“Laird Duggan. Is he here?”
“Why, yes, but he’s---“
He didn’t wait for her to finish but brushed past her, Penny on his heels.
“Sorry, he has no manners,” she said with an apologetic shrug to the servant.
“I’m afraid you can’t see him at the moment, sir. He’s sleeping.”
“Like hell I can’t,” he grumbled, heading up the stairs.
“Penny, wait here. I won’t be but a moment.”
Alasdair found Duggan in an isolated room on the third floor of the house. His room was closed up, surrounded in velvet curtains. Dim as a tomb, and stuffy as well.
“Hello?” he asked the darkness of the room.
“Who is that?” answered a raspy voice from beyond the bed.
Alasdair went to one of the windows and pulled back a curtain. The old man squinted at the light, then coughed fiercely.
“Why did you do that?” he asked.
“So you could look upon the face of the man you betrayed,” answered Alasdair, quite dramatically.
The old man squinted harder, then shook his frail head, whispy hairs dancing about his brow. “Alasdair? Is that you? I thought you were dead!”
“You mean you hoped I died in prison. How dare you! How dare you ship her off like some--- My---my Clara!” It was the first time he had said her name in many years. It hung like a specter between them. Her name evoked all the love he had for her and all the yearning of his heart. But what did it mean to the Duggan?
“I assumed you were dead. No one saw you after Culloden.”
Alasdair stood, taken aback. “But they showed me a writ with my name on it. Who else would betray me? You were the last person I had in the world besides her.” He couldn’t speak her name again, it cost him too dear.
“I dinna ken, son. Did you really think it was I who betrayed you to the English?” he looked at him, piercing blue eyes drilling into Alasdair’s soul.
“Aye. I thought you used me as your scapegoat. I was such an outspoken Jacobite, I thought you used me to save your own skin.”
“No, lad. I admit I played both sides of the fence, but in the end, my heart lay with Charley,” he coughed into his handkerchief.
“Then, what happened to---Clara?” he asked, barely in a whisper.
The old man couldn’t stop his coughing fit, blood showed red as a curse on his handkerchief.
“Tell me, old man. I barely believe that you had nothing to do with my imprisonment, but if you know anything about what happened to Clara, I must know. Tell me!”
Getting a hold of himself, the old man sat up in bed. “I don’t recall lad…”
“What?” asked Alasdair. “I was told most wives were shipped out to the colonies. Wasn’t she among them? You must remember.”
“Aye, I had to do so, for their own safety. But some of them… oh wait. I remember Clara. Red hair, fierce green eyes, aye?”
Robert could barely speak. He managed to nod, trying to keep himself under control.
“I remember her now,” Duggan said, coughing again into his handkerchief. It took him a moment to regain his composure, and Alasdair breathed deeply, ready to hear whatever the truth was.
“Tell me,” he whispered.
“She came to me, shortly after Culloden. As I said, we assumed you were dead. Her family was encouraging her to marry again. And it had barely been two weeks since, mind. I told her she could start a new life for herself in the colonies, but she said no. Aye, I remember her now.”
He stared off in the distance, as if seeing a vision of her. “She was quite broken up over you, but she was such a proud girl, and wouldn’t show it. But if you looked close enough, you could see the pain of it in her eyes. I think she believed you were still alive, which, of course you are,” he said smiling.
Again he coughed, and this time more blood came up. “Sorry, lad, could you come back again? I can’t seem to---“
“Just tell me what you know about her, and I’ll never bother you again,” he commanded through clenched teeth. If he didn’t hear it now, the old man may not make it to tomorrow to tell him.
“Oh. Well, she asked if she could go into a convent, as it were. And I told her she was mad, a fine, beautiful girl like herself should not waste herself in such service. But she told me it was better to serve God and pray for you than to marry and betray your love.”
Duggan let those words sink in a moment, and Alasdair had to hold himself in check not to react.
“So, where is she?” he asked.
“Well, I think it was St. Catherine’s, here in Edinburgh. But she could be anywhere. That’s where she signed up, that much I know…”
“Here? She could be in this very city?” he asked, joy unspeakable filling him at the thought. “I have to go there, now.”
“Aye, I thought ye would. But son, before you go, realize I never intended ye hurt. It was no’ me who did ye harm.”
~//~
Penny didn’t know what had come over him. He was ecstatic with hope. But he wouldn’t tell her why.
“I have some business to take care of, and I think it would be better if you rested while I do so.”
He took them to an inn, left a bewildered Penelope and headed for St. Catherine’s.
~//~
He approached the imposing gate at the convent at early evening. He could hear singing in the distance and knew the sisters were in prayer. Was Clara’s sweet voice in the midst of that throng? And him being a man, would have a difficult time gaining admittance.
But with hope thrumming through his veins, he pulled the bell. It seemed an age, but at last, an old woman came to the gate.
“Can I help you sir?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I—I’ve come in search of---well, a woman,” he smiled at the irony.
“Sir, I don’t have the patience for---“
He stepped back, all seriousness, and tried to explain himself.
“I’m sorry, please. Just give me a moment… I lost my wife many years ago, and I have just learned that she had become a nun, under your order. I was hoping… to find her here,” he finished, wondering if this old nun could understand his yearning.
She sighed, looked heavenward, and then spoke, “Sir, as you said, it was some years ago… our nuns go through rigorous training in a matter of months when they enter these walls, and within a few years they are the very servants of God. I’m afraid that to see her—if she is indeed within our cloisters—would cause both of you nothing but pain. I’m sorry, but I must ask you to leave.”
He sensed defeat, and so did the only other thing he could do, knowing that violence was entirely out of the question. His eyes, clear and wet with emotion, penetrated the old nun and held hers till he was finished: “I loved her once so dearly. And she loved me. She made me complete, and human. I felt like I had never before. I was gentle and kind—because of her. Then I went to war and was put into prison. I have scars of the soul that may never heal. But seeing her again, may be the balm that soothes those wounds… Please. I beg you…”
The nun shook her head. “My son, let the Lord heal those wounds. A woman may bring temporary solace, but to heal entirely you need to seek the solace of Our Lady, and through our Lord’s Wounds be healed. Please, leave here and forget your wife. She is someone different now. To see her would only cause pain.”
And she shut the gate, leaving him there in the cold, alone.
Alsdair entered the tiny chamber he had rented for Penny and himself to stay in. He looked anxious, something that Penny had never seen in him before.
“Alsdair, what’s wrong?” she asked, looking up from unpacking their things.
“I must see her. There must be a way to get into that convent…” he mumbled under his breath, staring at the window at some unseen goal.
“See who? What are you talking about?”
He turned to her sharply. “Ye dinna understand, lass… Somehow I---“ She was eyeing him wide-eyed, all innocence. He suddenly had an idea. “Ye can get in. A wee lass, searchin’ for her past. Surely---but I must accompany ye… In a different guise perhaps…”
“What are you saying?” asked Penny, stepping out of his way as he searched through his meager store of clothes.
“Look lass, I believe my wife is in a convent just down the way. In fact, I know she is. I must get to her.”
“Your wife?” asked Penny softly.
“Aye,” he answered, hearing the regret in her voice. “Dinna fash yerself, child. I’m no suited for ye, and I think ye ken it. Now, will ye help me?”
Last edited by mozartmaid; 07/22/14 09:27 AM.
