The Elfin Scots, Janet Dunbar: 1790 - Part One

By Patricia A. Leslie

Told in a spirited Regency comedy-of-manners style, inspired by traditional Scottish lore, readers will appreciate Ms. Leslie’s well-paced storytelling, and her insightful, witty explorations of human nature. Being a coming-of-age tale, the central theme is, inevitably, love. But while it centers around a particularly dramatic “girl meets boy” romance, this two-volume novel’s generous length allows time and space to examine love’s kaleidoscipe of joy, hope, doubt, courage, folly, mistakes and redemptions, not only through the three central characters’ emotional journeys, but likewise, a number of the supporting characters’ stories as well.

In Part One of this two-part novel, on May Eve, against her father’s wishes, twenty-year-old Janet goes to collect flowers in Carterhaugh Wood. Stepping into a glade of rare black roses – a hidden portal to the Elfin Realm of Summerland – she encounters a charming young gentleman: Tam Lin. He invites her to visit that land under his protection. Ever intrigued by fairytales and folklore, she accepts eagerly; and with that one impulsive step, Janet’s carefree life will never be the same. Part One builds to her facing a significant decision.

The entire five-novel series creatively blends folklore, fantasy, historical romance, and an occasional scene of comic relief. The series abounds with memorable characters: strong-minded female protagonists ... handsome, thoughtless young men ... quirky kin, neighbors and servants ... Elfin folk ranging from tiny winged fairies to beautiful demi-deities ... devilish beings with malice at heart ... even an occasional talking animal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patricia A. Leslie
• Release date: Feb 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005829179

Patricia A. Leslie

Patricia A. Leslie is left-handed, and a Virgo. She loves dogs (and cats are her least favorite animal - which is a departure for a writer of speculative paranormal fiction). Her degree from UC Berkeley is in cultural anthropology. An interesting fact is that her admiration for Ursula K. LeGuin is what finally led her to studying anthropology in her forties (since Ms. LeGuin's work is all very deeply informed by anthropological ideas). And when Patricia did get an opportunity to go to college to study anthro, she in fact got her degree in the very anthro department that was founded and developed by Ms. LeGuin's father, Alfred Kroeber.The Arts have always been close to Patricia's heart. Although her life up through high school provided nearly no opportunities to enjoy the Arts or express herself through them, once she got out of school and away from her parents, the Arts did become central to her life. At various times she has studied and/or participated in: Scottish and English Country Dance, Ladies' Solo Scottish Dance, theatrical costuming, crochet, Balkan folk dance, Hawaiian dance ('Auwane and Kahiko), swing dance, folk siniging, classical style voice training, watercolor painting, sumi-e brush painting, drawing in ink or pastels, and ceramic sculpture. She has performed as an improv actor, directed stage plays, written, adapted, and translated for the stage, written poetry, songs, and parody lyrics, been an opera supernumerary, written and doctored screenplays, made a 20 minute documentary film about Neopaganism, and -- last but most gratifying of all -- in 2009, plunged deeply into writing fiction. She has, to date, written 7 novels, 4 novellas, 3 novelettes, a dozen short stories, and a variety of uncategorizable humor pieces.Other oddities include: still married to the same man after 41 years... she is a Second Degree Reiki initiate... she's a very good dog trainer... in addition to the BA in anthro at Cal, she has a certificate in museum studies, a cert in teaching ESL, has attended training in the use of Bach and North American flower remedies (essences), and has a mail-order MS in metaphysics. She started teaching herself French at about age eight, by means of Berlitz records. She spent her elementary school years in upstate New York, where she delighted in playing with toads, turtles, salamanders, frogs, and garter snakes. During two of those years (age 9-10) her family lived in a house with a poltergeist.

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THE ELFIN SCOTS

Janet Dunbar: 1790

Part One

Published by Quailcottage Books at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 by Patricia A. Leslie

Cover Design by SelfPubBookCovers.com/Daniela

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual families and clans, or actual individuals, living or dead, or any actual organizations, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Prologue, November, 1783

Chapter 1, April, 1790

Chapter 4, Beltain Eve, 1790

Chapter 5, Beltain, 1790

Chapter 7, Early May, 1790

Chapter 9, May, 1790

Chapter 11, June, 1790

Chapter 12, Late July, 1790

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THE ELFIN SCOTS

Janet Dunbar: 1790

Part One

PATRICIA A. LESLIE

PROLOGUE

November, 1783

THE WHISKY WENT ROUND FROM hand to hand and lip to lip. It was just another night at the White Horse Inn, on the road a mile or so from the Scottish Borders village of Ettrick Bridge, where some outlying trees of the forest stood around uncertainly, like guests at a distant relative’s funeral. The usual bunch of wastrels and carousers were in residence this night.

Sir John Randolph of Roxburgh (Jack to his friends) – knight, gentleman, heir to an earldom, and recent graduate of the university at Edinburgh – was wastrelling and carousing with the best of them. He had been celebrating his nineteenth birthday for about a week now, as near as he could remember. He tossed back a double dram of the fiery potion, enjoying its scorching descent from lips to belly. A brief delay only, and the fire hit his bloodstream, then his brain. Fiddler Davies had just launched into a jig, sawing away manfully at the cat’s gut with the horsehair, faithful to his old dad’s admonition that if you couldn’t play well, play loud.

Driven by the music’s energy, Jack Randolph surged to his feet, staggered only a wee bit as he approached vertical, caught Red Maggie the serving girl round her solid waist, and swung her out into what passed for open space amidst the benches and drinkers. Jigging wildly, almost in time with the music’s urgent triple beats, with Maggie’s overflowing bosom pressed firmly against his grimy doublet, Jack was sure he was having the best time he’d had since – last night, probably.

Maggie felt herself in excellent good luck. She hoped that Jack had some money left after all the drinking and gaming. It would be such a pity to have to say no. He was young enough that the drinking had not yet caught up with his high-born good looks, beyond a bit of puffiness around the eyes. The clean line of his chin was coated with just the right degree of tawny stubble, and indeed, that touch of scruffiness was so much more virile-looking than either a bushy patriarchal beard or the shiny smooth jaw of a youth. His upper chest filled out his expensive linen shirt more tightly than his belly did, and his arms rippled with sinewy muscularity, thanks to a series of expensive fencing and archery tutors inflicted upon him throughout his boyhood years. Fine grey eyes and wavy auburn-shaded chestnut hair (worn long just to annoy his staunchly Presbyterian grandfather), did not contradict the overall impression of a young Celtic Adonis, from where Maggie was jigging and jiggling. (Although he might just as well have appeared to be a Norse Adonis, since in truth, his well-favoured looks and build owed far more to Viking invasions than to Gaelic migrations.)

The outer door of the Inn swung inward, with a strong gust of wind and a swirl of dry leaves. The lanterns flickered. In hobbled a lanky, agèd monk, to all appearances an ordinary human cleric. But in fact, this was Friar Rush, elemental shapeshifter and chamberlain to the Elfin Queen, in his favorite disguise. This dramatic entrance caused Fiddler Davies to lose the tenuous grip his memory had on the third tune of his Big Medley, and he squeaked to an uncertain conclusion. A thudding silence ensued (silence punctuated by the thuds of Sir John and Maggie’s persistent jigging, the cessation of fiddle not having quite yet penetrated John’s whisky haze).

Around the room the monk made his way. He muttered so nearly inaudibly, that it was not clear if he were one of those who had been too long alone out in a small stone cell on the moors, or if he did intend to be heard by the company, but simply had not the lungpower due to advanced age. I seek. A gentleman. I seek. A knight…

Various crude responses greeted the Friar as he moved from bench to bench in the firelight, and couple to couple in the darker corners, peering hard into each young man’s face. Stopping at last square-on to Sir John, who had just that moment realised the fiddle had quit, Friar Rush sized him up with almost hungry shrewdness. Eh now, might you be him?

Him who? Who him? was Sir John’s eighty-proof version of a witty response.

His boon companions (libertine knights and impecunious gentlemen all) guffawed their appreciation. Unruffled, Friar Rush persisted. I seek a gentleman knight.

Oh, aye; the flower of knighthood, at your service! cried Sir John, wobbling a gallant bow. But keep your prayers, Brother, I’ve been saved. This is my body– breaking off to plant a sloppy kiss on Maggie’s heaving, out-of-breath bosom, and this is my blood! snatching a whisky bottle off the nearby counter and taking a healthy swig. Quite pleased with his impromptu sacrilegious witticism, he bestowed an impudent grin upon this man of the cloth, then smiled around at his well-born friends. They responded with dutiful sophomoric approval.

Friar Rush half-turned away, surreptitiously raising a small ornamented whelk shell to his ear. A second’s listening gave him the information he needed to proceed with his plan. Might you indeed be the very gentleman I am seeking? Sir John Randolph, grandson to the Earl of Roxburgh? Your appearance does most closely resemble that for which I have been tasked to look out. (This was really true, although the requestor was not, in fact, the Earl.)

Sir John, startled out of his jovial haze by this stranger’s naming of him, narrowed his eyes, and looked the Friar up and down. He slid his left hand off Red Maggie’s rump and let it drop, not quite as casually as he imagined, towards the dirk on his belt. And if I am, what then?

Your grandfather desires that you get yourself home presently–

Does he indeed? Sir John interjected, as this announcement was underscored by hoots and raucous laughter from the company.

To attend a great feast in your own honour–

From the corner came, Your granddad’s run mad, Jack! supported by another general chorus of guffaws and witty commentary.

To celebrate your betrothal! finished the Friar.

Sir John, at this moment feeling the need to sit down and let the whisky and the jigging sort themselves out, lurched at the word and nearly missed his bench entirely, but being in luck, was caught and righted by Red Maggie, who had grown up at the Horse. Be-TROHH-thall! Ha! Before the old man marries me off to some horse-faced virgin – I’ll be damned!

Nae doubt, nae doubt! chuckled Rush, with a cheerful relish that was unnoticed by his tipsy interlocutor.

Up spoke Sir Jamie Mackie, one of Sir John’s most loyal hangers-on. Still, Jack, you know you should maybe see to it. Before things go too far.

Aye, ‘twouldna’ do to offend the mare’s sire, given he’s a man o’ influence, mayhap, chimed in Big Bruce Fergusson, cousin on Sir John’s mother’s side.

Ach, ‘twould be like my grandfather to plan a match for the gain of power and all that, mused Sir John. Aye, well. I’ll go in the morning then.

Friar Rush pulled a long face (long for a human, that is; it was only short compared to what he could do in his usual form), shaking his head disapprovingly. And what’s wrong with that, eh? pursued Sir John. Leaning down close in a friendly, confiding manner, Rush stage-whispered, To be sure, the banns are to be posted on the morrow.

Sir John lurched to his feet, unsteady and indignant. How dare he! Lack of balance, and a sudden shift to the maudlin phase, impelled him to wrap an arm about the monk’s shoulders, which seemed oddly thin and perhaps over-endowed with bones, but not enough to divert his defiant anger from the topic at hand. I see that you are a good friend to me, sir–

Only doing my duty, Master.

Well, I’ll take your advice in the spirit that it’s meant, and lose no time in defending myself from Grandfather’s advance upon my exposed flank. With an exaggerated bow to the company, Gentlemen. Ladies. taking my leave of you, to ride to my own rescue! Pulling a small purse of coins from his belt, he lobbed it towards the bar, and almost landed the shot. I’m off! With a gallant last squeeze of Maggie’s nearest buttock, Sir John strode for the door.

Flinging it wide, he nearly stepped into a steaming fresh pile of horse manure, since it was the door to the adjoining stable, and not the door to the open road. Making an impressive recovery, he cried, Ostler, bring my horse around to the front! hoping that it looked like he’d meant to do that all along. Wheeling about in search of the correct way out, Sir John’s glance fell upon his two most persistent fellow-carousers. Still in his maudlin phase, he suddenly knew that special boozy affection for them which absolutely requires the sharing of all tribulations and triumphs.

Big Bruce! Jamie! Here’s a brave thought. Why should you not accompany me to this feast? For though there shall be no betrothal, ‘twould be a pity to waste all the other preparations.

Big Bruce and Sir Jamie, each at this juncture realising separately that he had spent his last silver some hours before, and had since managed to continue carousing thanks only to Sir John’s deeper purse, were overwhelmed with joy by this suggestion. Both expressed the conviction that their one most sincere desire was to stand by their friend’s side in his coming familial troubles, and to manfully drink and feast with him too, if called upon for such sacrifices. The assembled company greeted these expressions of fealty and of daring with gratifying cheers and witty encouragement. Toasts were drunk all round, and then the three companions egressed in triumphal style, managing without much difficulty to disentangle themselves and the doorjambs.

Friar Rush hurried after them at a sprightly hobble, and as their horses were being held for mounting, addressed himself once more to Sir John. Eh, my Master, the moon’s not risen yet, and the fog is thickening on the ground. He drew a rushlight from beneath his cassock. Might it be that I should go before ye in the forest bearing a light? ‘Twould be a pity indeed to lose the track and go astray and not arrive in time to have your bit o’ argle-bargle wi’ the grandsire.

Sir John assented to this proposal.

In what seemed mere moments later, he, Bruce, and Jamie were clop-clopping along the narrow, tree-racked path which led up through the forest at the back of Carterhaugh Farm, which was the shortest cut from the Inn, through the hills to Selkirk and the road for Roxburgh Castle.

THE DANCE IS WILD, AND wilder. Fiddles shriek out a frenetic reel, which climbs and leaps around the scales in an unseemly fashion. Wails, contorted ornamentations, and bursts of pizzicato pour from their strings, inspiring the dancers to fling arms, fling legs, and swing one another by elbows and waists, with ever-increasing abandon. About the tree trunks some weave in complex twisted chain patterns, while other Folk slip-step in crazy circles. Almost beyond human hearing, trilling flutes send shivers up spines to stir and tingle the dancers’ hair roots. The screech of a bagpipe climbs above all other instruments, pushing the revellers to ecstatic leaps and twirls.

Tangled in a net-bag of tree branches encircling this orgiastic scene, the serene white face of the Lady Moon gazes down, revealing nothing of her opinions. Her ivory light gently outlines a graceful figure: a woman, knees drawn up, legs carelessly crossed, skirts in flounced disarray. A dark cascade of hair tumbles loosely across shoulders and knees like a peat-black burn foaming over granite boulders. Chin in hands, the Queen of Summerland sits brooding and bored on the fallen trunk of an ancient oak, observing the revelry just as impassively as her Lady in the sky.

Lurching along on knobbly-jointed legs, a gaunt and gangling figure approaches the Queen, detouring the longer way around the mass of gyrating dancers. He is in no great hurry to reach his sovereign, but sooner than he had wished, finds himself gazing up at the soles her bare feet. ‘Tis never easy to know what mood she will be in at these times. Therefore, Friar Rush reflects, ‘tis anyone’s guess what shape he might find himself in, anon. He bobs his brown-fuzzed bullet head. What ails my pretty Mistress?

Daniù’s green, languid eyes slide sideways to take in her servant. Hmm? Oh, Rush. I fear I’m a bit out of sorts since dear Sandy went off to Hell and all.

Rush hesitates, searching for the safest response. He can’t be sure he had found it, but with her eyes upon him, he feels he has to come up with something. Aye, but Mistress? There are a deal more men in the Mortal world, after all. Perhaps young Alexander is not altogether irreplaceable. Och, even the Mortal wenches do say that one man is much like another in the dark!

Rush holds his breath, hoping that he’s struck the right note for the Queen’s mood tonight. Is it still too soon? A long pause becomes a terribly long pause, and Rush starts to edge in the direction of the nearest deep shadow. Daniù’s oval cheek glints softly in the silver light as she turns to follow his movement. The corners of her lips twitch upwards, just the slightest wee bit. One eyebrow lifts. Rush breathes out, As you command, Mistress.

A new dance rhythm rises in the Great Meadow, beaten out by beringed hands on bell-festooned tambourines and great flat discs of drums. Small and large, the Elfin dancers shriek with delight, a blazing bonfire winking and flickering from behind their kicking, high-cutting legs. The Water of Life goes round from hand to hand and lip to lip. Daniù sighs with a weary sound. ‘Tis just another night in Summerland.

THE NIGHT WAS DARKER THAN dark. It was as though the moon had got lost on her way, and would be missing her appointment with the sky entirely. The mist was curving about in rather uncanny ways, taking forms which kept seeming to look almost like things that one might expect to find in a benighted November forest. Then again, perhaps not. One would prefer, not.

Big Bruce led the way on his tall hairy-fetlocked gelding, keeping a close eye on the narrow, cowled figure who bore the small glimmering light just a handful of paces ahead of the gelding’s nose. Jamie, who was of a somewhat superstitious temperament, kept digging heels into his cob, so that her muzzle was near to rubbing the bigger horse’s flowing tail. Their dear friend Jack Randolph brought up the rear, his horse lagging a bit behind, since he was, himself, lagging a bit behind full consciousness.

Bruce, deep in drink, was puzzled by the strange flitting of the rushlight. It seemed the old fellow leading them had become much more agile. Peculiar, really, that he would choose to dance at a time and place like this. Not quite seemly for a religious devotee to be dancing at all, neither. Unless it were to be a Dance of the Dead. Ach, now, there was an unfortunate thought to come, in such an uncanny time and place. Bruce shifted his weight forward and dug his knees into the gelding, urging him to step more lively. Even so, he managed to catch up close to the glimmering light only for a moment, then it flitted off through the trees – very like a Will o’ Wisp – quicker than horses could follow on such hazardous footing.

Jamie, sobering up fast in the clammy cold air, kicked his mare with some urgency, so as not to lose sight of Bruce or the light. Something made her shy at that moment, spinning almost half round so that Jamie was looking back to whence they had come. If he had not already a desperate grip on the pommel, he would surely have been thrown. Aghast, he saw only trees behind himself, no sign of the forest track he and Bruce had just come along. Neither was Jack visible at all.

For the dear’s sake, Bruce, halt there will ye! Where in the name of all that’s holy are we? And where and when did we lose Jack?

SIR JOHN WAS FINDING IT damned hard to keep awake, as his horse plodded and stumbled onward over the root-laced track, which seemed more like a deer’s trail than one oft-journeyed by humans and horses. Now and again, whenever he managed to shake his eyes into focus, the wispy rushlight seemed still to be dancing on ahead. When the horse emerged on brief occasion into more open patches, there was a soft, pervasive glow. Since the moon continued obscure or absent, it was impossible to tell whence the light originated. At those moments, a trick of the odd, glowing darkness made it almost appear as if, though the rushlight continued flitting along at the height of a man’s shoulder, yet there was no man attached to it.

It had begun to dawn upon Sir John’s awareness that there was not near enough rustling, crackling and crunching in his vicinity, to account for a three-horse caravan. Clearly, the others were too drunk to ride well, he thought with smug satisfaction. Doubtless one of them had lost his balance, come off his horse, and the other had stopped to help him up again. He twisted about in the saddle, to try to catch a glimpse of one or both. Neither was in sight. JA – mee! he called out, but his cry died away on the second syllable, when he noticed how very eerie the sound of his own voice was in the silent forest. At the same moment, he became utterly certain that they had never been behind him at all. Recollection was now vivid. He had taken the rear position, having had the hardest time of the three, getting all the way up the side of his horse and onto the saddle. That must mean that they had ridden ahead much faster. But, the light, the light. It had always been just before Bruce, had it not? So, if now it was in front of himself, that must mean the other two had overtaken the old monk. But how had they gone so far and fast in the moonless night? It was queer, uncanny.

At that moment, just when Sir John was twisted about and looking back, all his weight shifted into his left stirrup, the mare chose to bolt. In truth, she might have been spooked by the wispy light flying towards her all of a sudden, while growing huge, growing long flailing arms, growing a long gaunt face and bulging eyes. If she thus succumbed to a brief spate of terror, no one could ever have blamed her. Even Sir John, if he’d had the time.

Drumming hooves. SWACK. THUMP. Drumming hooves, receding fast. A groan. Another groan.

Jamie? Big Bruce? Where the deuce are you? The beast has bolted and left me flat on my back! Can you catch her up, d’you think? Sir John’s voice fell to silence, as heavily as his body had fallen to the ground. Surely someone else was talking, not far, not far off at all.

It was the monk, rasping his words into an empty whelk shell, absurd though it appeared. Mistress! I have one! Aye, a braw Mortal man! Fallen from his horse, he lies helpless, yours to claim!

Sir John’s position being supine, his world-view at the moment was tree branches and nought else. But then he became slowly aware that the moon, or something just as radiant, had risen right overhead, and seemed to be looking down at him. Yes, at him in particular. He knew this because the moon had two large, limpid, grass-green eyes, staring deep into his own. The moon also had a pair of lips – quite full, sensuous ones at that – which smiled gentleness and encouragement upon him. How friendly the moon was! And so much closer than he had ever thought. Not at all out of reach beyond trees, castle battlements, and clouds, as he had always believed. Just right there, so close, so touchable, so beautif…

Consciousness fled, no match for whisky and a concussion.

THE GREAT HALL AT MARCH Castle glowed with fire and candlelight, since Sir Kenneth Dunbar, Earl of March, had a large company of house guests. It was his family tradition at the time of Samhain (now, of course, called Hallowe’en), to have a great fortnight-long gathering of kin and allies come to visit and to feast, to strengthen bonds and alliances, to mourn those loved ones lost during the past twelvemonth, to celebrate new marriages and births, and above all, to share much good cheer before the rigours of winter interrupted travel and social life. Nobody remembered how far back it had started. But it was the Dunbar tradition, and therefore it was maintained, even in these rigid Christian times, when few still acknowledged that the First of November had used to be the true start to the year throughout the Celtic countryside.

Feasting for the night was done. Scattered about the Great Hall, the company had broken up into smaller groups of like interests. Dunbar himself was at the card table with several other noblemen. A few thin-blooded older folk were warming themselves with gossip and a good hardwood fire in the inglenook of the great hearth. Nearby, a semicircle of respectable matrons, sheer screens protecting their complexions from the fire’s blasting heat, worked complacently at their needlework. A number of younger men were still seated at one end of the long dining table, entertaining themselves with warm ale and plans for a hunt on the morrow.

Frequent peals of giggling rang out from the far end of the Hall, near a second, smaller fireplace, revealing where half a score of unmarried lasses had clustered, safe beyond dual threats of unwanted attention (from both young men and elder relatives). This secondary fire was on its steady way to red embers, as the frugal Earl saw no need for heating that part of the Hall past supper-time. The girls were therefore huddled close to the glowing hearth to take advantage of what heat still radiated from the stones. They were engrossed in that most fascinating of activities for their age and sex: fortune telling.

A white dip candle, tipped on its side to melt fast, relinquished a large blob of itself to a bowl of water with a sudden ploop. Eh, what’s that now? cried the holder of the candle, one Fiona, a round-bosomed maiden who was Janet’s cousin on her mother’s side.

A pig! smiled Janet, daughter of the Earl and thereby hostess to all the unmarried female guests (cousin to more than a few of them as well). A chorus of laughter rose in recognition of her observation’s accuracy.

Och, Fiona, that means ye’re goin’ tae marry a pig farmer! giggled Mairi, a lanky, dense-freckled girl.

Indeed it doesna’! Me tae marry a smelly pig farmer! Nay, pigs are good luck! It must mean my husband’ll be a lucky man. An’ that’ll mean rich!

And FAT! added Janet with a smirk, bringing on another round of girlish merriment at Fiona’s expense.

Janet, being the Earl’s daughter, and destined to inherit all he owned, was very popular with all the adults of her father’s generation (particularly those who were the parents of sons). However, she was not so fortunate in attracting and forming friendships with young ladies who were her peers. She was seen as giving herself proud airs – only because of a tendency to show off her intelligence, brag about her father’s wealth and title, and speak with an offensive, English-sounding accent.

The latter affectation had been intentionally cultivated. Not by Janet, but by a governess from London, selected by the Earl just because she spoke the King’s English with a creditable upper-class accent. This might have seemed like a radical inconsistency in so nationalistic a Scotsman as Sir Kenneth. However, his patriotism was overshadowed by a shrewd pragmatism. He knew that the winds of land-ownership and prosperity were blowing hard from the South, and that it was hopeless romanticism to expect this state of affairs to ever change now. And he understood only too well, that the accent with which one spoke English, was the primary definer of status in English society. He wanted Janet to be accepted without question in the highest circles of titled society, anywhere on the island of Britain. It would be hard enough for her to command respect as a woman administering a large estate, without the added stigma of being seen as quaint, provincial – even primitive – the moment she opened her mouth.

Unfortunately, advantageous as this plan might prove to Janet in time, its most immediate effect was to brand her a snob in the minds of most of the young women about her, who saw no shame in speaking Scots, and resented hearing the speech of the English defeaters and occupiers coming from the mouth of a member of their own nobility. The only friend Janet could really claim amongst all the lasses who visited March, was Fiona, who liked everyone, and disliked any kind of strife or bad feelings.

Oh, ho, Lady Janet Dunbar, then let’s see wi’ what sort o’ lad you’ll be sharing your bed before long! remarked Tibbie, interrupting the laughter. This brought on a general gasp of scandalised enjoyment, a muted chorus of Oo–ooh, some quick glances around to ascertain that none of the young lads or old parents had heard, and giggling of a more clandestine quality.

Tossing her honey-coloured ringlets, Janet glared. I’ll not be getting conveniently shifted off to a husband just yet, if you please, Lady Tib – my Daddie the Earl has promised me as many years of tutoring as he had himself – and the right to make my own match, too! After all, it’s not as if we need more land or money. Nor have too many mouths to feed. Daddie says it’s a terrible thing to wed a girl to the wrong man for the sake of putting ink on a deed of land.

This brought a flush of anger to the cheeks of red-haired Tibbie, eldest of six, whose father was the Earl’s younger brother (and had inherited next to nothing, in comparison with Sir Kenneth). Her wedding was fixed for New Year’s, some seven weeks onward; by which union her father’s access to farmland would be about tripled, whilst her bridegroom’s family would begin to enjoy the status that came from alliance with the brother and niece of an Earl. I’ll have ye know, Lady Janet, that Mungo Murdoch courted me properly an’ I agreed my own self, before property was e’er talked about!

Janet parried. Hm, well that’s all right then, but tell me, with those crossed eyes of his, how could you be sure he was courting you and not the girl next to you?

There was a ripple of giggling around the circle.

Tibbie’s eyes narrowed. "Mungo has an upstanding character, which I value far more than the fleetingness o’ beauty in a man. And may I say, I never had any trouble knowing I was being paid court, by any o’ the many lads who’d ha’ liked tae receive my hand. O’course, a wizened, changeling-looking child such as yourself will likely never e’en know what it is to be courted, because, more’s