Authors: Bess McBride
“Forbidden?” I asked.
“Aye, for some time now. I suppose ye wouldna ken such, coming from the colonies as ye do.”
The fire warmed me, relaxed me, and I almost laughed.
“The colonies,” I repeated. “You Brits! Still referring to the colonies.”
Colin tilted his head again in that charming way of his, as if he didn’t quite understand me.
“Brits? Please, madam. Scots. Is it improper to call America the colonies then? Instruct me.”
I thought Scots were Brits, but then again, maybe I was wrong. I smiled.
“No, I’m used to it. I’ve traveled to the UK before. This is not the first time I’ve heard the United States referred to as the colonies. It’s not taken seriously, like an insult or anything.”
Just then, George entered with a silver tea service that he set on the dining table. He poured a cup for Colin and for me.
“Sugar? Milk?” he asked me in English.
“Neither, thank you.” He nodded and handed me my cup, one of the loveliest patterns of china I had ever seen, and then he left the room promptly.
“I must say, Mistress Pratt, that ye continue to use language which befuddles me. I canna say I have heard the terms the UK or the United States. Do ye suggest that America is called the United States by some?”
In the act of sipping my tea, I sputtered and choked. I set the cup down in its saucer, and seeing no nearby table to set it on, held it in my hands.
“Look, Mr. Anderson, I really don’t know what your act is, but it’s kind of goofy, don’t you think?” I scrunched my nose. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I was tired and very confused.
“I dinna have an ‘act,’ Mistress Pratt. I ask the question in all sincerity.” He seemed not to take offense.
Now I tilted my head.
“Okay, I’ll bite. Yes, of course America is called the United States. The UK is the United Kingdom, of which Scotland is a part...for now anyway.”
Colin narrowed his eyes. “Nay, I think ye are mistaken. Scotland at present is under the Kingdom of Great Britain, more’s the pity.”
“Maybe I had it wrong,” I said. I didn’t think I did, but it didn’t seem worth arguing about. The hot tea and fire were working their magic, and I was toasty warm.
The door opened, and George appeared again, holding the door for a young girl carrying a large silver platter. She sported a mobcap, of all things, and a white apron over her gray ankle-length skirt. A brown bustier over a beige muslin blouse completed her ensemble. She set the tray down, and George unloaded plates of food onto the table.
Colin rose and approached me. He bowed once again and held out his hand.
“Shall we dine?” he asked.
I slipped my spare hand into his firm grasp and carried my tea to the table. He seated me at his right. The waitress, or serving girl, or whatever she was called, waited while George set plates before us.
I had one burning question, and I waited until they withdrew to ask.
“Okay, Colin, is this some kind of themed hotel or something? I mean...why was the girl in costume? For that matter, why are you?”
Colin, in the act of ladling food onto my plate, paused before continuing.
“Costume?” he repeated with a lift of a dark eyebrow. “Aye, the plaid. It is also forbidden, but I am stubborn. I choose to wear it when I wish, so long as I am out of sight of those who would report such.”
I shook my head. He certainly was deep in character. Hadn’t the tour guide said that wearing the kilt had been banned following the defeat of the Highlanders at Culloden? I suppose if someone had to help me out of my bind after being left by the tour group, a man running a historic hotel for tourists was perfect.
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of questioning him on the “forbidden” speech.
“So, is this a themed hotel?”
“I dinna understand yer reference to a ‘themed hotel.’”
I began to eat. The food was delicious, the bread hot and fresh.
“Themed, you know. Like everyone dressed in traditional Scots clothing? Speak as if we were in the eighteenth century?”
“But we
are
in the eighteenth century, Mistress Pratt.”
My face must have gone pale, for he poured quite a large amount of reddish liquid into a silver goblet before me.
“Are ye quite well, madam? Drink this. Ye look peaked.”
I gulped the sweet wine, focusing on the candles centered on the table. Rotating my head, I noticed no evidence of electricity. No lights, no lamps, no wires, no outlets drilled into the stone walls.
I turned back to Colin, my eyes dropping to his plaid. The material was clearly handwoven.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“There is much I dinna understand about ye either, mistress. How ye came to be alone on the path, yer manner of dress, yer own manner of speech.”
“What year do you think you’re living in?” I asked.
At this, Colin laughed outright—a deep, full-bodied sound that at any other time would have sent a delightful shiver up my spine.
“Why, it is 1746, Mistress Pratt! And what year do ye think ye’re living in?”
Chapter Two
I jumped up and ran from the room, making for the front door. Colin called after me, but I ignored him. The huge oak door featured a wooden bar across it, and I lifted it with effort and pulled open the door.
Wind and rain pelted me as I ran outside. I ran down the drive toward the forest for only a few moments before I realized I really had nowhere to go. I stopped.
“Beth!” Colin called after me. “What are ye doing, lass?”
I turned and faced the house, faced Colin, who hurried toward me. George stood at the doorway.
“Woman!” Colin said, reaching my side. “I canna let loose in this weather. Come into the house. We will sort this out.”
He pulled the extra length of his plaid from his belt and wrapped it around me, pulling me close to him.
I sobbed and tried to catch my breath as he led me back to the house.
“This is a nightmare,” I mumbled. “I have to be dreaming.”
“Ye’re nae dreaming, lass. I dinna understand what troubles ye, but I will help ye if I can.”
Upon entering the house, he called out in Gaelic, and a diminutive gray-haired woman wearing a white lace cap on her head came running.
Colin switched to English.
“Mistress Pratt, this is Mrs. Agnew, my housekeeper. She will take ye upstairs and find some dry clothing. Then ye must come and finish yer supper.”
I shook my head, dazed and very confused. Sopping wet, I shivered. “I’m not hungry.”
“Ye’ll take another cup of tea then to warm yer bones. I will await yer pleasure. I think we have things to discuss.”
I turned away to follow the housekeeper up the stairs. Her dark-gray ankle-length skirt and bodice jacket were in keeping with the costuming of the house.
A glance over my shoulder showed that Colin hadn’t moved but remained standing in the foyer watching me. He smiled and ran a hand through his wet hair to brush it back from his face. I turned back to negotiate the steep wooden stairs.
The housekeeper was largely silent, and I didn’t know what to say as we topped the stairs. She stopped at a side table and lit an oil lamp, holding it high. The second floor was colder than the first, if that were possible. Stone walls didn’t help.
“I’ve put ye in the Red Room, Mistress Pratt, and we started the fire,” she said. “I’ll fetch a dress from Lady Mary’s room. She had a figure such as yers.”
“Lady Mary,” I repeated. “Are they aristocrats?” At the moment, I was trying to focus on anything that didn’t have to do with the date. Was Lady Mary Colin’s wife or his mother?
“Aye. Lord Anderson is the Earl of Halkhead. Ye didna ken?”
“I didn’t what?” I asked. An earl!
“Ken. Ye didna ken his lairdship was nobility?”
She paused in front of a room and pushed open a heavy oak door. She stepped in, and I followed. A hearty fire burned in a large stone fireplace, and it instantly cheered me up. I had no idea if they had central heating or not, or even if they had electricity, but as long as I was warm, I would be all right. I wondered how they managed out here in their remote location. Surely they must have a generator or another source of energy.
I didn’t answer Mrs. Agnew’s question but moved to stand in front of the fireplace with my ice-cold hands extended. My reddish-brown hair, caught up in its usual ponytail, hung wet down to the middle of my shoulder blades, and my cotton blouse clung to me. I started to shiver.
“Poor child, ye’re freezing, ye are!” Mrs. Agnew murmured, setting her lamp down on a side table. She lifted a green tartan blanket from the end of the bed and wrapped it around my shoulders. I buried into the soft yet scratchy material and clutched it closely to my chest. It reminded me of the plaid Colin wore.
“Divest yerself of yer wet garments while I will fetch the dry clothing.”
“Thank you,” I said with chattering teeth.
She moved toward the hallway and stopped to light a candle by the door. She picked her lamp up and paused.
“I’ll warn ye though, mistress. Her ladyship didna wear trousers. All I can bring ye is a dress.”
The housekeeper continued to refer to this Lady Mary in the past tense, and I suspected that I would be wearing the clothes of a dead woman. The idea distressed me, but standing around in wet clothing was no alternative.
“That’s fine,” I said.
She nodded and left, and I turned to examine the room, staying near the fire. In my wet state, I dared not sit on the red velvet settee centered in front of the fireplace.
The room, medieval in appearance with its gray stone walls, was luxurious with red velvet curtains, bedding and bed hangings on the highly polished oak four-poster bed. I understood why Mrs. Agnew called it the Red Room. It was beautiful. Several chairs and a small dressing table with a matching stool completed the furnishings.
It appeared that Colin, Lord Anderson, had some money. I gave him some serious thought while I stood in front of the fireplace waiting for Mrs. Agnew’s return, and I decided that he was eccentric, as the wealthy could often afford to be. I didn’t know whether he ran a themed hotel or simply chose to live his life and dress his servants as if they lived in the eighteenth century, but the whole place was rather charming, if a little cold.
Mrs. Agnew returned carrying an armful of material and one really big hooped thing that she laid out on the bed. I moved toward her to look at the clothing and sighed to see that, indeed, I was going to be forced to dress in period costume as well. My eyes rounded on what I assumed were stays or a corset. Oh, surely that was a bit much!
To my surprise, Mrs. Agnew seemed determined to stick around and help me dress. Lifting the tartan blanket from my shoulders, she laid it on the bed and reached for the buttons of my blouse. I backed up.
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Agnew. I’m sure you have other things to do. I can dress myself.”
Mrs. Agnew dropped her arms. “Well, if ye’re sure, mistress. I dinna mind. We’re short a lady’s maid since her ladyship passed.”
“How long ago did she die?” I asked.
“Last winter it was, mistress. She took ill with a fever and was gone by the next morn. It was quite sudden. She was wi child, ye ken. The babe died wi her.”
I drew in a sharp breath. “Babe? Oh no!”
“Aye, the laird was beside himself wi grief. He couldna be consoled.”
My heart went out to the man downstairs. I couldn’t imagine what kind of fever his wife had suffered, but it seems likely they couldn’t get her to a hospital in time. And the baby. My throat tightened, and I teared up. I guessed living on these remote estates had some drawbacks.
“Well then, mistress, I will leave ye to it. Can ye find yer way back to the dining room? I know his lairdship wishes to speak wi ye afore the night is out.”
I nodded. “Yes, I can find my way back again. Thank you, Mrs. Agnew.”
She nodded and left the room, taking her oil lamp with her.
I eyed the assortment of clothing with mounting anxiety. I had no idea what went where, but I wasn’t about to let the housekeeper dress me. I didn’t know what Colin would make of me traipsing around his house in his dead wife’s clothing, but what could I do? There was no way I could borrow something of Mrs. Agnew’s to wear. She was just too small for words.
I kicked off my athletic shoes and peeled out of my damp blouse and jeans. Slipping out of my wet bra, I decided my panties would have to stay. I wasn’t about to go commando.
I wadded my wet clothing and looked around the room for somewhere to hang them so they could dry. I didn’t dare put them on any of the furniture. The room was devoid of closets or a wardrobe, so no hangers.
The fire beckoned me, and I trotted over to it. Finding no way to hook the clothing onto the stone fireplace, I laid everything out on the red-and-green plaid woolen rug fronting the fireplace.