Chapter Seven #2
“Thank you, Mairi. Please fetch them and pass them around. Andrew, will you help her?” The two students went to an old cupboard beneath a window, removed a stack of slates and a box of cut chalk sticks, and began handing them about.
“We also have quills and ink, but not very much paper,” Lucy said. Fiona nodded, turning toward her. The girl’s heart-shaped face, curling brown hair, and wide dark eyes would make her a beauty one day, Fiona thought.
“Thank you, Lucy. Now who speaks some English, and who can read a little in English or in Gaelic?”
Two or three hands went up. Fiona soon learned that while some could barely read, most could write their names and a few words. Lucy, the youngest, had the best grasp of both languages. “And I can write in English, too,” the little girl said.
“Miss MacCarran,” Andrew said, “if we can all sign our names, and the pastor reads the Bible to us at Sunday kirk sessions, why do we have to learn more?”
“Because you cannot always be a smuggler, Andrew MacGregor,” Lucy said.
“Lucy,” Fiona said sternly. “Please do not speak out of turn. Raise your hand before speaking in class, and be considerate of others in what you say.”
“But Andrew is my cousin!”
“Here at school he is your fellow scholar,” Fiona pointed out.
Lucy scowled. “When my mother was the dominie, we did not have to ask permission. Well, I did not,” she added.
“I am the dominie now,” Fiona said gently, aware the girl had lost her mother.
Lilias raised her hand. “My uncle says Highlanders need scholarly skills to do well in the future. The lads cannot be free traders for long, for soon the laws will not permit—ow!” This as Pol MacDonald elbowed her into silence.
“Class,” Fiona warned. She then asked the students to write their names on their slates. While she listened to the scrape of chalk on slate, she went to the window beside the door and peered through the glass. The pane was old, thick and hazy, but she could see the yard and beyond.
Near the stone tower of Kinloch House, the laird stood talking with Ranald and Hamish MacGregor. They were soon joined by Fergus as well. For a moment, she saw Dougal MacGregor glance toward the school, while Fergus gestured insistently. As if in answer, Kinloch folded his arms and shook his head.
“MacGregor of Kinloch,” she whispered to herself, “do not think to move me out of here. I mean to stay.”
*
“Have you had news from the Glasgow solicitor?” Ranald asked Dougal. Various tasks usually occupied his uncles in the mornings, so as they gathered around him now, Dougal knew they had something on their minds.
“Glasgow? No more than we have heard already,” he answered.
“If we cannot produce the funds to buy back ten thousand acres of the old Drumcairn estate, the plot of land my father sold off, then the government can sell the deed. My father made that arrangement to save the glen. Now the payment has come due.”
“We must sell all the kegs we have and get the best price,” Hamish said.
“All of them, aye,” Ranald said.
“Not all,” Dougal said.
“The fairies will understand,” Ranald said.
Dougal laughed bitterly. “Not according to the legend.”
“You cannot bother with legends at a time like this,” Hamish barked.
“I respect the traditions of the glen, as its laird. And I respect the Fey.”
“Too much like his father,” Hamish grumbled, shaking his head.
Dougal looked toward the hills where John MacGregor had once taken him to reveal the secret of the fairies of Kinloch.
“We can sell our store of Glen Kinloch brew, and keep the fairy brew for special gifts, as we have always done. The price we ask will be paid. The quality of our whisky speaks for itself.”
“Glen Kinloch malt whisky is without equal in the Highlands,” Fergus said, “but your fairy brew is legendary. Some will pay far more for that than even the best Highland whisky. They will want to try a legendary brew. And the glen needs the money.”
“Whisky is whisky,” Hamish pointed out pragmatically.
“Sell it. A fairy legend means little when we know we must save this glen. The government would sell this land out from under us, and they have the right—most of the land in Scotland belongs to king and crown, and we only rent in those deeds. In perpetuity, if we are fortunate,” Hamish added.
“But in this case, the government has full right to cancel that and sell the land. Forget the fairy ilk, lad!”
“The fairies do not concern me as much as the customs officers, if we are caught moving that much whisky to make a quick and large profit,” Dougal said.
It was a wrenching decision to sell the whole of their stash of excellent whisky—it could be years before they had enough to sell for profit again.
“If we are seen transporting more casks than usual, they will triple the number of gaugers in the area. We could lose our cache. I will not risk our best whisky. And I will not move the fairy whisky—the risk is too great.”
“True, it is worth a handsome sum. We must protect it for now,” Hamish said, deliberately misunderstanding what Dougal meant. “And if the teacher would leave the glen, we would be safer.”
“I cannot simply order the lass out of here.”
“You can,” Hamish said. “I like the lass well too, but you can.”
“Surely there is some way,” Fergus said.
“Frighten her off, as I have said,” Ranald suggested. “She will run like the last teacher did. A bit of a mouse, that one was. Easy to—” He stopped. The other two uncles glanced around, looking innocent.
Dougal narrowed his eyes. “What did you do to make that one leave quickly?”
“Why would we do such a thing?” Ranald asked mildly.
“Me, I never even spoke to her,” Fergus said.
“Tell me what you did,” Dougal growled. He had always suspected, seeing how fast the other teacher had packed and left, that one or more of his uncles had influenced her decision.
Hamish made a face. “The lady knew there were thieves in these hills, and she did not like Highlanders to start. Then Ranald warned her about the wicked fairies who would steal her away as she slept. Just that.”
“Just that?” Dougal looked from one to the next.
“I might have walked around her cottage a bit at night. I might have whistled some,” Fergus said.
“You deliberately frightened the wee woman.” Resisting the urge to laugh, Dougal made sure to scowl.
“Bah, she was a timid thing,” Hamish said. “We did not like her much.”
Dougal twisted his mouth awry. “Do not think to do that with Miss MacCarran. She is not timid, this one.”
“Seems a bold lass with a curious mind and quick wit,” Fergus said. “That gauger’s sister will notice too much of what happens in the glen.”
“We have a fortnight at least before we must move that whisky,” Hamish said. “And a fortnight before the spring ball game in the glen. Which side will you join as a player, Dougal? Drumcairn or Garloch?”
“The laird of Kinloch keeps neutral for the ball game and takes no side in the long rivalry between the glen villages. I should not play,” Dougal said.
“You, lad, are one the best at the ba’!” Ranald protested.
“Declare a side and just play,” Fergus said. “With you there, everyone will come to watch. So that would be the time to move the whisky.”
“That day?” Dougal asked. “I am not sure I like that.”
“Fergus is right. It is a good plan,” Hamish agreed.
“True, all will be distracted by the ba’ game,” Ranald said.
“Huh. It could work,” Dougal admitted. “I suppose we could move some casks down to the loch.”
“Otherwise, it would take us several trips over several nights,” Fergus pointed out.
“You should send the teacher away before the game,” Hamish said. “If she discovers this, she could alert her brother, who would bring gaugers into the glen.”
“Though if she will not go, you could make her one of us instead,” Ranald said.
Dougal laughed. “I doubt she would join us at midnight with a pistol and a pony.”
“Ranald means that a woman of the glen will not speak of what goes on in these hills,” Fergus said. “Not even if her brother was a gauger.”
“But she is not a woman of the glen—oh, no!” Dougal raised a hand, seeing his uncles’ eyes brighten. “You want me to seduce the woman? I will not.”
“Seduce? Just marry the lass,” Fergus said. “That would do it.”
Ranald smiled. “It is a good idea, lad.”
“Marriage would be good for the lad, hey,” Hamish told his brothers.
“Would help him recover from his lovesickness.” Ranald grinned.
“You auld rascals,” Dougal growled.
“The dominie came to our glen at the wrong time,” Ranald said. “She is stubborn and will not leave easily. We can see that. Nor will you scare her off. But if she were bound to the glen and its laird, she would not talk.”
“A wife would be good for you,” Fergus said. “Hamish could use one too.”
“I have one. We do not suit,” Hamish growled.
“Lucy is growing fast, Kinloch,” Fergus said. “She needs a mother.”
“She has female relatives. And I do not need a wife just now. We must manage this lady for two weeks, not a lifetime. We only need to move that cargo through the glen soon without being seen.”
Hamish clapped Dougal on the shoulder. “Gain her loyalty and swear her to secrecy. Do it however you can.” The others chuckled.
Dougal folded his arms, shook his head. “You are mad, all of you.”
“She will fall for your great charm,” Ranald said. “Like she did the other night.”
Dougal gave him a sour look, and his uncles chortled. Truly, he did not know how the lady regarded him. He only knew that he thought about her far too often. And he did not need his uncles pushing for more.
“They do say no lass can resist the bonny Laird of Kinloch. When that lad decides to take a wife, every lass in the glen will be knocking at his door,” Ranald said. “More than one has pined for you, fortunate lad that you are.”
“I doubt that. Besides, I am not looking for a wife.”
Hamish frowned. “You should be. You need to marry.”