Chapter Two #2
She really hadn’t had a chance to read the book all the way through.
She and Minnie had studied it one night and had a grand time.
There were all sorts of recipes in it. The most amusing were the potions and poultices that promised to heal everything from a wart on the sole of one’s foot to a broken heart, each using the same three ingredients—moss, something called “dittany of crete,” and sage.
The sisters had surmised it was the words one chanted that mattered, and the feelings when they were said.
Then, there were the more “witchy” recipes that were for those who dabbled in spells a good Christian would not touch, unless she was desperate for money.
It had been those spells that had made both her and Minnie uncomfortable. The book had been tucked away beneath Portia’s bed and had not been pulled out since.
Portia thought of the letter to her uncle and knew it would not be answered, just as her previous pleas to him had been ignored. If her family was to survive, she needed to be bold.
“Is the Englishman staying here?” she asked Mrs. Macdonald.
“No, he’s with that English general that moved to the valley, say what? The early part of the summer?”
Portia’s heart sank. General Montheath.
The general had been a childhood acquaintance of her mother’s and had nursed an unrequited love for her all these decades and had sought her out on the flimsiest of excuses.
When they moved to Scotland, he had not been far behind.
However, he never called upon her. Instead, he hovered around her every chance he could, such as at church, moving with a stealth that made Portia and Minnie believe he feared pressing his attentions in any manner lest their mother banish him completely.
In truth, their mother was oblivious to such slavish devotion. She ignored him. Portia and Minnie felt a bit sorry for him—Minnie more so than Portia. If the man would call or take some sort of action, Portia could have been more sympathetic to his suit. As it was, she thought him a touch pathetic.
Of course, that didn’t mean she couldn’t act on the plan hatching in her mind.
It was so clear to her. So simple.
She could become the witch.
And the results might save them all.
Portia rose from the chair. “I must be going. Thank you for your assistance,” she said to Robbie and Mrs. Macdonald. “I’m feeling much better now.” She started for the door, pulling her cloak hood up over her head.
“But it is still raining,” Mrs. Macdonald protested.
“Merely a mist,” Portia answered, and then she remembered the letter to Uncle Ned. She pulled it from her pocket along with the coin. It wouldn’t hurt to send it. “I brought this for the post.”
Mrs. Macdonald, who had risen along with Robbie to see her to the door, took the letter from her. “I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you,” Portia said, and practically dashed out of the house.
The rain had let up, but even if it hadn’t, Portia would have left. Her mind buzzed with details, fears, hopes. She’d not felt so alive before in her life.
Her step was hurried in her anxiousness to return home and grab the book of spells from its hiding place. However, as she topped a knoll in the road, she felt compelled to stand there a moment.
From this point, she could see the length of Loch Shiel hemmed in by the dramatic peaks of the mountains Moidart, Ardgour and Sunart. Not far off the shore, St. Finan’s island was an oasis of firs and pines.
The rain-laden wind whipped across the waters before carrying itself up and around Portia.
She’d liked Scotland from the moment they’d arrived. She felt as if she belonged here. Of course, there was nowhere else to go. If she did not find a way to stay at Camber Hall, then she, her mother, and her sister would be forced to be a burden upon relatives. Such a fate was unthinkable.
At that moment, an eagle took flight over the loch. It spread its wings and glided through the air above and around St. Finan’s, and she experienced the thrill of destiny.
It was a sign. A blessing . . . or so Portia wished it to be. Had it been mere happenstance that the book of spells had fallen into her hands? She did not know, but she knew what she was going to do with it.
She would become the English Chattan’s witch. She would become Fenella, the name of the last woman to sign the inside page of that book. Fenella. It sounded witchy.
And she would claim—no, earn—the Englishman’s three hundred pounds.
Did her conscience bother her at pretending to be what she was not? She thought of the man who had almost run her over, the angry scowl, the rough voice.
She’d find a way to be at peace with herself. Having enough fuel to keep the fires in Camber Hall burning and plenty of food in the larder would be a good start.
His brother was dying and there was nothing Harry could do about it—not until he found someone or something that could break the curse.
For the first time in his life, Harry knew fear, a fear he attempted to escape by giving his horse Ajax, a mighty bay that had carried him into many a battle, his lead.
It felt good to gallop, to release his frustration to the wind.
Harry had never failed at an assignment before, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t fail, and yet time was passing far too quickly.
The letter from his sister, Margaret, had not been hopeful.
She’d urged him to act with all haste. His brother, Neal, was growing weaker, even as his wife grew larger with child.
Margaret wrote her greatest frustration was how happy his brother, Neal, and Neal’s wife, Thea, were: They accept the inevitability of the curse and Neal behaves as if he does not even want to fight it.
Well, Harry did. Neal was the finest man he knew. There had to be a way to break the curse. There must be.
He and Ajax raced over the moors, Harry’s mind working furiously on all he had done, all he had learned.
He’d come to Glenfinnan because it had been the home of Charles, the first Chattan cursed.
There must be a clue here, something that would give him a direction.
He sensed it was true, and Harry always trusted his gut.
But in a week’s time, he’d not learned anything except that Highlanders have long memories—when they wish to do so.
He’d met many who knew something of the curse and many more who still thought of his family line as traitors since they’d turned their backs on Scotland to marry into the English.
At first, Harry had tried reasoning. After all, over the past two hundred years and more, many a Scotsman had married an Englishwoman. But local lore was such that he discovered his ancestors unforgiven.
“They talk as if they could have won the rebellion in ’45 with my family’s help,” he muttered at Ajax after they had run their fill.
Ajax was tired. He wanted his oats and his hay and didn’t care much what the Highlanders thought of him.
Surprisingly, Harry did. He felt comfortable here, and if his brother’s life wasn’t at stake, he would have enjoyed himself.
As it was, he needed to move on, to continue his search. He just didn’t know which way he should go.
It was dark by the time he returned to Montheath’s house. A groom offered to help Harry with his horse but he saw to his own mount.
Monty had held dinner.
“You shouldn’t have waited,” Harry said, sinking down into a chair at the overladen table and finding himself quite hungry.
He’d taken a moment to wash, while informing his man Rowan that they would leave at first light; however, he still wore his riding clothes and boots.
Monty was equally casually dressed. This was a simple supper between two bachelors.
A good fire burned in the hearth, the bread was fresh, and the leg of venison was still sizzling from the spit.
“You are my guest,” Monty said. “Of course I would wait.” He and Harry had fought in many campaigns together, although Monty was an artilleryman through and though. He liked the powers of guns.
Now, Monty was retired. He was some twenty years older than Harry and had seen far more fighting on numerous continents.
He had a whippet-lean body and a full head of white hair.
He was also a bit cross-eyed and he had a very strong nose, making him rather unhandsome.
Harry didn’t care about looks. Monty was both fearless and cool-headed under fire.
Monty also had an abnormal fondness for dogs. He must own at least ten of them of various and sundry lineages. Outside, inside, everywhere, the house was surrounded by dogs. One or two were at his heels wherever he went.
Monty could have chosen anywhere to live, but he’d chosen this quiet spot of Scotland where he didn’t have family or close friends.
Indeed, Harry and Monty had come upon each other by chance.
Harry had just arrived in Glenfinnan and been riding down the road, and there had been Monty, riding in the opposite direction.
He hadn’t hesitated in inviting Harry to stay with him.
Harry had asked him why he was in Glenfinnan but Monty had been unusually closed-lipped.
In truth, Harry’s problems were so large, he did not have the luxury of worrying over his friend’s concerns. So he’d let the subject drop.
“I shall be leaving on the morrow,” he said to Monty as he speared a healthy-sized piece of venison for his plate. He shook his head at the servant offering peas. Harry was fond of any food as long as it wasn’t green. “I have appreciated your hospitality.”
“You can’t go,” Monty said.
Harry looked up in surprise. “I must. You know I am here on a mission.”
“Are you certain you have met all the witches in the area? There are quite a few.”