MY MEMORY PROJECT - Story continuing

I hope this works. This is the Second Chapter of my, as yet unpublished, historical romance, One For Sorrow. Two For Joy.


ONE FOR SORROW. TWO FOR JOY
Copyright Anita Birt 2010

CHAPTER TWO


He sat behind an imposing desk. Lips pursed, brow furrowed in an intimidating frown, he leaned forward to examine her.
"Here's the lad, sir, caught him in the act. He took one of your salmon with his bare hands. A sly character, this one, never seen that done before."
Morgan reached into his leather sack for the salmon. "Have a look at this. Poached one of your big ones, he did." He glared at the captive. "Take off your cap, boy! Besides being a thief, you've no manners."
He snatched the cap from Ailsa's head. The tortoise- shell comb securing her braids flew off with the cap. Her mop of red curly hair sprang loose and cascaded over her shoulders.
"Bless my soul," Lord Rhadyr snorted. "You told me you had a boy. This appears to be a girl." He came from behind the desk.
Expecting a blow, Ailsa shuddered and hunched her shoulders as he approached. The bundle dropped from her nerveless fingers.
"Here you," Morgan snarled. "What are you up to, dressed like a boy? Some new trick is it? Sent to poach by your thieving parents, were you? You'll not get away with it." Seizing her, he shook her like a rag doll.
Stressed to the breaking point from hunger and exhaustion, the last of Ailsa's courage ebbed. Close to collapse, her knees threatened to give way.
"That will do, Morgan, let her be. There's no need to be rough with the girl."
Lord Rhadyr smiled at her. "What is your name, child?"
"Ailsa Mary MacDonald." Eyes lowered, she studied the red, green and gold designs on the carpet. The patterns merged and flowed like clouds in the sky. How strange, she thought, and narrowed her eyes to make the carpet cease its restless motion.
"How old are you?"
"Eighteen, sir."
"Your accent is Scottish. What are you doing in Wales so far from home?"
"I...uh." She chewed her lip. "We have no home..." Every breath wearied her. Mumbling the words, she tried to continue. "We were driven off our land. My father..."
A gasping sob streaked across her bruised ribs. "Oh no, he is." The room melted under her feet and she crumpled on the carpet. Eyes closed, too fatigued to raise her head, she longed to disappear, to fade away.
"I'll put her outside, milord. You don't want the likes of her in your home." Morgan yanked her up.
"Leave the child alone. Fetch Mrs. Jenkins. She'll be in the kitchen most likely."
Morgan dropped Ailsa's limp body, slid his heavy boot under her and jabbed the raised toe of his boot into her side. "She's nowt but a tramp off the road, not worth your time, milord. I'll take her to the magistrate. He'll put her away."
Pain fogged Ailsa's tired brain. Hearing the dreaded words, she struggled to rouse herself. A cool hand rested on her forehead.
"Morgan, fetch Mrs. Jenkins at once. The girl is ill. I will decide what to do with her." He knelt on the carpet beside Ailsa. "Stay quiet. Our housekeeper will be here presently. You have nothing to fear."
Ailsa's eyes fluttered open as a plump, rosy-cheeked woman bustled into the room. "Is the poacher dead, sir?"
"Not at all. Fainted I think. Help me carry her to the settle."
Gentle hands lifted her. She tried to speak but words stuck in her throat. Helpless as a newborn babe, unable to move, she lay back and rested her head on soft cushions.
"Why she's light as a feather. Hasn't had a good meal for a bit, I'll be bound. If you'll just let me have a little brandy, milord, that should bring her round."
Ailsa tried to sit up and toppled back when the room spun in dizzying circles. A glass clinked behind her.
"That will do fine." Mrs. Jenkins sat beside Ailsa and slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Sip this, child."
The fiery liquor burned down her throat. Sputtering and coughing, words tumbled out. "I must go to my father. He's very ill and doesn't know where I am. Please let me go. Please." She lurched to her feet, wavered briefly and kept her balance.
Mrs. Jenkins stood and patted Ailsa's hand. "Where is your father?"
Confused, not sure what to do, Ailsa's eyes filled with tears and she leaned against the ample bosom of the housekeeper.
Would they put her father in the workhouse? Not while she had breath in her body. Not Hamish MacDonald, a proud Highlander, the finest musician in their glen. Not her honest, hard-working father who'd tended the laird's land and made the crops flourish.
He loved her. She'd never abandon him. Never. It bruised her soul to think of him spending his last days in the workhouse, a destitute, penniless pauper.
"I beg you let me go. I'll not bother you again." She turned pleading eyes to Lord Rhadyr.
Ailsa knew her shabby clothes, disheveled hair and dirty face made her look like a tramp not worthy of his trust, yet he seemed a kindly man.
Lord Rhadyr stroked his neatly trimmed beard. "No harm will come to your father, I promise you. Tell me where he is. Morgan will fetch him and Mrs. Jenkins will see you have some food."
"You'll not harm him?" Ailsa searched his face. Reassured by a slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes and his calm voice, she mustered a tired smile. He reminded her of the young man who had spoken to her in the courtyard. The man who wanted her treated leniently. She forced away the memory of his dark eyes.
"I left him in the spinney near the bridge into Usk. He is ill. Please take care not to frighten him." She choked back a sob. "He's not himself."
Morgan waited at the open door. "No good will come of this, milord, taking in sluts is asking for trouble." He clenched his fists around his cap.
Lord Rhadyr frowned and waved Morgan off. "I want her father brought here at once. Take the pony and trap and be quick about it. The man will be worried about his daughter."
Ailsa flinched at the malice in Morgan's eyes before he left. Malice directed at her. Icy fingers of fear shivered along her skin. Fear of his brutal strength, fear of something unknown lurking behind his pale grey eyes.
Freed of his evil presence she dismissed her fears. Soon her father would join her. After a hearty meal, perhaps some bread and cheese to take away, they'd leave this place forever.
Down the road. Away from Usk. Away from the river. Her father cared not where she led, the fever had weakened his will.
Mrs. Jenkins grasped Ailsa's hand. "Come along and I'll sit you down in the kitchen to a bowl of good meaty soup, that will warm you and there'll be plenty for your father."
Ailsa paused at the door. "Thank you for your kindness, Lord Rhadyr." Hampered by her boy's clothing, she dropped a curtsy.
He picked up her bundle. "Here. You have left this."
The twine slipped and Ailsa's possessions tipped out. Books scattered at his feet.
"What is this?" he demanded. "Where did these books come from?"
Ailsa blushed, gathered up her few shabby undergarments and her books.
"I asked you a question. Where did you acquire books? Stole them did you?" He glowered at her.
"They are mine, sir."
"Let me see."
Ailsa bit back the angry retort trembling on the tip of her tongue. What right had he to accuse her of theft? Holding her back straight like a soldier on parade, she handed them over.
Lord Rhadyr perused her meager library. "Hmm. The Bible, the poetry of Robert Burns, two of Shakespeare's plays;, Hamlet and Macbeth. How came you by these?"
"Read the inscriptions on the fly leaves, sir. The Bible was a gift from my father, Hamish MacDonald. The Burns' poetry a gift from my mother, Mary MacDonald. I studied the two plays when I attended the Andersonian Institute in Glasgow." Fairly crackling with indignation, she curbed her fiery temper.
He opened each book, read the inscriptions and returned them to her. "What pray is the Andersonian Institute?" An arrogant smile curled his lips.
Barely able to control her resentment, Ailsa collected her belongings, found her tortoiseshell comb shoved it into her hair and retied the bundle. "It's a college in Glasgow. I attended classes for four years. I hoped to be a teacher."
"Then what are you doing tramping the roads and stealing my salmon?"
Ailsa's head ached. Why did she have to answer his questions? All she wanted was a hot meal for her father. "Have you not heard of the highland clearances?"
Lord Rhadyr shook his head and returned to his chair behind the desk. "Go on." He drummed his fingers on the polished wood.
"Over twelve months past our cottage was burned to the ground, only the stone walls withstood the fire. We lost everything except what we carried with us. The landowners sent factors with gangs of thugs, dogs and fire to burn us out. Not just my family, all the crofting families were terrorized into leaving land they'd farmed for generations.
"The owners brought in shepherds with flocks of Cheviots to graze the highlands. Raising sheep for wool and meat was more profitable than the crops raised by the tenant farmers and the rents they paid."
Ailsa rubbed her arm where the jacket itched through her damp shirt. "Our old laird would never have allowed such a thing but he died two years ago and his son inherited the estate. Everything changed. We were cleared off the land like chaff to make way for sheep."
Lord Rhadyr glared at her. "Impossible!"
Incensed at his ignorance and overweening arrogance, bitterness soured her throat. Gritting her teeth, she continued. "The clearances are well recorded. We tramped the roads, refugees in our own country. My mother's heart cracked under the strain and within months of losing our home, she died."
Tears pricked behind Ailsa's eyes but she would not cry in front of this man. "My mother lies buried in a churchyard south of Inverness."
Her tormentor huffed. "No landowner would destroy property like that."
His assumption she was a lying tramp roused Ailsa to do battle. With a supreme effort she swallowed her pride and faking humbleness, bowed her head. What this man thought of her mattered nothing. She'd willingly go on her knees to the devil himself for the sake of her beloved father.
With a flick of his fingers, Lord Rhadyr dismissed her. "Mrs. Jenkins will see to you."
"Thank you, sir." Ailsa hoped she sounded properly chastened.
As the housekeeper led her away, Lord Rhadyr called after them. "Find some female clothing for her. One of the maid's uniforms will do. She can stay the night with her father. It's too late to send them out on the road. Morgan will take them to Usk in the morning."
Ailsa had no intention of staying until morning. When they were strengthened by a hot meal, off they'd go. She didn't fear the dark, by first light she expected to be well away from Usk.
Mrs. Jenkins sat Ailsa at one end of a large kitchen table and ladled out a steaming bowl of soup, thick with chunks of beef, potatoes, carrots and onions. The mouth-watering aroma tantalized Ailsa's taste buds.
She dipped in her spoon and blew impatiently on a piece of meat to cool it. Chewing slowly, she savored each delicious morsel in the soup until every last particle disappeared. The housekeeper refilled the bowl.
"We'll not stay here, Mrs. Jenkins." Ailsa buttered a chunk of fragrant crusty bread. "I think the gentleman regrets his kindness. He was very cross because of my books. When my father has something to eat, we'll be on our way."
"You'll do nothing of the kind. You will do as the master wishes. He's a good man and never turns a hungry wayfarer away from the door."
Hands on her hips, Mrs. Jenkins brooked no argument. "He ordered me to find you some clothing and a bed, and that I will do. Now finish your meal."
Ailsa pretended not to notice the curious glances from the maids and two young men dressed in blue and gold livery working at the far end of the kitchen. Drowsing in the warmth in the room she stifled a yawn and sagged in the chair.
"Miss!" The housekeeper's voice interrupted Ailsa's sleep.
"There's a tub of hot water in the bathing room along the passageway over there, second door on the right. I've put out some clothes for you, have a wash and then to bed."
Ailsa shook herself awake. "That's not necessary. My father will be here directly. I'll wait for him."
Mrs. Jenkins refused to change her plans. "The master said to find you a bed. You are nearly asleep. Off you go."
Too tired to argue, Ailsa found the bathing room and closed the door. Steam rose from a large tub of blessedly hot water. Tossing her clothes aside she sank into it and let the warmth soothe her bruises. She scrubbed herself clean with a tablet of yellow soap, washed and rinsed her hair and dried off with a coarse towel.
Neatly laid out on a table near the tub were a maid's black uniform, black cotton stockings, darned at the heel, and a pair of scuffed women's boots.
Ailsa dressed quickly. The boots were too large for her narrow feet and slim ankles but a decided improvement on what she'd been wearing. She tightened the laces and the boots didn't fit too badly. Tossing the old ones into a bin, she stuffed her shabby britches, shirt, jacket and cap into her bundle.
Back on the road, the long skirt would be useless. For safety, she'd change into her boy's clothing. The maid's uniform might fetch a few pence.
Mrs. Jenkins knocked. "Come along then."
Her eyes widened as Ailsa opened the door. "Why I would scarce recognize you, quite different, you look."
Ailsa smiled. "Thank you for your kindness. I feel much better now."
Mrs. Jenkins preceded Ailsa up a staircase at the rear of the house. As they entered an elegantly appointed hallway on the second floor Ailsa stopped to look around.
"No time to dilly dally, I have work to do below." The housekeeper hurried Ailsa across to a door on the far side and motioned up a narrow flight of stairs to the third floor. Laboring up behind Ailsa, Mrs. Jenkins paused at the top to catch her breath, plump cheeks glowing pink.
"The maids' rooms are here. Jessie's room is at the end of the hall. She's away seeing to her sick mother. You can have her bed for the night.
"Please fetch me when my father arrives. I must see him."
"One of the maids will come for you. She'll wake you if you fall asleep."
"Och no, I'll not fall asleep."
Ailsa closed the door and dropped her bundle on the floor. More tired than she'd ever been in her life, she sat on the bed, unlaced the boots and set them aside. Careful not to tear them, she removed the mended stockings and garters and draped them over a chair.
The pillow tempted her. She propped it behind her head and stretched out on the bed to await her father. A warm breeze whispered at the open window and the net curtains, like dreamy white sails, puffed into the room. Somewhere close by, a blackbird sang.

Hurray. It worked. Enjoy the Second Chapter. Please leave a comment or drop me a note to: anita.birt@gmail.com

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