Of Lands High and Low, page 1
Contents
Pronunciation and Language
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Notes
Other titles by Martha Keyes
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To Coronavirus: you derailed all my research travel plans, but you couldn’t stop me from writing this book. May you meet the same end as smallpox. But much more quickly.
Pronunciation and Language
Pronunciation guide (albeit a rough one):
Graeme: GRAY-um
Isla: EYE-luh
Fionnlagh: FYOON-la-eeg
M’ eudail ruadh: MAY-tal RU-ug
Mo ghraidh: Mo GRAH-ee
Gàidhealtachd: GAIL-tahck
Gaelic: GA-lick
* * *
Language in the book:
While relatively small in size, Scotland is incredibly diverse linguistically, with three distinct languages: Scottish Gaelic, Scots, and English. There are, of course, wide dialect and accent differences amongst the population as well. Deciding how to go about conveying this linguistic complexity was tricky. Someone from Graeme’s background would have grown up speaking Gaelic, and this would have influenced the way he learned and spoke Scots and English. The villagers of Craigmuir would have spoken Scots, while Isla and her family all learned English. Besides the fact that I personally don’t speak Scots, a modern, English-speaking audience, most of whom are American, would find it difficult to understand. And to convey many of the quirks of grammar and pronunciation Graeme’s background would have given him would likely have inhibited comprehension of the dialogue.
For these reasons, I made the choice to simply attempt a taste of some Scots words and pronunciation, things like canna (cannot), ken (know), etc. While the way I’ve written things in the book doesn’t convey the breadth of differences that would exist amongst the characters, hopefully it gives it a flavor that helps make it a more immersive experience.
Chapter One
Ayrshire, Scotland 1794
The glacial February wind of the western Lowlands might try to keep travelers at bay, but it was no match for a man accustomed to Highland winters. Graeme MacNeill didn’t seem to regard the winter chill whipping around his great kilt and bonnet. His horse plodded down the dirt lane dusted with snow, the large sack of belongings set on its back swaying slightly behind Graeme in the saddle.
Graeme turned his head away from the coast, gazing with mild curiosity at the village of Craigmuir rising up before him. He pulled up on the reins, stopping for a moment and letting his eyes rove over the prospect. In the lane which cut between the row of short, slate-roofed houses, a few people hurriedly went about their business. The village looked much the same as he remembered it from a few years ago on his brief visit.
Footsteps sounded behind him, and he turned. A woman approached, wearing a kertch on her head and balancing a basket on her hip. Her guarded gaze was trained on him, and her eyes went to the plaid that hung about his knees.
“Good day to ye,” he said with a smile, hoping to show her that he meant her no harm.
She drew away and moved to the other side of the road, giving him a wide berth and increasing her pace.
He frowned and turned his horse away from the road, into the field of long, snow-coated grass that would take him around rather than through the village.
Giving the nearest estate—a timeworn, stone edifice set back from the cliffs—a large berth, he directed his horse toward the coast. “Whoa,” he said, pausing to look out over the rocky cliffs to the turbulent waters below. A lone sea stack stood there, a column of rock battered by waves and topped with a few white birds. The cliffs themselves were rugged but only a matter of thirty feet high, low enough for him to feel the spray from the waves that crashed below.
It was a beautiful prospect, if somewhat bleak at this time of year. He was accustomed to lochs, where the waters were placid except in bad weather. As a particularly large swell battered the sea stack, he wondered if the sea was ever calm.
Only when his horse pawed impatiently at the ground did he turn from the sight of the waves, simultaneously calming and threatening as they were. “Och,” Graeme said softly, running a hand along the beast’s neck. “I ken, Bowen. Yer belly is as empty as mine.” It had been a long journey, and they had a mere week-long respite before making the return trip north to Lochmara.
Pitcairlie House stood only slightly away from the cliffs, looking too clean and too new—and too English, with its bright Palladian columns and façade—for the rugged Scottish land it sat upon. Uncle David had always been quick to accept and imitate English fashions and opinions. But Graeme didn’t share his uncle’s willingness. Not any more, at least.
He didn’t want Pitcairlie House, and the truth was, many of his countrymen didn’t want him to have it either. It wasn’t so long since that Graeme wouldn’t have been able to inherit the home at all as a Catholic. The law might have changed, but the animus that had prompted the riots and protests following the act’s passage was still alive and well in the hearts of many Scots. Catholics—the dwindling few that remained—were not welcome here in the Lowlands.
Uncle David had teased and cajoled Graeme many times during his childhood, urging him to be baptized into the Kirk and become “a proper Scot” so that he could leave him Pitcairlie. He’d had no children or wife of his own, and he had a special liking for Graeme—his oldest nephew.
For most of his life, Graeme had secretly dreamed of being the master of Pitcairlie, and the Papist Act—passed when Graeme was just twelve—had provided a way for him to inherit. His dream had finally been within reach.
Too much had changed for Graeme since then, though. And in such a short time.
He sighed and swung down from the horse. The door to Pitcairlie opened, and Graeme recognized the servant who appeared as the butler.
“Doctor MacNeill,” the butler said, his eyes running up and down Graeme evaluatively.
Graeme frowned slightly at the form of address. He would discuss the matter with him later, though. He didn’t want to start off his relationship with the man in a negative way. “Good day.”
“Welcome to Pitcairlie, sir,” the man continued. “I am Strang—the butler.”
“Aye,” Graeme said. “I remember.”
He smiled. “I didn’t wish to presume ye would. Do come in.”
Another servant appeared in the doorway even as a third hurried up from the side of the house, taking the reins from Graeme.
“Good day, Doctor MacNeill,” said the first. “I’ll take yer hat and coat, sir.”
Graeme shrugged out of his wool coat as he stepped inside, and the comforting warmth of Pitcairlie surrounded him. Better not to accustom himself to it. He wouldn’t be here to enjoy it for long.
“Having been expecting yer arrival, I took the liberty of asking that a tray of food be prepared for ye, sir,” said Strang. “Will ye take the tray in the dining room?”
“Aye, thank ye.”
Graeme was led to the dining room, where a fire crackled in the grate, and he was shown to a comfortable chair in front of a tray of cold meats and ale. He had only been to Pitcairlie once—just for two nights—during a respite from his studies in Glasgow. Uncle David had wanted to show him the home he might someday inherit.
Strang lingered, looking at Graeme with some hesitancy. “I dinna mean to trouble ye so soon after yer arrival, sir, but I wanted to arrange for the hiring of any servants ye might wish to take on. A valet, perhaps?”
Graeme couldn’t help a small smile at the picture of being dressed by a valet. “Thank ye, but that willna be necessary. I only intend to stay long enough to put things in order for the sale.”
The butler’s eyes grew wide. “The sale?”
“Aye.” Graeme watched him carefully. Had Uncle David really thought he would keep the house? He must have known better than that, surely. At his father’s funeral two years ago, Graeme had made it clear to Uncle David that he didn’t want Pitcairlie. And he certainly hadn’t thought Uncle David would outlive Graeme’s father by naught but a year.
“I assure ye,” continued Graeme, “I am verra willing to provide ye with references. And I willna be troublin’ ye for much while I’m here, but I will need someone to help me with the papers and such—to ensure ‘tis all in order for whoever purchases the estate.”
Strang hurried to nod. “I will send a message to the steward, Mr. Atcheson.”
A frown descended upon Graeme’s brow as the butler left him to his food. The hou
se wasn’t above twenty years old. There was no need to feel guilt for selling it. He certainly didn’t need it—nor all the servants that came with it. He might lease it out, of course, but that was just one more connection he neither needed nor wanted. It would require traveling to Craigmuir from time to time.
No, it was better to sell it and be done with it. The sooner he could do that, the sooner he could return home, where he belonged.
Not that home was free of difficulties. Things were still tense between him and his siblings. He had inherited the family home and the tack that came with it upon his father’s death, but he had felt unworthy of his birthright, given everything that had happened. The fact that none of his siblings had remained there with him told him they agreed with him.
When he had made it clear he had no intention of continuing his practice of medicine, his sister Moire had taken over acting as healer in Lochmara, and all remnants of the practice were removed from the home and relocated to her own. Graeme had instead focused on farming the land and acting as landlord to the cottars they leased to.
But, even with the troubled past and strained family relationships, Lochmara was home, and he meant to return as soon as he could manage.
“So, this is the place in dispute?” Graeme gazed out over the piece of land that apparently belonged to both him and the nearest neighbor. It wasn’t a large area, but it ran perpendicular to the coast, and the path that ran along the cliffs intersected it. A segment of wall in disrepair stretched for twenty or so yards, though some of the stones had fallen and lay at the foot of it.
The steward looked at the paper he held in his hand and nodded. “The dispute predates yer uncle’s purchase of the property, but I’m afraid he wasna liked by the Findlays due to his handling of it all. He was anxious to start construction on the house and had little patience for such minor details.” He gave Graeme a speaking look.
“I take it the—Findlays, did ye call them? I take it they dinna see it as a minor detail?”
Mr. Atcheson shook his head. “This stone wall ye see—yer uncle instructed that it be built as a border between Pitcairlie and Braemore, no’ realizing what a foe he would find in Mr. Findlay, who, as ye can imagine, didna look kindly upon the wall. Nor did he agree with its placement. Yer uncle stopped its construction when Mr. Findlay threatened legal action, and ‘twas never completed.”
It was very like Uncle David to try his luck in such a way, but Graeme could wish he might have made more of an effort to be friendly with the neighbors instead of antagonizing them. “Where do things stand now?”
The steward grimaced. “Mr. Findlay disna enjoy good health, and the last time I tried to broach the matter with him, he forbade me from coming on his land ever again.”
Graeme scrubbed a hand over his stubbled chin, noting how the steward stood just beyond the area in dispute, as though Mr. Findlay could sense whether his orders had been disobeyed.
“And what is yer opinion on the matter? Who has the right to the land?”
The steward tipped his head from side to side. “’Tis difficult to say, sir, but I think Mr. Findlay might have the upper hand. This document was given to yer uncle upon his purchase of the property”—he indicated the paper in his hand—“but its description of the boundaries is muddled. ‘Twould take some time to puzzle through them, and I imagine Mr. Findlay might well hold a document of even earlier date that would take precedence in a court of law, to say nothing of the sway he holds there. The Findlays have inhabited Braemore for many generations.” Mr. Atcheson paused, lips pursed tightly. “To be frank, yer uncle’s interactions with the people here in Craigmuir were few. He entertained at Pitcairlie, certainly, but no one from the area. His political allies from Edinburgh, mostly. And he spent a great deal of his time there rather than here. I believe his behavior left a sour taste in some mouths.”
Graeme’s jaw shifted in thought. On the matter of the destiny of Scotland, the difference in opinion between his father and his uncle had long been a point of strain in their relationship. Uncle David believed Scotland’s days as a power were over and the future lay in courting English favor. He had been raised to think such a thing—brought from an early age into the household of an English relative. His courting of the English had earned him the favor of people in high places—particularly in the Scottish government—which was the only reason he had built a house here rather than in England. It appeared, though, that his opinions and loyalties had led him to neglect his own neighbors.
Some might think Graeme had a duty to fight this battle—to stand his ground and ensure Pitcairlie was as grand an estate as it could be. But Graeme wouldn’t fight when he couldn’t be sure that he was in the right, and certainly not when it would likely matter very little to the new owner of the estate whether this bit of land was attached to Pitcairlie or the neighboring estate.
A quick visit to Mr. Findlay could set all to rights and put an end to a trivial dispute.
Chapter Two
Isla Findlay tied the strings of her yellow cloak and stepped into the drawing room. Uncle John was situated by the fire, as he usually was, a cap on his balding head and a blanket covering his legs and feet. He opened his eyes at the sound of her entrance.
“And where are you going?”
She frowned at his tone, but only because of what it signified about his state. He knew very well where she was going, but when he was in pain, he was prone to gripe about most things. He was often in pain these days.
“To see Margaret and the children.” She held up the small basket in her hand, containing a loaf of bread and some Ecclefechan tart.
He hmph’d. “Gallivanting around the county during weather such as this?”
She smiled. “Surely a walk of ten minutes does not qualify as gallivanting about the county, Uncle.” She walked to Margaret’s most days of the week, and she was glad to bear with a bit of browbeating from her uncle as long as she was allowed to continue the habit. The truth was, he appreciated the stories she brought back with her about his grandchildren and their antics.
She went over to him and pulled up a corner of the blanket that had fallen to the floor, draping it over his shoulder. She had often wondered whether her aunt had sat here with him before her death or if it was a habit he had acquired since. They had only been married six years when she’d died giving birth to Margaret.
He winced as he shifted in his seat. “Shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, with the folly that runs in those veins of yours.”
She gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, and her lips prickled with stubble as coarse as his words. But there was soft skin beneath. Soft and wrinkled.
He often spoke of the folly she had inherited. Today it was in her veins. Other days, her hair or her freckles were evidence of it. Somehow the folly he deplored always ran red. But, while Uncle John often bemoaned it, his explanations had been sparing. He insisted she was better off not knowing more about her father or the circumstances under which she had come into the world. And she had learned not to press him—particularly when his health was fragile.
That Uncle John loved her, she didn’t doubt. He had taken her in after her mother’s death, paid for her schooling, and brought her back into his home out of the goodness of his heart. He wanted her to overcome her origins, to rise above them. But how was she to rise above what was largely a mystery to her?
Uncle John’s eyelids began to droop, and Isla took his silence as her permission to go. She covered her red hair with the hood of her cloak and slipped out of the room.
