Page 21 of A Secret Scottish Christmas

“How can I refuse the Head Draftsman?” He turned his back to her and heard the muffled sounds of stockings and shoes being drawn onto what he imagined were gracefully arched feet, slender ankles and shapely legs. He fought the temptation to turn. “How is it, Ailie, that you never mentioned your skill at designing ships when I told you I did some designing myself?”

“I would have done, but we were interrupted by the call to dinner. And once you asked for a tour of the shipyard, it seemed best to save that discussion for today.”

Nash considered a woman who did not blather on about all she knew. Such a female was rare. That Ailie held something back she knew would interest him for a time when they would be alone appealed greatly. She was unlike the women whose favors he had sought in London. She is all that is fresh and innocent yet entirely direct.

“Then I shall not be disappointed.” Hearing no sounds, he said, “May I turn around now?”

“Aye.”

When he swung around, the woman who faced him was neatly composed, her previously unruly hair tied back at her nape, her stockings and shoes restored to their proper places. Though her cheeks were still flushed, the gamin was now clothed like a lady. Like a Scots lady anyway. He preferred her simple way of dressing to the lace, petticoats and frippery of the women in London.

“Shall we go?” He offered his arm and she placed her hand upon his sleeve. The small gesture felt so natural. In the brief time he had known her, she had managed to win his affection. What would she think if she knew he was a spy for Lord Sidmouth out to capture a Scot? He never planned to tell her.

They walked through the doorway back to the main part of the house. “How is it you speak the King’s English with only a wee bit of brogue when you did not spend years in London as William did?”

“Like my brothers, I have been blessed with a good education. By my father’s order, my governess was a Scot who had been educated in England. She drilled me near every day in the proper way to speak. Even so, you might still hear me utter a word or two you’ll not recognize. And when you meet Grandfather Ramsay in Stonehaven, you may need me or Will to translate.”

“Stonehaven?”

“Aye, just up the coast. We are sailing there for Hogmanay.” At his raised brows, she said, “Hogmanay is what the English call New Year’s Eve, I believe. ’Tis a very big affair in Scotland, even more so in Stonehaven. The tradition goes back to the times of the Norsemen. Did William not tell you?”

A New Year’s Eve celebration with the lovely Aileen Stephen. The very thought raised images of walks through the snow and a kiss under the moon. “No, he said nothing. Now, I will look forward to it.”

A kissing bough had always a part of the Powell family’s celebrations of Christmas. Perhaps Emily would have one for their celebration in Arbroath. The thought of kissing Ailie beneath the bough brought a smile to his face. Robbie might compete for her affections but Nash had plans, which did not include his brother.

She glanced up at him, her sherry-colored eyes glistening. “But first breakfast and a tour of the shipyard, aye?”

Robbie didn’t need a horse for the half-mile walk to the village of Arbroath, which was convenient since he’d announced he’d be taking a walk in the woods.

As he traversed the snow-covered road, the sun’s light was bright but gave little warmth. Some of the snow had melted only to freeze again, causing his boots to make a crunching sound as they broke through the thin crust of ice.

Arbroath’s countryside had a beauty of its own even a Londoner like Robbie could appreciate. Some of the trees were evergreens but others had lost their autumn foliage and now held on to the snow, the branches making a lacy pattern against the pale sky. The quiet, save for the occasional scurrying of a rabbit or the sound of a wintering bird, took some getting used to.

Robbie missed the bustle of London and the noisy parade of carriages and cries of street vendors. He even saw good in the city’s constant rain, for a deluge always washed the streets of their stench. And Christmastide brought foods and friends he rather enjoyed.

He pulled the woolen scarf he’d borrowed from Nash over his ears and stuffed his gloved hands in the pockets of his woolen jacket, the kind a farmer or storekeeper might wear. Tugging the same cap he’d worn in Manchester down on his head, he turned his thoughts to the last intelligence they had received.

George Kinloch, scheduled to be tried at the end of December for sedition, had fled. The information they were given before leaving London indicated Kinloch had a cousin near Arbroath who might help him sail from Scotland. According to Sidmouth, the “Radical Laird”, as he’d been dubbed, had spent time in France, becoming absorbed in the frenzy for change.

Reform was one thing, revolution quite another. It was the one thing Sidmouth’s government feared most.

Robbie raised his gaze from the path to see the snow-covered stone buildings of Arbroath looming in the distance.

He planned to frequent the harbor’s taverns and see what he could learn. Knowing they would be suspicious of strangers, he had developed a story about visiting a friend who worked for the Stephen shipyard. If pressed, he would say he had lived in London for a time.

In truth, he was determined to say very little. Men everywhere understood grunts, didn’t they?

Coming out of the woods, he entered the town, strolling along the seafront, listening to the familiar cry of gulls swarming in the blue sky as they vied for fishermen’s scraps. A group of fishing boats was tied up at the quay, the fishermen sorting their nets. Women, Robbie assumed to be the fishermen’s wives and daughters, loaded the morning’s catch into baskets.

Ignoring the shrieking gulls, they sat in their plain wincey dresses and tartan headscarves, talking to each other as they worked. Children played at their feet, reminding Robbie of the street urchins in London.

Water lapped against the quay where several ships were tied up, their bare masts rising above the decks like a forest of winter trees stripped of their leaves. Snow clung to the decks of the ships that must have been in port during the last storm.

He continued down the quay, passing a gun battery of six twelve-pounders facing seaward, likely a remnant of the town’s defense against Napoleon’s threat, now reduced to an idle curiosity with the Frenchman’s exile to St. Helena.

In pursuit of the nearby taverns, Robbie turned up one street that looked promising. The town certainly didn’t lack for public houses. Nearly every third door led to such an establishment.

He chose one that appeared larger, judging by its three tall windows facing the street and the cluster of men standing out front. Above the door, painted in black letters, was the sign, “The Plow and Harrow”.