Page 5 of A Secret Scottish Christmas

Chapter 2

Assured his luggage had been stowed below in the cabin he would share with Robbie, Nash left his brother chatting with Tara, Nick’s American wife, and climbed the ladder.

A cold wind blew across the deck as the crew of the Albatross prepared to set sail. Watching them occupied with the familiar tasks, Nash wondered what the Scottish sailors and their captain thought of having so many experienced English shipmasters aboard. Nick and Martin had their own ships. Even Nash had been sailing for most of his thirty-two years.

He spotted the Marquess of Ormond standing alone at the rail and went to join him.

Ormond tugged the collar of his great coat up around his neck, nodding his greeting. “Do I speak with Robert or Nash?”

“Nash.” His hands gripped the rail and, even though he had dressed for the frozen north with a many-caped greatcoat, beaver hat and leather gloves, he felt the cold to his bones. The brooding sky above them ominously threatened snow.

Ormond rubbed his gloved hands over his crossed arms. “If it’s this cold in London, it must be damned awful in Scotland.”

“I’m hoping for great heaps of snow,” replied Nash, glad he had remembered to pack his woolen scarves.

“All those years I spent in France for Prinny must have thinned my blood,” muttered Ormond, shivering beneath his greatcoat. “My family has lands in Scotland and, though I must visit from time to time, I have always tried to limit those occasions to the summer months.” He turned to Nash with an amused smile. “Of course, William Stephen’s invitation would have to be specific to Christmastide.”

“I rather like the idea of snow at Christmas,” Nash said thoughtfully. “Although I’d prefer to view it from inside a cozy room with a good book and a Yule log blazing in the fireplace.”

“And a glass of fine French brandy in hand,” added Ormond. He shot a glance at the aft hatch. “I assume the ladies have stayed below to see to the cabins.” He turned back to Nash. “My good friend, William Stephen, went to a fair bit of trouble having this ship altered belowdecks to comfortably accommodate all of us for a few days’ sail, even mustering a group of his men to act as servants. The ladies were pleased.”

Remembering the flurry of female activity belowdecks and the seamen helping with chests, Nash nodded. “’Twas most considerate of him.” He looked up and down the quay. “Are we all on board then?”

“All save the countess. I’ve been watching for her. I do wonder if, given her age, Lady Claremont is having second thoughts about making the trip. This is the worst winter in years.”

As they were speaking, a handsome landau drawn by a pair of fine black horses pulled up at the foot of the gangplank.

“’Tis the countess,” remarked Ormond, pushing back from the rail. “The crest on the door is hers.”

“I know of her from my parents, of course,” said Nash, “but I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting her. Robbie and I have not attended many balls this year.”

“She is much loved in London. Her soirees are not to be missed.”

“I seem to recall my brother Martin speaking of one he attended.”

A footman, perched behind the carriage, stepped down and opened the door, handing down a silver-haired woman in a dark blue pelisse buttoned up against the cold. On her head she wore a stylish blue hat graced with white plumes. Given her obvious age, Nash was surprised at the agile way she alighted from the equipage.

Another woman of middle years followed the countess out of the carriage. Her mobcap and simple attire suggested she might be a servant.

Striding to the gangplank, Ormond said over his shoulder, “I see Muriel has indulged her fancy for feathers.”

Nash fell into step behind him.

Reaching the countess, Ormond retrieved her hand from the footman helping her aboard just as Captain Anderson, a rather stern-looking Scot with dark curly hair and ruddy cheeks, strode across the deck to join them.

“Welcome, Lady Claremont,” he said with a pronounced brogue, lifting his cap in greeting. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Dougal Anderson of William Stephen’s shipbuilding. Your fellow passengers will be pleased to hear of your arrival.” Then with a chiding tone, “They were afraid we might have to leave you behind.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” the countess scolded in a commanding voice. Her back as straight as steel, her head held high, she confronted the captain nose to nose. A formidable woman, thought Nash. Definitely not one to be intimidated by the unsmiling captain. “I am an adventurer at heart, my good man, and I love to sail, this dashed cold weather notwithstanding.”

Lady Claremont moved aside, allowing the captain to view the woman with light brown hair and white mobcap who had been waiting patiently behind her mistress. “I have brought my cook, Mrs. Platt.”

“An English cook for my… my ship?” the captain sputtered.

Ormond turned to wink at Nash, clearly enjoying the exchange.

“No, no, my good man,” the countess scolded as if addressing a schoolboy. “For our Christmas feast in Scotland.” Then to her cook, she muttered, “One could not expect Mr. Stephen’s cook to serve up a proper roast goose, minced pie and plum pudding.”

The countess returned her attention to the captain. “Mrs. Platt’s supplies are in a crate sitting on the quay. Please have it loaded promptly.”