MacKinnon’s Rangers 03.5 - Upon A Winter's Night (5 page)

Sarah laughed, amused by the unlikely image of a stern nun drinking wine on Christmas Eve, the warm winter hat she’d begun knitting for
Killy
slowly taking shape in her hands.

"In my great-great-grandfather’s time, we
didna
celebrate Christmas in Scotland.
’Twas
forbidden. But that has changed." Annie’s voice took on a wistful tone. "When I was a child, we hung garlands of holly and pine on the banisters, above the hearths, and around the doors and windows. I can still smell it, so fresh and clean,
wi
’ shortcake
bakin
’ in the kitchen…"

Sarah’s heart ached for Annie, for her family was gone, her brothers and fathers slain by Highland Scots at
Prestonpans
, her mother murdered. Now Annie was the only one who remembered those days. "You must miss them terribly."

There was a sheen of tears in Annie’s eyes, but she smiled, her delicate stitches not faltering. "Aye, I do, especially at Christmastide."

Sarah was surprised to realize she didn’t miss her family at all.

You are with your true family now.

Her marriage to Connor had been the beginning of a new life for her, far from the dreariness and loneliness that had been her existence before scandal had compelled her father to send her to the Colonies. Annie and Amalie were more like sisters to her than her four sisters back home, Iain, Morgan, and Joseph the brothers she’d never had.

And Connor…

She loved him more than she’d thought it was possible to love anyone. He had given her so much — his protection, his love, a son — and now she would give him something in return. She had arranged such surprises for him and for her new family that waiting for Christmas was proving to be most difficult, the anticipation almost more than she could bear. On the morning of Christmas Eve, her gifts for the family would arrive. She could scarce wait to see everyone’s faces.

How strange it was to think that she hadn’t known them last Christmas. Now she was one of them.

She glanced down at little William, who slept bundled in a blanket on a pallet of furs beside her yarn basket.

"But what of your memories, Sarah?" Amalie asked. "Christmas must have been splendid at the British court."

"My mother could not bear to be at court and only went when summoned by my grandmother." Her mother, a very strict Lutheran, had found the merriment surrounding Christmas to be sinful. "We spent Christmastide at my father’s estate outside London. Servants decorated with pine boughs, holly, and candles, but what I loved most was the music. They played the grandest music at church, and we all sang together."

"And so shall we," Amalie said with a bright smile. "I do so love your playing."

"Thank you." Sarah felt a rush of joy — and anticipation.

Music had always been her great passion, a passion her mother had tried to squelch. Sarah’s desire to play for more than the thirty minutes a day her mother had allowed her had led to scandal that had gotten her exiled to the Colonies. But how blessed Sarah was now to be the wife of a man who encouraged her to play, to be part of a family that enjoyed her music. She still couldn’t believe Connor and his brothers had brought her harpsichord, a gift from Uncle William, all the way from Fort Edward to the farm.

And it came to her that there was more good cheer and Christmas spirit in this family made up of people who ought to have been enemies — Protestants and Catholics, English and French,
Jacobites
and loyalists — than there had been in her parents’ wealthy and well-ordered home.

Then she asked the question some part of her had been wanting to ask for weeks. "Does it trouble either of you to spend these sacred days with people who do not fully share your faith?"

Amalie looked up from her needlework. "It is easier for me than it must be for the two of you. My husband and I are both Catholic. It does not upset me that you and Annie are Protestant. That is part of who you are, and I love you both."

Amalie’s answer was as gracious as Sarah had known it would be.

Annie set her sewing in her lap. "I spent my first Christmas Eve as Iain’s wife alone in the cabin on Ranger Island, while he went to Mass
wi
’ Father
Delavay
. Then I realized my children would be raised as Catholics. If I
didna
join in, my husband would be deprived of his wife’s company and my children would grow up confused. Now I pray beside him. I have faith that I am meant to be
wi
’ Iain, and that is enough for me."

Annie made it all seem so simple.

Sarah found herself smiling. "We
shall
have a merry Christmas, shall we not?"

As long as Connor and his brothers made it safely home from Albany in time, this would be Sarah’s happiest Christmas ever.

* * *

Morgan and his brothers bided the night in one of the upstairs rooms that Miss Janssen let out to travelers. The fire was warm, even if the room itself was crowded with other men. They woke early the next morning as was their wont and broke their fast together below stairs, sharing a salver of warm bread, cheeses, and sausage and washing that down with ale and cups of hot coffee.

Morgan ate quickly then bade Iain and Connor to take their time. "I’ve a matter to see to in town. I’ll be back afore it’s time to meet
wi
’
Haviland
."

Leaving his pack with his brothers, he slipped his coin purse into the pocket of his bearskin coat and walked out onto Albany’s snowy streets. The cold snatched his breath away, the sun still sitting low in the sky, its weak rays peeking through a break in the clouds. Wood smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread. It was still early enough that the streets weren’t yet busy, a wagon trundling by with a load of timber, a blacksmith’s hammer ringing against its anvil somewhere in the distance.

Morgan made his way through the streets looking for he knew not what. He came upon the bookbinder and was tempted to enter, but he’d already bought Amalie a new book for Christmas. He wanted to give her something more, something that would prove to her what he seemed to be unable to prove — that he loved her.

He crossed the street when he spied a seamstress’ shop, only to find it was not yet open, the door locked, the windows dark. He huddled deeper in his bearskin coat and went on his way until he came upon a mercantile, its window displaying goods from garments to wooden toy soldiers to cook pots. He nudged the door open, the jingling of a bell announcing his arrival.

Warmth rushed against his skin, a fire burning in one of those Franklin stoves against the far wall. The front room was a riot of colors, objects, and scents — wood smoke, rose soap, leather, spices, linen.

He wiped his feet on the mat, glancing about. Bolts of cloth. Ribbons. Tatted lace. Dyed yarn. Coffeepots and teapots. Teacups and saucers. Pots and pans. Dolls and toy swords. Parchment and ink. Shoes and woolen socks. Clothing and blankets. Caps and hats of all kinds. Coffee and candy. Soaps and salves.

The sound of voices came from the back — a woman speaking Dutch, a man answering. Then an older woman stepped out from the back. Tall and well dressed with a ruffled bonnet covering her gray hair, she greeted him warmly, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly when she saw him. "May I help you find something, Mr. MacKinnon?"

He was accustomed to being recognized and gave it little thought.

"Aye, madam, and thank you." But Morgan wasn’t sure what he wanted. "I’m
searchin
’ for a gift for my wife,
somethin
’ special."

He found himself telling the woman about Amalie — her sweetness, her quick mind, her love of reading, her beautiful long hair. "She has endured much for my sake,
leavin
’ the world she knew for mine,
forsakin
’ her own people to be at my side,
endurin
’ a fearsome travail to bear me twins."

The matron’s lips curved in a smile. "Twins?"

"Aye." Morgan couldn’t help but smile back. "Sons."

And then he realized that he’d been rambling on about Amalie to a stranger. "
Forgi
’ me, madam.
’Tis
unseemly to be
speakin
’ of my wife thus."

The matron gave a nod of her head, her gaze warm, a faint smile still on her lips, and Morgan knew she did not hold his lapse against him. "What do you think she might like? We have chocolates, small bars of scented soap, ribbons."

But Morgan wanted to get Amalie something much finer than candy, soap, or ribbons. Unshaven, wearing moccasins and his bearskin coat, he must surely seem like a man without a farthing to his name. "I’m not a poor man. I’ve some coin."

The matron turned and picked up a tray that sat on a shelf behind the counter. "We have a few silver rings, this lovely silver locket in the shape of a heart, and this brooch with garnets."

Morgan studied each item, trying not to show his surprise when he saw that the brooch cost five pounds. He could buy a fine sword with that sum. And as he gazed at the polished silver and glittering garnets, he knew that none of these fine things would matter to Amalie. "My wife cares not at all for such finery — nor can I be
spendin
’ quite such a sum. I’ve at most a shilling fifteen in my purse."

His stomach sank. There was naught for Amalie here.

Then his gaze fell on a pair of combs. They seemed to be made of polished bone, tiny flowers and leaves carved out of the fan-shaped handles. An image came into his mind of Amalie brushing her dark hair, piling it atop her head, and holding it in place with these combs. "May I see those?"

He knew they were most certainly beyond what he could afford, but the image in his mind remained.

"Certainly." The matron placed them on the wooden counter before Morgan. "They are carved from ivory and were bought from the wife of a captain who sails with the East India Company. He acquired them for her on his travels."

They were beautiful, delicate, much more modest than the locket or the jeweled brooch. "These are lovely, but surely they are beyond my means."

"These combs are just the price you were seeking," the matron said, removing a small slip of paper from the back of one of the combs and crumpling it in her fingers. "They are one shilling ten."

"One shilling ten?" A good musket, a knife, a bottle of rum — those prices he knew well, but the cost of jewelry or ivory combs? He grinned, thrust his hand into his pocket, seeking his coin purse. "I’d be most grateful if you could wrap those, madam.
Och
, they will look bonnie in my wife’s hair."

He left the merchant ten minutes later, the combs safe in a bag of crimson velvet and tucked deeply in his pocket. He was so pleased with his purchase that he didn’t notice how the matron watched him from the store window, a smile on her face, a wistful look in her eyes.

CHAPTER 4

Iain stood with his brothers outside
Haviland’s
study, his temper growing darker by the moment. "He
bade
us be here at ten," he said to his brothers in Gaelic. "
’Tis
now past eleven, and still he refuses to admit us."

"It pleases him to make us wait." Connor leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. "The man is a
neach
dìolain
."

A true bastard.

"Aye, that he is."

Iain strode to the window, looked out on the parade ground. A party of Indians — Mohawk traders by the look of them — came to the gates of the fort, but were turned away. Two errand boys stood close beside the blacksmith’s shop, no doubt trying to keep warm. Redcoats walked here and there, huddled in their winter coats. Many of them would be returning to war soon, for although the peace was won here in the Colonies, the war between France and England and their allies was not over.

Iain thanked God every day that he and his brothers were out of the fray — and had survived. So many good men had not.