‘Chickens, from Laird Ross,’ he declared proudly with a gap-toothed grin, holding up a sack. ‘My name is Colban, Lady.’
‘They are not wanted,’ said Tara. ‘Send them back and tell him to send no more. Tell Laird Ross that his charity is not welcome here, nor is he.’
The boy’s pinched little face fell. ‘But my Laird said I was to mend the chicken coop and mend it well too, or I would get the back of his hand.’
Tara took pity on him. ‘Very well, Colban, you may mend the coop, but take the chickens back as I said.’
He frowned, flung himself off his pony and followed her to the coop, where he spent a good while squatting on his haunches as he repaired holes in the fencing. After that, Tara gave him a hunk of bread and sent him on his way. She cried again as she watched him bounce off down the path to Raigmoor, and she wondered how angry its Laird would be at his gift being returned.
Chapter Eight
Laird Dunbar Gordon’s castle at Machrie was a far cry from living in squalor as her uncle had suggested was the lot of most Scots lairds. Indeed, it was an elegant home, and Laird Gordon had been gentlemanly and accommodating as he welcomed them into the packed great hall for his gathering. And his wife, Ada, was a handsome, well-bred kind of woman who had swept Tara up and deposited her amongst a group of young ladies who she said were most eager to make her acquaintance.
They had made polite conversation at first but had soon grown bored with her and were now all talking over each other as they eyed the young men in the hall. Tara did not join in, and she could not be heard anyway, especially over one lady called Fenella McNevin, who was richly, if rather gaudily, dressed in a scarlet gown with exquisite roses all over it. Her voice had a booming quality that carried above the others, and her towering white wig swayed precariously as she spoke.
‘No, Jennet. Rowland McEwan will not do at all. Too thin and weaselly, and his fortune not nearly enough.’
‘What about Donald Strachan?’ said Jennet to Fenella warily.
‘Scarcely done suckling at his mother’s breast,’ said Fenella, and all the other young ladies giggled behind their fans. ‘You do want a man for a husband, not a bairn, Jennet? What are we to do with you?’ screeched Fenella.
The conversation flowed around her, but Tara drowned it out, for there was music and light and warmth everywhere and such beauty on display that she felt she was entering another world. What utter luxury after months of struggling and making do. Her uncle had melted into the crowd with Dunbar Gordon, leaving her to fend for herself, but it was a relief to be out of his bitter presence.
Some of the ladies were so lovely and wore dazzling silk dresses with huge paniers decorated in all manner of novelties, bows, flounces and embroidery. Tara felt a little under-dressed in her simple teal gown, which she had kept safe and treasured for special occasions. It represented a little bit of hope, even as their fortunes slipped away.
A dark mood took her, and suddenly, the splendour of the evening faded away, and she was back in the shabby cottage and her uncle berating her. The bitterness of his words earlier in the day flooded back. They had quarrelled, and all over a piece of beef.
‘Why do you buy beef when we cannot afford rent or even porridge? Are you a complete fool?’
She had bought it to put colour in his cheeks, for he rarely ate and had a grey pallor which alarmed her. She had done it to be kind, but instead, Uncle Ralph had turned that kindness against her. And then came the worst of it.
‘Tonight, you must look the elegant lady, despite your fall from grace.’ He had been making such snide barbs since that day in the barn, and he began to suffer from low spirits and angry outbursts more often than he was kind. And his latest outburst had been the worst.
‘There is nothing for it but for you to get yourself a match and that you shall do this evening. The land is sold for a pittance to some miserly buyer who would not pay what it is worth, knowing full well that we are in dire straits. And you cannot sully yourself with some low Scot and ruin your chances. Keep yourself sweet and chaste, for you have been promised to another.’
‘Promised?’
‘There is a way out of our current predicament, and one who will take you away from this to live in splendour, child. You will be safe, protected and provided for.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You will see soon enough. Count yourself lucky I have arranged this for you because you have no dowry, nothing to recommend you except your beauty, and we will use it to our full advantage this evening.’
‘Uncle, who are you talking about?’
‘It is not for you to question me. Do as you are told, and try to behave like a refined young lady and not a slut.’
Tara looked down at herself. The dress she wore had a skirt so wide she had to go sideways through doorways and a bodice encrusted in little beads to catch the light. It was pretty and suited her complexion, but even so, she felt like a drab little sparrow amongst peacocks. She had no wig to wear, and her simple pinned-up curls seemed out of place with the towering contraptions of the rest of the company. Perhaps she could fade into the background and not be noticed, and then her uncle’s scheme, whatever it was, would fail.
Some people stared and whispered behind their hands as they glided past. No doubt they despised her, for surely news of her poverty must have reached their ears by now. Indeed, her uncle had left her in no doubt of it before they had set off for Machrie in a carriage sent by Laird Dunbar himself.
Fenella’s voice pulled her out of her dark thoughts. ‘Callum Ross is an ignorant lout with no manners or conversation.’ Her eyes darted to Tara in a sly way.
Tara stiffened and followed Fenella’s gaze to the hall’s entrance. There stood the cause of her suffering and her uncle’s ire, yet she hardly recognised Callum. The Scot was resplendent in a kilt of purple, black and grey, and his white shirt and neckerchief were a crisp white against a grey jacket. A silver badge at his shoulder caught the light from the candles, and his face had been shaved smooth, no longer shadowed by stubble. He looked so different that to Tara, he seemed a stranger until he raked a hand through his brown hair, in that way of his when he was ill at ease.
‘You know, he could be quite handsome if he smiled more, and he is very manly, don’t you think?’ said the hapless Jennet to Fenella. ‘And he has vast holdings up at Raigmoor.’
‘And vast other things too, no doubt,’ sniggered another young lady, plump and plain and very red in the face. Was her name Morag? Tara could scarcely recall it, for her mind was so disordered at Callum’s presence.