Everyone was well dressed and in good spirits, greeting one another and commenting on the cold weather as they shed outdoor garments, which Mr. Gwilt whisked away.
They soon sat down together at a table crowded with serving vessels mounded high with an appealing variety of foods, including traditional English dishes as well as some of the fare Mr. Henshall had suggested for Hogmanay.
Sarah had given Mrs. Besley a recipe for haggis, but the cook had turned up her nose at the idea of preparing anything involving a sheep’s lungs, stomach, or ox bung. The butcher refused as well.
They did manage to make venison pie, thanks to a gifted roast from Sir Thomas Acland, James’s employer, who kept deer on his estate. They also prepared a side dish of neeps and tatties, made of potatoes and “swede,” also known as Swedish turnip or rutabaga. And they easily acquired salted herrings from local fisherman Mr. Cordey.
Sarah herself made shortbread, the round oatcakes called bannocks, and black bun—a pastry-covered fruitcake.
Mr. Henshall was clearly impressed and shook his head in astonishment. “Ach, I could close my eyes and be at home in Kirkcaldy.”
“Aye, except without the haggis,” Effie said, “for which I am grateful.”
“I considered making it myself,” Sarah admitted, “but I decided an inexperienced Englishwoman should probably not attempt Scotland’s national dish. At least, not without tutelage.”
Effie nodded. “Very wise.”
“No matter,” Mr. Henshall said, looking at her earnestly. “I am most grateful for the kind efforts you’ve made on our behalf.”
Pleasure at his words and fond gaze warmed Sarah’s cheeks, and she hoped her blush was not obvious to the others. Daring a glance around the table, she noticed her sisters share meaningful looks. They knew her too well.
After dinner they all moved into the larger drawing room for tea, coffee, and more conversation. Georgiana tried to instigate a game of charades to no avail, although she did convince James,Emily, and Colin to sit down with her to a game of whist. Nearby, Effie and Cora played a game of spillikins. When the games ended, the players rejoined the others in the drawing room.
By popular request, Viola played the pianoforte for a time. Then she asked Mr. Henshall and Effie to play and sing for them. He retrieved his guitar and Effie stood beside him, their Scots accents strong as they sang:
“The year is wearin’ to the wane,
An’ day is fadin’ west awa’
...Now let us tak’ a kind farewell,
Good night an’ joy be wi’ you all....”
As the two sang, Sarah’s gaze returned often to the handsome Scotsman in his kilt. She found herself growing pleasantly accustomed to this version of Callum Henshall.
After the song, Georgie applauded along with the others. Colin came and stood beside her. She had thought he might bring Eliza Marriott but was pleased he had not. He’d said earlier he would ask her, so she must have turned down his invitation once again.
In a low voice, he said, “Remember our scheme to foster romance between Sarah and her Scotsman?”
“Yes?”
He winked at her, then addressed Mr. Henshall in a louder voice. “I think this evening calls for a Robert Burns tribute. Won’t you recite a poem for us? And I know just the one—‘The Red, Red Rose.’”
Mr. Henshall hesitated, then countered, “How about ‘To a Mouse’? Or ‘Address to a Haggis’?”
“No. And it’s too early in the evening for ‘Auld Lang Syne.’”
“Very well then, lad. A Scot never turns down an opportunity to honor the great Rabbie Burns, Scotland’s favorite son.”
He set aside his guitar and returned to stand before them. For a long moment he stood silent, and Georgie feared he might not recall the words. But after collecting his thoughts, he began.
“O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
