“Beauty fades, Uncle. What is in one’s heart is more important,” she told him.
He nodded. “Aye,” he agreed. “But before any may know your heart, dear girl, they will be ravished first by your beauty.”
Elizabeth laughed. “And then they will be very surprised, won’t they, when I don’t simper and blush?”
“Simpering is for ninnies,” he told her. “You are not a ninny.”
“Nay, I am not,” Elizabeth replied.
In late February a great snowstorm came down from the far north, lasting several long days and nights. The evening before it began there came a hammering on the door of the manor house. The little maidservant opening the portal jumped back with a small scream, for standing in the open doorway was a tall, muffled figure who pushed inside, stamping his boots free of dirt and shaking his cape out with a grunt.
“I’ve a message for the lady of Friarsgate,” he finally managed to say.
“Come into the hall, sir,” the little servant said, ushering him inside. When they entered the hall the young girl called out, “A messenger for Mistress Elizabeth.”
The tall man stepped forward, and they saw he was a Scot.
“Are you from Claven’s Carn?” Elizabeth asked, but the clan badge he wore was unfamiliar to her.
“Are you the lady of Friarsgate?” the messenger asked in return.
“I am,” Elizabeth replied. Lord, the man was tall, and big-boned as well.
The Scot held out a packet to her. “I am Baen MacColl, lady. I’ve come from Grayhaven, in the Highlands above Edinburgh.”
“I do not know it,” Elizabeth said, looking very puzzled.
“But you surely know Glenkirk, lady. My father spoke with Lord Adam, and ’tis he who sent me here.” The tall man shifted uncomfortably.
“Please sit down, sir, by the fire, for from the look of you, you are nigh frozen. The weather is particularly bitter this night, and the air smells of snow,” Elizabeth said to her visitor. She glared at a nearby servant and snapped out one word. “Wine!”
The servant dashed to comply, knowing he would later be reprimanded for his dereliction to duty, but he had been so amazed by the great size of the Scot.
“Aye,” Elizabeth said to the messenger. “My family is acquainted with the Leslies of Glenkirk.” She turned the packet in her hand over, and then said, “This is addressed to my mother, sir. My mother does not reside at Friarsgate. She lives at Claven’s Carn with her Hepburn husband. You have ridden too far. I will give you directions to my mother’s home, and you will go in the morning. Have you eaten?”
“Nay, lady, not since the last of my oatcakes at dawn,” the Scot said.
“A big fellow like yourself can’t live on oatcakes,” Maybel told him. “Come to the kitchens with me, and I will see you well fed. Then there will be a nice bed space for you in the hall next to the fire,” she promised.
Baen MacColl arose and bowed politely to Elizabeth. “Thank you for your hospitality, mistress,” he said. Then, turning, he followed after Maybel.
“What a handsome young fellow,” Thomas Bolton said.
“If you like the type,” William Smythe responded.
“What type, Will?” Elizabeth asked.
“Rough-hewn and half-savage,” came the answer. “These Scots are very different from our English gentlemen. Your stepfather, for instance, is not at all like Lord Cambridge.”
“I didn’t think the messenger like Logan,” Elizabeth replied. “Logan seems civilized to me now. This Scot is more rugged in appearance, but perhaps it is just his Highland dress that makes it look so. And his face was chapped with the cold, poor man.”
“I wonder what the master of Grayhaven has to write to your mother about,” Thomas Bolton said thoughtfully. “I suppose we can ask her the next time we see her.”
Maybel returned to the hall. “Gracious, that young man has an appetite on him! Why, he wolfed down two game pies and was gnawing on a leg of mutton when I left him. Cook is fussing over him, for he loves to see a man enjoy his food. He was holding out the promise of an apple tartlet. The laddie is most respectful, and mannerly. And handsome too.” She cackled. “Why, if I were a young lass I’d have my eye on him, I would!”
“Why, Maybel, you know nothing about the fellow,” Elizabeth said.
“I know what I like, my lass, old though I may be,” Maybel retorted.
