Page 4 of Highlander’s Sloth

“Why don’ ye teach me, Faither?” Callum wanted to know. He was not sure he wanted to leave the placid pace of life at Macanroy Lodge and live in Paris.

Laird Macanroy seemed to give the question due deliberation, but anyone who knew him well could see he was indulging his son with faint hope.

“Errr, no, I dinnae think I will. I’d rather pay for ye to be educated in such things by another. When ye get there, hire the best dance masters, dressers, tailors, and bootmakers in Paris. I ken ye’ll do me proud amongst all the French courtiers. Ye’ve the figure and the looks for it, that’s for sure. Ye take after yer mither’s side—tall, seafaring folk they were, always busy about their business.”

When Callum had not been more than three days in Paris, he realized it was a city where ennui and fatigue were emotions and attitudes greatly prized amongst the inhabitants of the city. The paler and softer the skin, the more rounded and unblemished the limbs, the more admired the person.

“But Callum, mon cher, you have the slightest hint of the sun on your face and hands. ‘Tis most unseemly for such a handsome gentleman!”

Many a Parisian beauty had said this to him when he courted her.

“If ye dinnae like it, ma petite,” Callum would reply laconically, “I’ll find some lass who does.”

And the women would laugh, and shrug, and tell him they were only joking. Anything to keep his ruggedly masculine body—and his plentiful supply of gold—in their beds for a bit longer.

Life had been good to Callum for the last ten years. When the confines of the salons and courts had gotten too much for him, he would saddle a horse and go hunting and riding on the grounds of one of his friends’ chateaux, spending all day with the hot sun or cold winds beating down onto his skin, touseling his wild, brunette hair. But it wasn’t the fresh, brisk air of the Highlands, and there was a small part inside Callum that chafed to smell heather and see dark lochs once more.

One day, Brock brought him a letter on a silver salver. When Callum turned the missive over, he saw it was not postmarked.

“Who brought this forth?” he wanted to know.

Brock remained impassive when he replied, “A rider arrived with it in his saddlebag this morning, sir. It came on a boat docked in Calais.”

Callum tore the letter open.

Dearest Cal,

I implore you to return at your earliest convenience. Your father is ill and there are certain protocols in place which necessitate your immediate presence.

As always, the demand for whisky is relentless and your dear father finds himself unable to meet them. Only you, or he, may have access to the strongboxes containing the instructions to craft the brew. It falls on you to take over his duties and discharge them most faithfully.

Need I remind you that our continued prosperity relies on this? If the merchants and traders get wind of a break in supply, they may resort to insalubrious methods to eke out their remaining reserves, and that we cannot abide.

I have ordered the ship’s captain to await your speedy arrival at Calais, from whence you will be brought by measure to London, Aberdeen, and thence to our blessed Highlands.

I implore you, son, do not fail us. The distillery stands idle and your father trusts no one but yourself to stand in his place.

On a lighter note, do thank Madame du Montmatrechon for sending me those ells of satin I requested of her. I had it made up into the most divine toilette of figured silver bobbin lace with cartridge pleats and matching shoes. I wore it to Holyrood House for the spring Royal Reel. It was much admired.

We have posted coaches and horses for you at all the most comfortable hostelries en route. If you send Brock off when you get this note, there will be time for him to bring me back a stick of Chez Balchard perfume. The one I want is called ‘Zephyr d’Amour.’

Your loving mother,

– Lady M

Callum read the letter and then let it drop to the floor when he was done.

It was typical of his mother to give no thought to the life he had made for himself here in Paris. He had been fully immersed in the manners and pursuits of a French courtier for years, and now here they were expecting him to rush back to Scotland at a moment’s notice and leave all this behind. He had not spoken one word of Gaelic for ten years! Even his valet was a Sassenach.

I dinnae want to take over running the distillery. I cannae think of anything more boring. I don’ want to leave the opulent salons with their gaming tables, flirtatious ladies, and intrigues. I cannae live in a solitary Highland lodge when Versailles sends me invitations to attend the levee and masque balls and assemblies.

No matter how much he raged against the idea of going back and leaving his comfortable French lifestyle behind, Callum knew his duty as the eldest son and only surviving child of the Macanroy clan.

He lifted up his head and turned to his valet.

“Brock, ye better take me plaid out of the chest and give it to the laundress to steam and re-pleat. Och, an’ while ye’re about it, get yerself to Chez Balchard’s and buy us some Zephyr d’Amour. Make payment in full, for I’ll nae be here to make good the account at the end of the quarter.”

And on those words, Callum lounged over to the writing desk and began to write his latest paramour a farewell letter. He was glad he would not have to hand it to her in person. Callum hated dramatics.