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Chapter Thirteen
Glen Toramallan Lodge
Outside Culloden
Eighteen days later-10 April 1721
Whistling under his breath, Camden tramped up the path from Brooke Toram. In one hand, he carried a fishing pole, and in the other, five large, brown trout—tonight’s dinner.
The sometimes-fickle Highland spring had chosen benevolence today, and the sun shone gloriously in a crystal blue, cloudless sky. Two shy does eyed him curiously from beneath a lonely Scots pine, and an early graceful yellow and black butterfly flitted among the grasses.
As he neared Glen Toramallan Lodge, a husky contralto singing Adieu, Dundee carried to him from behind the house, and he grinned.
Like yon water softly gliding,
When the wind are laid to sleep
Such my life, when I confiding
Gave to her my heart to keep.
Bethea.
She liked to sing as she kneaded bread, picked flowers, or strolled the overgrown garden paths. That she couldn’t carry a tune in a handbasket made no difference to her. She unashamedly hummed or sang one ballad after another, just for the joy it brought her.
Crawley and Higgins nodded a greeting as they brushed the matching blacks. For all of their casual demeanor, they took in everything happening around them.
Two of the other men, Stevens and Leech, had assumed roles as footmen. Hulking, awkward, and unsophisticated footmen, in truth. The remaining two guards, Hetrick and Livingston, tended the grounds and patrolled the hundred-acre estate. All six took turns guarding the main house in pairs at night, as well.
In addition to hiring a cook, Mrs. Mary Newberry, who came in the morning and left after dinner, two village lasses, Alice and Brigette, had taken positions as maids. Glen Toramallen consisted of almost thirty rooms, and despite the female employees, Bethea frequently helped with the baking and cleaning.
Since arriving at Glen Toramallan, nothing suspicious had occurred, and Camden hoped they hadn’t all been lulled into a false sense of security. He watched for a letter daily from Keane, Bryston, or even Sir Walter, updating him. Thus far, no missive had arrived, which wasn’t unusual, given the irregularity of the post.
And yet, an undercurrent of unease wouldn’t let him relax and kept him alert.
In all likelihood, Montieth now called a cell his home, if he hadn’t lost his head as yet. The same could be said of Etherington. The one piece of the puzzle that continued to nag like a drunken fishwife was Sir Walter Makepeace.
He swore the man was keeping something from him.
But what? Hopefully, Bryston would find out.
Bethea’s voice rang out louder as he rounded the corner of the house.
Like yon water wildly rushing
When the north wind stirs the sea,
Such the change my heart now crushing,
Love, adier! adieu, Dundee.
A basket of wildflowers in one hand, she twirled in a circle before dropping a curtsy to a trio of black-faced sheep watching her in fascination in the adjacent meadow. Today she wore a blue and yellow gown, as cheerful as the Highland spring day. As she often did, she’d fashioned her hair into a simple chignon, with a ribbon wound around her crown and tied at the nape.
He drank her in, from the slopes of her cheeks to the graceful arch of her back. A woodland nymph. That was what she was, and she’d thoroughly enchanted him. Stolen what he hadn’t already given her of his heart.
“So, ye’ve taken to singin’ to beasties, have ye?”
Camden strolled forward, unable to check his delighted grin. With each passing day, Bethea had wiggled her way further and further into his heart, until she’d set up house there. And he couldn’t begin to imagine his life without her. If she left, nothing and no one could or would fill the empty space she’d leave.
