into the room breathlessly. "We're ready. Mary is already belowstairs."
"Help Aunt Margaret down, I'll see to the rest," Sabrina said, quickly running from the room despite Aunt Margaret's disapproving stare.
Sabrina hurried down the worn stone steps of the large banqueting hall. The shields and arms of the past glory of the clan hung solemnly on the stone walls. There was neither fire in the large, stone hearth, nor food laid upon the long, trestle table. The servants, those who had not fought in the battle, had fled to their families' crofts up in the hills. Hobbs, her aunt's English maid, would be the only one accompanying them on the fishing boat that would carry them to the coast and then to a French ship, waiting to sail with them to safety.
Behind her Sabrina could hear her brother Richard cajoling Aunt Margaret down the steps. Below in the hall Mary waited, nervously pacing with tears still wet on her pale face.
"Oh, here you are at last, Sabrina," she cried thankfully, her light gray eves showing relief as she saw her aunt and Richard just behind. "I thought you'd never come. We must hurry before the English come. Oh, do hurry, Aunt Margaret, please," she urged her aunt as the woman stopped to check her bag for a second time.
"It's all right, Mary, we'll make it safely," Sabrina reassured her older sister calmly.
"Grandfather thought so too," Mary reminded Sabrina worriedly, a look of fear on her pretty face.
"I know. I was there, remember?" Sabrina looked around them regretfully. What would happen to the castle? Would the English burn it down, destroying it as they had so many other Highlanders' homes since the fighting had begun? The numbness that had paralyzed her feelings was beginning to fade as she took a last look at the ancient hall. Her grandfather's face would only be a memory now, along with so many other memories of this day and their life in the Highlands.
"Sabrina!" Mary called from beyond the doors. They had climbed into a small cart pulled by two shelties and were waiting impatiently. Their trunks had already been sent on before them, and now they would follow the nar row, rocky road winding through the glen to the loch. From there they would travel through the night on the river that would let them slip into the North Sea and onto the ship waiting for their signal.
Beware, as long as you live, of judging
people by appearances.
Jean de La Fontaine
England, 1751
Chapter 1
A shaft of yellow light reached its thin finger of brightness into the black night, a night otherwise devoid of habitation. The parting between the thick, velvet hangings through which the recalcitrant beam had escaped revealed within a warmly lit tableau, isolated in apparent unconcern from the bleakness of the world existing beyond the exclusive and impenetrable barriers of those four gilt walls.
Exotic birds, flowers and cherubs gazed down from the high, plaster ceiling on the gentlemen below who sat laughing and drinking about the cluttered dining table, their glasses well filled with port and rum, and their appetites well satisfied from the meal they'd heartily eaten earlier.
"It's treason, I say!" Lord Malton blustered loudly. "No respect for tradition. Bunch of bantam-cocks, the whole lot of them!"
"What's treason? Not those Jacobite Scots again? Lud, I thought we'd finished off those heathens once and for all?"
"No, no, not the Scots. Wigs! Wigs, man, wigs. Those young jackanapes have the effrontery to forswear wigs. Going about bareheaded." Lord Malton choked, his face flushed pink under the mass of powdered curls that fell to his shoulders.
"Not wearing wigs? I say, how barbaric. Do give me their names so I don't mistakenly invite them to dine," sniffed another bewigged diner.
"I'd ask the. Duke to have a word with 'em, but look at that wig he's wearing. Hardly one at all, it's so simple. No, don't think he'd do it. Doesn't even shave his head," Lord Malton confided in a loud whisper
"Help Aunt Margaret down, I'll see to the rest," Sabrina said, quickly running from the room despite Aunt Margaret's disapproving stare.
Sabrina hurried down the worn stone steps of the large banqueting hall. The shields and arms of the past glory of the clan hung solemnly on the stone walls. There was neither fire in the large, stone hearth, nor food laid upon the long, trestle table. The servants, those who had not fought in the battle, had fled to their families' crofts up in the hills. Hobbs, her aunt's English maid, would be the only one accompanying them on the fishing boat that would carry them to the coast and then to a French ship, waiting to sail with them to safety.
Behind her Sabrina could hear her brother Richard cajoling Aunt Margaret down the steps. Below in the hall Mary waited, nervously pacing with tears still wet on her pale face.
"Oh, here you are at last, Sabrina," she cried thankfully, her light gray eves showing relief as she saw her aunt and Richard just behind. "I thought you'd never come. We must hurry before the English come. Oh, do hurry, Aunt Margaret, please," she urged her aunt as the woman stopped to check her bag for a second time.
"It's all right, Mary, we'll make it safely," Sabrina reassured her older sister calmly.
"Grandfather thought so too," Mary reminded Sabrina worriedly, a look of fear on her pretty face.
"I know. I was there, remember?" Sabrina looked around them regretfully. What would happen to the castle? Would the English burn it down, destroying it as they had so many other Highlanders' homes since the fighting had begun? The numbness that had paralyzed her feelings was beginning to fade as she took a last look at the ancient hall. Her grandfather's face would only be a memory now, along with so many other memories of this day and their life in the Highlands.
"Sabrina!" Mary called from beyond the doors. They had climbed into a small cart pulled by two shelties and were waiting impatiently. Their trunks had already been sent on before them, and now they would follow the nar row, rocky road winding through the glen to the loch. From there they would travel through the night on the river that would let them slip into the North Sea and onto the ship waiting for their signal.
Beware, as long as you live, of judging
people by appearances.
Jean de La Fontaine
England, 1751
Chapter 1
A shaft of yellow light reached its thin finger of brightness into the black night, a night otherwise devoid of habitation. The parting between the thick, velvet hangings through which the recalcitrant beam had escaped revealed within a warmly lit tableau, isolated in apparent unconcern from the bleakness of the world existing beyond the exclusive and impenetrable barriers of those four gilt walls.
Exotic birds, flowers and cherubs gazed down from the high, plaster ceiling on the gentlemen below who sat laughing and drinking about the cluttered dining table, their glasses well filled with port and rum, and their appetites well satisfied from the meal they'd heartily eaten earlier.
"It's treason, I say!" Lord Malton blustered loudly. "No respect for tradition. Bunch of bantam-cocks, the whole lot of them!"
"What's treason? Not those Jacobite Scots again? Lud, I thought we'd finished off those heathens once and for all?"
"No, no, not the Scots. Wigs! Wigs, man, wigs. Those young jackanapes have the effrontery to forswear wigs. Going about bareheaded." Lord Malton choked, his face flushed pink under the mass of powdered curls that fell to his shoulders.
"Not wearing wigs? I say, how barbaric. Do give me their names so I don't mistakenly invite them to dine," sniffed another bewigged diner.
"I'd ask the. Duke to have a word with 'em, but look at that wig he's wearing. Hardly one at all, it's so simple. No, don't think he'd do it. Doesn't even shave his head," Lord Malton confided in a loud whisper
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