Lady Catherine Gray requests my company, and yours, too, Alison, at a soirée

Alison and Sandy’s walk through the parkland brought them to the edge of St Margaret’s Loch. Its coolness had attracted many citizens seeking relief from the summer heat. Together they watched the rowboats plying back and forth, until Alison began to look concerned. “It’s time I got back to the Mission before I’m missed.” “But it’s still early. Besides, who’ll miss you?”

“The other helpers,” Alison muttered dejectedly. “Kirsty and Ellie.” “I get the impression you don’t like them.” “Och, they’re all right,” she said. “It’s just that Kirsty had real... oh, never mind.” She broke off. “Real what?” Mccrae pressed. “You can tell me.”

With the glint of tears in her eyes, she looked up into his eyes. “Parents,” she said hoarsely. “Real parents.”

Attention

Lady Catherine Gray paused in her needlework and coughed gently to catch her snoozing companion’s attention. “You have let me down badly, I fear,” she said. Mclaurin sat bolt upright. “In what way?”

“By failing to acquaint me with the latest intelligence sweeping through the city.”

Mclaurin’s alarm eased as Lady Catherine burst into peals of laughter. “Ah, Mclaurin, it’s not often I’m the recipient of news ahead of you. I’m referring to the Nightingale. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of the delightful and talented Miss Mcallan?” she teased. “Her praises were being sung by most of the guests at my last soirée.”

“Oh,” the old woman muttered, “her. The psalm singer at that new Mission in the Canongate.” “Exactly! The girl’s the talk of Edinburgh and the Mission’s meetings are being well attended.” Mclaurin knew what was coming next.

“My gathering next week is in honour of General Guest, the castle’s commander. We must have this Miss Mcallan and her accompanist, a Miss Porteous, to entertain us. I will see to it this very instant.”

Lady Catherine clapped her hands merrily. “I trust you’ve no great objection, Mclaurin? I know this form of entertainment is not dear to your heart.”

“I’m sure the young ladies will be a source of great interest and pleasure for your guests.” Lady Catherine failed to notice the exultant gleam in her companion’s eyes.

Thomas Mclean did not take kindly to the teeming streets and wynds of Edinburgh. He preferred the higher lands and the majestic glens, lochs and hills.

He felt at home there, not in this odorous, diseaseridden slum of a place. He was in a foul mood, as he’d realised the enormity of the task before him when he’d ridden through the West Port into the bedlam that was the Grassmarket at mid morning.

So many people. So many tall buildings housing numerous families. Those he sought might even now be but a stone’s throw from where he sat astride his horse. He scanned the numerous signs dangling from the buildings and, espying an inn, urged his horse forward. First he needed food and rest. A good night’s sleep would rekindle his desire for revenge.

Ellie Chalmers knew she had really fallen in love when, for the fifth time within an hour, she peered anxiously up the wynd leading to the Mission House, hoping to glimpse the man she had come to adore.

As she waited she compared her feelings for Robert Marshall with those she nurtured for a man whose full name she didn’t even know. Oh, the dashing captain intrigued her, but somehow his presence had not kindled flames of passion within her.

Not so with the stranger who had come into her life a month ago. He’d appeared at the serving hatch, bowl in hand, softly whistling as he watched her ladle out the soup. “Thank you, pretty maiden,” he’d said. “You’ll find bread on the tables.”

Familiar

She’d watched as he made his way to the far corner of the room where he’d taken a seat with his back to the wall. There was something familiar about him.

The stranger had appeared regularly thereafter. One night, she had summoned up enough courage to smile at him. “Is everything tae yer liking?” “No complaints at all, I assure you.”

She had seen Alison and Sandy enter and take seats, holding hands and whispering. The lovebirds were oblivious to their surroundings. “Miss Porteous has an admirer, I see,” the stranger had observed.

“Aye. His name’s Sandy Mccrae.” A thought struck her. “You called her Miss Porteous,” she said. “You know her, then?” “That I do,” the man had replied, “and I know you, too, Miss Chalmers.” Seeing her perplexed expression, he went on.

“I’m fond of reading and have oft patronised Mr Porteous’s bookshop. Both Miss Alison and her father have mentioned your services to their household.”

“Then, if you know my name, sir, would ye tell me yours?” “Call me Ewan,” the man replied. “A handsome couple,” he observed, looking again at Alison. Ewan had appeared regularly after that and Ellie enjoyed speaking with him. “You’re not a religious man, are you, Ewan?” she dared to venture once. “You never attend the services here.” “I’d like to find God’s grace,” he’d said, “but he wouldn’t approve of some of the things I’ve done, I fear.”

Gently Malcolm tapped at the door of the girls’ bedroom on the upper floor of the Mission. “Kirsty, there’s a messenger downstairs – a maidservant. She has a letter for you.”

The door opened and Kirsty appeared, sleepy-eyed. “I was having a lie-down,” she said, stifling a yawn. “A letter, you say?”

“Aye. Your father’s close to bursting with curiosity.” Her father was pacing to and fro. “At last,” he said when he saw her. Beckoning to a young woman standing nearby, he smiled. “Miss Forbes – my daughter, Kirsty.” The girl held out a letter.

“Jean Forbes,” she said by way of introduction. “I have this for you from my mistress, Lady Catherine Gray.” While Kirsty read the contents Alison walked into the hall and joined the group.

“It’s an invitation!” Kirsty exclaimed. “Lady Catherine Gray requests my company, and yours, too, Alison, at a soirée next week. It seems we are to provide the musical entertainment for her guests!” She looked at her father. “I don’t know her Ladyship!”

“But she knows of you, miss,” Jean Forbes put in. “Many are talking of your talents. And those of Miss Porteous,” she added. Alison took the letter and scanned it quickly.

Affronted

“It seems in order,” she said, and Jean Forbes looked affronted. “Of course it is! It’s a privilege tae be invited. Next week’s gathering is in honour of the castle commander, General Guest.”

Malcolm whistled in surprise. “Well, ladies, it seems the pair of you are much thought of in high circles.” “We can’t possibly go,” Kirsty argued. “We’re needed here.” “Nonsense!” Duncan Mcallan protested. “The Mission will survive for one night. You and Alison must attend this occasion.”

“Of course you should,” Malcolm agreed. “Please tell your mistress that Miss Mcallan and Miss Porteous will be honoured to provide entertainment,” he told Jean.

“Well, I never,” Duncan said when Jean had gone. Alison looked at Kirsty. “I suggest we practise our repertoire,” she said. “Purcell, of course,” she muttered, “and perhaps I could play something by Signor Vivaldi.”

Somewhat bemused by the turn of events, Kirsty shrugged. At least the invitation had excited Alison, she thought. Perhaps now she would be more friendly?

More tomorrow.

Glens of Stone was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. There’s more great fiction in The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.