There’s no way I will be on the guest list.” Mclean looked rueful and Jean took the bait

The kitchen door opened and two figures rushed in. “John!” Agnes Porteous ran forward to embrace first her husband, then Ellie Chalmers, right behind him. “Where have you been?” Kirsty asked. “Duddingston,” Ellie said. “Ewan took us to a tavern there.” “Where we stayed until we heard the Jacobites had occupied this area and it was safe to return,” John added. “We’ve much to tell you,” Duncan exclaimed, “especially the good news that Malcolm and Kirsty are to be wed!”

“But afore he gives us his blessing, best my father answers a question I posed before he and Ellie arrived.” Malcolm stared fixedly at John. “And what was that question, son?”

John Porteous looked gravely at Malcolm, who flushed. “What was your question, son?”

“I asked how you could use places of worship to further your own political beliefs – or will you claim that they came solely to receive God’s grace?”

“Aye,” Ellie said, “did some folk come here for reasons other than worship, Mister Porteous?”

“They weren’t heathens, Malcolm; they just wanted to help restore the Stuarts to the throne rather than have foreigners who can scarce speak our tongue.”

Dangerous

“So treason’s fine, is it?” Malcolm retorted. “And what about the rest of us? We were innocents with no idea what was going on. How could you endanger us?”

All eyes fell on John Porteous. “It was wrong of me to involve you all in a dangerous game,” he conceded. “There were good reasons, but I can’t reveal them. I ask that you bear with me and we may all learn something.” Ignoring their obvious curiosity, he took his wife’s arm. “If you’ll excuse us, Agnes and I must be on our way. There’s someone we must see, then we must go to Duddingston.”

Something in his father’s voice gave Malcolm a feeling of disquiet. “I’ll come with you, Father.”

“There’s no need. We will be safe enough. The Redcoats are all hiding behind the castle walls!”

At the door he paused, apologetic. “I’ve said little about your proposed marriage, Malcolm, but you have made a good choice.”

As the door closed on his parents, Malcolm felt let down by his father’s words. He’d made a good choice? Was that all he could say? Kirsty was a wonderful girl, deserving of greater praise. “Thank you for your warm wishes, Father,” he cried.

Thomas Mclean watched as Jean Forbes chewed solemnly on a large piece of pie crust. “Her ladyship’s arranging a grand ball,” she confided. “On Saturday in the Assembly Rooms. She says it’s a gesture of defiance to show the rebels she and her friends won’t be intimidated.”

“There’s no way I will be on the guest list.” Mclean looked rueful and Jean took the bait. “Perhaps there is, sir,” she said. “The invitations are not all handed out yet. I can get one for you! It won’t be missed.”

“Good.” Mclean rubbed his chin. “Though I’ll be an obvious stranger among all Lady Catherine’s friends.”

“Not so, sir. There will be close to 200 there! One half won’t know the other, and some will be the old wifie’s friends, and they’re not all known to Lady Catherine.” Jean dealt her trump card. “Besides, it’s a masquerade ball. You go in costume, sir, and wear a mask. No one will know you from Adam.”

Escalated

Miss Mclaurin listened attentively to John and Agnes Porteous. When they’d finished she fidgeted with her cane. “I suppose things could have been worse,” she muttered. “At least you’re still alive.”

“There was no proof of treason,” John protested. “My people would never have given me away.”

“Perhaps not,” the old woman said, “but Ogilvie’s freedom was jeopardised, too. That would have been disastrous. The colonel would not have been pleased.”

“Away with you, woman,” John said irritably. “I did what was asked of me: the Prince will have money and men afore he leaves the city. Ewan’s safe enough now and I’ve no doubt he’s getting a clap on the back from the colonel, though it was me who did all the work.”

“Ewan Ogilvie had much more to do than keep an eye on your piffling wee groups, you great oaf!” Mclaurin cried. “There’s been many more things afoot than you know of.”

Ewan himself was lying in bed, bitterly regretting that he hadn’t left Colonel Crawford’s encampment much earlier the previous night before “a glass or two” of French brandy had escalated. He only dimly recalled staggering back to Duddingston.

It was usually the quietest of villages, but he became aware of noise outside – marching feet, laughter, shouted commands, drumbeats. Ewan recalled that the greater part of the Jacobite army was leaving the parkland to set up a new encampment here, in preparation for battle. General Cope and a vast English army were a mere 30 miles to the east.

Ewan tried to recall all he and Colonel Crawford had discussed. At his report the senior man had nodded his approval. “You did well, Major, despite heavy odds. I have just one more task for you, Ewan, and then it’ll all be over.”

Ewan staggered from his bed, grabbed a jug and filled a basin with water. Splashing some on his face, he dried it with a flannel cloth and peered at himself in the mirror. A haggard, unshaven and bleary-eyed face glowered back at him.

An hour later, shaved and with bread, ham and oysters inside him, he felt better and left the Sheep Heid for the nearby manse. The Reverend Pollock had his hand on the manse door knob as Ewan appeared on his doorstep. “My apologies,” Ewan said. “Are you going or coming?”

The minister beamed at him. “Going, my dear sir. Pastoral duties call. Perhaps you might return this afternoon?” “Alas, that will not be possible.”

“Then will you walk a little with me?” the minister suggested. The two men strolled along the roadway.

Wise decision

“I have been asked to enquire about wedding arrangements for friends of mine,” Ewan began. “I speak of a Miss Mcallan and a Mr Porteous. Her father runs a Mission House in the Canongate; his owns a bookshop in the Grassmarket.”

“Laudable callings,” the minister murmured, “but both parties reside outwith this parish.”

“Forgive me,” Ewan interrupted, “but all concerned have a liking for Duddingston. There will be a fee, of course. A most handsome fee.”

The minister stroked his chin. “I don’t usually. But if, as you say, the parties prefer this fine old kirk, then I see no harm in accommodating them.”

“A wise decision,” Ewan said quietly, the threat implicit. “When may I meet the young couple?” the minister asked. “In due course. First, however, they, their families and certain friends would like access to the kirk to see it for themselves. Today is Thursday,” Ewan said. “I would suggest next Monday evening, say seven o’clock?”

“Excellent. I will be free too.”

“No, sir, your presence is not required, not yet. They simply wish to study the interior. You’ve no objection, I trust?” Again came the threatening undertone. “Good. Then our business is concluded, sir. We will arrive at the kirk on Monday night.”

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.