Glens of Stone, Day 34

The Assembly balls were held in a mansion, the former home of a prominent Edinburgh family

Ellie Chalmers peered at herself in the bedroom mirror. The cut at her left temple was still evident and her bruised cheekbone defied all attempts at cover.

Close to despair, she was toying with the idea of staying away from the ball altogether, were it not for the thought of being with Ewan again.

She recalled fondly his previous visit. She’d still been abed and the old lady, Miss McLaurin – a kindlier soul than Jean had led her to believe – had acted as chaperone.

As Ewan had taken his leave he’d given her a lingering kiss, though as their lips met McLaurin had emitted an indignant snort.

Now, sadly, tonight’s ball might be the last chance they would have to be together since he would soon have to leave with the Prince’s army.

Ellie gritted her teeth and again applied the powder brush to her face. As she worked she glanced at her costume, draped over the chaise longue.

Helen, daughter of Zeus? There was no likelihood that her face would cause one ship to be launched, let alone one thousand!

Grateful

Grateful for the evening’s darkness, Malcolm Porteous walked alongside the sedan in which Kirsty sat, Agnes and Alison’s chairs following close behind.

He was aware that the chair bearers were striving to stifle their laughter lest they lose a handsome gratuity. The reason for their amusement was Malcolm’s decision to adopt the guise of a jester.

On first donning the costume, he’d enjoyed prancing around with his jester’s wand, making the girls and his mother giggle helplessly.

Now, in front of hundreds of passersby, he wished he could cast his three-pronged, bell-jingling cap into the nearest midden heap!

As the line turned into the West Bow, to his horror he saw hordes of onlookers drawn to the spectacle of the arrival of the cream of society.

Duncan had warned him, but he was in no way prepared for their jeering.

The Town Guard were in attendance, but from their demeanour it seemed unlikely they would do much policing.

Ignoring the catcalls, Malcolm waited as the bearers assisted the womenfolk from their chairs.

Kirsty and Alison looked lovely in their guise of Muses, and as they alighted, the rabble’s shouts gave way to approving hand claps and whistles.

The Assembly balls were held in a large mansion, the former home of a prominent Edinburgh family, and light streamed from the leaded windows. Malcolm led the way up the narrow spiral stair.

They arrived on the second floor where, in a lofty, wainscoted room with a carved oak ceiling, the dancing would take place. Malcolm waited patiently while Agnes and the two girls disposed of their cloaks, the noise of excited chatter assailing his ears.

Masks hid the guests’ features. Was Ellie Chalmers already here? He did spot their hostess, Lady Catherine, discernible only because of the unmasked old woman clinging to her side.

At the far end of the hall he saw the decorated, raised throne on which sat a somewhat plump, mature lady – the dance directress, clad, he assumed, as Queen Boadicea.

At sporadic intervals when the hubbub subsided, he could hear the fiddlers tuning their instruments.

Kirsty and the others returned to his side and he led them forward to find seats. “Ah, here you all are.” John Porteous, soberly dressed as a parson, joined them, taking a seat beside Agnes.

Attention

The girls enjoyed trying to identify those around them, Alison scanning the men, trying to spot Sandy. They also searched for sight of Ellie.

“There she is!’ Alison cried. “Over there, talking to someone.” They waved to catch her attention. “Ellie? It is you, isn’t it?” Kirsty peered at her friend intently.

Her question was met with a subdued giggle. “Aye, who else?”

The girls embraced, though the fervent hugs made Ellie flinch from her sore ribs.

“Did you not recognise with whom I was speaking?” she asked, mischief sparkling in her eyes. “’Neath the guise of the monk beats the heart of your beau, Alison.” “Sandy? Then why didn’t he come across?” “He will in a moment. He needs to have a word with Ewan when he arrives.”

“Ewan!” Alison burst out. “He who caused all that bother at the Mission? What could they possibly have in common?”

John Porteous stood with a knowing expression while Ellie’s voice dropped to a confidential whisper.

“All is not as we thought it was.” Quickly she told Alison of the secret liaison between Sandy and Ewan. “So you see, they are both on the same side!”

Thomas McLean stood at the doorway watching the couples perform a stately minuet. He edged his way along the ballroom to the servants’ room.

A group of girls watched the dancers from the partially screened doorway, among them Jean Forbes. He caught her attention and she sidled towards him.

“Tell me, where are your mistress and her companion?”

Jean stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of the crowd, and pointed. “Over there, sir.” McLean followed her finger. “The old wife with the cane – that’s Ann McLaurin?” “Aye, sir.” “And is the whole household here?” Jean nodded. “Even Ellie Chalmers, sir. She was hurt and taken in till she recovered.”

McLean’s interest rose and Jean eagerly told him all she knew of Ellie.

Probed

“You say she works in this Mission House?” he probed further, and Jean nodded vigorously.

“With Kirsty McAllan and her father, and Alison Porteous and her brother. That’s them seated there in the corner.” McLean gazed at the group, his mind turning over. “This girl Chalmers – how did she come to receive care in Lady Catherine’s house?”

“I do not know. She was carried in by Mr Ogilvie and McLaurin insisted she be looked after.” “And the Ogilvie person – who’s he, exactly?” “He’s been coming to the house for near a year now. Leaves messages with McLaurin and does her bidding, too. He’s not a friend of her ladyship. He’s a Jacobite; an army officer.” “Is he here?” McLean’s eyes gleamed. “I don’t know, sir. He should be, but I couldn’t pick him out in costume.”

“You’ve done well,” he assured her, “and will be rewarded soon.”

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.

Artwork: Mandy Dixon