Surviving Scotland

Surviving Scotland

by Kristin Vayden

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 KRISTIN VAYDEN

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

SURVIVING SCOTLAND

Copyright © 2013 KRISTIN VAYDEN

ISBN 978-0-9910998-1-8

Cover Art Designed by P.S. Cover Design

For Rachel. Your encouragement is worth more than rubies.

I love you, sis.

Prologue

But Grandma, I protested. There was time; there had to be.

Lovey, you must listen to me, she crooned in her soft voice, melting my resistance.

You need to save your strength, I tried to argue, albeit weakly.

This is too important. When the time comes, you must promise me something.

Anything, Grandma, you know that, I whispered, trying to hold the tears back. Closing my eyes, I committed to memory her scent, the sound of the crackling fire in her room, the feel of her soft, aged hands gently grasping mine.

Sometimes, we don't understand how things come to be, she began, capturing my curiosity. Regardless, it's all part of a plan, a plan we never imagined existed. But— Her grip tightened on my hand, her clear eyes focusing on my face with intensity I experienced to my toes. But, don't let what you 'think' should be, take away from what 'is'. Find the path you were destined to take and don't leave it, and… A twinkle in her eye caused me to remember her more mischievous years. Don't be afraid of love. Never, ever be afraid of love, even when it seems impossible. Especially when it seems impossible. Her words became a whisper and her eyes took on a faraway look, as if remembering something wonderful.

I will, Grandma. I will. I spoke through the gentle tears that trailed down my face.

Good, now, you remember my words when you need them. Hide them. She lifted a soft, thin hand up to my heart and pressed against the fabric of my dress. Hide them here, dearie, and they will serve you well.

Yes, Grandma, I pledged. Reaching up, I pressed both hands against hers, savoring the retreating warmth.

Now, dear Elle, I will finally get to be with my Morgan again, so… She smiled gently, lifting the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. No crying. I'll be happy. You should be, too. Closing her eyes, she relaxed into her bed.

The sounds of sniffling and crackling fire floated around the room as I focused on Grandma's breathing. I knew the breaths were limited, so I savored each one.

As I stood up, I addressed my grandmother's beloved lady's maids. I nodded to them and reached over to embrace both. Long they had served my grandmother, Jocelyn Ansley, and being the rather unconventional sort, she had treated them more as friends, rather than the lower class as much of the ton did. In that, she had earned unequaled loyalty and love from all her staff, which was a true testament of her character.

Grandma was in good hands, so I left to go and lose myself in a good cry, and then a good book.

The book was soon cast aside as my mind wandered and began to flip through the many memories of Grandma. It had been more than ten years ago that I had come to live with her. Adopted, I was the youngest addition to the Ansley name. My humble heritage wasn't considered when my parents, Jakob and Alyssa, were visiting an estate they owned in Derbyshire, and I was left on their doorstep. Everyone in polite society had expected them to take me to an orphanage or raise me to serve in their household but, continuing the unconventional nature of my grandma, they went against the opinions of their social class and made me an official Ansley.

Though my parents were older when they rescued me, they threw themselves into my education, as did my adoptive brothers and sisters. When fifteen, I came to stay with Grandma to act as her companion at her request, although I still didn't believe that was her reason in calling me to London. In truth, she catapulted me into everything she thought my education lacked. I studied fencing and partook in extensive equestrian training. At the time, my parents were quite skeptical as to why Grandma would render me unmarriageable with my vast masculine knowledge, but my grandmother's will triumphed. I was thrilled. Never being able to conform to the genteel ideal of a lady of quality, I was often unable to survive a social gathering without one blunder or another. The ton quietly chalked it up to my lack of good breeding, as I was an orphan from the lower classes. Though I should have been offended, I was always thankful that they didn't assign my inaptitude as a flaw in my family.

Though living with Grandma put me in the middle of the ton's social scene, I rarely took part in it unless absolutely necessary. Grandma knew of my insecurities and pushed me in areas where I could succeed. Even though a man of equal social standing with my family name would never look to me for marriage, I wasn't upset about it. Of course I wanted to fall in love and have someone love me in return, but the chances of that happening were small. However, as I remembered Grandma's words, my curiousity was piqued once again. She had implied that I would fall in love, and how I wanted her to be right. With a heavy sigh my eyelids drifted closed.

****

I had been awakened by my chambermaid, who alerted me that the physician had requested my presence. After a short conversation with the elderly man, I'd gone in to say goodbye to my grandmother, who had slipped away during my brief absence.

Now, as I returned from the burial, I gave up trying to control the tears that simply refused to stop. I nodded politely to the staff at the London home as they lined up to pay respect. I tried to carry myself with a controlled air, but failed miserably. After excusing myself, I walked upstairs only to stop by my grandmother's room. Closing my eyes, I could still smell her perfume, hear her laugh and feel her skin when she would cup my cheek after I had admitted to another failure in an attempt at being a social butterfly. How I missed her.

Walking over to her bed, I ran my fingers along her blanket. I knelt down and buried my head and sobbed.

Miss? came a gentle voice from the doorway. It was Anne, one of my grandmother's beloved lady's maids.

Yes? I asked, sniffing in the most unladylike way while trying to dry my eyes and searching frantically for a handkerchief.

Here, miss, allow me. Anne handed me hers as I saw her wipe tears from her own face only using her hands.

Thank you. I took it and dabbed, then gently handed it back for her to use as well. At her shocked uncertainty I added, The tears are for the same purpose. There's no reason they should not be shared on a handkerchief. She smiled and wiped her own eyes.

You are so much like her, Miss Elle.

Thank you, I take that as the highest compliment.

It is miss, it is, she replied. She left this for you, miss. Anne handed me an envelope scented with lavender and sealed with my grandmother's seal.

Thank you, I murmured, sniffing the envelope. When did she…? I trailed off, feeling the weight of the envelope and wondering what else it carried other than a letter.

About a year ago, she answered, whispering in reverence.

A year? I asked, my eyes widened in surprise.

Yes, miss. With specific instructions to give it to you after her… departure. A lone tear trailed down Anne's cheek, following the path so many others had taken.

I — I don't know what to say, Anne, but after the initial shock, I cannot say I'm all that surprised.

I agree, miss. I'll leave you to your letter. With that she curtsied and left, closing the door behind her.

I walked over to Grandma's sitting room, just to the left of her bed. I sunk into the brocaded settee and regarded the letter. Feeling its weight anew, I tested it in my hand. Sliding my finger under the edge of the envelope's lip, I lifted gently and broke the seal. Once broken, I pulled out a second thick envelope and a thin paper letter. Immediately I recognized my grandmother's script. Quickly I set aside the other heavy envelope and began to read the letter.

Elle, beloved darling,

Although you are already aware, I love you. Though I know I was not conventional in the way I trained you, soon I'm sure you'll be quite thankful. Life is a journey. Yours is just beginning. Remember what I've taught you. Remember what others have taught you. Let your heart whisper the truth to you when you find yourself in uncertain circumstances. Enclosed in the envelope are some… provisions for your journey. Keep them on you at all times 'til you reach your destination. A wise woman once told me that she had to come forward to find her love, so I would be sent back. In a way, time submitting to love's call. Dear Elle, now you'll be going back a bit farther to find your love, but find it you will. Don't be discouraged if you must fight for it; all things of worth must be fought for. But fight, Elle. Fight fiercely. Love is always worth fighting for and, maybe occasionally, with. You are loved, my dear.

Your grandmother,

Jocelyn Westin Ansley

Her words comforted and confused me. I glanced to the other envelope and reached for it slowly. Inside I found a handkerchief holding a golden chain. As I lifted the chain to put it on, a few clinking noises drew my attention, and I saw a couple dozen circular objects slide to the bottom. On closer inspection, I noticed they were coins, but not like anything I had ever seen before except when visiting a museum. The largest one had a picture of two people, a king and queen with a lion on the back. Bawbees and turners surrounded the imprints. The smaller coins had a CR with a crown on top and were surrounded by a language that looked like Gaelic, but I couldn't be sure. The only reason I had recognized it at all was because by chance my parents had hired a Scottish nanny when I was younger.

The weight of the chain pulled at the back of my neck as I let it rest on my chest. I wondered how long I'd have to wear it till I reached my destination as Grandma had said. As the tension grew in my neck, I began to remove it, but something in my subconscious whispered against it, so I left it on. Gathering my precious note from Grandma and my envelopes, I stood up and walked over to the bed. I kissed my hand, and then placed it onto the pillow that had cradled my grandmother's head till her very last breath.

Thank you, Grandma, for everything, I whispered and left.

The night approached, so I dismissed my maid and walked over to my bed. No doubt tomorrow would bring masses of people wishing to give their condolences. I'd be the source of scandal for not wearing mourning colors. I had promised Grandma I wouldn't, and I would honor my word. Once it was known that I was honoring her request, the gossip would die down, but I wasn't looking forward to the onset. I picked up the chain I wore around my neck and wondered for the thousandth time since putting it on, what exactly was it for? With a slight shake of my head I nestled into my bed and fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter One

The sound of a gentle wind blowing through the trees stirred me from my dreams. The fresh scent of heather and wet grass tickled my senses, and the sun warmed my face. Taking in a deep cleansing breath, I tried to remember the last time that London had smelled so clean and fresh. The sound of birds chirping and crickets singing almost lulled me back into peaceful slumber, but something crawled across my hand, and I bolted upright, shaking off the offending insect. The light was overly bright and I blinked, trying to focus, but it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. As I waited for my vision to clear, my mind started to shake off its sleep-induced passivity and actively began to question the strange sounds and smells.

I gasped as I considered my surroundings. Gone were my bed, fireplace, sitting room, and home. Gone was the bustling city of London with its smoke and vile air. Gone was everything familiar. In its place was soft, loamy soil with emerald green grass, tall trees that pointed to the heavens, and colorful gentle heather that graced the meadow I had been sleeping in. Taking in a deep breath I realized belatedly that I could breathe easily, and I gazed down concerned at my lack of corset. Rather than wearing my usual attire, I was clothed in loose stays under a homespun shift. A patterned length of cloth draped over my shoulders. The blue and red plaid was woolen and warm, effectively eliminating the morning chill. I lifted my hands to touch my hair and found that it was still in a plait from the night before; at least I thought that it was the night before. I began to question my sanity.

The sound of beating hooves shook me from my stupor, and I stood and glanced about for a place to hide. As I ducked behind a tree that was covered with ample brush, I peeked through the twisted branches to see who approached. Three men dismounted and began speaking in thick Scottish brogues. The tallest one began to search the edge of the meadow and quickly spotted me. I was captivated by his dark, wavy hair, which was accented by tanned skin. But what held my attention were his legs; they were bare. He wore a type of skirt — a kilt actually. I had read about them, but hadn't realized they would have left so much of a man's legs exposed. I couldn't tear my eyes away. Tall socks covered his calves and were tied up with thin pieces of leather that matched his boots. His torso was covered with a homespun shirt that opened at the chest. The rest of his kilt, or perhaps it was a tartan, was wrapped around his chest at an angle. As my gaze lifted to his face, I noticed he was staring at me.

From a distance, I noticed the shocking green color of his eyes, like moss. He met my gaze, and though I knew I should be frightened, I wasn't. Belatedly, my memory reminded me that being a lone Englishwoman stranded in Scotland wasn't a good thing. Thankfully all the years of having a Scottish nanny had given me an authentic brogue, though I was told never to speak in it back home. Without any other option, I prepared to act the part of highland lass. I swallowed and waited, but he didn't speak to me; he just stared.

Elle? he asked, confusion and recognition warring for control of his handsome face. At the sound of my name, my mouth dropped open in shock. How could he know my name? Maybe I