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Authors: Anna Markland
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Charlotte then back to the Duke. “I haven’t a clue what’s going on,” she complained. “Who on earth cares what happened hundreds of years ago?”
Charlotte was enjoying her sister’s consternation, but had to admit relief when her uncle came to the rescue. “These are important matters, Augusta. If you have nothing constructive to contribute, you may as well leave.”
“But I haven’t had my liqueur yet,” she whined.
“Then please sit quietly,” he retorted.
“Charlotte tells me the closest university is in Aberdeen,” Braden said.
The Duke waved his hand. “That’s too far in these dangerous times. Besides, I’ve a man temporarily billeted with his troops near here who probably knows more than most about those days. He’s a Robertson, but fought with us against the Jacobites.”
Braden frowned. “Then clans weren’t united in the side they supported? George Robertson told me some of the story.”
“He saved your life, young man, by vouching for you. And yes, sons fought against fathers.”
Augusta came to her feet, throwing her napkin to the table. “I don’t understand a word of this conversation. Have my Vespetrò sent to the solar.”
She stomped out, nose in the air.
“I regret causing any upset,” Braden said.
The Duke smiled. “Don’t be concerned for Augusta.” He winked at Charlotte. “She thrives on tantrums. I’ll send word to John Reade to join us for dinner.”
“You said his name was Robertson,” Charlotte said.
“It was. He changed it to Reade in honor of an ancestor who was a chieftain.”
THE VISION
Several hours later everyone assembled around the same table where they’d eaten luncheon, except it had somehow been made larger, and they had a guest. Braden was impressed with eighteenth century furniture. The woods were rich and dark, the upholstery thick and comfortable. Every table and chair was embellished with ornate gilt work or carvings.
As dinner progressed, John Reade’s perusal made him uneasy, but he had a suspicion anyone who fell under the man’s keen eye would feel uncomfortable.
Their guest wore a uniform similar to the Duke’s, and his grey hair was styled the same way. Braden had learned from Charlotte that it was a wig her uncle wore.
Men and women of this century seemed fascinated with wigs. Charlotte had donned the peculiar powdered contraption she’d worn earlier. Incredibly, two ornamental birds now clung to it, one blue, the other pink.
Given the grey wig, it was difficult to guess John Reade’s age. According to Charlotte, he’d commanded a regiment during the uprising, but it transpired his father had also taken an active part in the fighting. He couldn’t be more than a score and ten.
The talk initially was of the man’s keen interest in music. He was a composer and played the flute.
That reminded Braden of something he’d been told as a youth. “They say King James Stewart, er James the First, was a fine musician. He too played the flute, drum, organ and lyre.”
Charlotte shot him a worried glance, but John Reade was evidently interested. “That’s true. He composed a poem for Queen Joan that’s considered one of the finest medieval love poems ever written. And he was a keen sportsman. He enjoyed wrestling, archery, hammer throwing and jousting.”
It was curious a man of the eighteenth century knew more about his monarch than he did, and what was this medi evil ? However, since their guest hadn’t been informed of Braden’s claim to be from the fifteenth century, he didn’t remark on it. He hoped talk would turn now to the assassination, but instead the rebellion became the topic of conversation.
Braden was grateful for Charlotte’s tuition. The Duke hinted John Reade had been responsible for the capture of a Jacobite ship bringing gold to finance the rebel army, but their guest waved off the suggestion with a modest smile. “My men and I did take some small part.”
The Duke scoffed. “Don’t be
Charlotte was enjoying her sister’s consternation, but had to admit relief when her uncle came to the rescue. “These are important matters, Augusta. If you have nothing constructive to contribute, you may as well leave.”
“But I haven’t had my liqueur yet,” she whined.
“Then please sit quietly,” he retorted.
“Charlotte tells me the closest university is in Aberdeen,” Braden said.
The Duke waved his hand. “That’s too far in these dangerous times. Besides, I’ve a man temporarily billeted with his troops near here who probably knows more than most about those days. He’s a Robertson, but fought with us against the Jacobites.”
Braden frowned. “Then clans weren’t united in the side they supported? George Robertson told me some of the story.”
“He saved your life, young man, by vouching for you. And yes, sons fought against fathers.”
Augusta came to her feet, throwing her napkin to the table. “I don’t understand a word of this conversation. Have my Vespetrò sent to the solar.”
She stomped out, nose in the air.
“I regret causing any upset,” Braden said.
The Duke smiled. “Don’t be concerned for Augusta.” He winked at Charlotte. “She thrives on tantrums. I’ll send word to John Reade to join us for dinner.”
“You said his name was Robertson,” Charlotte said.
“It was. He changed it to Reade in honor of an ancestor who was a chieftain.”
THE VISION
Several hours later everyone assembled around the same table where they’d eaten luncheon, except it had somehow been made larger, and they had a guest. Braden was impressed with eighteenth century furniture. The woods were rich and dark, the upholstery thick and comfortable. Every table and chair was embellished with ornate gilt work or carvings.
As dinner progressed, John Reade’s perusal made him uneasy, but he had a suspicion anyone who fell under the man’s keen eye would feel uncomfortable.
Their guest wore a uniform similar to the Duke’s, and his grey hair was styled the same way. Braden had learned from Charlotte that it was a wig her uncle wore.
Men and women of this century seemed fascinated with wigs. Charlotte had donned the peculiar powdered contraption she’d worn earlier. Incredibly, two ornamental birds now clung to it, one blue, the other pink.
Given the grey wig, it was difficult to guess John Reade’s age. According to Charlotte, he’d commanded a regiment during the uprising, but it transpired his father had also taken an active part in the fighting. He couldn’t be more than a score and ten.
The talk initially was of the man’s keen interest in music. He was a composer and played the flute.
That reminded Braden of something he’d been told as a youth. “They say King James Stewart, er James the First, was a fine musician. He too played the flute, drum, organ and lyre.”
Charlotte shot him a worried glance, but John Reade was evidently interested. “That’s true. He composed a poem for Queen Joan that’s considered one of the finest medieval love poems ever written. And he was a keen sportsman. He enjoyed wrestling, archery, hammer throwing and jousting.”
It was curious a man of the eighteenth century knew more about his monarch than he did, and what was this medi evil ? However, since their guest hadn’t been informed of Braden’s claim to be from the fifteenth century, he didn’t remark on it. He hoped talk would turn now to the assassination, but instead the rebellion became the topic of conversation.
Braden was grateful for Charlotte’s tuition. The Duke hinted John Reade had been responsible for the capture of a Jacobite ship bringing gold to finance the rebel army, but their guest waved off the suggestion with a modest smile. “My men and I did take some small part.”
The Duke scoffed. “Don’t be
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