Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
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A Lowland Adventure - Mr. Maxwells' Vacation
- Thread starter Praefectus Praetorio
- Start date
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Hmmm you make a valid point PrPr - let's keep the esteemed DI South of the border for the time being
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
[Episode 23}
“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?”*
The first thing Graeme had heard dumfounded him, “This is Graeme’s cove.” What the blazes, He thought! Who were these people? How did they know his assumed name?
He moved to the edge of the rock to stay out of sight and yet maybe hear their conversation.
He did a quick peek around and realized he recognized the girl. Jessie McTaggert. He'd scoped her out, even entered her place twice. She was a tempting target, attractive, fit, very intelligent with some hidden submissiveness. She could make an excellent trophy for the right customer. Hell, he'd love to put the bitch through his training. She seemed just his type. But Graeme rarely snatched girls anymore on speculation or to gratify his personal preferences. Also, he’d just harvested that other girl, Sorcha, from near where Jessie lived. Two girls missing in the same area in a short time would be a stupid move. Graeme was careful – he planned his actions – he wasn’t stupid like all the others who got caught!
He looked again. The man was not familiar. He didn't live with Jessie. Graeme knew that from seeing her place. Yet, they seemed quite close. She had her arm around his shoulders and rested her head on his shoulder. If only Jessie would do that with me!
Enough of appearance, Graeme told himself as he moved around the rock. I've got to hear some of their conversation.
“Whit wey? This is Graeme’s Cove?”
“Yes, I’m positive. Remember that iron ring?”
“Aye, aw roostie, wi nae sign o use.”
"It was meant to look that way. But if you looked underneath, a bolt sunk into the bar set in the rock. It's black metal to blend with the rocks and placed so that the old ring covers it. No one would suspect it was there. That is just Graeme's kind of work."
“A'd nivver hae spied yon.”
“Nor would one in a thousand. But I’ve done this a lot, and I knew what to look for. A wide soft beach to ground a dinghy, the seclusion, the secret mooring set. It’s his cove.”
Graeme heard about every other word but picked up that they were looking for him and knew he used the cove for something.
“Sae whit wey are ye settin and staarin out to sea for?”
"A new moon and high tide is coming up in three days."
"Och, ye're right, a spring tide."
"A moonless night and a short shingle beach. That will probably be when he loads the cargo.”
“Och ma Goad! An Sorcha tae?”
“Undoubtedly. I’m sorry to say, Jes.”
They knew about Sorcha? This was a disaster. It didn't seem that they had told anyone. The beach was a discovery of just a few minutes ago. But how much did they know? How the hell did they know he called himself Graeme?
His first thought was to kill them both. But that would be unplanned and stupid. He had none of his usual tools. He was larger than the man, but who knew what kind of a fighter he was. And one against two was never sure odds, even if one was a girl. He’d have to find out who the man was and then separately grab them both. Once he had them back at his place, he could find out who they’d told, if anyone. The thought of forcing the information from the sexy, well-conditioned Jessie stirred his loins. Calm, he told himself. Don’t be stupid.
Alex stirred himself, “We have all we need here. We should head back.” They stood up and walked quickly up the beach.
Graeme cursed to himself. They were between him and his path back to his van. He’d have to wait until they cleared the beach and were up into the overgrown garden of the old Gordon house. Once they were out of sight, Graeme sprinted up the coast and toward the path to his cottage.
When he had taken possession of the estate two miles further inland, he had also acquired the abandoned former gamekeeper’s dwelling on the way down to the cove. The worn but intact stone cottage with cellar was about half a mile from the cove. Graeme ran his main operation out of the manor house. The cabin provided a remote and non-suspicious place to store and stage his cargo for the ship. He had installed a crude but all-weather gravel drive leading down to about a hundred yards from the beach. From there, the crew could take the cargo from the van and carry it to the dinghies for transportation out.
Today, as usual, when there was no cargo, Graeme had walked to the beach to assure that everything was ready for pick up in three days. However, he now had a hundred yards to the path and a good three-quarter click on to the van. While strong, Graeme was no endurance runner and soon was reduced to a fast walk. When he pulled the van out, there was no sign of the two. He hadn’t seen their car; there was no chance of finding them on the road. He was pretty sure of the route they’d take back, but there was no way his top-heavy van would overtake them on these winding roads.
Damn! He needed to find out who that man was. The bastard talked almost like a copper.
*"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!" was the introductory line from the radio adaptation of The Shadow. Most episodes would end with the same narrator saying, "The weed of crime bears bitter fruit!”
“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?”*
The first thing Graeme had heard dumfounded him, “This is Graeme’s cove.” What the blazes, He thought! Who were these people? How did they know his assumed name?
He moved to the edge of the rock to stay out of sight and yet maybe hear their conversation.
He did a quick peek around and realized he recognized the girl. Jessie McTaggert. He'd scoped her out, even entered her place twice. She was a tempting target, attractive, fit, very intelligent with some hidden submissiveness. She could make an excellent trophy for the right customer. Hell, he'd love to put the bitch through his training. She seemed just his type. But Graeme rarely snatched girls anymore on speculation or to gratify his personal preferences. Also, he’d just harvested that other girl, Sorcha, from near where Jessie lived. Two girls missing in the same area in a short time would be a stupid move. Graeme was careful – he planned his actions – he wasn’t stupid like all the others who got caught!
He looked again. The man was not familiar. He didn't live with Jessie. Graeme knew that from seeing her place. Yet, they seemed quite close. She had her arm around his shoulders and rested her head on his shoulder. If only Jessie would do that with me!
Enough of appearance, Graeme told himself as he moved around the rock. I've got to hear some of their conversation.
“Whit wey? This is Graeme’s Cove?”
“Yes, I’m positive. Remember that iron ring?”
“Aye, aw roostie, wi nae sign o use.”
"It was meant to look that way. But if you looked underneath, a bolt sunk into the bar set in the rock. It's black metal to blend with the rocks and placed so that the old ring covers it. No one would suspect it was there. That is just Graeme's kind of work."
“A'd nivver hae spied yon.”
“Nor would one in a thousand. But I’ve done this a lot, and I knew what to look for. A wide soft beach to ground a dinghy, the seclusion, the secret mooring set. It’s his cove.”
Graeme heard about every other word but picked up that they were looking for him and knew he used the cove for something.
“Sae whit wey are ye settin and staarin out to sea for?”
"A new moon and high tide is coming up in three days."
"Och, ye're right, a spring tide."
"A moonless night and a short shingle beach. That will probably be when he loads the cargo.”
“Och ma Goad! An Sorcha tae?”
“Undoubtedly. I’m sorry to say, Jes.”
They knew about Sorcha? This was a disaster. It didn't seem that they had told anyone. The beach was a discovery of just a few minutes ago. But how much did they know? How the hell did they know he called himself Graeme?
His first thought was to kill them both. But that would be unplanned and stupid. He had none of his usual tools. He was larger than the man, but who knew what kind of a fighter he was. And one against two was never sure odds, even if one was a girl. He’d have to find out who the man was and then separately grab them both. Once he had them back at his place, he could find out who they’d told, if anyone. The thought of forcing the information from the sexy, well-conditioned Jessie stirred his loins. Calm, he told himself. Don’t be stupid.
Alex stirred himself, “We have all we need here. We should head back.” They stood up and walked quickly up the beach.
Graeme cursed to himself. They were between him and his path back to his van. He’d have to wait until they cleared the beach and were up into the overgrown garden of the old Gordon house. Once they were out of sight, Graeme sprinted up the coast and toward the path to his cottage.
When he had taken possession of the estate two miles further inland, he had also acquired the abandoned former gamekeeper’s dwelling on the way down to the cove. The worn but intact stone cottage with cellar was about half a mile from the cove. Graeme ran his main operation out of the manor house. The cabin provided a remote and non-suspicious place to store and stage his cargo for the ship. He had installed a crude but all-weather gravel drive leading down to about a hundred yards from the beach. From there, the crew could take the cargo from the van and carry it to the dinghies for transportation out.
Today, as usual, when there was no cargo, Graeme had walked to the beach to assure that everything was ready for pick up in three days. However, he now had a hundred yards to the path and a good three-quarter click on to the van. While strong, Graeme was no endurance runner and soon was reduced to a fast walk. When he pulled the van out, there was no sign of the two. He hadn’t seen their car; there was no chance of finding them on the road. He was pretty sure of the route they’d take back, but there was no way his top-heavy van would overtake them on these winding roads.
Damn! He needed to find out who that man was. The bastard talked almost like a copper.
*"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!" was the introductory line from the radio adaptation of The Shadow. Most episodes would end with the same narrator saying, "The weed of crime bears bitter fruit!”
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
A chapter with less 'action' but one that I loved simply because the narrative left the reader unsure as to who of the protagonists was in the greater danger, Alex and Jess or the monstrous Graeme ... looking forward to the next piece.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
[Episode 24]
Together, we form a necessary paradox; not a senseless contradiction.**
On the drive home, Alex and Jessie discussed their next steps. It is evident that they now had to find Graeme's lair. Based on Jessie's advice, they would start with Mrs. McTavish's impressive local gossip store, the blether as Jessie put it. They would try to see her as soon as they got back. Looking at his watch, Alex estimated they’d get back to the B&B a bit after four.
“Just in time for tea,” he remarked.
“Ye greedy guts! We’re oot lookin to save the lassies, an a you can think on is yer stamack and Morag’s tea-cakes!” Jessie said, giving him a dig in the ribs. As he cried in exaggerated pain, she admitted to herself that she was looking forward to Mrs. McTavish’s delectable pastries also.
After Jes left Clio by Maxwell’s cottage, they walked to the main house. Morag greeted them with a bit of a knowing look at these two, who always seemed to be together.
She invited them in when they asked, and they went to her sitting room. Alex explained the whole story, with Jessie occasionally translating to Scottish for Morag’s benefit. The widow’s eyes got bigger and bigger as the story unwound.
When they finished, she just sat there, unable to think of anything to say.
Jessie gently spoke, "Sae, that's why fer we've come to you, Morag. Ye'd mebbe ken o somebody new-comed in these laist few years, likely takkin a big hoose in some lanely airt?"
“Weel, let me think on't. Och, ma lorie! A’m a fluistered wi yon crack - tae think sic a bogle’s here amang us! It gars ma rig a-dingle. Can a think a wee bit? A’ll git on wi some wee darg, yon ayeweys helps me tae think.”
“Of course,” said Alex.
“Bit onie sakes, luik at the time! Ye’ll be wantin yer tea. Noo ye twasome juist be awa tae yer cabin thegither, an a’ll bring it reet alang,” she said with a wink to Jessie. The wink made the word ‘thegither’ seem to carry extra meaning. She showed them to the door, and before she shut it, she said, “Jessie, are ye takin yon braw man to the cèilidh the neet in the clauchan? Anither man unner sexty is ayeweys vailued.”
“I..I hadna thocht on't,” stammered Jes, blushing. The talk of being a twasome thegither with a braw man tangled her thoughts. “We’ll see.”
“Aye, dae ye think on it, lassie,” said Morag in a mother’s firm voice. “A’ll hae yer tea doon in a wheen o meenits.”
Back in Alex’s place, they sat and relaxed. Conversation was minimal as Jessie and Alex contemplated Morag’s words. Soon, Alex came up with a starter. “What is a Kailey?”
“A cèilidh,” corrected Jess. "It's a Gaelic word. It really just means a get-together, a wee drink an a spot o craic, but there's always music an dancing an tellin o yarns."
“That sounds fun. Are you interested in going?” Alex tried to sound casual, but his heart seemed to skip as he waited for her response.
“Weel, sometimes I go and sometimes I dinna. I like to support the local community, and this is an important community event. But it’s usually maistly couples, an I havena …” she broke off, not wanting to finish the thought.
Seeing the opening, Alex jumped in. “We could go as a couple tonight. No commitment; nothing official. Just two friends going to have some fun?”
Jessie tried but couldn’t think of a reason to say no. And, secretly, the thought of going to a party with a decent man (Alex could be annoying, but she had come to respect his decency) with very tempting. “Och, whit the hell. Why not?”
Just then, Mrs. Mctavish entered with a tray of tea and cakes. As she laid it out, both Jess and Alex thought that she had outdone herself again. There was a large selection of tempting pastries and breads, along with butter, honey, jam, and marmalade.
After thanking her, Alex asked if she had thought of any newcomer as he’d described.
“Nae, a’m vexed but naebody comes ta min. But a’m gey forgettle these days. Ach there's ane wha'd shuirlie ken, ma frien, Annie, she's the postmistress. She kens ayebody wha flits in or oot hereawa.”
“Can we ask her now?”
"Not the neet, a'm sairie ta say, Sir, she's awa tae Lockerbie veesitin her sister. She'll be back late the neet. Bit we cud ca her in the morn.”
“That’ll have to do,” said Alex. “Thank you so much for the wonderful spread.”
“Yon's naethin. Ye twa enjoy it!” Having placed a knowing emphasis on ‘Ye twa,’ she bustled out.
Alex and Jessie dug in and found the offering every bit as tasty as it looked. As they were sitting later and reviewing the day, Jessie interrupted.
“Ach. Look at the time. We’d best be off to the cèilidh.”
As they walked to the door, Alex asked, “Shall I drive or you?”
“Oh. I think it’d be best if we each tak oor ane. That way’s easier fer us to leave and gang hame.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Jessie regretted them. It wouldn’t be so bad to go home together after the cèilidh, even perhaps to share a bed. In fact, it sounded excellent. But words like those couldn’t be taken back without an excess of awkwardness (“on saicont thochts, let's jus tak your car, sae we can win back here efterwairds fer a wee spot o houghmagandie!”)
“OK with me,” said Alex with the slightest trace of disappointment in his voice. “I’ll follow you.”
**“Together, we form a necessary paradox; not a senseless contradiction.” ― Criss Jami, Healology
Together, we form a necessary paradox; not a senseless contradiction.**
On the drive home, Alex and Jessie discussed their next steps. It is evident that they now had to find Graeme's lair. Based on Jessie's advice, they would start with Mrs. McTavish's impressive local gossip store, the blether as Jessie put it. They would try to see her as soon as they got back. Looking at his watch, Alex estimated they’d get back to the B&B a bit after four.
“Just in time for tea,” he remarked.
“Ye greedy guts! We’re oot lookin to save the lassies, an a you can think on is yer stamack and Morag’s tea-cakes!” Jessie said, giving him a dig in the ribs. As he cried in exaggerated pain, she admitted to herself that she was looking forward to Mrs. McTavish’s delectable pastries also.
After Jes left Clio by Maxwell’s cottage, they walked to the main house. Morag greeted them with a bit of a knowing look at these two, who always seemed to be together.
She invited them in when they asked, and they went to her sitting room. Alex explained the whole story, with Jessie occasionally translating to Scottish for Morag’s benefit. The widow’s eyes got bigger and bigger as the story unwound.
When they finished, she just sat there, unable to think of anything to say.
Jessie gently spoke, "Sae, that's why fer we've come to you, Morag. Ye'd mebbe ken o somebody new-comed in these laist few years, likely takkin a big hoose in some lanely airt?"
“Weel, let me think on't. Och, ma lorie! A’m a fluistered wi yon crack - tae think sic a bogle’s here amang us! It gars ma rig a-dingle. Can a think a wee bit? A’ll git on wi some wee darg, yon ayeweys helps me tae think.”
“Of course,” said Alex.
“Bit onie sakes, luik at the time! Ye’ll be wantin yer tea. Noo ye twasome juist be awa tae yer cabin thegither, an a’ll bring it reet alang,” she said with a wink to Jessie. The wink made the word ‘thegither’ seem to carry extra meaning. She showed them to the door, and before she shut it, she said, “Jessie, are ye takin yon braw man to the cèilidh the neet in the clauchan? Anither man unner sexty is ayeweys vailued.”
“I..I hadna thocht on't,” stammered Jes, blushing. The talk of being a twasome thegither with a braw man tangled her thoughts. “We’ll see.”
“Aye, dae ye think on it, lassie,” said Morag in a mother’s firm voice. “A’ll hae yer tea doon in a wheen o meenits.”
Back in Alex’s place, they sat and relaxed. Conversation was minimal as Jessie and Alex contemplated Morag’s words. Soon, Alex came up with a starter. “What is a Kailey?”
“A cèilidh,” corrected Jess. "It's a Gaelic word. It really just means a get-together, a wee drink an a spot o craic, but there's always music an dancing an tellin o yarns."
“That sounds fun. Are you interested in going?” Alex tried to sound casual, but his heart seemed to skip as he waited for her response.
“Weel, sometimes I go and sometimes I dinna. I like to support the local community, and this is an important community event. But it’s usually maistly couples, an I havena …” she broke off, not wanting to finish the thought.
Seeing the opening, Alex jumped in. “We could go as a couple tonight. No commitment; nothing official. Just two friends going to have some fun?”
Jessie tried but couldn’t think of a reason to say no. And, secretly, the thought of going to a party with a decent man (Alex could be annoying, but she had come to respect his decency) with very tempting. “Och, whit the hell. Why not?”
Just then, Mrs. Mctavish entered with a tray of tea and cakes. As she laid it out, both Jess and Alex thought that she had outdone herself again. There was a large selection of tempting pastries and breads, along with butter, honey, jam, and marmalade.
After thanking her, Alex asked if she had thought of any newcomer as he’d described.
“Nae, a’m vexed but naebody comes ta min. But a’m gey forgettle these days. Ach there's ane wha'd shuirlie ken, ma frien, Annie, she's the postmistress. She kens ayebody wha flits in or oot hereawa.”
“Can we ask her now?”
"Not the neet, a'm sairie ta say, Sir, she's awa tae Lockerbie veesitin her sister. She'll be back late the neet. Bit we cud ca her in the morn.”
“That’ll have to do,” said Alex. “Thank you so much for the wonderful spread.”
“Yon's naethin. Ye twa enjoy it!” Having placed a knowing emphasis on ‘Ye twa,’ she bustled out.
Alex and Jessie dug in and found the offering every bit as tasty as it looked. As they were sitting later and reviewing the day, Jessie interrupted.
“Ach. Look at the time. We’d best be off to the cèilidh.”
As they walked to the door, Alex asked, “Shall I drive or you?”
“Oh. I think it’d be best if we each tak oor ane. That way’s easier fer us to leave and gang hame.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Jessie regretted them. It wouldn’t be so bad to go home together after the cèilidh, even perhaps to share a bed. In fact, it sounded excellent. But words like those couldn’t be taken back without an excess of awkwardness (“on saicont thochts, let's jus tak your car, sae we can win back here efterwairds fer a wee spot o houghmagandie!”)
“OK with me,” said Alex with the slightest trace of disappointment in his voice. “I’ll follow you.”
**“Together, we form a necessary paradox; not a senseless contradiction.” ― Criss Jami, Healology
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
I finished this chapter with a smile. Does Alex know that Houghmagandie means a spot of Rumpy-pumpy, how’s your father, jiggery-pokery (and any other classic English-TV-from-the-70's equivalent phrase) ... or does he think he's been invited back just for doughnuts and coffee lol
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
He doesn't know any of that. Read closer, those were Jessie's unspoken thoughts.I finished this chapter with a smile. Does Alex know that Houghmagandie means a spot of Rumpy-pumpy, how’s your father, jiggery-pokery (and any other classic English-TV-from-the-70's equivalent phrase) ... or does he think he's been invited back just for doughnuts and coffee lol
What's a good romance without a number of missed opportunities for love?
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Damn it yes, I see now! It was the speech quotes that threw me ...
I loved the ending. It is hard to take back words. I know.
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
Still time to change your mind Jessie, please, I'm going to worry about you all night.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Don't give up hope. The night is still young and magical things can happen at a cèilidh!
The Bard must have been anticipating romantic fiction novels when he said:
"Ay me! For aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth."
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
The Killing Time - The Martyr of the Solway
A bit of Scottish history with ties to our story.
King James VI (I of England) and his son Charles I tried to impose an Episcopalian (based on Bishops) form of Church governance on Scotland. Around 7,000 Calvinist Scots fought this by signing the National Covenant in 1638, committing the nation to a more democratic Presbyterian form. The supporters of this became known as Covenanters.
After the execution of Charles I, the Scottish Parliament broke with Cromwell and invited his son to become King. Charles II undertook to respect the Covenant, but at his Restoration as King of England in 1660, he renounced his Oath of Covenant. The Rescissory Act 1661 effectively ejected 400 Ministers from their livings, removing patronage in the appointment of Ministers from congregations and allowing the King to proclaim the restoration of Bishops to the Church of Scotland. The Abjuration Act of 1662 formally declared that the National Covenant of 1638 and the Solemn League and Covenant (signed in 1643 between the Scottish Parliament and English (at the time in rebellion against the King) Parliament, were against the kingdom's fundamental laws.
The south-west of Scotland, in particular, Galloway, was extreme in its Covenanting sympathies. The Stuart regime, worried about the possibility of disorder and rebellion, attempted to stamp this movement out, with varying degrees of success. Fines were levied upon those who failed to attend the parish churches, the death penalty was imposed for preaching at field conventicles, and torture of suspects became a first resort tactic. In 1678, some 3,000 Lowland militia and 6,000 Highlanders (the 'Highland Host') were billeted in the Covenanting shires and plundered their unwilling hosts. These policies provoked armed rebellions in 1666 and 1679, which were quickly suppressed. The period from 1679 to 1688 came to be known as “The Killing Time.”
In February 1685, the King died and was succeeded by his brother as King James VII (II of England), a Roman Catholic. The Scottish Privy Council authorized extrajudicial field executions of those caught in arms or those who refused to swear loyalty to the King and renounce the Covenant by an Abjuration Oath. This Oath of Abjuration was explicitly designed to be repugnant to Covenanters.
With the accession of William of Orange as King William II of Scotland, the persecution ended. The execution of James Renwick in 1688 is regarded as closing the period of martyrdom. He was the one after whom Morag McTavish named a cottage with a fine, large print of the "maist haly man" being taken to be hanged.
Margeret Wilson, 18 (not just convenient for CF rules, but her true age), and her thirteen-year-old sister, Agnes, were converted by the preaching of Renwick and later arrested for refusing the Oath. Charged with them was Margaret McLachlan, 62.
The South of Galloway is a long, winding coast on the tidal Solway Firth. The Firth was the sea that Alex and Jessie sat on the beach looking out across. In April, 1685 the Assizes in Session sentenced the three women to be "tied to palisades fixed in the sand, within the floodmark of the sea, and there to stand till the flood o'erflowed them". The Wilsons's father managed to raise a ransom of one hundred pounds Scots to free Agnes, but the other two were tied to stakes at low tide on May 11th, 1685 in the Solway. Margeret Wilson’s martyrdom was much remembered due to her being a young woman.
A Victorian statue of Margaret Wilson's martyrdom is on display at Knox College in the University of Toronto, Canada.
Pre-Raphaelite painter, Sir John Everett Millais, depicted Margeret Wilson's death in an 1871 painting titled "The Martyr of the Solway."
A bit of Scottish history with ties to our story.
King James VI (I of England) and his son Charles I tried to impose an Episcopalian (based on Bishops) form of Church governance on Scotland. Around 7,000 Calvinist Scots fought this by signing the National Covenant in 1638, committing the nation to a more democratic Presbyterian form. The supporters of this became known as Covenanters.
After the execution of Charles I, the Scottish Parliament broke with Cromwell and invited his son to become King. Charles II undertook to respect the Covenant, but at his Restoration as King of England in 1660, he renounced his Oath of Covenant. The Rescissory Act 1661 effectively ejected 400 Ministers from their livings, removing patronage in the appointment of Ministers from congregations and allowing the King to proclaim the restoration of Bishops to the Church of Scotland. The Abjuration Act of 1662 formally declared that the National Covenant of 1638 and the Solemn League and Covenant (signed in 1643 between the Scottish Parliament and English (at the time in rebellion against the King) Parliament, were against the kingdom's fundamental laws.
The south-west of Scotland, in particular, Galloway, was extreme in its Covenanting sympathies. The Stuart regime, worried about the possibility of disorder and rebellion, attempted to stamp this movement out, with varying degrees of success. Fines were levied upon those who failed to attend the parish churches, the death penalty was imposed for preaching at field conventicles, and torture of suspects became a first resort tactic. In 1678, some 3,000 Lowland militia and 6,000 Highlanders (the 'Highland Host') were billeted in the Covenanting shires and plundered their unwilling hosts. These policies provoked armed rebellions in 1666 and 1679, which were quickly suppressed. The period from 1679 to 1688 came to be known as “The Killing Time.”
In February 1685, the King died and was succeeded by his brother as King James VII (II of England), a Roman Catholic. The Scottish Privy Council authorized extrajudicial field executions of those caught in arms or those who refused to swear loyalty to the King and renounce the Covenant by an Abjuration Oath. This Oath of Abjuration was explicitly designed to be repugnant to Covenanters.
With the accession of William of Orange as King William II of Scotland, the persecution ended. The execution of James Renwick in 1688 is regarded as closing the period of martyrdom. He was the one after whom Morag McTavish named a cottage with a fine, large print of the "maist haly man" being taken to be hanged.
Margeret Wilson, 18 (not just convenient for CF rules, but her true age), and her thirteen-year-old sister, Agnes, were converted by the preaching of Renwick and later arrested for refusing the Oath. Charged with them was Margaret McLachlan, 62.
The South of Galloway is a long, winding coast on the tidal Solway Firth. The Firth was the sea that Alex and Jessie sat on the beach looking out across. In April, 1685 the Assizes in Session sentenced the three women to be "tied to palisades fixed in the sand, within the floodmark of the sea, and there to stand till the flood o'erflowed them". The Wilsons's father managed to raise a ransom of one hundred pounds Scots to free Agnes, but the other two were tied to stakes at low tide on May 11th, 1685 in the Solway. Margeret Wilson’s martyrdom was much remembered due to her being a young woman.
A Victorian statue of Margaret Wilson's martyrdom is on display at Knox College in the University of Toronto, Canada.
Pre-Raphaelite painter, Sir John Everett Millais, depicted Margeret Wilson's death in an 1871 painting titled "The Martyr of the Solway."
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Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
[Episode 25]
"On long dark winter nights, it is still the custom in small villages for friends to collect in a house and hold what they call a "ceilidh"*
Saturday evening, July sixth, found Alex Maxwell of Madison, Wisconsin, USA, following Jessie McTaggert's Renault Clio just after sunset into Kenmuir, Scotland, for a cèilidh. Alex thought back to how impossible it would have been a year ago to imagine this situation.
He racked his brain to understand this fascinating lassie. At times she was so sweet and open. Yesterday on the hilltop, with the beautiful forest laid out beneath them, she'd submitted to a bareass spanking and then cuddled and kissed warmly. Today, she'd started friendly but distant and then acquiesced to holding hands when walking back to the car. A couple of hours ago, she'd invited him, somewhat reluctantly, to go to the cèilidh. And then she insisted they take separate cars so they could leave alone.
He couldn't help but wish she returned some of the affection he felt for her. But she seemed terrified of love or sentimentality. What she had told him of her background helped him somewhat understand this. But, it hurt him deeply to imagine that his love for her might be completely unrequited.
Jessie drove the short way, asking herself similar questions. What was her feeling for this man? Was it crazy (and stupid) to fall for a man here on a two-week vacation? Her independence and fear of being hurt made her terrified of getting closer to Alex. But she couldn't help thinking of him night and day. And she couldn't ignore the fact that as she did, she frequently felt a tingling in her loins. Even now, with these thoughts, she found it hard to sit still on the car seat.
It was a short drive to the old primary school building's car park, converted to a community center. Exiting his car, Alex noted the long, single-story building, austere, grey stone, high chapel-style windows. Lively music wafted on the breeze. He took Jes’s hand, and she didn’t object. They walked toward the warm glow of the open door.
It's a truism that humans spend most of their daylight concentrating on work and other necessary activities. But with twilight, the world around them changes. The bright light of day is changed to soft yellows and oranges and reds. Indoors, the warm glow of candles, oil lamps, and fires in the hearth accompany a time of togetherness and affection. This magical time of day, along with the warm light of the social center and the music's nostalgic sounds, touched deep romantic cores of these two young (well, one not-so-young) people.
Though gray on the outside, once inside, the center was quite bright and cheerfully decorated. Old photos of the town and people of Kenmuir and local artists' works were on display around the walls. The main hall had a small platform at the far end where the ceilidh was getting going. Through a serving-hatch, one could see a big kitchen with smiling, plump ladies busy preparing refreshments. Alex was surprised that there was no alcohol on sale, only soft drinks, tea, and coffee.
“No, it's a family event, an the licensing's strict,” explained Jess.
“I understand,” said Alex. “But in the states, many would have a flask of sipping whiskey down their pants.”
Jessie McTaggart was born and bred in Gallovidia. After Camford University, she had settled for a while in England. Five years ago, she ended one of her most disastrous relations. The man, learning of her submissive nature, had taken her willingness to be hurt as carte blanche to abuse her while ignoring her feelings. At last, after four miserable months of abuse, ending in one serious injury, she had left.
It seemed then a good time for a new start. When she'd realized that she could do her online work from almost anywhere, Jessie decided that she might as well do it near her beloved Northern Forest. So, she'd packed up her life and returned to a quiet corner of the land of her birth.
Though a somewhat isolated community, the people were pleasant and welcoming. But Jessie always felt a bit of an odd man (woman?) out because of her kinks. She made casual friends, but few close. Because of her disaster before moving, she shunned like the plague any interaction with the opposite sex. Then she began the long-distance relationship with X. Of course, no one else knew about that. Then that ended, and Jessie again swore off men.
The above-detailed background is to help the reader understand that no one in that area had ever seen Jessie show the slightest interest in a man, let alone been seen with one. Though a generally accepting community, there had been whispered speculation that she might have sexual interests directed elsewhere than males.
Therefore, when Jessie walked into the cèilidh, holding hands with the handsome visitor from America, all eyes in the place became riveted on them, and many tongues began to wag softly.
The pair didn’t get more than a dozen feet into the room before they were greeted by two local couples, burning with curiosity. Jessie proudly introduced Alex as a “kenspeckle snoot frae the States – Wisconsin, in parteecular. An he' a gey wheen smairter than yon anes ye see on TV!” There followed lively small talk for a few minutes before another set elbowed their way in to greet Jessie and her 'gallant.'
Jessie was quite proud to be showing off her friend from America, and Alex was, naturally, pleased to be praised by the girl who'd won his heart and welcomed so warmly by the locals.
After about twenty minutes of this, the couple was allowed to make it to the refreshment table to grab some tea and crowdie wrapped in smoked salmon, trout pate with samphire, venison sausages, scones with cream, and damson jam, raspberry cranachan, shortbread, and Dundee Cake. Alex was duly impressed and told Jessie so as he scarfed it down.
The dancing began when the accompanists - a fiddler, an accordionist, and a drummer (who looked old enough to have fought with ‘The Bruce.”) - struck up a lively reel - Alex and Jessie sat the first few sets out while enjoying the snacks. Still, later, they did try a dance together. They didn't do much worse than average and had a good laugh together at the effort.
At one point, the fiddler, who seemed to be in charge, called for attention. He said, "the deemonstration team frae the Kenmuir Chapter o the RSCDS** will noo perform the square set dance, the Rothesay Rant."
Four couples, each holding hands, walked out onto the center of the floor with fine posture and bearing. The ladies wore ankle-length, white linen dresses with tartan sashes passed over the left shoulder and fastened at the waist on the right side. But it was the men who were the show. They each wore a different tartan kilt with a brown leather pouch in the front below the waist. On their feet were brown ghillies with laces tied partway up their ankles. Each wore green woolen stocking that came just below the knee and had red garter bands decorating the fold. On top, they had a light cotton peasant shirt with an open collar and a cord. Each wore a green or brown tweed jacket with a military cut somewhat shorter than a standard coat and formal buttons.
Alex was quite impressed and whispered to Jess, "The men are the peacocks here, aren't they?" She giggled and nodded in agreement.
Two ladies were behind them, and one said to the other. "The sashes owr the left shouder? It's ma thocht anely the clan chief’s ledy cud dae yon?”
“Och, nae, dinna ye ken? The RSCDS has a by-ordinar preevilege, frae Her Majesty hersel, to weir thaim o the left.”
“Och weel, a lairn sumhin o new whane'er a hae a crack wi ye, Mairi!”
The four couples formed up in a square, each facing across to another. A long chord noted the beginning as they bowed across the set. Then the music started, a kind of jig, Alex thought, and the dancers began to move. Much dancing back and forth and twirling arm in arm and changing places. It looks a lot like the square dancing Alex had seen when he lived in Oklahoma City for six months. But how they remembered it all without a caller amazed him. He also noted that the men's steps were specially designed to swing the kilt and cause the deep-pleated fabric in the back to billow in a colorful display. He pointed that out to Jessie, who agreed, "Aye. It's called the 'waggle o the kilt.'"
The music reached its end as they had each progressed back to their starting point. A long chord at the end allowed the dancers to bow again formally across the set. Then the crowd gave a very heartfelt applause.
By this time, it was getting late. Alex said, “We ought to be on our way. We want to get going early tomorrow to find Graeme.”
“Aye. Let’s be awa,” replied Jessie.
They said polite goodbye, and Jessie had to fend off some aggressive winks and remarks about the “Braw American.” Eventually, they made their way outside.
Out to the lot, it was a clear and starry night, with a slight chill in the air. Alex put his arm around Jessie to keep her warm (and for another reason) as they walked to the cars at the far end where they had parked beside each other. Alex turned to say goodnight. Before he could speak, Jessie raised her head and leaned in for a kiss. Their mouths met, and the heat generated was undeniable. Lips opened, and tongues probed and explored, swirling and mutually exciting. Arms wrapped around, and they held each other tight. It was almost a minute before they came up for air.
“Alex, I…I…”
”Hush,” Alex said, putting his finger to her lips. “I understand – separate cars – time for us each to go.” He kissed her forehead, mumbled a goodnight, and turned to his SUV, deeply disappointed but respectful of her feelings. Jessie whispered goodnight and turned to Clio, hating her earlier insistence on separation.
Alex opened the driver's door and climbed into the seat. However, he couldn't let it go. He turned to say something - anything - to Jessie before the moment was lost. But as he did, she closed her car door and started the engine. Alex gave a sigh, closed the door, and started his engine. "You're just a loser, Maxwell!" he muttered.
Jessie started her engine and was about to put it in gear when she stopped. She almost began to cry. "This is sae stupit!" she thought. Her feelings were too strong to ignore. She wanted to be with Alex! No matter the embarrassment, she had to tell him that she didn't want to go home alone tonight! But, as she opened the door and looked around, the Range Rover had already backed out and was heading for the exit. ""Dang yer pride, Jessie McTaggert!" she said to herself.
Each drove off home alone.
*Young and old are entertained by the reciters of old poems and legendary stories which deal with the ancient beliefs… Some sing old and new songs set to old music or new music composed in the manner of the old.” - Wonder Tales from Scottish Myths & Legend, MacKenzie D.A p.14. (1917)
**RSCDS – The Royal Scottish Country Dance Society, was founded in 1923 as the Scottish Country Dance Society by Jean Milligan and Ysobel Stewart of Fasnacloich, who wanted to preserve country dancing as performed in Scotland, country dancing having fallen into disuse after the influx of continental ballroom dances such as the waltz or quadrilles and when, after the Great War, American-style dances like the One-step or foxtrot and jazz and ragtime fascinated the young people. In 1947 HRH Princess Elizabeth became the patron of the Society. In 1951, it was granted a royal charter by King George VI. When Queen Elizabeth I (II of England) ascended to the throne in 1952, she continued, now as the Society’s royal patron. And so until today.
A cèilidh dance
"On long dark winter nights, it is still the custom in small villages for friends to collect in a house and hold what they call a "ceilidh"*
Saturday evening, July sixth, found Alex Maxwell of Madison, Wisconsin, USA, following Jessie McTaggert's Renault Clio just after sunset into Kenmuir, Scotland, for a cèilidh. Alex thought back to how impossible it would have been a year ago to imagine this situation.
He racked his brain to understand this fascinating lassie. At times she was so sweet and open. Yesterday on the hilltop, with the beautiful forest laid out beneath them, she'd submitted to a bareass spanking and then cuddled and kissed warmly. Today, she'd started friendly but distant and then acquiesced to holding hands when walking back to the car. A couple of hours ago, she'd invited him, somewhat reluctantly, to go to the cèilidh. And then she insisted they take separate cars so they could leave alone.
He couldn't help but wish she returned some of the affection he felt for her. But she seemed terrified of love or sentimentality. What she had told him of her background helped him somewhat understand this. But, it hurt him deeply to imagine that his love for her might be completely unrequited.
Jessie drove the short way, asking herself similar questions. What was her feeling for this man? Was it crazy (and stupid) to fall for a man here on a two-week vacation? Her independence and fear of being hurt made her terrified of getting closer to Alex. But she couldn't help thinking of him night and day. And she couldn't ignore the fact that as she did, she frequently felt a tingling in her loins. Even now, with these thoughts, she found it hard to sit still on the car seat.
It was a short drive to the old primary school building's car park, converted to a community center. Exiting his car, Alex noted the long, single-story building, austere, grey stone, high chapel-style windows. Lively music wafted on the breeze. He took Jes’s hand, and she didn’t object. They walked toward the warm glow of the open door.
It's a truism that humans spend most of their daylight concentrating on work and other necessary activities. But with twilight, the world around them changes. The bright light of day is changed to soft yellows and oranges and reds. Indoors, the warm glow of candles, oil lamps, and fires in the hearth accompany a time of togetherness and affection. This magical time of day, along with the warm light of the social center and the music's nostalgic sounds, touched deep romantic cores of these two young (well, one not-so-young) people.
Though gray on the outside, once inside, the center was quite bright and cheerfully decorated. Old photos of the town and people of Kenmuir and local artists' works were on display around the walls. The main hall had a small platform at the far end where the ceilidh was getting going. Through a serving-hatch, one could see a big kitchen with smiling, plump ladies busy preparing refreshments. Alex was surprised that there was no alcohol on sale, only soft drinks, tea, and coffee.
“No, it's a family event, an the licensing's strict,” explained Jess.
“I understand,” said Alex. “But in the states, many would have a flask of sipping whiskey down their pants.”
Jessie McTaggart was born and bred in Gallovidia. After Camford University, she had settled for a while in England. Five years ago, she ended one of her most disastrous relations. The man, learning of her submissive nature, had taken her willingness to be hurt as carte blanche to abuse her while ignoring her feelings. At last, after four miserable months of abuse, ending in one serious injury, she had left.
It seemed then a good time for a new start. When she'd realized that she could do her online work from almost anywhere, Jessie decided that she might as well do it near her beloved Northern Forest. So, she'd packed up her life and returned to a quiet corner of the land of her birth.
Though a somewhat isolated community, the people were pleasant and welcoming. But Jessie always felt a bit of an odd man (woman?) out because of her kinks. She made casual friends, but few close. Because of her disaster before moving, she shunned like the plague any interaction with the opposite sex. Then she began the long-distance relationship with X. Of course, no one else knew about that. Then that ended, and Jessie again swore off men.
The above-detailed background is to help the reader understand that no one in that area had ever seen Jessie show the slightest interest in a man, let alone been seen with one. Though a generally accepting community, there had been whispered speculation that she might have sexual interests directed elsewhere than males.
Therefore, when Jessie walked into the cèilidh, holding hands with the handsome visitor from America, all eyes in the place became riveted on them, and many tongues began to wag softly.
The pair didn’t get more than a dozen feet into the room before they were greeted by two local couples, burning with curiosity. Jessie proudly introduced Alex as a “kenspeckle snoot frae the States – Wisconsin, in parteecular. An he' a gey wheen smairter than yon anes ye see on TV!” There followed lively small talk for a few minutes before another set elbowed their way in to greet Jessie and her 'gallant.'
Jessie was quite proud to be showing off her friend from America, and Alex was, naturally, pleased to be praised by the girl who'd won his heart and welcomed so warmly by the locals.
After about twenty minutes of this, the couple was allowed to make it to the refreshment table to grab some tea and crowdie wrapped in smoked salmon, trout pate with samphire, venison sausages, scones with cream, and damson jam, raspberry cranachan, shortbread, and Dundee Cake. Alex was duly impressed and told Jessie so as he scarfed it down.
The dancing began when the accompanists - a fiddler, an accordionist, and a drummer (who looked old enough to have fought with ‘The Bruce.”) - struck up a lively reel - Alex and Jessie sat the first few sets out while enjoying the snacks. Still, later, they did try a dance together. They didn't do much worse than average and had a good laugh together at the effort.
At one point, the fiddler, who seemed to be in charge, called for attention. He said, "the deemonstration team frae the Kenmuir Chapter o the RSCDS** will noo perform the square set dance, the Rothesay Rant."
Four couples, each holding hands, walked out onto the center of the floor with fine posture and bearing. The ladies wore ankle-length, white linen dresses with tartan sashes passed over the left shoulder and fastened at the waist on the right side. But it was the men who were the show. They each wore a different tartan kilt with a brown leather pouch in the front below the waist. On their feet were brown ghillies with laces tied partway up their ankles. Each wore green woolen stocking that came just below the knee and had red garter bands decorating the fold. On top, they had a light cotton peasant shirt with an open collar and a cord. Each wore a green or brown tweed jacket with a military cut somewhat shorter than a standard coat and formal buttons.
Alex was quite impressed and whispered to Jess, "The men are the peacocks here, aren't they?" She giggled and nodded in agreement.
Two ladies were behind them, and one said to the other. "The sashes owr the left shouder? It's ma thocht anely the clan chief’s ledy cud dae yon?”
“Och, nae, dinna ye ken? The RSCDS has a by-ordinar preevilege, frae Her Majesty hersel, to weir thaim o the left.”
“Och weel, a lairn sumhin o new whane'er a hae a crack wi ye, Mairi!”
The four couples formed up in a square, each facing across to another. A long chord noted the beginning as they bowed across the set. Then the music started, a kind of jig, Alex thought, and the dancers began to move. Much dancing back and forth and twirling arm in arm and changing places. It looks a lot like the square dancing Alex had seen when he lived in Oklahoma City for six months. But how they remembered it all without a caller amazed him. He also noted that the men's steps were specially designed to swing the kilt and cause the deep-pleated fabric in the back to billow in a colorful display. He pointed that out to Jessie, who agreed, "Aye. It's called the 'waggle o the kilt.'"
The music reached its end as they had each progressed back to their starting point. A long chord at the end allowed the dancers to bow again formally across the set. Then the crowd gave a very heartfelt applause.
By this time, it was getting late. Alex said, “We ought to be on our way. We want to get going early tomorrow to find Graeme.”
“Aye. Let’s be awa,” replied Jessie.
They said polite goodbye, and Jessie had to fend off some aggressive winks and remarks about the “Braw American.” Eventually, they made their way outside.
Out to the lot, it was a clear and starry night, with a slight chill in the air. Alex put his arm around Jessie to keep her warm (and for another reason) as they walked to the cars at the far end where they had parked beside each other. Alex turned to say goodnight. Before he could speak, Jessie raised her head and leaned in for a kiss. Their mouths met, and the heat generated was undeniable. Lips opened, and tongues probed and explored, swirling and mutually exciting. Arms wrapped around, and they held each other tight. It was almost a minute before they came up for air.
“Alex, I…I…”
”Hush,” Alex said, putting his finger to her lips. “I understand – separate cars – time for us each to go.” He kissed her forehead, mumbled a goodnight, and turned to his SUV, deeply disappointed but respectful of her feelings. Jessie whispered goodnight and turned to Clio, hating her earlier insistence on separation.
Alex opened the driver's door and climbed into the seat. However, he couldn't let it go. He turned to say something - anything - to Jessie before the moment was lost. But as he did, she closed her car door and started the engine. Alex gave a sigh, closed the door, and started his engine. "You're just a loser, Maxwell!" he muttered.
Jessie started her engine and was about to put it in gear when she stopped. She almost began to cry. "This is sae stupit!" she thought. Her feelings were too strong to ignore. She wanted to be with Alex! No matter the embarrassment, she had to tell him that she didn't want to go home alone tonight! But, as she opened the door and looked around, the Range Rover had already backed out and was heading for the exit. ""Dang yer pride, Jessie McTaggert!" she said to herself.
Each drove off home alone.
*Young and old are entertained by the reciters of old poems and legendary stories which deal with the ancient beliefs… Some sing old and new songs set to old music or new music composed in the manner of the old.” - Wonder Tales from Scottish Myths & Legend, MacKenzie D.A p.14. (1917)
**RSCDS – The Royal Scottish Country Dance Society, was founded in 1923 as the Scottish Country Dance Society by Jean Milligan and Ysobel Stewart of Fasnacloich, who wanted to preserve country dancing as performed in Scotland, country dancing having fallen into disuse after the influx of continental ballroom dances such as the waltz or quadrilles and when, after the Great War, American-style dances like the One-step or foxtrot and jazz and ragtime fascinated the young people. In 1947 HRH Princess Elizabeth became the patron of the Society. In 1951, it was granted a royal charter by King George VI. When Queen Elizabeth I (II of England) ascended to the throne in 1952, she continued, now as the Society’s royal patron. And so until today.
A cèilidh dance
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Am I the only romantic on this entire Forum?
Well ..... ummmmmm .... uh ....... yep .... just might be.
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
Follow him!! ya silly.........
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
[Episode 26]
“Fear is a reaction. Courage is a decision.”*
Alex had a restless night’s sleep. His mind raced through visions of the previous day. First, the enchanting drive through Gallovidia with Jes. Next, the discovery of Graeme’s cove - a solid piece in the case that a serial kidnapper was operating in the region. Finally, the cèilidh with Jes. As much as they both stated it wasn’t, it was a date and a fine one at that. Her liveliness was on display as he’d never seen before. The dance they shared, though awkward, was immense fun. And the kiss in the lot could have gone on forever. Would Jess ever, Alex wondered, allow the relationship to go further?
As he thought that, he retreated at once. He had such respect for this independent Scottish lassie that it didn’t seem right to push her to jump into bed, much as he desired that. She was special and sex wasn’t needed immediately. His feelings for her already went far beyond that. And there were other feelings, still quite unclear and confused, but most certainly there – domination and even sadism.
Jessie pulled Clio in by her home. As she did, she realized that she didn't remember a moment of the drive from Kenmuir. All her thoughts had been about the cèilidh with Alex. No, she admitted to herself. What had stayed in her mind was the kiss in the car park. That had been so damn hot! Why the hell had she insisted on separate cars?
Jessie walked to her door and let herself in, with the visions and memories of the night alive in her brain. Perhaps these made her forget to lock the door (not that her very insecure lock mattered much). It was late, and she was sleepy. She went straight to the shower for her evening rinse. When that was done, she changed into her standard summer sleepwear, a tiny loose pair of silky shorts, extinguished the lights, and went to bed.
Although she was tired and fell asleep fairly quickly, it was not before she recalled that kiss. As the quiet rhythm of her breathing settled in, her one hand tweaked a nipple erect, while the other crept to her loins. Sleep soon overtook even those plans.
Alex woke early the next day and hopped into the shower. Once he had finished his toilet and dressed, he sat impatiently waiting.
At seven-thirty, promptly, Mrs. McTavish knocked on his door with his breakfast. He’d asked, the night before, for a light meal, and it was by Morag’s redoubtable standards: coffee, biscuits, scones, muffins, and rolls with butter, margarine, and several choices of jams, including her homemade gooseberry jam.
“Thank you, Mrs. Mctavish. Is your friend, Annie, home? Have you spoken to her?”
“Aye, I phoned her yestreen,, she got back sauf an soond. I etled ta explain tae her whit ye wanted, bit we greed it wud be best gin ye spaik tae her direck. She’ll be bidin fer yer ca this day.”
“Wonderful. As soon as Jessie gets here, we’ll come and see you to introduce us.”
“A’ll be reedy. Bye the bye, hoo did you enjy oor cèilidh yestreen?”
“It was outstanding. The food and the entertainment and the people were most delightful.”
“Aye, folks aroond here are gey cantie. Aiblins ane lassie in perteecular?” she smiled conspiratorially.
“Aye, Mrs. McTavish, one lassie is particularly ... er ... cantie!”
Morag grunted satisfaction and bustled out, leaving Alex to the food and visions of a special lassie.
As Alex finished what he could of the delicious and oversize repast, he looked at his watch, seven fifty-eight. He had expected Jess before now. She'd said she would be there first thing in the morning, and the lassie was very punctual, in his experience.
By eight-fifteen, Alex was out of patience and called Jess’s number. No answer.
Alex paced up and down for another ten minutes, calling the number once every minute or two with no better results. Finally, he could wait no more. He hurried over and told Mrs. Mctavish of his concerns and that he would go to Jessie’s place. If she showed up, please call him. Morag readily agreed.
Alex jumped in his SUV and took off much faster than safety and the speed limit dictated. Twelve minutes later, he pulled into Jessie’s drive to spot Clio parked in her usual spot.
*Fear is a reaction… attributed to Winston Churchill.
“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”**
Every fiber of Alex’s being was screaming for him to run to the cottage to see if Jessie was OK. Somehow, his professional training and instincts resisted his emotions and forced him to take his time.
He parked his Range Rover at a considerable distance and sat for a full minute with the motor off, observing and assessing the situation. Nothing was visibly different than the last time he’d been here. Clio was parked precisely as Jessie had parked her at that time. The look and state of the exterior of the cottage was unchanged. He saw no new tire tracks in the needles and leaves. So far, so good.
Carefully exiting his car, Alex took a circuitous route toward the front door, avoiding any tracks that might be in the soft ground, all the while observing that ground as thoroughly as possible. When he got to the door, he pulled out his handkerchief and gingerly tried the handle – locked. He saw no signs of forced entry, no new marks on the door.
*Fools Rush In – from Alexander Pope’s Essay on Criticism, published in 1711, when he was still 22 years old. My loyal readers may recall that he was a good friend of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who made a crucial appearance in Rebecca and the Bloody Codes.
Fo Bhruid***
The first thing Jessie knew, she was waking up with a terrible headache and a mouth that tasted like a pair of unhygienic birds had made a nest there. She felt like she'd slept forever, but there was no light. Then she realized there was a blindfold over her eyes. And a cloth strip was pulled tight through her mouth as a gag. A moment to try to move revealed that she was stretched spread-eagle, bound hand and foot. Gathering her wits and strength, she tested her bonds and learned they were strong and firm.
Jessie kept her wits about her even with such a terrifying turn of events to try to understand. She considered calling through the gag for help but decided that the only one likely to hear was her kidnapper. The fact that she was awake and he didn't know it gave her a small advantage. And, helpless as she was, there was no reason to squander any advantage.
Who was it? Where was she? As the chemically induced cobwebs in her brain cleared, Jessie knew who it was – Graeme! It was as sure as anything and terribly frightening. Alex had told her that his man was a ruthless criminal who enjoyed hurting women. And that he specialized in making them disappear. Has he already done that? Had Jessie disappeared into some ship bound for the far end of the world? Even with her substantial strength of will, Jessie shivered at the thought and came close to panic.
Somehow, though, she calmed herself and began to reason. She tried to think as Alex would, rationally about the evidence and the possibilities. She lay quiet and listened. There was no sound of an engine, no motion or rocking with the sea. No, she was still on land, somewhere in Gallovidia. But where? Probably, she thought, Graeme's house, his lair, wherever that was. Perhaps near the cove.
***Fo Bhruid: Kidnapped: A Graphic Novel in Full Color (Scots Gaelic Edition) adapted from the original novel by Robert Louis Stevenson
“But nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it.”****
Alex pulled out his pick, opened the lock and then the door and called out:
“Jes!”
His heart sank as he received no reply. He had fully expected such, but the final confirmation was still devastating. Graeme had her!
He entered the cottage and quickly confirmed his expectations. No sign of Jes or a struggle appeared. Bed, obviously slept in and hastily made. There was breakfast evidence in the kitchen sink, and a few items were out of place.
Alex, tears streaming down his cheeks, sat down in the middle of the floor and, between sobs, tried to think out the situation.
With difficulty, Alex forced himself to go rationally through the evidence he had. Jes had driven home as expected, parked Clio, went inside, and eventually went to bed. He was sure of that.
Someone (he assumed Graeme) walked up to the door later (one of his footsteps covered one of Jes’s) and picked the lock. He surprised Jessie in her sleep and held a chloroform rag over her nose (there was still the slightest whiff of the sweet chemical smell in the bedroom). He then made a hurried attempt to make it look like Jes had woken in the morning and had breakfast. Her hiking boots from by the door were also gone, an attempt to suggest she was out hiking.
The man had carried her from the cottage via a circuitous route, but the girl's combined weight had made his footprints deep and easy to follow in the soft soil.
Those were the facts to be gathered from his examination. But Alex, the profiler, speculated further. The whole job was rushed. That was not Graeme’s style. Alex believed that he had stalked Jessie previously but, for whatever reason, had not snatched her. Now, on short notice, he felt it necessary to grab her on the run. Why?
As he regained his self-control and doggedly pursued the evidence, Alex concluded that Graeme must have become aware of them looking for him. With his shipment due out in a few days, he couldn't take the chance that Alex and Jessie would find him out in the meantime.
But, then, why only Jes? Why didn’t he come round to Tonderghie House and grab Alex in his sleep as well? The apparent explanation is that he didn’t know where Alex was staying. How then did he know they were after him?
Then the lightbulb went off in his head. Their visit to Bluidy Bight! Graeme must have been there, hiding. He could have overheard their talk and learned that they were on to his process. And the knowledge of his smuggling beach would jeopardize the whole operation. He would have recognized Jessie from stalking her but did not know Alex. Even if he had tried to follow, Jes's expert driving of Clio on the winding roads probably lost him.
Graeme would then have to go and wait for Jes at her cottage. However, how would he deal with Alex?
Oh, My God! Alex thought in horror as he realized what was going down. Graeme would want to get the information on Alex from Jessie! And he surely wouldn't be gentle in the effort!
****But nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it - Calla Quinn, All the Time (and Constantly), a form of apology, a dismissal of blame, and one poet's commentary on what is left after love leaves.
“Fear is a reaction. Courage is a decision.”*
Alex had a restless night’s sleep. His mind raced through visions of the previous day. First, the enchanting drive through Gallovidia with Jes. Next, the discovery of Graeme’s cove - a solid piece in the case that a serial kidnapper was operating in the region. Finally, the cèilidh with Jes. As much as they both stated it wasn’t, it was a date and a fine one at that. Her liveliness was on display as he’d never seen before. The dance they shared, though awkward, was immense fun. And the kiss in the lot could have gone on forever. Would Jess ever, Alex wondered, allow the relationship to go further?
As he thought that, he retreated at once. He had such respect for this independent Scottish lassie that it didn’t seem right to push her to jump into bed, much as he desired that. She was special and sex wasn’t needed immediately. His feelings for her already went far beyond that. And there were other feelings, still quite unclear and confused, but most certainly there – domination and even sadism.
Jessie pulled Clio in by her home. As she did, she realized that she didn't remember a moment of the drive from Kenmuir. All her thoughts had been about the cèilidh with Alex. No, she admitted to herself. What had stayed in her mind was the kiss in the car park. That had been so damn hot! Why the hell had she insisted on separate cars?
Jessie walked to her door and let herself in, with the visions and memories of the night alive in her brain. Perhaps these made her forget to lock the door (not that her very insecure lock mattered much). It was late, and she was sleepy. She went straight to the shower for her evening rinse. When that was done, she changed into her standard summer sleepwear, a tiny loose pair of silky shorts, extinguished the lights, and went to bed.
Although she was tired and fell asleep fairly quickly, it was not before she recalled that kiss. As the quiet rhythm of her breathing settled in, her one hand tweaked a nipple erect, while the other crept to her loins. Sleep soon overtook even those plans.
Alex woke early the next day and hopped into the shower. Once he had finished his toilet and dressed, he sat impatiently waiting.
At seven-thirty, promptly, Mrs. McTavish knocked on his door with his breakfast. He’d asked, the night before, for a light meal, and it was by Morag’s redoubtable standards: coffee, biscuits, scones, muffins, and rolls with butter, margarine, and several choices of jams, including her homemade gooseberry jam.
“Thank you, Mrs. Mctavish. Is your friend, Annie, home? Have you spoken to her?”
“Aye, I phoned her yestreen,, she got back sauf an soond. I etled ta explain tae her whit ye wanted, bit we greed it wud be best gin ye spaik tae her direck. She’ll be bidin fer yer ca this day.”
“Wonderful. As soon as Jessie gets here, we’ll come and see you to introduce us.”
“A’ll be reedy. Bye the bye, hoo did you enjy oor cèilidh yestreen?”
“It was outstanding. The food and the entertainment and the people were most delightful.”
“Aye, folks aroond here are gey cantie. Aiblins ane lassie in perteecular?” she smiled conspiratorially.
“Aye, Mrs. McTavish, one lassie is particularly ... er ... cantie!”
Morag grunted satisfaction and bustled out, leaving Alex to the food and visions of a special lassie.
As Alex finished what he could of the delicious and oversize repast, he looked at his watch, seven fifty-eight. He had expected Jess before now. She'd said she would be there first thing in the morning, and the lassie was very punctual, in his experience.
By eight-fifteen, Alex was out of patience and called Jess’s number. No answer.
Alex paced up and down for another ten minutes, calling the number once every minute or two with no better results. Finally, he could wait no more. He hurried over and told Mrs. Mctavish of his concerns and that he would go to Jessie’s place. If she showed up, please call him. Morag readily agreed.
Alex jumped in his SUV and took off much faster than safety and the speed limit dictated. Twelve minutes later, he pulled into Jessie’s drive to spot Clio parked in her usual spot.
*Fear is a reaction… attributed to Winston Churchill.
“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”**
Every fiber of Alex’s being was screaming for him to run to the cottage to see if Jessie was OK. Somehow, his professional training and instincts resisted his emotions and forced him to take his time.
He parked his Range Rover at a considerable distance and sat for a full minute with the motor off, observing and assessing the situation. Nothing was visibly different than the last time he’d been here. Clio was parked precisely as Jessie had parked her at that time. The look and state of the exterior of the cottage was unchanged. He saw no new tire tracks in the needles and leaves. So far, so good.
Carefully exiting his car, Alex took a circuitous route toward the front door, avoiding any tracks that might be in the soft ground, all the while observing that ground as thoroughly as possible. When he got to the door, he pulled out his handkerchief and gingerly tried the handle – locked. He saw no signs of forced entry, no new marks on the door.
*Fools Rush In – from Alexander Pope’s Essay on Criticism, published in 1711, when he was still 22 years old. My loyal readers may recall that he was a good friend of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who made a crucial appearance in Rebecca and the Bloody Codes.
Fo Bhruid***
The first thing Jessie knew, she was waking up with a terrible headache and a mouth that tasted like a pair of unhygienic birds had made a nest there. She felt like she'd slept forever, but there was no light. Then she realized there was a blindfold over her eyes. And a cloth strip was pulled tight through her mouth as a gag. A moment to try to move revealed that she was stretched spread-eagle, bound hand and foot. Gathering her wits and strength, she tested her bonds and learned they were strong and firm.
Jessie kept her wits about her even with such a terrifying turn of events to try to understand. She considered calling through the gag for help but decided that the only one likely to hear was her kidnapper. The fact that she was awake and he didn't know it gave her a small advantage. And, helpless as she was, there was no reason to squander any advantage.
Who was it? Where was she? As the chemically induced cobwebs in her brain cleared, Jessie knew who it was – Graeme! It was as sure as anything and terribly frightening. Alex had told her that his man was a ruthless criminal who enjoyed hurting women. And that he specialized in making them disappear. Has he already done that? Had Jessie disappeared into some ship bound for the far end of the world? Even with her substantial strength of will, Jessie shivered at the thought and came close to panic.
Somehow, though, she calmed herself and began to reason. She tried to think as Alex would, rationally about the evidence and the possibilities. She lay quiet and listened. There was no sound of an engine, no motion or rocking with the sea. No, she was still on land, somewhere in Gallovidia. But where? Probably, she thought, Graeme's house, his lair, wherever that was. Perhaps near the cove.
***Fo Bhruid: Kidnapped: A Graphic Novel in Full Color (Scots Gaelic Edition) adapted from the original novel by Robert Louis Stevenson
“But nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it.”****
Alex pulled out his pick, opened the lock and then the door and called out:
“Jes!”
His heart sank as he received no reply. He had fully expected such, but the final confirmation was still devastating. Graeme had her!
He entered the cottage and quickly confirmed his expectations. No sign of Jes or a struggle appeared. Bed, obviously slept in and hastily made. There was breakfast evidence in the kitchen sink, and a few items were out of place.
Alex, tears streaming down his cheeks, sat down in the middle of the floor and, between sobs, tried to think out the situation.
With difficulty, Alex forced himself to go rationally through the evidence he had. Jes had driven home as expected, parked Clio, went inside, and eventually went to bed. He was sure of that.
Someone (he assumed Graeme) walked up to the door later (one of his footsteps covered one of Jes’s) and picked the lock. He surprised Jessie in her sleep and held a chloroform rag over her nose (there was still the slightest whiff of the sweet chemical smell in the bedroom). He then made a hurried attempt to make it look like Jes had woken in the morning and had breakfast. Her hiking boots from by the door were also gone, an attempt to suggest she was out hiking.
The man had carried her from the cottage via a circuitous route, but the girl's combined weight had made his footprints deep and easy to follow in the soft soil.
Those were the facts to be gathered from his examination. But Alex, the profiler, speculated further. The whole job was rushed. That was not Graeme’s style. Alex believed that he had stalked Jessie previously but, for whatever reason, had not snatched her. Now, on short notice, he felt it necessary to grab her on the run. Why?
As he regained his self-control and doggedly pursued the evidence, Alex concluded that Graeme must have become aware of them looking for him. With his shipment due out in a few days, he couldn't take the chance that Alex and Jessie would find him out in the meantime.
But, then, why only Jes? Why didn’t he come round to Tonderghie House and grab Alex in his sleep as well? The apparent explanation is that he didn’t know where Alex was staying. How then did he know they were after him?
Then the lightbulb went off in his head. Their visit to Bluidy Bight! Graeme must have been there, hiding. He could have overheard their talk and learned that they were on to his process. And the knowledge of his smuggling beach would jeopardize the whole operation. He would have recognized Jessie from stalking her but did not know Alex. Even if he had tried to follow, Jes's expert driving of Clio on the winding roads probably lost him.
Graeme would then have to go and wait for Jes at her cottage. However, how would he deal with Alex?
Oh, My God! Alex thought in horror as he realized what was going down. Graeme would want to get the information on Alex from Jessie! And he surely wouldn't be gentle in the effort!
****But nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it - Calla Quinn, All the Time (and Constantly), a form of apology, a dismissal of blame, and one poet's commentary on what is left after love leaves.
