A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,89
curls losing their shape and tickling her nape. Nevertheless, she held her tongue, inspecting the interior of the inn.
The pale stone walls above the waist-high wainscoting were pitted with age. In observation of the holiday, there was a Christmas Crown hanging from a high ceiling—a wreath of sorts, woven with small branches of ash to ward away bad spirits. Additionally, there were boughs of holly strewn across the hearth and over every doorway, tied in place by striking red ribbons.
But the fire in the hearth was the most curious thing of all. It changed colors, from green to gold to violet—a striking display that the boffin in her longed to explore. Naturally, it had the effect of drawing every drunkard’s eye in the tavern, sedating them as would a hefty dose of laudanum—very clever, she thought. The mistress of this inn was brilliant—unlike this oaf standing behind the counter. Alas, the longer they stood, the more attention they garnered.
Most disconcertingly, there were a number of male occupants in the crowded tavern, some eyeing Elizabeth with undisguised disapproval—perhaps because they were Scots?
A few eyed her with arched brows and veiled smiles. Regardless of how they felt about it, no doubt two proper English women traveling alone on a holiday was no common sight.
Beneath her feet lay a carpet of sticky straw, a rather primitive application that was no doubt cheaper than carpet, considering the way the guests sloshed ale up over their heaping cups—all the while they drunkenly repeated the same two verses of the Boar’s Head Carol.
The boar’s head in hand bring I,
Bedecked with bays and rosemary.
I pray you, my masters, be merry…
The boar’s head, as I understand,
Is the rarest dish in all this land,
Which thus bedecked with a gay garland.
“Pardon, madam,” said Mrs. Grace as a sweet-looking woman passed them by with a tray full of foamy ale. “Can you please direct us to one Mr. Balthazar.”
“John!” screamed the woman, surprising them both with the tenor of her voice. The tray in her hand threatened to overturn its burden as she cast a glance at the man behind the counter who, inconceivably, was still combing his beard.
“No, we are looking for Balthazar,” said Elizabeth. “We were told—”
“John Joseph Pitagowan!” screamed the woman again, and Elizabeth gave Mrs. Grace an alarmed glance, to which her chaperone responded with an admonishing nod, as though to say, “I told you so. Please leave it to me!”
“What?” said the man, to which the woman slid her chin forward—like a hen—and said, “Can’t ye see we’ve guests tae tend? Leave off with the whiskers already, else ye’ll find yourself on the morrow wi’ your chin bald as your head!”
The man flushed brightly. “We’re full to the rafters,” he explained.
“Oh, but, sir, our driver,” interjected Mrs. Grace very sweetly. “He said to tell one Mr. Balthazar that Mr. Hadley sent us.”
“Hadley?” said the goat-chinned man, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Why didn’t ye say so! Did he say if he brought—”
“I really don’t know,” said Mrs. Grace. “But I do suspect the answer to your question might be yes, because he does, indeed, have a package for someone ensconced with our luggage.” And this they knew, because Mr. Hadley had steadfastly refused to carry a second trunk for Elizabeth. And therefore, she’d been forced to pack away her entire life in one small suitcase and a tiny valise. Her uncle had promised to send the rest.
Exasperated, the tavern woman threw up a hand and hurried away, perhaps nettled by the name Mrs. Grace provided, or else she was certain now that they would be well cared for. Clearly, Mr. Balthazar or Mr. Pitagowan—whatever his name might be—was infinitely pleased to hear from their driver. “Good ole Hadley,” he said, tugging at his beard. And then he gave a nod toward the woman who’d disappeared. “That’s me wife,” he explained. “She’s no’ much for good ole Hadley, but he’s a good chap.” And then he launched immediately into what sounded as though it might still prove to be a dismissal. “Thing is, we’ve only got one bed left.” He eyed both of them circumspectly. “Belongs to my daughter, though, as it happens, she’s away for the evening, so I believe I can let it. She likes to get away now and again. But,” he said, inclining his head. “There’s still only one bed.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Grace. “Have you nothing else at all?”
He shrugged. “A cot and a blanket in the stable,” he