Chapter One

Fenwick, Ayrshire County, Scotland, 1832

Mr. Abernathy often lauded the courage of the clans in the Battle of Culloden Moor. So Callandra’s answer — that the clans were outnumbered and should have retreated — was not what he wanted to hear.

“If you would pay more attention to history and less to your appearance, you wouldn’t make such foolish mistakes,” he bellowed. “Take off that beret. French affectations have no place in Scottish education.”

With the full attention of her classmates, Callandra removed the beret. Hair that had been held in check cascaded from captivity. Mr. Abernathy ordered her to write twenty times on the blackboard: I will not wear a beret to class.

As he resumed teaching, she went to the board and performed her penance, a sense of injustice building inside her. When she reached the last line, she wrote: I will wear what I like to class!

A couple of students noticed and suppressed giggles. She quickly erased the final sentence and was writing in the correct one just as Mr. Abernathy turned to check. She took her seat, savouring her moment of defiance.

*

Walking home that afternoon, with three of her younger siblings, she enjoyed the feeling of loose hair in the pleasant May weather. The ash trees along the lane had freshly sprouted leaves, and the air was crisp with spring. Callandra and her siblings were nearly home when Alex McLeod caught up with them. Alex was sixteen, just a few months older than Callandra. He lived down the road, and their families had always known each other.

“I like what you wrote on the board,” he said.

She smiled and kept walking.

Her eight-year-old brother Duncan asked Alex for a piggyback ride. He obliged and soon all three children were laughing and climbing onto his back.

“You going to the Stewarton Fair on Saturday?” Alex asked Callandra, when the children had run off in pursuit of a rabbit.

“I don’t know. Depends if we get the seeding done.”

“Well, if you need a ride, we’ll have space in the wagon,” he said, sounding casual about his brash suggestion.

Callandra’s siblings returned and began a competition over who could walk the straightest line, leaving Callandra’s gentle “thank you” lost in the clatter of voices.

“I’ve never seen so many perfectly straight lines,” said Alex, responding to requests that he select a winner. “I think the only way to resolve this is to do it again — backward.”

The backward-walking began, with all the contestants soon declaring victory and returning to Alex’s back. He let them climb up and then charged ahead, as if into battle.

Callandra caught up to them at the top of a hillock. From there, they could see her family’s modest farm tucked behind a cluster of trees, nestled among gently rolling hills and fields of rich, dark earth. Their wagon was in the lane, and today two others were parked behind it.

Alex was out of breath.

“That’s enough,” said Callandra, curtailing further demands from her siblings.

“One more contest!” said Alex, an eye on Callandra. “Whoever builds the best castle in the sandpile … gets to go to the Stewarton Fair!”

“Oh! What if my parents say no? Look at the trouble you’ve got me in!”

They stopped by the majestic oak tree in front of her house, as her siblings headed toward the sandpile near the barn.

“See you tomorrow.” A few paces away, he turned and said: “Oh, I almost forgot.… You left this in the classroom.”

He pulled her beret from his pocket and tossed it gently in the air, aiming it to land on her head; it did, with the help of her hand.

He walked closer and gently altered its angle. Her heart raced. He kept adjusting the beret, shifting it slightly from one side to another, as if each position pleased him more than the one before. He moved a strand of hair this way and that, then tucked another behind her ear, leaving his hands gently cupping the back of her head.

“You should wear the beret to class again — if only to torment old Abernathy.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m sure he was put off because you looked so pretty. He doesn’t want to notice things like that.”

Callandra looked down shyly.

“I should get going,” he said. “But first I better check how those sandcastles are doing … or maybe I’ll leave the judging till tomorrow.”

“Aye,” said Callandra, smiling.

“If Abernathy could see you now, he’d never get his mind back to Culloden Moor.”

She didn’t move but felt a blush heating up her cheeks.

“I can’t wait to see those sandcastles tomorrow,” he said, releasing her with a look of longing. He started to walk away.

She stood by the tree, stunned by what had just happened, watching him walk down the road until he disappeared around the bend.

It felt like the happiest day of her life. But when she walked into the farmhouse, she discovered that the extra wagons were in the driveway because her father had died.

*

Ross Buchanan had been such a strong presence in Callandra’s life that it was hard to imagine him gone. He’d loved all of his children, but had particularly doted on her. The eldest of seven, Callandra had absorbed his freethinking ideas and ways of looking at the world. It had been his disapproval of war that had prompted her to counter Mr. Abernathy’s patriotic view that courage alone is enough to win battles.

She felt a sudden, stinging sadness in realizing she would never get to tell her father how she’d challenged Mr. Abernathy and then flouted his orders in front of the class. He would have been proud.

Sadie Buchanan wept openly in the days leading up to her husband’s funeral. She had always been stable and steady, focused on the needs of everyone but herself, so Callandra was devastated to see her mother so blank-faced and dispirited.

The little country church was packed for the funeral. Ross Buchanan had managed his small farm without apparent strain, growing potatoes and raising chickens and pigs. So, family and friends were still in shock from his sudden death, apparently from heart failure. Callandra sat on the wooden bench between her mother and her fourteen-year-old sister, Beitiris. So many times she’d sat on this same bench, but with her father there, too. She realized now how comforting his presence had been, how secure it had made her little world. He never took Christian dogma too seriously, but he spoke highly about the church for the way it brought the community together each Sunday. And so Callandra had come to appreciate it for that, too. But now, without his gentle smile and kind eyes, the church felt like a very cold place.

Trying to avoid crying, Callandra kept her eyes forward, away from her grieving family. But this left her staring straight at her father’s coffin, intensifying her sadness. When the minister appeared at the pulpit, she was relieved to have somewhere else to fix her gaze.

There was much to study in this peculiar-looking man. She’d heard that he’d come from Glasgow, due to the illness of Reverend Patterson, who had been the local pastor since her father was a child. This preacher had none of Reverend Patterson’s warmth. He was short, and had pallid skin; deeply set, narrow eyes; and strange, protruding lips. His eulogy was almost completely impersonal, referring to her father only as “this good man” after once using his name. He even had to check his notes before mentioning that Fenwick was the town where they were gathered together on this sad day. It was such a sharp contrast to the eulogy that would have been delivered by Reverend Patterson, and its remoteness drove home Callandra’s feelings of pain and loss. It was made worse by the Glasgow minister’s stutter. “F-F-F-F-Fenwick,” he had said.

After the service, Callandra and her mother led the small crowd from the church to the burial site, the warmth of the sun softening the bleakness of the event. Still, the comforting words about her father going to a better place were rudely contradicted by the facts — the coffin in the cold ground, her mother a tearful shroud of black, her brothers and sisters all cleanly attired to say goodbye. There was no escape from the cavalcade of saddening sights. She allowed herself to search the crowd and spotted Mr. and Mrs. McLeod with their two oldest children, Alex and Bernadette.

*

Everyone came back to the house afterward. It was warm enough to sit outside, and no one was crying now. Sandwiches and cakes were served with punch; the men drank whisky.

Callandra helped with the younger children, conscious of Alex standing a short distance away. She went to her brother Duncan, who had spilled his plate of food, bringing her closer to Alex. She cringed as she heard Duncan ask Alex if they were all still going to the Stewarton Fair.

Before she could scold him, she sensed someone approaching from behind.

“Excuse me, miss.”

Callandra looked around; it was the minister. He was shorter than he’d looked in the church, not much taller than her.

“I’m Reverend Scott,” he said. “You’re the eldest child, I believe.”

“Aye, sir,” she responded.

“I hope I’ve been a comfort to your family in this t-t-t-t-t-terrible time.”

“Yes.”

“The death of a loved one takes an enormous toll,” he continued. “Fortunately, we have the Lord and the scriptures to help us through it.”

Callandra had no response.

“You seem very t-t-t-t-t-troubled,” said the minister, taking her hand.

“Oh no. I’m fine,” she said, pulling it back. “I mean, I’m doing fine.”

He reached again for her hand, this time securing it. “Let’s take a little walk.”

A request from a minister was difficult to decline. They walked a short distance from the gathering, with her hand held firmly in his.

“I’m not used to these simple country churches,” he said. “My own church is in Glasgow, and is much more elaborate.”

She stopped to pick up a child’s bonnet in the grass, enabling her to break free of the minister’s grasp without appearing rude.

“I think you’d find my church very grand,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll visit it someday.”

Callandra nodded faintly, ambiguously. “I think I should go and help my mother, Reverend Scott.”

“Yes, she’ll be needing you, and I must be off anyway,” he said.

Then, worrying she might have seemed rude, she added, “Thank you for coming, sir.”

“It was my pleasure,” he responded with a small bow.

As he disappeared, Callandra spotted Alex alone near the oak tree where they’d dallied the other day. Before she could move in his direction, she was summoned to help her aunt in the kitchen. One chore led to another and, by the time she’d finished, it was late afternoon and the warmth was going out of the day, leaving a golden haze in the air. The gathering had thinned. She spotted the McLeod family getting into their wagon, with Alex facing toward the road, not even looking back at the farmhouse. As he disappeared from view, she was struck by how different his departure felt this time.

*

The next day, Reverend Scott returned. The sight of his fine carriage was distinctly out of place now. Callandra watched from the barn, as he walked to the house and was welcomed at the door by her mother, who hastily removed her apron.

It occurred to Callandra that he must have stayed overnight nearby, perhaps at the inn in Kilmarnock. A follow-up visit the day after the funeral was perhaps part of his duties.

After a while, he emerged from the house and turned toward the barn, where Callandra was feeding the pigs. She watched him through the slats.

“Callandra,” he called, stopping at the entrance. “Callandra.”

She stood motionless, but he kept calling her name and started to advance into the barn.

“Yes, sir,” she said, emerging from the pen in a stained smock, her hair covered by a bonnet.

“Your mother told me I would find you here.”

She stood silent, confused by his presence. With his lips pursed and his head tilted upward, he looked even more self-important and silly than yesterday. She had a strong wish for him to leave.

“I have some news I trust you will be happy to hear,” he continued. “I’ve just spoken with your mother. I’ve indicated an intention to seek your hand in m-m-m-marriage.”

“But sir,” she finally mustered. “It is so soon after my father’s death, I cannot …”

“Of course, my dear,” he interrupted her. “I intend to help you through your grief. Don’t forget I am a man of the c-c-c-c-cloth.”

“No, I would never forget that,” she said, cringing at the memory of his hand on hers. “I can’t even think of marriage …”

He motioned dismissively, reaching to take her hands.

She pulled them back. “Sir, my hands are dirty. Please, you embarrass me.”

“I intend to change your life for the better, dear girl. You’ll be a minister’s wife, and you’ll have no occasion to be cleaning barns.” He grabbed one of her hands and kissed it, saying he would return the following week, then walked to the waiting carriage without looking back.

Callandra felt sure her mother would not force her to marry against her will, but she urgently wanted this confirmed. As soon as his carriage pulled out of sight, she rushed into the house and found her mother sitting alone in the rocking chair in the kitchen.

“Oh, Mother, I don’t want to marry that man! You won’t make me marry him, will you? I’m not ready for marriage.”

Sadie looked up with sad, forlorn eyes. She was clearly surprised by her daughter’s vehemence, and quickly replied, “Of course not, dear.”

Callandra felt an enormous sense of relief. But she also quickly became aware, in a way she hadn’t fully appreciated before, just how much her father’s death was going to change all of their lives. The family now faced a dire situation. There was no longer an able-bodied man to run the farm; her mother’s small, irregular income as a midwife wasn’t much. Without sufficient funds, they’d have to leave the farm.

They could live with Sadie’s sister’s family in Paisley. But their modest home couldn’t accommodate eight extra people, and they were the prosperous side of the family.

Sadie considered moving to a humble flat in Kilmarnock, where she could earn a meagre living as a servant while taking in laundry and sewing.

“I could help with the laundry and sewing,” offered Callandra.

“Aye … aye …” said her mother.

“I couldn’t possibly abandon the family,” Callandra added.

“Well, it wouldn’t exactly be like that,” said her mother, sighing heavily as she shifted in the chair. “You see, the minister proposed to take you to live with him in a grand house in Glasgow, with the family staying here on the farm.”

“What do you mean?”

“He said that he would take care of the mortgage, and we could stay here.”

It took a few seconds for this new landscape to come fully into view. So her family didn’t need her — at least not scrubbing laundry in a hovel in Kilmarnock. Rather, they needed her to go to Glasgow, reside in a fine house, and live a life of leisure. She felt cornered, realizing the moral high ground had been yanked out from under her.

“But you don’t think you’d be happy with that life?” asked her mother blankly.

“I’d hate every minute of it!” cried Callandra, imagining his jutting lips touching hers.

The forcefulness of her response shook Sadie from her torpor. “Then you shan’t do it. That’s decided,” she said, showing her old vitality.

Callandra ran over and hugged her, murmuring, “Thank you, thank you, Mother.”

Sadie kept her word. In the following days, as she moved from grieving to preparing for the changes ahead, she never let on to anyone that there was another option. Callandra’s siblings bemoaned the prospect of leaving the farm, but no one blamed Callandra.

The depth of the family crisis became clearer still three days after the funeral when Mr. McTavish, their neighbour, drove Sadie and her three eldest daughters to Kilmarnock to help them find a place to live. Almost everything was beyond their means. The only option turned out to be a tiny two-room flat in a decrepit house in the centre of town. Dingy and musty, it contained nothing more than a woodstove and washbasin — a washbasin that would undoubtedly be used every waking hour of the day, doing other people’s laundry. There was one small window, which looked out back on to a row of latrines.

As they drove away, through the town’s busy main street, Callandra noticed the impressive facade of the King’s Arms Hotel, where she assumed the minister had stayed.

On the ride home, her mother sat up front beside Mr. McTavish, so Callandra couldn’t see her face, but she saw the vivid pain on her sisters’ faces. For them, moving off the farm meant the end of school and the beginning of a life devoted to washing and cleaning. It was difficult to imagine a happy existence in that dismal flat. The rolling hills and neat hedgerows they passed seemed part of a paradise now beyond reach.

Callandra felt consumed by grief and despair. As the carriage trundled on, she was bothered by the thought that she had the power to save her family from further desolation, from descending into lives of misery. She couldn’t bring her father back; his death would forever sadden them all. But she could protect those she loved from bleakness and hopelessness. She was overwhelmed, one minute feeling distraught about her family’s fate and her role in perpetuating it, the next indignantly rejecting any responsibility.

Her mind wandered onto the memory of Alex adjusting her beret; it was like a fresh discovery of a distant past. The cart drove past a particularly lovely clump of hawthorn trees, with their creamy white blossoms, and she let the memory of Alex dance in her brain.

She would never feel for the minister the excitement she felt for Alex. Yet when she’d seen Alex the day of the funeral, he hadn’t even spoken to her.

Was she putting her family — and herself — into a wretched state, all so she could cling to the dream of something that may have existed only in her own mind? She even considered the possibility that Alex had betrayed her, teasing her with feelings that to him were just part of a warm spring afternoon. When harsh realities like death entered, he was no longer there.

The next day, after a tormented night of little sleep, she approached her mother.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Callandra said. “It will take some adjustment, but I think I’ll be fine marrying Reverend Scott. It will be better for all of us. At least, this way I’ll have a happy place to come home to.”

“Oh, that you always would!” said Sadie. Callandra knew that the image of a happy homecoming was just what was needed to assuage her mother’s fears.

“But are you sure that’s what you wish, dear?” Sadie asked.

So that would be the extent of her mother’s probing about a marriage her daughter clearly didn’t want? What had happened to the spirited Sadie Buchanan, who had once been such a loyal advocate for her daughter?

“It is,” said Callandra, forcing resolution into her voice.

At dinner that night, her mother told the family that Callandra was to marry Reverend Norbert Scott and live in Glasgow, and that the minister would help the family stay on the farm. There was considerable shock and curiosity that Callandra would be marrying the pastor who presided at their father’s funeral less than a week ago. But overall there was relief and delight that they would not have to move to Kilmarnock. In the commotion over the developments and the crush of attention, Callandra felt, if not sure of her decision, at least gratified by the thought that she had done her duty to protect the people she loved.

The next day, as she fixed her mind on preparing for her new life, a letter was slipped under the door with her name on it.

Dear Callandra:

I hope you will be back at school soon. Walking home isn’t the same without you.

Please tell Duncan we shall all go to the Stewarton Fair next year, for sure. And promise me you’ll wear the beret.

Alex