Chapter 9 Coldstream Bridge Toll Booth
Darcy had arranged for a maid to aid Elizabeth at The Angel Inn in Grantham. Probably a wise scheme, if he had any thoughts resembling those Elizabeth, had after he aided her with loosening her stays at the inn in Alconbury.
After agreeing to his change of tactics from carriage to stagecoach, the stagecoach leaving at eight in the morning, Elizabeth was up and ready a little earlier than usual. She did not want to forgo breaking her fast before they left and sat by the vanity, waiting for the maid to appear in her shift and robe when she heard the door slam against the wall in the room beside her.
Raised, angry, voices reverberated between the walls. Elizabeth was on her feet in an instant and ran to Mr Darcy's rescue. A fair-haired, barrel-chested man was in Mr Darcy's face, rattling off profanities. He was a few inches shorter but burly looking.
"What in the bloody hell are you thinking?"
"None of your blasted business!"
"The hell it is, little cousin."
"Little? I am five and twenty!"
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam felt a pointed finger tapping him incessantly on his shoulder. He brushed it off, believing his aunt's annoying parson had followed him inside, against his specific orders. Probably had some pointed words to express about his language.
The infuriating nitwit would not be deterred and the colonel whipped around, turning his furious glare at a petit, curly redhead with the most astonishing eyes he had ever seen. Her arms were folded under her chest and her dainty bare foot was tapping on the floor. She was dressed in an oversized robe, fiery curls framed her countenance and covered much of her torso, down to her waist.
"What have we here... Is it your highland fling or has Aphrodite materialised from the Iliad?"
Darcy immediately moved in front of the Undine, shielding her from his cousin.
"Please leave us, Elizabeth."
"Absolutely not!"
Darcy turned towards her, walked her back towards the door and whispered in her ear. "I cannot think straight when you are near."
"Let me do the thinking then." Elizabeth lifted her chin and raised an importune eyebrow. Darcy let his eyes travel down her person but Elizabeth could not be deterred. Groaning, he faced his cousin.
"Why are you here, Richard?"
"To rescue my deranged cousin from making the biggest mistake of his life..."
"I am not in need of rescuing."
"Debatable... I am also here to bring back our aunt's parson's wayward fiancée. Elizabeth MacBennet made a run for it from your home or so I was told by none other than my parents. With the danger of repeating myself, what in the bloody hell are you doing, Darcy? Running away with another man's intended, a Highland lass with no sense of propriety. You will be the laughing stock of the ton, Darcy!"
"Get out!" The fiery redhead had heard enough and was right in front of him, both hands firmly planted on her hips. "I am the daughter of Laird MacBennet of Eilean Bennet Castle. My family goes back more centuries than your caveman brain can count and I obviously know more about propriety than an Earl's son. Uttering profanities in front of a lady... Do you understand me or do I need to spell it for you? Translate into French or Greek? Get out!"
Darcy lay his comforting hands on Elizabeth's shoulders and turned her around to face him. "My cousin may come across as a caveman but he does respond to reason. Let me explain our circumstances to him because I do not think we stand a chance of outrunning him. Your maid is awaiting you in your room, I believe. Come back when you have finished your ablutions and we will formulate a plan on how to proceed."
Colonel Fitzwilliam regarded his cousin intently. The emotion glowing from his eyes was unmistakable, even for a battle-hardened soldier like himself. To his surprise, the fiery Highland lass' anger melted away under his cousin gaze and she relaxed her stance.
"Very well..." She said and quit the room under his cousin's watchful eye.
Darcy offered him a seat at his table and Richard sat down, pensively. The story Darcy related was more unfathomable than any of the novels he, clandestinely, had read.
The siren returned, dressed in a gown he recognised from a painting hanging on the wall of the Pemberley gallery. The hand-painted French silk gown, decorated with leaves and cornflowers, had been one of Lady Anne's favourites. She had chosen it for one of her sit-downs with a painter.
It must have been shortened because Lady Anne had been a tall lady while Miss MacBennet was short. Lady Anne had also been willowy which Miss MacBennet was definitely not. The tight bodice accentuated her tiny waist but her other attributes threatened to spill.
Her wild curls had been pulled loosely on the top of her head. Richard suspected that the maid had not been afforded enough time for an elaborate updo as the lady seemed eager to join her accomplice.
His cousin did not notice though, his eyes fixed on a couple of attributes that turned the lady's countenance fairly exasperated. She snapped her fingers and broke his cousin's spellbound admiration.
The reason for her decades' old garments had been explained by Darcy's account of their actions but he silently wondered if he had other nefarious motives...
Elizabeth approached the gentleman and soldier, standing slightly to Mr Darcy side to show her preference.
"You must see why I doubted your sanity..." Richard seamlessly picked up the conversation where they had left off. "Father related to me the debacle at your dinner party, including your obvious admiration for the lady in question. Even you must admit it is somewhat out of character for you to pursue a lady as opposed to run in the opposite direction... When Mr Collins approached me with proof of a lie uttered from your lips, I felt absolutely certain that you had lost your faculties. Never did it occur to me that you had fallen head over heels in love? I would sooner believe you had taken up drinking or even sniffing arsenic before I had thought you lost to Cupids arrows."
Darcy chuckled, "well, Elizabeth is an accomplished archer..."
Elizabeth snorted in a very unladylike fashion. "Hardly, the target was huge and at a short distance."
Darcy smiled up at his betrothed. His sentiments were easily discerned, the lady held her cards close to her chest though. If not for a slight softening around her eyes, Richard might have thought her indifferent. His cousin's description of having to persuade her into accepting him had sounded a tad implausible to his cynical self.
"Where do we go from here?" Elizabeth inquired, looking Richard directly in the eyes. It was clear she did not trust him.
Darcy clasped her hand, willing her to redirect her beautiful orbs to his and locking them in place.
"I believe we should continue with our original plan and take the stagecoach from here. James and Euan will take the old carriage to Pemberley and Richard will make sure that our pursuers follow after that carriage. If they leave a few hours after we board the stagecoach, we should manage to get a sufficient head start to make it impossible for them to catch up. Richard will detain them in the meantime. It will leave us without protection from any other than ourselves though. I suggest we proceed as Mr and Mrs Williams, it will make it easier for me to protect you if our fellow passengers believe we are married, headed north to visit family. It will be hazardous travel in more ways than one but I do not think we have much choice at this point. We will be on the coach, day and night until we reach the Scottish border. When we are married we can hire a carriage and take on a more leisurely and comfortable journey or proceed to Edinburgh on the stagecoach and have James meet us there. We have approximately two hundred and thirty miles left until we reach Coldstream Bridge Tollbooth. It will take the better part of two days before we arrive. What do you say, Elizabeth? Are you up for the challenge?"
"Always, I am more concerned about you. You are much more accustomed to luxury than I..." Elizabeth raised her hand to his cheek and let her thumb graze his cheekbone. His eyes were shadowed and his chin wore stubble of days old growth.
Sleeping at a busy in was probably much more challenging for he who was used to Pemberley's thick walls and few residents. She, on the other hand, was used to the bustle of a large household.
Darcy snatched her hand and kissed the inside of her palm, making her breath hitch.
"I am in dire need of a shave but otherwise, I am perfectly well, Elizabeth."
Her brows furrowed in contemplation.
"Can we trust the Colonel?"
Darcy grabbed both her hands and looked her deeply in the eyes.
"Yes."
Richard had seen enough, there was obviously a connection of higher power between the two lovers, seemingly communicating without words. He did not understand his cousin but neither was it his place to correct a grown man with his faculties in order. He did not appear to have been taken in by the somewhat unique looks of the Highland beauty.
In fact, she would not be deemed beautiful at all in the highest circles of London society. She did not fit the fashionable form or looks at all with her short curvy stature, red hair and full lips. Although every warm blood male she encountered would disagree, the ladies would be merciless and so would the gossip sheets. He wondered if Darcy had taken all this into consideration when he proposed marriage to the laird's daughter. By the looks of him, he probably had not offered it a thought.
Darcy and Elizabeth changed into their least auspicious attire and boarded the stagecoach without any particular notice. Darcy had packed most of their belongings as a package and sent it by post, well aware that it would arrive simultaneously as they. The ruse was for it to look like they had little but what they were wearing in the world as not to attract pickpockets or footpads.
Two hours later, Richard pointed out the old Darcy carriage with James and Euan on the driver seat in full Darcy livery.
Mr Collins screamed at anybody within hearing range, to harness the horses and get his carriage ready to depart. Luckily, he did not mention why...
The Campbells hurried their packing and Mrs Campbell had the forethought to order their basket filled with victuals but it still took a good twenty minutes before they left the historic hostelry, The Angel Inn, in Grantham.
To gain upon a half-full carriage with a full one was a far stretch which was obvious to anyone except for Mr Collins. He kept yelling for the coachman to hurry up until Mrs Campbell offered him some bread and cheese which muffled the sound to some extent.
The next evening the stagecoach rolled over Coldstream Bridge. Contemporary with the bridge lay the Coldstream Toll Booth, a single-story random rubble with red pantile roof and an inscribed tablet on the lower extension.
Darcy had thought they would have to wait until morning to wed but the maid he encountered shouted into the common room: "Pattie Mudie, you are wanted in the tother end."
Two men immediately approached, the elder led them to the small room, closest to the bridge while the other tugged Darcy aside. He pulled a collection of rings from his pocket and offered him the ring of his choice for a certain price. Darcy knew it was a rip-off but in his predicament, sans a token for his bride, he chose to pay what the jeweller asked.
Peter Moody seated himself at the head of the oblong table in the centre of the room, gesturing for Mr Darcy and Elizabeth to follow his lead. Travellers from the stagecoach and the revellers from the common room seemed to believe they had been invited and were milling into the room.
"If you want to flee lass, now is the time. English, have you changed your mind?" The priest asked jovially, moving his deep-set eyes between them. Bride and groom shook their heads. "Very well, we might proceed then. Names?"
"Fitzwilliam Thorne Alexander Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire."
"Elizabeth Inghean Vanora MacBennet of Eilean Bennet Castle, Loch Tay."
"Right, awfully long names, repeat after me..."
As the day withered away, Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam were married. It was easily done while twilight turned to darkness and the night fell over the Toll Booth. The stagecoach had changed horses and the coachmen had eaten their supper, it was time to leave.
Peter Moody shook Mr Darcy's hand and wished his bride joy and led them to the back room. Elizabeth wondered if there might be a register to sign but the room held only one object, a bed...
Darcy blushed scarlet as the door closed behind them but Elizabeth laughed.
"Oh my, do we have time before the coach leaves?"
"Certainly not!" Darcy grabbed her hand and pulled her to him for a searing kiss before he pulled her out the door, through the cheering crowd and on to the stagecoach for the last leg of their journey. They would reach Edinburgh by the next mourning, where they would wait for their carriage from Pemberley to arrive.
It was dawn when the stagecoach approached Edinburgh. Progressing up High Street, the old town loomed, dominated by the ancient castle from its rocks, bodeful with its thousand years history.
Sufficiently grim to live up to the old Scottish saying: The clartier, the cosier.
Characteristic religious inscriptions carved on the lintels over the stone doors on nearly every ancient house might convince the unknowing traveller of fervent piety. It was more than that though... An incantation, a talismanic protection against auld hornie - wizards, warlocks, werewolves all those frightful inhabitants of Satan's invisible world, in which the Scots so fervently believed, from laird to peasant.
Had it been two years prior, Darcy would have been reluctant to enter Edinburgh. In 1807, police had replaced the old semi-military Towns Guard, who had been keeping its residents in order rather than protecting them.
The eastern gale blew strong enough to turn over a carriage. Fortunately, the stagecoach was fully loaded and managed to stay on its wheels. Darcy and Elizabeth were cramped inside, in a corner, trying to overlook the lewd comments from their fellow passengers who was strangely enough, also their wedding party. Their all too swift sojourn into the consummation room was frequently mentioned. Offering to turn their backs and cover their ears at the newlyweds was never growing old...
Gloomy history nor ridicule could dampen the fervid anticipation of the groom. The inns was another matter... In the best of the old Edinburgh inn's, the beds well merited the description given of them as dish-cloths stretched on iron-grid. Not a place one would bring one's blushing bride.
In New Town, however, the bold James Dun had the audacity to call himself innkeeper instead of the old stabler and brought the outlandish word hotel to Edinburgh. 1776 marked the year he begun his hotel-keeping in the flats above John Neale's Haberdashery, built two years prior in 1774, as the first house in New Town. On the most easterly house on Princes Street, displayed a great, gilded sign proclaiming it Dun's Hotel.
The newlyweds alighted the stagecoach for the last time in their life and hailed a couple of young lads to carry their chests up the stairs to their lodgings. James Dun himself greeted his new guests with some misgivings as he took in their outdated apparel. A few gold coins clunked on his desk with the demand of hot bathwater and his best room for at least a week. His misgivings blew away with the upfront payment and Mr Dun was all smiles as he ordered his servants to their tasks. He hardly recognised the couple who emerged sometime later in the afternoon...
Elizabeth soaked in the deliciously warm water, cognisant of the screen who was all that divided her bare self from her husband who had gallantly offered her to avail herself of the bath first. A maid was rinsing the lily of the valley scented soap from her hair and helped her dry off when she rose. Reluctant but inclined to afford her husband at the least, lukewarm waters for his bath.
She sat down by the lit fire as they exchanged places, brushing her hair. The window beyond the screen highlighted the silhouette of her husband's form, still fresh in her mind from her clandestine perspective at the clifftop. The unpleasant thought of baring herself entered her mind. What if he found her freckles off-putting? Covered from head to toe as she was... Unconsciously, she gnawed on her thumb when her husband emerged from behind the screen, dressed in his robe, with bare feet.
Elizabeth let her gaze travel up his person to his predatory eyes. He looked like a hunter ready to strike, she thought it might be best to move first but she seemed to have lost the ability.
A pair of strong arms hauled her to her feet, clutching her to his chest. Not at all intimidated, she entwined her arms around his neck, pulling his head down to meet her tingling lips.
Darcy kissed her softly and reverently despite the passion ignited in his eyes. His hands stroked her back, pulling the sash, holding her robe together, looser by each brush.
The hands trailed down to her bottom and lifted her up. Her limbs clenched around his waist to support herself as her hands moved to his chest, tugging at the robe who was trapped between their bodies. Abandoning the robe, her hands clutched his jaws and he deepened the kiss. His tongue invaded her mouth, liquid warmth pooled at her core as she felt they were moving. Her back hit the mattress, releasing her legs the robe opened up as Darcy hovered over her on all fours.
Her mouth felt bereft as his lips left hers to trail kisses down her neck, creating an entirely new frisson at her core.
The kisses continued along her collarbone, making her wonder if he intended to kiss every freckle she had, postponing the consummation of their union with days... A low rumbled chuckle escaped her lips.
"Ticklish?" Darcy enquired.
"Nooo frecklish," she admitted. Twining her fingers into his hair, pulling him back down. She felt his smile against the skin at the rise of her breast. He let his hand run inside her thigh to her calf, grabbing her ankle as he sat up, lifting her foot to his mouth.
"I love your freckles, especially this one." Darcy left a soft kiss on the top of her foot. "And this one," as he kissed the inside of her calf. Leaving his warm breath trailing up the top of her thigh to her hipbone where another soft kiss was positioned.
Her pert nipples had winded into tight, peaks of vine red knots that caught her husband's attention next.
Her hands travelled onto his back, marvelling at the muscles working as he held himself aloft, suckling her peaks. She wanted to touch more of him and tugged him to her. He fell atop of her with an oomph, striving to rise off her but she would have none of it. A part of him was pressing delightfully at her core, she did not want him to move away and clutched him to her with all her limbs wrapped around his torso. Arching herself for deeper contact, he gave in and attacked her lips while their movements became frantic. All of a sudden, a stinging sensation ruled her senses before it left her with only bliss remaining. A euphoria that grew in proportions until it controlled her body and mind exclusively. Sounds she had never heard emitted from her mouth as Darcy groaned, stiffened and shuddered. Collapsing on top of her while whispering a litany of love declarations.
A couple of hours of sleep revived the couple. Officially married, there was no longer any reason to feign low social status. Darcy had every intention of outfitting his bride with the best Edinburgh could provide.
The textile industry had developed during the second half of the 18th century in Scotland. New materials as linen, cotton, silk muslin and silk gauze appeared on the market eliminating the need for Scottish ladies to go abroad, to London or Paris, to be fashionably attired.
Having the haberdasher below was convenient but setting a seamstress to work was more pressing. A gown could not be made in a day... Luckily, the owner of the haberdashery, Mr Neale, could recommend a seamstress that for a little extra monetary gain, had some time to spare. Elizabeth was measured and the first gown of light printed muslin was selected and accessorised with a silk cloak and matching hat and slippers. The rest could wait until the morrow.
The Darcy's strolled out on Princes Street with a new sensation of unity after their flesh had been united into one.
Stretching their legs were welcomed diversion after having been cooped up in a carriage for days.
Edinburgh saw most of its visitors in theatrical season from January to March but that did not necessarily mean that the streets were abandoned. Earning the appellation The modern Athens for its many intellectual philosophers, created a thriving city with many attractions.
The Assembly Rooms on George Street were open for the evening and the heavy-looking, unornamented building amazed the Darcys with its lush ballroom, a tearoom and no less than two cardrooms, upon entering. Mr Darcy paid the entrance fee and offered Elizabeth his hand for a turn about the dancefloor which Elizabeth nearly missed, having her head turned upwards at the very rich lustre lights. Mr Darcy may not excel in the vigorous reels of the Highland but the more sedate Sarabande, he had down to the nines. Leading his lady confidently and elegantly around the ballroom. A half-hour pleasantly spent, had made them thirsty and they approached the refreshment table for some punch.
"Elizabeth," a familiar voice called out.
"Mrs Monro," Elizabeth exclaimed and the ladies greeted each other cordially.
"Mr Darcy, this is my father's sister, Mrs Monro. She is married to Mr Monro Jr, a professor at the medical, anatomical and surgery faculty at Edinburgh University. Mrs Monro, my husband Mr Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire." Pleasantries were exchanged with an invitation to Mrs Monro's oyster cellar, two days hence. Elizabeth fervently hoped that her new silk muslin in deep purple would be finished by then, knowing Mr and Mrs Monro to frequent in highly intellectual and influential society. Having accepted the invitation with delight, even Mr Darcy was looking forward to the evening, the two lovers excused themselves. Entering the dancefloor for the last time of the evening, not because it was the last dance of the evening, rather as a result of their close proximity and intimate touches during the dance, made the Darcys retire in haste to the privacy of their own chamber.
As most honeymooners, the Darcys kept much to their own chamber for the next days. Only to alight for meals and fittings at the seamstress. When the day of Mrs Monro's Oyster Cellar party arrived, they essentially regretted accepting the invitation but since it would be too rude to cancel, they arrived at the arranged time.
The Monro butler escorted them to the cellar where a long table had been arranged with oysters from the famous beds of Firth of Forth and ale aplenty. A cup of punch was thrust into their hands upon arrival with a suggestion to mingle. The eclectic guests were Mr Monro's colleagues from university, writers, painters and even Mrs McIver, the owner of the cookery school in Steven Law's Close. Ambitious, Elizabeth thought to herself but the lady seemed amenable to being pleased rather than judging the fare.
Mr Darcy soon became engrossed in the gentlemen's discussions of the Napoleonic war. The peace had failed and the peninsular war had broken out when the badly prepared fifth coalition, led by Austria, had lost the battle of Wagram in July.
48 Scottish regiments fought in the British forces against France. Everyone knew someone who had fought or was still fighting. Elizabeth's own family of Campbells were heavily represented. The Highlanders, who had previously been thought of as wild and savage, had proven their mettle and bravery, increasing the demand after soldiers hailing from the Highlands.
The meal was announced but there were no table cards. Mr and Mrs Darcy chose to sit together, letting their legs touch and their hands occasionally brush the other's.
Both loved oysters and tucked in on the food and the drink.
After dinner, there was dancing albeit not the formal ballroom dances from the assembly. The reels were wild and boisterous, Darcy refrained from participating but enjoyed watching Elizabeth dance, light-footed and gracefully. Bewitched he strolled the outskirts of the dancers, Elizabeth was well aware of the attention her husband were ladling on her person and sent one of the literary students to recite a song to her husband. Complementary from a secret admirer...
Gie the Lass Her Fairin
O gie the lass her fairin lad,
O gie the lass her fairin.
An something else she'll gie to you.
That's waly worth the wearin;
Syne cowp her ower amang the creels.
When ye hae taen your brandy.
The mair she bangs the less she squeels.
An hey for houghmagandie.
Then gie the lass a fairin, lad.
O gie the lass her fairin.
An she'll gie you a hairy thing.
An o it be na sparin;
But cowp her ower amang the creels.
An bar the door wi baith ye heels.
The mair she bangs the less she squeels.
An hey for houghmagandie.
Elizabeth tried to observe Mr Darcy clandestinely when the song was conveyed. He did not smile nor did his countenance redden. Elizabeth regretted her impulsive act, perhaps he had been insulted or worse... That he thought less of her for knowing the bawdy song.
Quite a few revellers had liquefied enough to recite some verses, among them, were several other of Robert Burns' and some more palatable ones of Walter Scott's. Hopefully, Darcy had not associated the recitation with his wife as he continued conversing with the student as nothing untoward had happened.
Elizabeth was introduced to one of the professors by her aunt, Mrs Monro. James Finlayson requested a dance which she accepted. He was the professor of Logic and Metaphysics and turned out to be a rather quiet dance partner which reminded her of another quiet dance at Eilean Bennet Castle. She contemplated to taunt a few words out of the taciturn man but decided it probably was not worth the bother. When the dance ended, Darcy was nowhere in sight. Professor Finlayson offered to bring her a cup of punch but Elizabeth declined, deciding she had had enough of the robust drink. Instead, she searched for her husband. Strolling the perimeter of the revellers as he had done, just moments before. A young student, not the one she had foisted upon her husband, took her hand and led her to the midst of the dance floor. She was rather miffed, he had not requested a dance and she was not inclined to accept one. Preoccupied as she was with locating her wayward husband.
The young buck asked her to stay and disappeared. She was not one to be told to do anything. Elizabeth turned on her heel to stride off when the sea of people parted and the object of her quest materialized before her eyes. His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight, his mouth was set and the muscles in his jaws were working hard. Elizabeth could not determine if he was angry or merely uncomfortable.
Darcy grabbed Elizabeth's hand and her heart sank to her stomach. He must be angry and was about to haul her back to the hotel with a severe reprimand in mind...
He sank to his knee, lay his free hand over his heart and spoke in his lively, deep baritone voice:
Tae A Thistle
Tae Scots yer mair than just a flower.
Yer a symbol o' great strength an' power.
Wrapped in shades o' purple an' green.
Yer the bonniest flower this land has seen.
Some folk say yer jist a weed.
But we Scots ken yer a mighty breed.
Yer delicate yet strong an' bold.
An' worth mair to us than silver an' gold.
Aye, yer loved by Scottish hearts.
An' yer always wur right fae the start.
Wi' yer purple heads and yer spiny stems.
Yer the richest o' all oor Scottish gems.
The crowd cheered and Mr Darcy smiled brilliantly, revealing a dimple in his cheek. Elizabeth laughed in relief and tugged on Mr Darcy's hand to get him up from the floor but he resisted her attempts of dragging him to his feet.
"It is custom for the bard to get a reward..." His smirk and predatory eyes revealed that he definitely had something risqué in mind but did she dare...
"I believe you are a Sassenach, not a Scotsman, Mr Darcy. Perhaps you should point out the Scottish hearts I have filled with love so that I can reward them..."
"I have Scottish blood, my grandmother was Lady Stonehaven."
"Lowlander..." Elizabeth wrinkled her nose but soon realised that Edinburgh was not the place to show contempt.
Darcy knew exactly when she had decided on her course of action, her eyes betrayed her mischievous mind.
She put her arm gingerly around his shoulder and positioned herself daintily on his knee. He received a swift, chaste kiss on the lips before they strayed along his cheek to his ear where she whispered a few pointed words that made his eyes widen and his jaws slacken...
The Darcys bade their hosts a swiftly goodnight. A short carriage ride later they were back at Dun's Hotel. Darcy held Elizabeth beholden to her suggestive remark, not that she had any intentions of bowing out on her promise to kiss every part of him...
*Aphrodite - the Greek goddess of love, beauty, pleasure, passion and procreation. Modern cinema portrays her with blond hair but in ancient art and tradition, she was a redhead...
*Iliad – ancient Greek epic poem, attributed to Homer about the Trojan War.
*Undine – imaginary elemental being, usually female, associated with water. Although resembling human form they do not have a human soul. To achieve mortality they have to marry a human. The union was not without risk for the man who was fated to die if he was unfaithful... (Wikipedia)
*According to Wikipedia – The Great North Road, in the golden age of coaching between 1815 and 1835, the stagecoach could travel from London to York in 20 hours and from London to Edinburgh in 45 ½ hours. We are a few years earlier in this story, in 1809 so I have added a little time. (The horses could trot in 10-15 miles per hour for 2-3 hours before they were changed.)
*Information on the marriages performed at the Coldstream Toll Booth is from the (border ancestry) website.
*Elizabeth's names Inghean means daughter, Vanora means white wave
*Information on Gretna Green and Coldstream bridge from (Regency history net)
*Clartier means dirtier.
*Edinburgh fashion and leisure from the website (18thc-cities-Edinburgh).
*Gie the Lass Her Fairin from Robert Burns: Merry Muses of Caledonia. Banned for over 100 years, until 1965 in the UK and 1964 in the US.
*Tae a Thistle is attributed to Robert Burns on Pinterest and Facebook but I could not find any proof of that when I looked through the 559 complete works of Robert Burns.