A/N: Just a short note...I am doing a RL writing project for NaNoWriMo, so updates of all of my fics will be sporadic after this. I was trying to finish this on the weekend, but life intervened and yesterday I was traveling.
Thank you all for your reviews of this fic. I do plan on having a couple more chapters after this one. Please leave me a word on what you think, if you have time. I do appreciate all reviews!
Glasgow, Scotland, Summer 1794
Her cousins giggle as they try on hats. Charlotte cannot help but smile at them. She fingers the deep blue ribbon in her hands.
"It would look nice with your hair," Anne says, smiling.
"Yes," she agrees. "But I really don't need it-"
"Not another word, Lottie!" Jane deftly takes it out of her hands. "You have been staring at it since we arrived. And yesterday, when we were here. Here," she hands it to the milliner's daughter. "We will take this as well."
"Jane, I can't let you-" Charlotte protests. Anne slips her arm around her back.
"You'll let her buy it for you, and not say anything else about it. She's a generous soul, you know that!" Anne gives her a kiss on the cheek. "You are our guest until the autumn. Let us spoil you while you are here."
"When you go home to Yorkshire, someone else will spoil you. Though not with ribbons." Jane's eyes danced. "Though he will appreciate them. And your hair."
"Jane!" Her older sister admonishes her, but the younger girl only laughs at her. Charlotte looks down, a smile growing on her face along with her blush.
Arthur.
Her fiancé.
She has known him most of her nineteen years. His father's farm borders theirs. She remembers seeing him as a young lad running in the fields.
Their engagement was never in doubt. They are well matched, both being quiet and rather shy. Both unafraid of hard work. Growing up on the land has taught them the lesson well.
And the fact that she is her parents' only child means they will have a bigger farm to hold.
A lump forms in her throat at the thought of Mother. And Father.
How cruel that they died this year. Before she is married.
It is the reason she is in Scotland at all.
When Father died, a distant cousin of his claimed the land. Fortunately her uncle, Mr. Johnson, had the means to hire an attorney and contest it. The land is hers now without question.
Mr. Johnson is a brewer and merchant who moved to Glasgow some years before. For most of Charlotte's life, she has known her mother's brother and his family through letters and nothing more.
They have taken her in and looked after her, generously giving her a home. If only for a short time. After the harvest, Arthur will come to the city and they will be married.
In the midst of her grief, she could not have imagined leaving home for any reason. But her uncle, aunt and cousins have soothed her loneliness – or at least, some of it. She is glad now she will be married so they can be there.
Even if she is an outsider. And it is sometimes uncomfortable that they are so generous to her. She is the poor relation from the country, though no one mentions it.
She thinks about Arthur as they emerge from the shop. She misses him. His letters are frequent, if short. He is busy helping his father, as well as growing a crop on her land. She would have helped him, but it was not proper that she, an unmarried woman, stay at the farm alone.
Next year will be different. Then they will work together, as it should be.
The din of the city jars her out of her head. The constant sounds of horses, carriages, ships, and people. She misses Yorkshire, the quiet.
Aunt Sarah waits in the carriage for them. She has spent the morning making calls. The girls get in, enthusiastically telling her about their day as the coachman flicks the reins for the horses to move.
Charlotte's eyes flicker to the young man's back. She wonders if he wants to be there at all.
She knows she would not, if she were in his place.
Iain clicks his tongue as the carriage crosses the aqueduct over the River Kelvin. It is a fine, bright day. The horses' ears are up. He grins at them.
At least they can trot a bit. Instead of being stuck in a stable, day after day.
If it were up to him, he and the horses would be far from this cursed city, and where they belong. In the country.
If we had not been forced out by the landlord. If we could have kept the farm.
If Da was still alive.
He swallows, feeling his throat burn.
He, Mam, and his brothers and sisters had come to Glasgow three years before to find work, so the family would not starve. No home, nowhere to go. The younger children are used to living in the city now.
He knows he never will.
It does not help that of the five children, two have since followed their father to the grave.
He blinks back tears. Behind him, the young women chatter like geese.
It does not seem fair that Kit and Alex sleep beneath the ground, while Miss Anne and Miss Jane flit from shop to shop and gossip about men.
He and Kit laughed at them. Not to their faces, of course.
He sighs. Mam does not like him thinking such things. She, along with his younger sister Liza, work as servants in the house. He can practically hear Mam's voice in his ear.
Now what good is it, lad, holding a grudge against folks? Do ye ken anything about them?
Glancing over his shoulder, he glimpses Mrs. Johnson with her niece. If there is any member of the family he feels sorry for, it is the young woman newly arrived in Glasgow. Her parents dead, and someone trying to take away her home.
He knows what that feels like.
Standing in the yard by the stables that evening, he reads the letter again.
…it would not be like Lanarkshire, but if you want it, the land is yours.
"What? You would rather read than eat?" Liza grins at him, snapping him out of his reverie. "Mrs. Campbell said if you don't come in now, she'll feed your dinner to Captain." Mr. Johnson's dog.
Iain knows the cook does not give idle threats.
"The words won't change, no matter how much you look at them," Mam says gently in the kitchen. She sits down next to him with a sigh, laying one of Mrs. Johnson's frocks on her lap. He looks up from the remains of his stew.
"I know. Mr. McIntosh makes a generous offer." He rubs his hand through his red hair. "Argyll is so far away…"
"Why would you want to go there?" Mrs. Campbell, the cook, asks. "Your mam, Liza and Bobby will stay here in Glasgow. You have a good place here. Why break your back on a farm again? It did not end so well for you the last time, did it?"
Mam and Iain both turn to glare at her. "It is a fine thing for a man to own his own land, if he wishes," Mam says. There is an unmistakable hint of pride in her voice. "Just as there is no shame for a man to drive a carriage and work in a rich man's house. But it is Iain's choice to make. To decide what sort of life he wants."
The cook shakes her head and goes to the doorway to shout at the scullion. It is clear what she thinks he should do.
"It is not all wrong, what she said," he says to Mam. "Mr. Johnson is a good man. It would not be a bad life. In many ways it would be an easier one."
"True." She nods. "But it is not the life you want."
It is not. To always be at the beck and call of others, to never own the horses he tends.
He also wants a family someday. It would be difficult, but not impossible. But to be a coachman would mean his wife would never know when he would be home. To raise bairns in a crowded, dirty city where the air reeks and the water is foul.
He wants more than that.
The morning sun streams through the window as Lottie finishes her letter. It is good of Mrs. Williams, her mother's old friend, to write her. It makes her feel as though she is still in Yorkshire. Though she has only been gone barely a fortnight, it feels an age since she left.
She sighs after giving the letter to Smith to post. The blue sky calls to her.
The stables are quiet. Petunia whinnies softly as she approaches her. The coachman seems surprised to see her, but saddles the mare for her to ride. He does insist on going with her. She wishes she could ride alone - she often does at home, but she does not know the city or the surrounding areas well. And her uncle would want someone to go with her.
They ride north until the city is behind them.
"Mr. Hughes?" She asks as they approach a small copse of trees near the village of Bishopbriggs. "Where are we going?"
"Here, Miss Thompson," he says, pointing to the trees. "I grew up not far from here. My sisters and brothers and I used to walk to this place. I thought you might like it, seeing as how you said you wanted to ride outside of Glasgow. And you should call me Hughes, like your uncle and his family."
She blushes, embarrassed by her mistake. "I…at home, we never had servants. Just some help in the spring, and during the harvest. And we called them by their Christian names." She pauses as he helps her down from Petunia. "Your name is Iain. Your sister was talking about you last night."
"Yes, that's my name," he says, taking Petunia's reins. It surprises him that she knows his name. He doubts her cousins know it after several years. "And yours is Lottie."
"Charlotte," she corrects him. "My aunt, uncle and the girls call me Lottie. My mother and father always called me Charlotte."
No one has called her by her full name since Mother died. Lottie, Miss Thompson, Miss…she longs both for someone to call her by her name, yet dreads it at the same time. It will never sound the same coming from anyone else.
She has told Arthur of her wishes. She knows he respects them, but he still refers to her both in writing and in person as Miss Thompson. Though he always called her Lottie when they were children. Like most people do.
"Tis a fine name," Iain says. "Though I don't think it would be proper for me to call you anything but Miss Thompson. Even when there's no one about."
"You are probably right." They smile at each other. She goes to sit down in the shade of a tree. "Thank you for bringing me here."
"You are very welcome, Miss."
During the long weeks of summer, Charlotte comes to the stables often. Sometimes she requests Petunia for a ride. Sometimes there is no time for one. If it rains, she simply visits the animals, and talks to Iain about them. They share stories of growing up in the country.
Only if the other stable lads are occupied elsewhere. Which they are.
Often.
Iain likes her company. She sees him as a person, in a way none of the Johnsons do. He senses that she likes his frankness, and that she can be more herself around him. Even more than she can be around her family.
Over time their conversations turn from being merely about four-legged creatures and add humans. Iain finds she is a good listener. He tells her about his childhood near Bishopbriggs. About Da, who loved to sing. Kit, his closest companion. His brother Alex, who had a fiery temper.
Liza looks after Anne, Jane and Charlotte. She is a sweet girl, but she has a spark about her, he tells Charlotte. Like Mam. His younger brother Bobby is the only one of the family not working for the Johnsons. He works for a merchant, near the River Clyde.
"Did he always want to be a merchant?" She asks one evening. She pats Prince on the nose.
Iain shakes his head. "No. Until Da died, I think he always thought he would be a farmer."
"It is a shame you couldn't stay in your home."
"A damned shame," he says without thinking, his temper flaring. "But no, some wealthy landowner wanted our land to graze his sheep on, and we didn't have any rich relations to hire an attorney-"
He stops, seeing her face.
"I-I beg your pardon, Miss Thompson," he stammers. "I…did not mean to offend you."
"You didn't," she lets out a breath. "You were being honest. If Mr. Johnson were not my uncle, I would likely not have a home, either."
There is an awkward silence as he goes to get oats for the horses. He is very glad when she breaks it.
"I am the one who should ask for your forgiveness," she says quietly. "I suppose I sounded patronizing, by saying something that sounded polite, but really diminished your family's suffering to another subject of conversation. The offense is mine."
"I am not offended," he measures the oats carefully. "I know you did not mean to sound rude."
Or English, though that is what you are.
You cannot understand what we live with here.
How can she understand if no one explains?
He thinks it would be a bridge too far to tell her everything. Despite her being the daughter of a farmer, she is also Mr. Johnson's niece. And there are details that would be horrible for a woman to hear.
Ridiculous. She is stronger than she looks.
"It is terribly wrong, what happened to your family," she says. There is a hint of steel in her dark eyes. "I pray that someday you all will receive justice. And if not in this life, then I pray you all have great happiness."
"Thank you," he says. Perhaps he will tell her all of it. She would listen, he is sure.
"Well." She stands for another moment, then turns to go. "I don't think there will be time for another ride anytime soon. The dance next week…"
He looks up and cannot help but smile at her worried expression. "Mr. Johnson warned me and the lads about the guests coming next week. Your cousins are very excited, I take it."
"They are."
"And you?"
She shakes her head. "I would prefer to sit and watch the evening proceed, but I doubt I will have that choice."
"You are the guest of honor. There are worse ways to spend an evening than dancing."
"Not in my world, there aren't," she says dryly. He holds in his laughter until she goes into the house.
The evening had not started badly. She was introduced to each guest by her uncle and aunt, and then proceeded to dance with several distinguished men from Glasgow.
Everything appears to be going well. But it is not.
She feels hopelessly like a fish out of water.
I am a Yorkshire farmer's daughter, and that is all. I am happy with my lot in life. But to be paraded in front of half of Glasgow society as though I am some heiress, or promised to some rich man in England, when I am not…
During a break, she stands next to her aunt as the older woman talks with several friends. The musicians play loudly, so she assumes that is why several young women feel free to giggle about her behind their fans.
I cannot imagine what is worse. That they think I cannot hear them, or they know I can – and speak of me anyway!
Her gown feels like it is choking her. The room is stifling.
She excuses herself, and makes her way to the stables. They are thankfully empty, the lads enjoying themselves in the yard with a number of other coachmen, drivers and servants.
She weeps quietly, hiding her face in Petunia's mane.
"Miss Thompson?"
She gasps, lifting her head, trying in vain to dab her eyes with her handkerchief. A stray curl stubbornly breaks free on her forehead. "Hughes. I am sorry, I didn't know you were in here."
"I saw you come in." He bites his lip, his eyes worried. "Are you all right?"
She knows the proper answer. Yes, of course, I just needed some fresh air. I should return, my aunt will be asking for me, & etc.
"No," she whispers, her voice breaking with her resolve. "I don't belong in there, I don't know half the dances and I feel like a clod during the ones I do." She takes another breath, a half-sob. "And I should not care what others say about me, even when they are rude, but…"
"What are they saying?" He interrupts her. She feels a rush of gratitude. He looks as though he will storm into the house and shout at those responsible.
"Nothing that I have not heard before," she says honestly. "The other girls whisper about my features, my brown face and hands, how Jack must have climbed the beanstalk, and met me at the top." She laughs rather bitterly. "At least in Yorkshire when I heard such things, those saying them had the decency to say them to my face, not pretend to be nice to me, then laugh later!"
"They are…" He swallows several insults, knowing it would not be appropriate to use that language in front of her. "Don't listen to them. You should be proud of being in the sun, of not having pale skin like theirs. It reflects the work you've done."
"You have pale skin."
"Because I burn in the sun. I'm a Scot," he says, continuing on before she can wallow in her unhappiness any longer. "And your height becomes you," he makes sure to wait until she looks him in the eye. "Truly. I've seen other women near your stature, and they always bend over like they are ashamed. But you never do. You stand up straight. And as for your features…" He pauses. "God made you the way He did, and everything He makes is perfection, so anyone who contradicts Him is wrong."
As the words leave his mouth he realizes what he's said. His face and hers redden immediately, and he looks at the ground.
She is both mortified, and pleased to a greater extent than she has ever been before. But she also feels a wave of guilt.
I should not be so pleased at a compliment from another man, and a man who works for my uncle, no less.
Mr. Hughes called me perfect.
Me.
I have been called many things, but not that.
Arthur has never called me…perfect.
He compliments me, but finds it difficult to express himself in words. That is his way.
Iain hastily grabs a brush and begins grooming Petunia, though she does not need it. Charlotte is quiet.
"Thank you, Hughes," she murmurs at last. "That is very kind of you."
She has to concentrate while speaking. She does like the sound of his voice. His lilt is almost musical, she thinks. And as for what he said…
He does not trust himself to look at her, but nods to show he heard her. His face feels like it is on fire.
"Miss Thompson?"
She jumps at the sound of Mrs. Hughes's voice. Taking two steps away from the coachman, she feels further embarrassment at the thought that the housekeeper caught them standing so close together. Though it was not really improper.
Though it feels as though it was.
And she is his mother…
"Yes? What is it, Mrs. Hughes?" She asks, hoping everything she feels is not on her face. The older woman watches her. Her expression betrays nothing.
"Your aunt is asking after ye."
Iain closes his eyes. Mam, is it necessary that you embellish your accent now?
Mrs. Johnson has told his mother it would be better if she tried to appear less Scottish. Mam is not pleased with the suggestion, but does try to soften her accent around the family.
Charlotte nods. "Thank you. I'll go directly. I was just getting some air," she says as she passes the housekeeper. She walks hastily back to the house.
The stable is so quiet Iain can hear the singing of the men in the yard and in the street, as well as each brushstroke he makes over Petunia's back.
"Be careful, my lad. Or you'll end up with no job, and a broken heart."
His mother's tone indicates the latter concerns her much more than the former.
Iain looks back at her, giving away nothing. "What do you mean?"
She raises her eyebrows. He tries to meet her piercing stare, knowing that she knows him better than anyone.
Mam shakes her head and follows the young woman back to the house, her keys jingling at her hip.
There is no need for words.
As he brushes down Petunia, he already knows it is too late.
It doesn't matter that he has nothing, or that Charlotte's uncle hired him, or even that she has a fiancé ready to marry her at the end of the summer.
He loves her.
The summer lingers. In later years, she will look back on those several weeks in wonder. It feels as though they last twice as long as a usual summer, while at the same time hurrying along as if time raced towards the autumn.
She and Iain do not speak again of what was said the night of her uncle's dance. When he accompanies her on rides, they speak of everything else. How the crops grow in Yorkshire, and how it compares to Scotland. Iain's writing to Mr. McIntosh, accepting the land. The young men calling on Anne. News from France. Thomas Muir sentenced for transportation.
He tells her hesitantly of what it was like to be cast out of the only home he had ever known. To watch men destroying their cottage as Mam, his sisters, and Bobby wept. Trying to hold back Alex from striking one of the men, and the terror he felt when the man raised his pistol.
The sound that he heard his mother make when soldiers shot her second son.
Charlotte weeps at the injustice done to Iain's family. It explains so much of who he is – proud of his home, grieved that it is lost, but steady in his resolve to remain independent.
But she feels helpless because nothing can change what has happened.
Just as she feels helpless about the growing divide in her heart.
She can talk to Iain about anything. Things that she has never said to anyone, not even to Arthur. The longing for brothers and sisters as a child. Seeing her father weep when her newborn sister died less than a week after she was born. Her mother's silent grief. The struggle her parents had to keep from losing the farm. Help that was given without their asking by their neighbours. How Arthur, his father, and younger brothers never asked for anything in return.
She talks often of Arthur. How hard he works. His generosity to friends and strangers alike. How his size sometimes frightens the local children, but his quiet charm wins them back. The kittens he rescued, half-drowned in the springtime.
Sometimes she reads parts of his letters aloud. Iain is a friend, she tells herself during those moments, and there is nothing improper to read to him about the weather in Yorkshire or the trouble of a cow gone dry.
At night while Jane sleeps next to her she wonders what it is she does feel for the Scottish coachman.
She fears to even think the word, though she has seen it in his eyes.
On a cool, crisp September day, she sits in the copse near Bishopbriggs, re-reading a letter from Arthur.
"He will be coming here soon."
Iain digs the toe of his boot into the ground. "He said he would come after the harvest was over. Of course he wants to ride north, to marry his bride and carry her home. I would expect nothing less, from what you've told me."
It costs him everything he has to speak without bitterness.
My life has just started. Why must it be over so soon?
"Quite so," she murmurs, folding the letter.
"Miss Thompson," he begins, turning to her, his hand on his horse. His blue eyes burn with intensity. He can no longer wait to say what he must. "If things were different, if I had anything more than a scrap of land in Argyle, if there was another way-"
"Don't say it," she begs, standing up. "Please."
She wants to go home to Yorkshire. Back where she knows everyone. It is home to her, and always will be.
But she wants to cling to the illusion for one more afternoon that somehow both Arthur and Iain can live in her heart. By him saying what he wants to say, there can be no more pretending.
He understands what she feels. He knows she loves Arthur, and he hates that he has caused her any doubt. Kit always teased him that he would break a girl's heart someday.
He wishes that it were not true.
"I have never known a woman like you," he whispers. "This summer has been the happiest time of my life, because of you."
"Hughes," she says, tears shining in her eyes. "Iain…you have been a good friend to me…you are a friend. You brought me to this place," she gestures around them, at the changing colors of the trees, "Knowing I missed the country. I will always remember your kindness."
It is not enough for him, she knows. But it is all she can give him.
There is something else. Now is the time. You may not have another day.
She hands him a soft bundle. "This is a gift for you," she says quietly. She thinks he will hate it, that she should not have done it. That it is not proper.
"Shall I open it now?" He asks. She nods, coloring slightly. She turns a little away from him.
It is an embroidered handkerchief, with a letter C stitched onto a corner. Folded inside is a lock of dark hair, tied with a blue ribbon.
Tears fill own eyes. He clears his throat and gently folds the fabric together, the secret inside. "Thank you, Charlotte…I will keep this with me always."
The way his tongue curls around the r on her name is something she will remember for as long as she lives. She cannot think of any response, so she gives him her hand to help her back onto Petunia.
How many times has he held her hand in his? Hundreds? Though he knows he will have it at least once again, when they return to the house, it will not be the same. Not like this moment.
He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it.
She gasps, but does not pull away.
They gaze at each other in the time it takes for a heartbeat to pass.
A bird, flying to another branch, calls to another. Iain takes a breath and helps Charlotte onto her horse. He tucks the handkerchief into his coat, and mounts his own.
They ride back to Glasgow, the silence between them saying everything.
October, 1794
Iain polishes Mr. Johnson's saddle. He inspects it for the smallest blemish. The lads muck out the stable, laughing with each other. He hears Smith calling for him, and looks up in surprise. The butler is rarely in the stable.
"Hughes," The older man seems rather put out, gesturing at the man with him. "Mr. Carson and his brother have just arrived. He insisted on coming to the stable before going into the house."
"I can spare a moment. As you told me, the family is away this morning," Mr. Carson says. He is a tall man, solid as a rock. Iain has never seen such a large nose on anyone. Smith huffs out an exasperated sigh.
"Yes, but as I said, they will return shortly. They only walked down the street to the McKinnon's, for tea. And you needn't worry about your horse. Hughes here is entirely capable of caring for your mare, and the other-"
"I am sure he is, but I wanted to see for myself," Mr. Carson ignores the indignant butler. He turns to Iain. "Miss Thompson has written to me about you. She said you grew up on a farm. Naturally, I assume that means you know how important it is that the horses, in particular my mare, are cared for properly. I cannot afford for her to be neglected."
If his Yorkshire accent had not given him away, his casual mention of Charlotte would have.
Iain blinks, trying to contain the storm of feelings inside him. "I do, sir. I'll see that she is well taken care of. I'll look after her myself."
"Mr. Carson, if you would follow me-" Smith says, trying to return to the comfort of the house.
"In a moment, Mr. Smith, as I said," Arthur has a hint of annoyance on his face. "Have no fear. I will be presentable by the time the family returns home."
Iain almost smiles. Smith leaves the stable, clearly irate.
"He's diligent, I will give him that," mutters Arthur. He looks down at his dirty boots, his muddy coat and breeches. "Does he always follow guests here, nagging them to come into the house?"
"Er…most guests do not come into the stable," Iain says as honestly as he can. He takes the reins of the mare from the lad leading her. Another lad takes the other horse. Arthur sighs.
"That is my first mistake then. Doubtless there will be more. I am not a gentleman, Mr. Hughes. Just a farmer. Nothing would have made me leave Yorkshire but Charlotte…Miss Thompson, that is."
His face softens as he says her name. Iain is glad to have the horse between them. He begins to brush her down as she drinks.
"She told me you accompanied her when she would ride," Arthur says. "She said you took her riding in the country. Listened to her when she wanted to talk. Kept her from being too homesick for the country. City life doesn't suit her."
"Nor me," Iain keeps his voice calm. He wants to hate the man standing there, but he cannot. "I was just a friendly ear when she needed one."
He wonders if he was completely wrong. If that was all he was to Charlotte. Then he remembers the handkerchief, and his heart throbs painfully. To cover it, he concentrates on his task.
"This is a lovely mare," he says, noticing the horse's glossy coat. "She's been well taken care of."
"Thank you. From what I can see, so are the horses here. It bodes well for a man, that he would take such good care of that which does not belong to him."
Iain looks up at him.
There is no anger in Arthur's eyes. "Thank you for looking after her," he says softly. "I am most grateful to you."
He gives Iain certain instructions regarding his mare before going to the house.
That night, alone in his room, Iain looks at the handkerchief. He kisses the lock of hair in it, and weeps silently.
Lord, let him be good to her always.
His heart is broken, but he prays hers will not be.
As soon as they return from the McKinnon's, Smith tells Charlotte Mr. Carson has arrived. She has to contain herself from running into the drawing room.
It makes her marriage all the more real that he is there.
Arthur looks awkward in his surroundings, but the smile he gives her warms her heart. It is so good to see him after all this time.
"You look well," he whispers after dinner. Aunt Sarah and Jane have prudently removed themselves to a safe distance across the room. "Beautiful."
"Thank you," she murmurs, blushing. They stand so close together she can almost brush the back of her fingers against his coat. "But there is no need for you to compliment me-"
"There is every need, Charlotte," he smiles as her eyes widen at the mention of her name. "You will be my wife soon, after the banns are read. I have the right to compliment you, as well as the pleasure to do so. I do love you, you know."
He has never spoken so openly to her before. Or spoken her Christian name. Her heart skips.
"I had most of the summer to miss you," he says. "I never want to be apart from you for anything, ever again. I…worried that you might like Scotland so much you would want to stay here, and forget about me."
His worried expression tells him that he is serious.
She doubts it is only 'Scotland' that had him worried.
"I could never forget about you, Arthur," she says shyly, speaking his name aloud for the first time. She feels a slight pang for the first man to say hers. "I love you, too. Scotland is a lovely place, and there are things I will miss…but it is time to go home to Yorkshire. I missed it. And you."
Everything she says is true. He reminds her of who she is, and where she came from. She loves him more than anyone.
She will never quite be able to bring herself to explain to him what Iain means to her, but she knows that he is aware of it. And bless him, he never holds a grudge. It is not his way.
But she will miss Iain. Terribly. The thought of it later that night as she climbs into bed makes her heart ache.
God, let him be happy.
She and Arthur are married with her aunt, uncle, and cousins present. Arthur's brother William stands with him.
The newlyweds do not stay long in Glasgow. The journey home is a long one, and both wish to be home as soon as possible.
The day before they leave, they walk near the River Clyde, gazing at the ships. Arthur suddenly lifts his hat. Charlotte, her arm through his, wonders who he knows in the city.
Iain Hughes lifts his hat. She gives him a small smile. "Mr. Hughes. We did not expect to see you here."
He looks well, the chilly autumn breeze bringing color to his pale face. "I was visiting my brother," he says. "He'll be sailing away soon."
"You'll be leaving soon as well, we hear," Arthur glances at Charlotte.
"Mrs. Hughes told us you are moving to Argyll," she says. "You must be excited to begin anew."
"I am," he nods. He feels happy, content. "I did not think I would ever own my own land."
"Congratulations," Arthur shakes his hand with genuine warmth. "We wish you well."
"Thank you. I wish you both all the happiness in the world."
He means it. He can even see Charlotte's arm through her husband's without much pain.
Much.
"Goodbye, Mr. Hughes," Charlotte looks him in the eye. "God bless you."
They both know it is goodbye forever.
"Goodbye, Mr. Carson. Mrs. Carson," he puts his hat back on and walks past them. Though he wants to, he does not look back.
She does not either.
Yorkshire, near Ripon, 1856
Her granddaughter Catherine has brought her another blanket to lay on her lap. The girl also whispered that her guests would arrive soon.
She thought I was sleeping. No. I am an old woman. I was remembering.
Sometimes Charlotte feels every moment of her eighty-one years, and the weight of it can be overwhelming. Other times she remembers days long past as though they were yesterday.
The copse near Bishopbriggs. The feel of a young man's lips on my hand.
Dear Arthur. He adored me and I him, but I can still remember the young man with those blue eyes.
Iain…
"Granny?"
The young man's familiar voice booms above her. She opens an eye. "Good afternoon, Henry. You sound like your father."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," he kisses her cheek. Behind him, his wife Rose laughs with Catherine.
"You look well, dear," she pats Rose's cheek when the young woman greets her. "I hear the lad gave you a hard time when he arrived."
"I forgave him," Rose says, smiling. "And so will you." She sets the baby in her arms on Charlotte's lap carefully.
"So you're my great-grandson," Charlotte says to him, her wrinkled finger touching his distinctive nose. A Carson, through and through. "What is your name? Henry, like your father?"
Henry smiles at his grandmother. "No. We thought another family name was more fitting. If he had been a girl, she would have been Charlotte, but when he arrived, we decided to name him Charles."
Her heart swells. There are several Charlottes in the family, but Henry and she have always been close. It means everything to her that he would name his son after her.
"Charles," she says, and the infant opens his eyes. "I am very glad to meet you."
She smiles when he wraps his little fingers around her thumb.
Argyll, 1866
He hears the quick footsteps before the cat flees from him. Mairi whispers in his ear. "Jamie and Margaret are here-"
"I know, lass," he laughs. "I may be blind, but I'm not deaf!"
Thank God.
The door bangs open. "Poppa!" A girl's voice squeals, and Iain smiles broadly. A moment later he feels her little arms around his neck, and her weight on his lap.
"Och, Elsie, you are growing so big," he murmurs into her hair. "Margaret, what are you feeding your girl? She'll be bigger than me soon!"
"Elsie, be gentle," Jamie says. "What did we say at home? Your Poppa is frail, and we must be careful. He broke his leg not long ago-"
"My leg, but not my neck," Iain turns his head in the direction of his grandson's voice. "Let her be." He hugs his great-granddaughter close to him. She hums under her breath.
Of all his relatives, the youngest is one least afraid to treat him as a human being, rather than someone who will shatter into a hundred pieces. He's had everything happen to him in his ninety-one years. Smallpox, consumption, a dislocated shoulder. Losing his sight. A broken limb.
A broken heart can be just as painful as a broken limb.
He was a young man when Charlotte Thompson broke his heart. That was another time, and a different century altogether.
He can still see her in his mind. The curl that refused to stay with the rest of her hair.
The way her hand felt in his.
His great-granddaughter slips her own hand into his. She will see the end of this century, and likely a good stretch of the next.
"Elsie, lass," he whispers. "I am so glad you're here today!"
He leans forward, listening as she chatters about the family coming to visit. She stays on his lap. He hugs her more than once, feeling blessed indeed.
A/N: And we're (almost) to canon. TBC