Now Cullen would take to wife Wills, or whatever she would call herself as a woman, unhappy he would wager, at the church in Portsmouth. His aunt had warned him he must at least make an attempt to woo the woman. An eligible clansman like Cullen could no longer drag a woman off for hand-fasting.
“It’s 1820, for heaven’s sakes,” she’d said. “Scotsmen are not savage brutes anymore. You can’t just take a woman against her will. We’re well respected business owners and traders.”
Both Cullen and Fergus had given her incredulous looks when she’d gone that far. “Well we are,” she insisted. “And I expect the two of you to uphold the reputation of the clan.”
Fergus had leaned close to Cullen and whispered, “Dinna worry. Blood will tell.”
“I heard that, Fergus MacKenzie. I’m right here.” His aunt bristled and batted at her skirts in a show of hiding her annoyance.
“Och—ye always did have the ears of a flappin’ gorse rabbit.”
Cullen had called for tea at that point to soothe the two battling Scots in their elegant London townhouse.
Even though they’d secured the cooperation of Dr. Morton’s London solicitor once they explained the situation, Cullen realized with an ache in the area of his chest that the resolution of this farcical situation was now in his hands.
The solicitor had made his position clear. He realized the danger of the situation to Miss Morton, but he’d exacted a solemn promise from Cullen. The final decision to marry had to be Miss Morton’s. And the dowry would be modest, he’d warned them, since the bulk of the late physician’s fortune was to be entailed to Miss Morton and her children. Cullen had snorted at that disclosure, and his aunt had shrugged.
“Dr. MacCloud, as well as his future wife, will be under the protection of his mother’s clan, the MacKenzies. We will ensure they have sufficient funds.” His aunt’s steely stare for once had been directed at someone besides him. The solicitor had blinked first, and had signed off on consent for the marriage to proceed.
After enduring that ordeal, Cullen was not so sure he was up to the task of convincing the mysterious, stubborn Miss Morton.
“Where are ye, lad?” Fergus gave Cullen’s shoulder a brisk shake. “Out wool-gatherin’ again?”
Cullen ignored the question. “There’s a fine inn near the harbor, the Still and West, I believe it’s called. I’ll leave you there so you can drink your Scotch whisky in peace while I deal with the Morton lass. Once I talk to the captain, find her a decent dress…and talk her into wearing it, we’ll come find you and then on to the vicar at St. Mary’s Anglican Church.
“Ye don’t think ye might need a cooler head like mine to make sure ye don’t make a muddle of everything?”
If Cullen hadn’t needed to rein in the horses to a stop in front of the inn, he would have reminded Fergus of all the times he had been the last person to maintain a “cooler head.” A groom and stable boy ran out of the yard to take charge of the team and carriage.
He reached over and took the older man’s hand. “If I make a muddle of this marriage proposal, you have my permission to drum me out of the clan.”
Fergus nodded in assent, just like when Cullen was a lad and they’d had one of their “talks.” “Ye’re not going to make a muddle of anything.”
At that his oldest friend in the world dropped down from the carriage seat and headed toward the inn. Cullen handed the lads holding the carriage a few coins before he also stepped down onto the street to walk toward his destiny, or maybe his doom, at the Royal Navy docks.
Willa brushed the leaves from the knees of her serviceable trousers, the same kind of trousers she’d adopted for everyday work the last ten years at her father’s side. She’d found a secluded wooded area near Peterfield to exchange her drab mourning dress she’d procured when she left the ship for the male garb that would change the way the rest of the world viewed her.
She’d become so accustomed to being accepted as a young man aboard the Arethusa, she’d forgotten how restrictive the lives of other women her age were. Most of her female contemporaries would have been married by the time they were twenty. Their lives would be under the purview of their husbands, after having been controlled by their fathers before that.
An unmarried woman of her age could become a governess, but only if she had an education sufficient to be useful to her employer. All Willa had learned, and practiced, had been medicine. She was not even supposed to be trained in medical arts, let alone teach them.
And then there was the post of nurse, or nanny. She’d had enough of wailing brats in the Partlow household, and, besides, she would need references. All that remained were positions in service as a maid, housekeeper, or cook, all of which would also require references.
As a young man, though, the world would open up a bit more. She had a mad plan which she’d turned over and over in her mind. It was a hazardous leap, but might just work.
From time to time over the years, the Arethusa had transported animals - chickens, sheep, goats, hogs…and sometimes horses. When the creatures were injured or seized with one ailment or another, the captain often would rely on the ship’s surgeon to suggest or implement a treatment. Since her father frequently had his hands full with the crew, she was usually dispatched for the odd duty to treat animals.
She dusted off her jacket, jammed a hat onto her head, and headed down the road toward the Still and West stables.
Cullen sat across from Captain Still and mulled the best way to break the strained silence between them. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with his commanding officer, but he didn’t
