Free Island of the Swans by Ciji Ware Page B

appearance at Sir Algernon Dick’s Hogmanay Ball at Prestonfield House as a newly promoted Brigadier General in the British Army. It was no mean achievement for a man whose father had been beheaded in the Tower of London by order of King George II.
    Standing in the candlelight on this, the last evening of 1765, clad in his Scottish regimental uniform that he was loath to admit was now worn in service to the British crown, he admired his reflection with uncharacteristic vanity. He fingered the lacy jabot that frothed at his massive neck and admired his new kilt, all the while musing on the market value of a daughter of an inconsequential baronet.
    In the weeks since he and Thomas had returned to Edinburgh from what was left of his Highland estates, Simon had made it his business to ascertain that the lad spent every free minute with that strumpet from down the road.
    What a wonderful irony, Simon reflected, that the lass’s own uncle would provide him the means of removing Thomas from Miss Maxwell’s clutches. Indeed, Simon took pleasure in the fact that James Maxwell—a captain in the 42nd Regiment—was using his influence to secure a place for Simon’s ward in the Black Watch. ’Twas a pity, Simon mused, that his own Fraser Highlanders had been disbanded following the Peace of Paris in 1763 ending the Seven Years’ War, but the Forty-second would do nicely for Thomas—for the present. Such a lieutenancy would, most likely, result in a post for the lad in the Colonies. The sooner Thomas was removed a safe distance from that penniless and unpredictable wench, the better , he thought grimly.
    A sardonic smile creased his own reflection. A couple of years’ seasoning in the Black Watch in North America, and young Thomas would be ready to take his place alongside Simon’s much younger half brother Archibald and the other young lads as a member of MacShimïs men—Fraser kith and kin loyal only to him ! The next time a prime minister asked Simon to raise a regiment, he would do it—for a price—and most of Inverness-shire would be Fraser land once again.
    Keeping time with the tip of his heavy black buckled shoe, Simon experimented with the first steps of “Miss Cahoon’s Reel.” He looked up just as young Thomas entered his dressing room.
    “Well, aren’t you the fine peacock, m’lad,” he said, eyeing his ward’s new suit of buff-colored breeches and coat of brocade rust satin—all of which had cost Simon a pretty farthing. “I’ll wager all the young ladies will be praying to St. Ninian that you’ll be askin’ ’em to dance!’
    “Thank you, sir,” replied Thomas, flushing slightly. “And thank you for the gift of the new clothes.”
    “The better to snare an heiress, eh lad!” Simon boomed. “There’s nothing to be lost if a man looks prosperous!”
    “Aye, sir…” Thomas replied, vaguely disturbed by the implication of his godfather’s words. “May I say, you’re looking quite magnificent in your dress regimentals,” he added, trying to steer Simon away from any specific instructions as to how he was to spend his evening.
    “Well, lad, there’s no finer sight than a man in a kilt, and that’s the truth, wouldn’t you say?” Simon declared as the pair descended the stairway to the waiting coach. “Soon you’ll be dressed in one of your own when you join the army.”
    Thomas merely nodded as the two climbed into Simon’s newly purchased landau, its matched pair of black horses prancing skittishly in the cold night air. For the first time in years, Simon felt almost at ease. Promotions and pay raises could do that for a man , he supposed.

    Prestonfield House, glowing like a welcoming beacon at the end of the drive, loomed larger and larger through the coach window. The driver reined in the horses as the Maxwells’ rented livery approached a smartly accoutered black barouche that had drawn to a halt in front of them.
    A satin-coated footman threw open their carriage door and