“I expect nothing less,” James replied with regal aplomb. “Those bottles have been gathering dust long enough. Bring ’em out, I say. High time they did some good for King and Country.”
The two left, and Donald and James joined Caroline and Jenny. “Donald has got me all curious about this secret of his,” James told Caroline. “Can’t he give us a hint?”
“It isn’t anything to do with me,” she protested. “This is something Donald has cooked up all on his own.”
“You flatter me, my dear,” said Donald suavely. “I am merely the happy second fiddle, content to play his small part in the great symphony of our eventful times.”
“Pull the other one,” Caroline told him. “He’s been behaving like a spy for the last two days or so. People coming and going at all hours of the day and night, strange cars parked outside, murmured phone calls, obscure messages, notes passed under doors. All very hush-hush. Honestly, I expect a police raid any moment.”
“We have had to be rather discreet, darling,” Donald reminded her gently. “It wouldn’t do in the present political climate to tip one’s hand too early.”
“Now I’m intrigued,” said Jenny.
“I’m afraid I seem to have promised not to say anything until I’ve spoken to Embries.”
Talk turned to other things then; tea arrived, the afternoon fled, and before long it was time to get dressed for the party. Jenny, aided by her cousins, arrayed herself in a long, low-cut, blue satin gown with long blue gloves; with a length of Ferguson tartan over one shoulder, and her long dark hair tied in a blue velvet bow, she looked every inch a Celtic queen. James dressed in his best kilt and jacket — complete with the Duke’s old belt with an enormous silver buckle, and his father’s sgian dubh tucked into the top of one wool sock.
As the clock struck seven, James took his place in the castle foyer to greet his guests. Besides Jenny’s immediate family and relations, numerous local friends had been invited: drinking buddy Douglas; the Reverend and Mrs. Orr and their daughter Janet; Malcolm Hobbs, James’ long-suffering solicitor, and his wife and children; Calum’s parents; Shona’s boyfriend; Gavin’s girlfriend; along with the rest of the castle staff and their families. It must have amounted to nearly half the town and surrounding countryside. They all came dressed in their finest: the men in kilts, for the most part; the women in ball gowns, many with gloves, and most with traditional tartan shawls secured at their shoulders with jeweled brooches.
James stood for over an hour greeting them all, and watching the foyer and corridors fill up. He had given instructions that the great hall was to be locked and no one allowed in until the dinner bell had been rung. The delay served to heighten the anticipation; unable to help themselves, the children took turns trying the door handles every few minutes to make sure the doors were still locked.
When the last guest had arrived, James signaled Rhys to sound the bell, whereupon the King announced that it was his very great pleasure to extend the hospitality of Castle Morven to all his friends. “Embries,” he called across the crowd, “open the doors and let the festivities begin!”
Thirty-three
The two huge doors were opened to reveal a room fragrant with the scent of peat and pine, and glowing with candlelight and hearth fire.
Artificial light had been banished. Massive iron candle-trees — rousted out of the stables and reblacked — were stationed in every corner, each bearing a score of candles; there were candles all along the center line of the tables and also in the high, deep window wells all around; huge cathedral candles and slender tapers. A log and peat fire burned lustily in the enormous fireplace, taking the chill off the vast, high-roofed room.
The old oaken floor had been washed and waxed, and the two long medieval banqueting tables as well; every surface gleamed with a dull, ruddy luster. Every knife, fork, and spoon, every salt-cellar and sugar caster had been polished; every plate, goblet, cruet, and bowl gleamed in the soft lustrous light. Ivy trailed in long garlands from the stag heads and ancestral portraits on the walls. Boughs of spruce were piled heavily over the mantel. A low stage had been set up at the far end of the room, and this was all but covered in ivy and spruce.
To step across the threshold was to step back in time. Simple, elegant, and inviting, the hall looked very much as it would have looked during the High Middle Ages.
The old Duke’s armor-wearing ancestors, my ancestors, would have seen the hall just this way, James thought.
A trivial thing, perhaps — the modest festive decoration of an old room — yet James did feel that in some way he was connected with his ancestry and lineage; he felt rooted. No longer a usurper playing laird o’ the manor, he was the laird. He was the King and, for the first time since assuming the throne, he actually felt regal.
This realization produced in him a peculiarly intense longing; the fiosachd tingled, and he glimpsed, like the ghosts of Christmas past, the images of all those lords who had preceded him. They filled the hall, welcoming him with satisfaction and approval, raising their bowls to drink his health. The phantom image faded as quickly as it had arisen, but the effect lingered long, lending the festivities a mellow, golden glow.
Calum and Isobel had masterfully plundered the old Duke’s wine cellar, and the resulting treasures were lined up like soldiers the length of the two great tables; reinforcements stood at the ready on improvised sideboards around the room. There were other choices as well, from heather ale to sparkling apple juice, and as they entered each guest was offered a glass of whatever they fancied. Cal and Izzy drafted Gavin and his girlfriend, Emma, to help with the drinks, and all four worked the crowd with bottles in both hands, priming the celebration pump.
Children flitted around the room like fairies. Dazzled by the candlelight and medieval ambience, they darted among the tall folk, their eyes wide with delight. The girls in their satin and tartan dresses and velvet hair bows and the boys in their diminutive kilts and high socks looked like miniature, less-restrained versions of their elders, racing from one end of the hall to the other, hooting and giggling.
When everyone was assembled, the bell sounded again and the guests were invited to find their places at the table. Shona and Cal had worked hard on the seating arrangement, and their ingenuity took some capricious turns. Embries, for example, was paired with Malcolm Hobbs’ nine-year-old daughter, and Mr. Baxter was placed between Caroline Rothes and Gavin’s girlfriend. James could not help notice that although he had not been allowed to sit with Jenny, Shona had managed to save a place for herself next to Rhys, and Cal was pleased to find himself next to Isobel.
No sooner had the last guest taken his seat than the first course appeared: Priddy’s champion oak-grilled salmon with peppercorns and cream. A smallish sample only, James was resisting the temptation to lick the plate when someone at the end of the table set his crystal goblet ringing with a spoon.
The guests looked up to see Sergeant-Major Evans-Jones standing at his place. “There is an old custom in the valleys where I was born,” he announced, “that on gala occasions such as this, the chaps help out with the serving so the dear ladies are not left with all the chores.” He paused, and added with a wink, “It’s a long, long night, after all.”
Looking up and down the room, he called, “Are ye wi’ me, lads? Say aye!”
There came a chorused Aye!, and the Sergeant-Major cried in his best parade-ground bellow, “On yer feet, men! Let’s show ’em how it’s done!”
The menfolk rose and began clearing the first course plates and carrying them to the kitchen, where a very surprised Priddy protested that she didn’t want a lot of clumsy men tromping through her kitchen — but Owen wouldn’t hear of it. In no time, the two of them had the next course dished up and served: haunch of venison, roasted with fennel and herbs.
Among the castle’s tableware, Priddy had found a half dozen silver platters large enough to hold an entire haunch, and these were carried out, with great ceremony, three to each table. Bo
wls of steaming vegetables followed: potatoes roasted in dripping, braised carrots and parsnips with coriander, and apples baked with cloves, brown sugar, and rum — all filling the hall with a magnificent aroma.
Six stout and trustworthy men were given the task of carving the haunches. The bowls were taken place to place, and plates were filled. The next hour was presided over by the clink of cutlery and the happy murmuring hubbub of conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter and much passing of bottles. Could the Duke of Morven’s worthy claret ever have been put to such a noble purpose, James wondered, or enjoyed half so much?
Cal and Izzy had plucked the best vintages from the cellar, and made sure the glasses were generously and regularly supplied. Once during the meal, Isobel appeared at James’ side with a bottle in her hand. “This,” she promised reverently, “is going to be magic.”
Gathering the attention of all the nearby guests, she proceeded to uncork the bottle. “Now, you’ll have to drink this right away,” she said, pouring a small amount into each glass. “It won’t last long, but it will be amazing.”
As soon as she finished pouring, she raised her glass. “Slainte!” She tossed it back in a single gulp, rolled the wine around in her mouth, and swallowed. “Oh, that is good.” Her smile was dizzy with rapture.
All followed her example, and drank it down.
“Well? What do you think?” she asked.
“It is” — James searched for the right word, the flavor still alive on his tongue — “utterly divine.” Others volunteered other words: rhapsodic, ethereal, bottled light, glorious, sublime.
“What is it?” someone demanded.
Lifting the bottle, she presented the label. “It’s a Château Lafite-Rothschild” — she paused, drawing out the suspense —”of the year 1878.” There were gasps of astonishment all around. “When I found this, I knew we had to have it tonight. Isn’t it spectacular?”
There was half a swallow left in James’ glass, and he took it. But the flavor enjoyed only seconds ago was gone. It was as if the liquid in his glass had turned to ashes — flat, muddy, dank ashes. He swallowed with difficulty. “Extraordinary,” he remarked. “It’s gone. Vanished.”
“I know.” Izzy sighed in commiseration. “Wine that old only survives a few seconds once the air touches it. But isn’t it a miracle while it lasts?”
Isobel moved on to delight some more guests. The glow of that rare magic remained, however, and those who had tasted it were warmed to their very souls. James exulted in the revelry. Everyone was happy and talking, life’s cares and burdens forgotten for a while. This was, he reflected, how a holiday was supposed to be celebrated but rarely was: friends and loved ones gathered around the table for a little foretaste of heaven.
A loud pop, followed by gasps of amazement, drew the attention of nearly everyone to the middle of the table where Embries was now perched on the back of his chair amidst a ring of smoke and glittering confetti. It floated down around him to the astonishment of gobsmacked children. A little further on, James saw Dougie lean over and steal a kiss from Roslyn and, still further down the line, Mr. Baxter was glowing with quiet pride as Caroline praised his good wife’s culinary skill, while, across the table, Donald and the Reverend Orr were head-to-head discussing trout fishing on the Dee.
And then it was time for pudding. As soon as the men cleared away the main course plates, a cry arose demanding that the cook make her appearance with the pudding. Priddy had prepared the old Duke’s favorite festive dessert of spiced figs in rum sauce and carried the first bowl in herself. This was presented to James, and seven more bowls followed. There were also five salvers of apple flan, a sumptuous rhubarb fool served up in a great silver bowl, and minted fruit salad in a crystal krater.
Dessert swiftly disappeared, the dishes were cleared — along with cases of empty bottles — and the after-dinner drinks were produced: decanters of port, sherry, and single malt, more claret, and Drambuie — along with a fresh array of crystal tumblers and goblets.
James gazed upon the celebration, feeling more and more like a monarch of old, whose hearth and hall provided shelter and sustenance, protection and pleasure for his people. Yes, he thought, this is how it is supposed to be. He looked across to Jennifer, and she glanced up just then and smiled at him, mouthing the words “I love you.”
He rose to his feet at the head of the table and, with the help of Cal and several others, called the hall to silence.
“My friends,” he said, “I can think of only one thing in this world which would give me greater pleasure than welcoming you here tonight, and that would be to welcome you as half of a married couple. Happily, that oversight will soon be corrected, and this time next year, when we all gather again to celebrate another New Year’s Eve, I will be joined by my beautiful wife.”
Turning to Jennifer, he held out his hand towards her. She rose, taking his hand, and joined him. “I am pleased and proud to announce that Jennifer Evans-Jones has accepted my proposal of marriage,” he said, to a chorus of ooohs and ahhhs all around. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the diamond engagement ring his mother had worn and, with a kiss, he slipped it onto her finger.
She put her arms around him, kissed him rapturously, whereupon James declared, “A toast! Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends, raise your glasses to the most beautiful girl in the world — not to mention the smartest, kindest, and… also, the bravest…” This brought shouts and laughter from the guests. “My darling, Jenny!”
Everyone drank and acclaimed the couple, and suddenly the whole room was on its feet; there was a rush as the women hurried to Jenny’s side to see the ring. The men congratulated James and shook his hand, and proposed more toasts to the betrothed couple.
“When’s the wedding?” shouted someone.
“We haven’t set a date yet,” James replied, “but soon.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” shouted the Reverend Orr, “I’ll be happy to tie the knot — at half my usual fee!”
Jenny’s father was next to proclaim a toast. “Ladies and gentlemen, charge your glasses!” he bellowed. There was a scurry back to the tables to refill and take up goblets and tumblers. “To our sovereign King and his future Queen — who also happen to be my own dear, wonderful daughter and future son-in-law!”
Raising his glass, Owen smiled benevolently and called, “Here’s to our Royal Highness, and his lovely bride, and to wishing them both a truly splendid and joyous new year! Long may they reign!”
The hall rang with shouts of “Hear! Hear!” and “Long live James and Jenny!”
There were more toasts then. One from Embries — a rousing chant delivered in soaring Gaelic — and one from Donald, who in his best parliamentary tones raised his glass and said,
“Here’s to the heath, the hill, and the heather,
The bonnet, the plaid, the kilt, and the feather!
Blythe may we a’ be,
Ill may we ne’er see,
Here’s to the King
And his glad companie!”
When everyone stopped laughing, the Reverend Orr made an ecclesiastical toast — a blessing, really — and, not to be outdone, Caroline offered one in song. Shona rose and recited the poem “Will Ye No Tak a Wee Dram, Willy?” which, on the last line of every stanza, requires everyone to take a drink.
She finished to uproarious applause and, as if on cue, the Deeside Drifters, the local ceilidh band engaged for the occasion, began to play. They struck up the “Bowl of Punch Reel” and instantly people were flocking to the dance floor. James crossed to Jenny and swung her out onto the floor, joining the dancers in full whirl. They danced three more reels, before bowing out to catch their breath, returning to the table for renewed congratulations by one and all.
The rest of the night passed in a giddy blur of music and motion. James danced with Jenny’s cousin Roslyn, Shona, Mrs. Orr, Caroline, Isobel, and several more; and the next thing he knew he was standing with Jenny in his arms and the band was playi
ng “Auld Lang Syne.” The Drifters had imported a ringer for the night, a tall, slender, sandy-haired Irishman named Brian, who played flute and pennywhistle with the wild grace of a banshee. Standing straight and tall, eyes closed, he played the old, old melody to a hall suddenly silent. The wonderful, liquid notes fell from his silver flute like snowflakes, swirling in the air and descending over the listeners like a benediction.
When he finished the hall itself seemed to hold its breath. And then someone shouted, “Happy New Year!” Jenny and James shared a New Year’s kiss or three, and the dancing began again. The assembly was first-footed by none other than the Reverend and Mrs. Orr, who snuck out and very nearly didn’t get let back into the castle because no one heard the bell. First-footing is the peculiarly Scottish custom whereby the first person to set foot over the threshold is welcomed as a harbinger of good luck to follow throughout the rest of the year. Accordingly, a priest bearing a blessing is especially lucky — as are blacksmiths, bakers, and, of course, brewers.
It was past three o’clock when the band finally packed it in, and close to five when the guests began departing. Not all left; sofas, chairs, and spare rooms were offered to any for whom the drive home presented a particular challenge or those who could not stand to see the festivity end. Jenny and James joined Cal and Isobel, and Gavin and Emma for a nightcap. They sat in the candlelit kitchen, clutching mugs of coffee and nibbling on leftovers. Caroline and Donald stopped by on their way to bed, and were persuaded to pull up chairs. When Embries appeared, Isobel declared she was going to make everyone her famous twice-scrambled eggs with smoked salmon.
“As this seems to be a night for announcements,” Donald said, “perhaps it’s a good time to let you all in on my little secret.”