Page 51 of A Torn Allegiance
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!
What tears of burning rage shall thrill,
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,
Thy fall before the race was won,
Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!
There breathes not clansman of thy line,
But would have given his life for thine.”
Tears filled her eyes as she stood to applaud the brilliant poet, a fellow Scotsman—Sir Walter Scott, in her very own home.
“And now,” he said, “at the request of our esteemed hostess, Lady Elsie, perhaps I will share something new. I’ve been thinking about my Scotland.”
Elsie sat forward in her chair. When she had heard of what he was working on, she’d immediately importuned him to share these particular words with the ladies of her group.
He began slowly, talking of the land, the hills, the crags, the sky. Soon she was lost to her own remembrances, and she could almost feel the wind on her face.
“Who else understands this connection to land?” he said.
Elsie could hardly contain herself as she raised her hand in the air. She opened her mouth at the same time Prince Hayes nodded and said, “I feel this connection. Is not the land of one’s fathers the very essence of a family? Their identity, even their soul?”
As much as she thrilled to hear her own thoughts exit his lips, she would have liked to have said the words herself. Anything she said now would seem only repetitious.
“Ah, so the prince understands the mind of a true highlander. The clan relationships run deeper than any tenant agreements or legally binding practices up there. The rights to the land outlive the monarchy.” Sir Walter paused and pressed a fist to his chest. “The land is what unites us. It’s what keeps us there. The land draws people to it even in drought.”
Prince Hayes nodded again. “The same is true in Oldenburg. What will I be the king of one day, if not our land?” His voice seemed to grow hoarse with emotion. Elsie was struck anew by his love for his homeland, and suddenly, she could not begrudge his presence at the meeting.
Hayes took a moment to continue, struggling with emotion—each shudder of his breathing created a clenching of her own heart for him—but he at length continued. “What would Oldenburg be if not for our fields and hills and mountains and the beauty of our coasts?” He cleared his throat. “Forgive me. It is difficult when we are at risk, when...”
“When your country is plagued by unrest from inside.” Elsie’s throat tightened.
He turned to her, and she could do nothing but nod. Her eyes welled with tears in response to the pain on his face. Her hand found his without her planning to take it.
Others joined the conversation; Sir Walter spoke further. The evening continued around them, but all Elsie could think of was the new unifying bond that seemed to flow between her and Prince Hayes. His worry for Olden-burg and her concern for Argyll now seemed one and the same as she found herself wishing deeply that Hayes could find a solution for his people.
Chapter Eighteen
After a beautiful evening ofpoetry and excellent conversation and Lady Elsie’s growing smiles, Hayes stepped out into the cool night air with a satisfied bounce to his gait. He decided to walk down the street to Bartholomew’s town house. Evenings like this one needed to be reveled in, to be pondered over, and his mind worked best while he was walking.
He had much to consider, so he let his thoughts flow freely where they willed. He wasn’t surprised that the beautiful, intelligent eyes of Lady Elsie filled his thoughts first. Her smile, her hesitancy, even her irritation at his intrusion, all brought him a great rising happiness. They had much to overcome, but he hoped such a thing was possible. Could her love for Scotland stretch to include Oldenburg? Could he in turn join in her love for the Lowlands? Could this passion they shared for their beloved countries truly unite them? He couldn’t know, not yet.
The passion he’d felt while listening to Sir Walter grew again as he relived the discussion of the connection between land and people. Surely, his southern landholders felt the same; the tenants most certainly did. They had been farming the land for generations. They were closely attached to it—worked in it, with it, urged growth and food from it. The soil lived beneath their fingernails; it was engrained in their clothes and stuck to their boots at night.
A new idea struck him so forcefully he had to stop walking. The earth seemed to move beneath him, and he steadied his balance. What if... the tenants were to own their land? Work it for themselves? It certainly would not solve the drought. It would not bring rain. But it would create a more satisfied citizenship in the southern lands of Oldenburg, at least he suspected as much.
The current landholders would not be pleased—even his own father might not be pleased—but was it not the right thing to do? His mind turned over the idea again and again.
Lost to his deliberations, he nearly walked into the back of a carriage. Then he heard familiar voices coming from the front of the conveyance.Lamoreaux.
“Come, Everly. You are making me late again.”
“They aren’t going to start without you.” Everly’s snide voice set Hayes on edge, and now he was full of questions. What wouldn’t start without Lamoreaux? Where were they going in the middle of the night?
The carriage jostled as carriages did when people climb inside, and he knew that, in a moment, he would be left standing alone on the sidewalk, still full of questions.
