Page 65 of Taming the Highland Misfits
“Well, not like you and I can talk, of course,” Freya conceded, “but they can communicate very well–or at least my Lancelot can. Can’t you, my good boy?”
Lancelot nodded his head and whickered loudly, and Caitrin raised her eyebrows and decided to concede the point. Not only was arguing with Freya an exercise in futility, but it was very stressful. The girl was fearsomely intelligent and her grasp of logic, along with her way with words were far superior to any other girl of her age, even in the rarified stratum of society which she occupied
Girls were never normally as well educated as boys, since their role in society was seen to be limited to domestic duties and bearing children, but Freya had never been satisfied with that.
She had demanded a governess who could teach her history, mathematics and languages, and she had got her wish. Caitrin was the daughter of a distressed Baron who had been unable to provide for her, but Freya had always taken the position that his loss was her gain. Caitrin was clever and a well-brought-up lady, who took her duties very seriously, and Freya was very fond of her, seeing her as an equal, even though her calm disposition was a little frustrating sometimes.
Now they were venturing out of the castle with four guards around them for Freya’s habitual morning ride. This was an activity she never missed, since she often felt confined by being inside the castle, even though it was a sprawling fortress with what seemed like an endless number of rooms.
She had a few playmates amongst the servants’ children, a fact which she kept secret from her father, since he deeply disapproved of his daughter mixing with ‘the lower classes. Freya did not think of them that way at all. They were young and playful; she liked their company and they liked hers, and as far as she was concerned that was all that mattered. Caitrin had told her she was a rebel, but Freya had taken it as a compliment. Being rebellious meant that you could think for yourself, and if that was the case, she would happily own up to being one.
She loved going into the stables, with the smell of fresh hay and the sweet aroma of horses. They all greeted her in their different ways–whickering and nodding, brushing their noses against her in mute pleas for pieces of vegetables or apples. She always obliged, because she loved every one of them, although Lance was her favourite, of course.
They passed out into the land beyond the castle walls and headed for Loch Falmuir at the bottom of the long steep hill on which the castle stood. Freya loved the loch, and would have spent all day there watching the water birds and daydreaming if her father had let her. However, he had decided that the only way to organise his unruly daughter’s life was to stack it up into manageable blocks of time dedicated to each activity.
There was half an hour for breakfast in the morning, three hours of lessons, another half hour for lunch and three more hours of learning in the afternoon. After that, there would be two hours of free time until supper, and another hour and a half of free time before bed. However, this was when Freya was expected to devote her time to “womanly” pursuits like sewing, which she hated.
Her father was doing his best to mould her into the same kind of biddable daughters his friends had, but Freya was simply not that kind of young woman. She had to be almost bullied into riding sidesaddle, and it took the threat of not being allowed to go out riding at all to make her do so.
A few weeks earlier, Freya had been summoned to her father’s study for a stern lecture. “I do not know what I am going to do with you.” The Laird was completely exasperated after another argument with Freya after she had broken a window by kicking a leather ball through it. “You are supposed to be setting an example to other children. They look up to you–especially the servants’ children.
What do you think goes through their minds when they see you behaving like a wild animal? They think they can behave that way too, but unlike you, they cannot afford to do so, because they have to learn trades and work for a living. Who do you think will employ them if they all behave like savages?”
Freya mumbled, “I am sorry, Father. I will not do it again— ” she began, but the Laird cut her off.
“Until the next time!” Laird Murdaugh finished for her, shaking his head angrily. He banged the palms of his hands on his desk and frowned fiercely at her. “This behaviour will cease at once, young lady, or there will be consequences. Do you understand me?”
Freya nodded, dropping her gaze from her father’s. She looked suitably cowed, but Laird Murdaugh was not fooled. He could repair the window, but he could do nothing about the wildness of his daughter’s spirit; even if he could, did he want to? In spite of, or maybe because of it, she was his favourite.
It might also have something to do with the fact that she was his only daughter and was the spitting image of his beloved late wife. He had lost her to smallpox when his youngest son, Bearnard, was only a very small child and had been mourning her ever since.
Freya had been five years old at the time of her death, too young to really understand, but he wondered whether her wildness might have been caused, at least in part, by the lack of a mother’s gentleness. He had tried his best, but he could not be both mother and father to her.
Anyway, even after her latest transgression, he knew he would likely only be angry with her for a few days, then slowly forget and let her lapse into her old wicked ways once more.
Freya knew that she had her father wrapped around her little finger, and used that fact to her full advantage. However, she was not thinking about that now; the day was fine, with sunlight shining through a white haze of cloud, and the water of the loch was shimmering brightly as a little breeze tickled its surface.
She lifted her face to the sky and smiled. There, in the fresh air in the place she loved, she was free. Granted, she would never be able to escape the guards or Caitrin, but she knew they were there for her protection, and she could live with that. As she looked upwards, she could see the clouds parting to let the sun peek through. The water birds were diving under the water for food, and tending to their chicks in their nests amongst the reeds. Everything was right with her world, and Freya suddenly felt a bubble of happiness swell and burst inside her.
She gave a great whoop and wheeled Lance around and away from the loch. The direction in which she was going was also taking her away from the castle, but it took only seconds for the guards to rally and follow her.
Caitrin was not such a skilled rider and took a few seconds longer, but she gamely followed as fast as her horse could gallop, all the while shouting at Freya to stop. She might as well have saved her breath, however, since her words were carried away by the wind. Moreover, even if she had heard them, Freya would have ignored them anyway.
Eventually, however, Freya slowed down and turned back in the direction of the castle. She had caused enough trouble for one day, she decided, having thoroughly rattled the guards and Caitrin, and Lance was beginning to become tired and slow down.
“Mistress!” her governess said indignantly as they made their way back to the castle, “your father will hear of this, and this time he will not be quite so forgiving as last time!” She looked both angry and scared, and Freya felt a momentary pang of shame.
She had been inconsiderate, she realised, but it was too late to do anything about it now. The usual pattern would repeat itself; she would say sorry to Caitrin, who would accept her apology but go running to her father. He would give her a stern lecture and she would promise never to misbehave again, and for a while she would keep her promise.
However, it was simply not in her nature to be calm and disciplined for long, and after a while she would become so bored of being good that she would rebel, and the whole sequence would start anew. It was rather wearing, and she often wished that Laird Murdaugh would simply allow her to do what she wanted instead of fighting her. However, then she realised that he was her father and he was doing what he thought was best for her.
They are doing their best for me,she thought guiltily, then she sighed.I should be more grateful and less selfish. Sometimes I wish I could be as calm as Caitrin and Mhairi.However, that was only a dream. Freya could never change herself.
She was almost home, and she would shortly have to face her father again for the umpteenth time. As she rode into the main gate of the castle, Freya became aware that she was being watched. She turned to look at the figure who was standing at the corner of the big courtyard, and her eyes widened in astonishment.
The person who was standing there was male, but he was not yet a man, although it was clear that he soon would be, judging by his size and stature. She might have been only twelve years old, but she was just on the cusp of womanhood, and the sight of the youth who was staring back at her sent butterflies winging into her stomach.
He was without doubt the most handsome boy she had ever seen, and she blushed furiously before averting her eyes while she concentrated on dismounting from Lance. She was glad she was wearing her best riding habit; a dark blue one which contrasted beautifully with her reddish hair and was extremely flattering to her developing figure.
