Page 34 of Romancing the Scot
“On the contrary. The evidence of your generosity is plentiful,” she argued. “In addition to siding with tenants against landowners, you’ve supported abolitionists’ work here in Scotland.”
Even though the law abolished slavery on these shores and stopped the slave trade in the colonies, those evils still existed.
“There were a number of articles about a case that came before you this past year.”
“The newspapers loved to use the term ‘Triangular Trade Travesty,’ but a person doesn’t get much from a headline.”
“The case involved a rich gentleman from Glasgow and his friends.” She wanted him to know her opinion of him wasn’t based on a headline or two. “Their ships were exchanging material cargo for humans as cargo between Scotland, Africa, and the West Indies.”
She went on to cite names of captains, ships, types of cargo, dates of embarkation, and even horrifying tales about the dreaded Middle Passage. She ended by quoting portions of his final ruling. This specific case was perhaps the deciding point for her regarding Hugh Pennington’s character.
“You have an impressive memory, Miss Grace.” His eyes were fixed on her, the book in his hand forgotten. “Unusual, one would think, in someone who cannot recall anything of her past.”
The words started out as a compliment, but ended with a hint of accusation. The blood drained from her face. She’d awakened the prosecutor in the man. She’d made a mistake. She’d said too much. In relating the contents of the articles, she’d included something of her own knowledge of the topic. This was exactly what she was afraid of—saying too much, giving him a window to see the person hiding inside.
“I wouldn’t know if it’s unusual or not,” she responded.
He picked up two more volumes and placed them on the shelf. She was relieved that he wasn’t pursuing it.
“What book were you reaching for before falling off the ladder?”
Before the literary avalanche, Grace had been attracted by the familiar name on the spine. James Macpherson, a distant relation of her mother. Some time ago, she’d read a German edition of his work, and she knew Goethe incorporated the same translation intoYoung Werther.But she’d never seen it in English.
Deciding that this could do no harm, she told him and pointed at the last volume remaining on the carpet.
He picked it up and paged through it, his face darkening. “I’m surprised we still have this here.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t think very highly of James Macpherson,” he said flatly. “In fact, I wouldn’t recommend that you waste any time at all on this gentleman’s work.”
Macpherson’s work had enjoyed international success. Grace didn’t think beyond that before responding. “Are you an expert on the author?”
Hugh Pennington’s head came up quickly, a scowl hardening his features.
“I know more than I care to about the man and the wretched business he made of managing his lands.”
“Hasn’t Macpherson been dead for some time?”
“Two decades, I’d say,” he said shortly. “And his former tenants from Phoiness, Etterish, and Invernahaven are still begging on the streets of Edinburgh because of his hard-hearted mania to clear his farmers out for sheep.”
Grace hoped he was far more distant as a relation.
“And on top of that, the man’s estate still clutters up the courts because he left four bastards, at least, and no clear heir to succeed him. And you know who suffers because of it?”
“Who?”
“The poor folk who remain on his lands, trying to eke out a living with no one left to manage the holdings.” He shut the book with a snap. “James Macpherson was an irresponsible scoundrel. You shouldn’t bother with him.”
“I can understand your criticism of him as a person, but have you read any of his work?”
“Indeed, I have. The so-called Ossian poetry. The man claimed it was the work of an ancient Irish poet, the son of Finn himself, and that he simply translated it.”
Grace told herself to be silent. She couldn’t let her temper get the best of her.
“Made up the entire thing,” he continued. “Macpherson fancied himself the champion of Gaelic history and mythology, but the man was a liar. A complete fraud.”
Grace’s spine stiffened. She didn’t care if James Macphersonhadwritten the poems himself. His work brought positive attention to the Irish language. She also didn’t likeanyonetelling her what she should or shouldn’t read.
