Posted on Tuesday, 11 March 2003
Bidh an t-ubhal as fhearr air a'mheangan as airde.
"The best apple is on the highest branch."
Scottish coast. Daybreak. The sun was red on the horizon, seagulls dove in a V-shaped salute from the Glen, a sudden gust of wind blew sharply inland from the ocean sending the few loose leaves from autumn flying like paper dolls about the heads of the two figures who stood ankle-deep in a frothy surf. The taller, a man of an indeterminate age between twenty and forty, was dark haired and steely jawed, with an air that was at once in opposition to the open almost beguiling nature of his fair haired companion.
"I missed this," The dark man said in a soft voice. "England, Wales, Eire-none of them can hold a candle to Pemberley. The air here is unique, the earth fragrant, the-"
"Women lush and ripe for the picking." The fair man laughed when his dark friend scowled. "If you can disregard my country as nothing more than a plain concubine to your beloved Pemberley, then I have every right to a defense. Besides, the women here are lush and incredibly ripe." He licked his lips thoughtfully. "Especially your sister, no offence."
The dark man forced a strained smile. "Is that a proposal?" When his friend laughed nervously, he turned back to the ocean, which swirled in majestic shades of gold as the sun rose to claim its rightful place in the sky. "I thought not."
"Congratulations on your marriage by the way. I hear the new mistress of Pemberley is quite the beauty." Then, almost as though it were an afterthought-"And English."
"That she is." The dark man replied vaguely as he stepped from the water, the muscles of his well-formed knees and calves rippled easily under a plaid of red, green and threads of gold, a frown knitted his brow and not for the first time that morning his companion wondered why his friend did not look like the newly-wed he was.
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus.
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.
Elizabeth watched as a dozen monks marched solemnly to the alter, their podgy hands throwing holy water from clay bowls as they sang in a tone that seemed almost pagan to her Protestant ears. Almost. As soon as they chanted 'Amen' she found herself kneeling with the rest of the congregation, her veiled head bowed respectively and indistinguishable from the other women in that side of the Church. Unlike the others, however, she carried a bible, and as the priest swept down the aisle in shameless scarlet, filling her lungs with imported incense, she drew the small leather bound book from its hiding place at her bosom and began to read. She may have been forced to marry a Scot but by no means was she going to be forced into their pagan rituals as well.
"Elizabeth!" A delicate voice whispered urgently in broken English from her right hand side. "Elizabeth, what are you reading?"
Without turning to look at her new sister, she answered as calmly and as quietly as she could for the priest had begun his unintelligible sermon.
"But it's in English!" Georgiana whispered, her voice growing desperate as she tried to grab the bible. "That is not the language of God, and-Fitzwilliam-Oh, dear sister please do not incite his wrath with such nonsense." Barely twelve years of age, Georgiana was still very much a child despite her tall almost-womanly figure and address, and it was that which prevented Elizabeth from smacking her hand away. Instead, taking a deep breath and adjusting her veil, she turned to the girl and glared. It had no affect. Apparently, ten years spent as the almost-mistress of her brother's estate had given the girl far more courage than could be dissipated with a well-aimed look, and after struggling she managed to get a firm hold of Elizabeth's book and draw it away. "You are far too small and he is far larger than most men, and although I know he would never intentionally harm you, I dread to think what might happen if he lost control," Inhaling a tremulous breath, Georgiana edged closer to Elizabeth. "Fitzwilliam is extremely devout," She said, reverting to Gaelic. "It would destroy him if you did not share that devotion."
"If that is the case, then he should have taken a Scottish wife!" Elizabeth whispered with more feeling than either of them expected, and very much surprised by her outburst, she decided to drop the subject and retrieve her Bible which was at that moment dangling limply from her shocked sister's hands.