A Highland Folly by Jo Ann Ferguson

may share my words with whomever you wish, this road and bridge will be built here.”

Four
    Mist inched down out of the mountains, clawing at each rock, devouring every tree like some great beast of ancient times. Cool, even for a late spring night, it smothered the stars and diminished the river’s song to a whisper. The fog swirled and contorted with a pattern only it knew.
    Anice pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and hunched within it. She would have preferred to be in the sheep barn, tending to the newest arrivals, but Sir Busby Crenton had been oddly emphatic when he’d paid a call to Ardkinloch that afternoon. With Neilli listening with avid interest, their neighbor, whose lands also bordered this side of the river, had urged Anice to come to the meeting tonight at the parsonage.
    â€œA most important meeting, my lady,” he had said, his voice taut with urgency, although his gaze slipped often toward Neilli. “Our individual complaints against the bridge being built across the river have not been heeded in London. We must unite our voices to gain sympathetic ears in Parliament.”
    As she walked along the path toward the village, Anice feared they were deluding themselves. The Regent’s government wanted this road project completed without delay. That had been stated in the letter she had received from London. She knew an identical letter had been sent to Sir Busby, because he had lamented about the shortsightedness of the government in ruining the beauty of the Highlands.
    Anice stopped to stare at the gray curtain of fog and took a deep breath to calm her swift pulse. If Sir Busby or anyone else discovered she was coming to this meeting only in hopes of offering a rational argument for caution, she was sure no one would heed her. She might be able to betwattle them. Thank heavens Lucais would not be attending this evening. She could not fool him, for he had an uncanny ability to gauge her thoughts.
    Anice tightened her cloak around her as she hurried along the road and into the village. The fog parted reluctantly to allow her to see the lights of Killiebige. Walking along the twisting street that followed the uneven course of the river, she hurried to the small stone house in the shadow of the kirk.
    Reverend Dole greeted her at the door of the comfortable parsonage. He was so tall and thin, she suspected his shadow could be mistaken for a tree’s. His long face broadened with his smile as he urged, “Come in, Lady Kinloch.” When he stepped back to allow her to enter, the candlelight glinted off his bald head and accented his white collar beneath his black coat.
    â€œHow are you tonight?” she asked as she untied her damp cloak and placed it on a peg. She noted a pile of other wraps on a chair. She kept her sigh silent. How silly she had been to hope that no one else would attend.
    â€œWe have been eagerly waiting for you,” the minister said. “Sir Busby asked us to do nothing until you arrived.”
    She was amazed. Reverend Dole was so flustered that he had failed to answer her greeting. As he motioned for her to precede him into the parlor to the left of the stairs, she noticed a tic by his right eye. Reverend Dole was clearly more distressed by the arrival of the road-crew group than she had guessed.
    As Anice had feared, the simply furnished room was full. Every chair was occupied. Mr. Tawes, a mousy man who served as Killiebige’s mayor, offered her his seat. Thanking him, she looked for Sir Busby. She smiled when she saw him sitting close to the hearth. He could not be more than a half decade older than she was. As round as Reverend Dole was spare, he had an elfish smile that hid the sharp mind behind his thick glasses.
    She did not have a chance to speak with Sir Busby because Reverend Dole came to stand by the room’s single window. The thick drapes had been drawn to shut out the fog’s gray light. He started to raise his hands