The Laird of Lochlannan (Bonnie Bride Series Book 2)

by Fiona Monroe

  "It will make him desperately jealous. He will certainly return. Oh, that he might not be too late!"

  There were footsteps outside, quiet but distinct, and in a flash Caroline had concealed the letter in an embroidered reticule. A moment later the maid Mackenzie came in bearing an armful of pelisses, smelling powerfully of mothballs, and Catriona knew that all real conversation was over for the time being.

  The journey down the glen from Lochlannan Castle to the town of Inverlannan had every appearance of being an uncomfortable one for Miss Buccleuch, as she had predicted. The seats of the gig were not well-padded, and the vehicle juddered alarmingly over every rut in the narrow lochside road. At every jolt, Caroline winced and sometimes moaned. She said nothing, however, and Catriona guessed it was the presence of James the coachman, who sat in front and drove, that rendered her silent.

  The beauty of the country was undeniable, and Catriona was still so unused to such scenes that she might have spent the drive in rapturous awe of the magnificent vista of loch, trees and mountains, had her thoughts not been preoccupied by what Caroline had said about her aunt's death. Besides those occasional small whimpers of pain, Caroline was silent all the way to town. Catriona was coming to understand that her cousin trusted no servant, and had no other company. She wondered what she herself had done to earn her almost instantaneous confidence, and she still felt uneasy about it.

  It seemed too fantastical a notion that Sir Wallace should have hastened his wife's death, not through cruelty and neglect as her mother had always claimed, but by active, decided violence against her. It was like something from the pages of a romance by Mrs. Radcliffe. And yet she knew that such things happened, though they did not always happen in such a picturesque setting as a gloomy Highland castle. One of Mr. Carmichael's tutors at the Medical School was a pioneer of a new test to discover the presence of arsenic in the bodies of the deceased, and Mr. Carmichael was not discreet; he had often told her details of his mentor's work and cases that she was sure were supposed to be confidential, so that she knew all about how arsenic poisoning could mimic the symptoms of stomach complaints and other fevers such as cholera so successfully that the crime had hitherto been often unsuspected and undetectable. Her aunt had died more than quarter of a century ago, and at such time there would have been no way of determining whether her illness had been natural or not.

  And then there was the letter, which had hinted at some immediate danger. But Catriona's immediate objection stood. Why would Sir Wallace suddenly, after many years of marriage whether happy or unhappy, decide to do away with his wife and the mother of his then only child? It was too easy to say, as she was sure her mother would have, that Sir Wallace was half-mad and therefore capable of irrational violent caprice. But even her mother had not claimed that Sir Wallace had gone so far as to positively murder her sister, and Catriona several times came close to putting the whole thing out of her head. She had formed no great dependence on Miss Buccleuch's powers of judgement, even in their short acquaintance. And yet, she could not dismiss it entirely. She hardly wanted to revive the subject with Caroline, who must really know nothing about it. Who would be likely to have more certain knowledge? Someone who had actually been around at the time, was the obvious answer. But even Lady Buccleuch did not qualify, or at least Catriona supposed she did not. She had married Sir Wallace two years after his first wife's death; it was possible, she thought, that the future Lady Buccleuch had visited Lochlannan while her predecessor had been alive. Perhaps they had even been friends, perhaps that was how Sir Wallace and she met. Perhaps that was what Caroline had meant by her hint, that her father might have wanted to marry her mother, and therefore disposed of his wife. Perhaps, perhaps. At any rate, Catriona felt she could hardly ask Lady Buccleuch about it.

  Inverlannan was a small but pretty market town that stood at the mouth of the glen, and was the only place of any size for many miles in any direction. It was built in granite stone and formed around a single wide street with what Catriona thought of as a merket cross at its centre, although the inhabitants probably called it something in Gaelic instead; for this was the language she heard all around when they alighted, except when servants addressed a few words to the two gentlewomen. Miss Buccleuch was treated with the most eager deference by all, and Catriona came in for her share of the attention as her companion. It was evident that the Buccleuchs were of the first consequence in town.

  Mrs. Beattie, the dressmaker, was very happy to accommodate the two young ladies almost the whole morning, and urged on by Caroline—whose interest in and knowledge of fashion greatly exceeded her own, and who grew animated when studying fabrics and the latest designs newly arrived from London—Catriona rather enjoyed ordering a number of gowns for every occasion. One point troubled her, however.

  "Caroline," she said in a quiet moment, while Mrs. Beattie was in another room attending to some domestic business. "I have no money of my own, at present. None whatever. I know I have the expectation of twenty thousand pounds in two years' time, but for now I have no income of any kind."

  "Oh! My brother will pay Mrs. Beattie's bill. Do not make yourself uneasy about that. As for pin money, I dare say he will make you an allowance. You must ask him about it."

  Catriona knew she must, but did not relish the prospect of such an approach.

  "Do not be alarmed, my dear cousin," said Caroline, perhaps seeing her doubt in her expression. "Duncan is always most generous. I have an income of fifteen hundred a year clear in my own name, yet he always pays every bill of mine that goes across his desk himself." She picked up a corner of deep red damask. "This would be very striking for a ball."

  She seemed to have entirely forgotten her discontent of earlier, and to be no longer troubled by the effects of her chastisement, in the excitement of gowns and fashion-plates. Catriona was struck by this contradiction in her opinion of Sir Duncan, also.

  But when the hour was growing near when Miss Buccleuch had told the servant to return for them, she began to look about her in sudden agitation.

  "Mrs. Beattie," she said, "excuse me, but I have just recollected that Miss Dunbar expressed a wish of seeing the church. I think we are finished here. James will be calling for us shortly. Keep him here, if you would, and we will return. We will not be long."

  Mrs. Beattie promised that she would, and Catriona found herself hurried from the parlour into the street almost immediately. Caroline glanced up and down the road, then linked her arm in her cousin's and walked her at a quick pace in the direction of a square church steeple visible at the far end of the row of houses and shops.

  "We must be quick," she muttered in an undertone, while smiling.

  Since Catriona had not in fact expressed any interest in seeing the church, she was not astonished when they did not at first go so far. With another display of anxious watchfulness, another conspicuous, searching glance up and down the crowded street, Caroline tugged her into a building a few doors along from Mrs. Beattie's house. Catriona saw that they were in a small post office, and Caroline handed over her letter to the elderly clerk.

  It was the moment of decision, and there was no chance of concealment from her cousin. Catriona turned aside, adjusted her pelisse and removed her own letter from where she had concealed it early that morning. Without looking at her companion, she surrendered it with a brief word of civility and, she knew, a flush in her cheek.

  They were out in the street again and hurrying once more towards the church before Catriona knew what she was doing, and when they reached their destination, and found it empty, Caroline took her hand and drew her to the nearest pew.

  "Now!" she said eagerly. "My dearest cousin. You did not tell me that you too had a letter to take to the post."

  "It was of no consequence."

  "Don't be so provoking! I caught sight, I could not help it you know, of a gentleman's name on the direction. Was it not so? A Mr. somebody beginning with a C, at the Medical School—I saw that part plainly."
<
br />   "Perhaps I have an elderly uncle who is a professor there."

  "Oh! You do not. I happen to know, because Duncan told me, that you have no relatives alive in the world other than ourselves. Do you know what I think? I think Mr. C is no professor, but a student there."

  Catriona had no power to dissemble when presented directly with the truth. Her blush told its own tale.

  "And so you are secretly engaged!" cried Miss Buccleuch, her eyes dancing. She pressed Catriona's hands more tightly.

  "No, indeed. I am not, was not, secretly engaged. My mother knew of and entirely approved our engagement."

  "But you have not told my brother."

  "I... have not so far informed Sir Duncan how I am situated. No. But then I have had very little conversation altogether with him, as yet."

  "You must not!" Caroline spoke in an earnest whisper, even though they were entirely alone in an empty church. "Or rather—is Mr. C a man of rank or wealth?"

  "No. Neither. He is the son of a poor assistant minister, and has not a penny in the world."

  "Oh then, indeed, you must not breathe a word of it. My brother would not approve such a match for all the world. I will keep your secret."

  "Thank you," said Catriona, uneasily. It troubled her conscience to have a secret of this nature at all, and she did not much like Caroline having possession of it.

  "Later you must tell me all about it, but now we must get back to Mrs. Beattie's house. James will be waiting for us by now. We do not need to tell any untruths about looking at the church, because we have done so, and I am sure nobody saw us go into the post office."

  "Are you quite sure all these fears and precautions are necessary?"

  "Oh yes! Depend on it, all the servants report my every doing to Duncan or my mother in the minutest detail—and you may be sure they will do the same for you, now you are come. But do not worry, I know of a thousand contrivances to get letters to and from the post without detection. How alike we are in misfortune! We shall aid and comfort each other."

  They arrived back at Lochlannan an hour before dinner, and as Catriona handed her pelisse to the elderly butler Cruikshank, a thought occurred to her. Cruikshank had been with the family a very long time.

  She took the opportunity to speak to him by asking if he would again show her the way to her bedroom, as she had got lost the night before. Caroline had already flown off to attend to something else, so she was able to make it seem a reasonable request. As soon as they were alone in the spiral stairwell, she said, "You told me yesterday that this room was my mother's when she lived here?"

  "Yes, madam."

  "Were you butler in those days?"

  "No, madam. Mr. MacDonald was butler then. I was a first footman. I was honoured with the position of butler upon Mr. MacDonald's death, fifteen years ago this past Michaelmas."

  "But you have been at Lochlannan a very long time, I expect."

  "Yes, madam. I entered the service of Sir James Buccleuch, Sir Wallace's father, as a page-boy in the year 1745."

  Catriona's head reeled at the remoteness and significance of the date, and realised that the child Cruikshank had begun his career at Lochlannan while the Jacobites were storming and holding Edinburgh. It seemed amazing that her modern and enlightened home city had risen out of the ashes of that turmoil all the while that this man had been here, rising unperturbed—she imagined it—through the ranks of the household. She was momentarily distracted from her purpose. "The year of Bonnie Prince Charlie's final rebellion," she said.

  "Sir James was not a supporter of the Young Pretender, madam, and took no part in the uprising. And well enough that was for Lochlannan, for many other lairds here about lost their castle and lands. Aye, terrible times those were, when I was a lad."

  "And you have seen three generations of Buccleuchs?"

  "I have had the honour of serving three successive lairds, madam, indeed, although Sir James died when I was still a boy."

  "I am, I confess, curious to know what my aunt was like, since I never knew her—and what my mother was like, as a young girl. I have only recently lost her, you know. It would comfort me to hear of her, in her youth."

  She wondered if this was playing it up a bit too much, but she sensed that the austere elderly servant only wanted a little encouragement to melt his outer guard.

  "Miss Macleod was a most amiable and prettily-behaved young lady," said the butler, his reserved tone softening. "I am an old man, Miss Dunbar, a very old man, so I hope you will forgive me when I say that she was a very lovely young lady. Kind and generous, too. She always had a smile for every servant, and made us all presents at Christmas."

  "I suppose you were sorry when she married."

  Cruikshank hesitated, and then said, "The whole household was sad when she left Lochlannan, madam."

  "My aunt in particular, must have regretted it, for my mother was her companion."

  "Indeed, the first Lady Buccleuch was I believe deeply affected by Miss Macleod's departure, madam."

  "But then, she had her husband and her child to occupy her, so perhaps she was not so very lonely."

  "I could not say, madam."

  "My mother told me that her sister died only two years after, and always worried that she might have gone into a decline on account of her leaving. They did not correspond, you see, after that, so she had no way of knowing my aunt's state of health. It was many years before I was born, but she told me she was very shocked when the news of her death reached her. It would be a comfort to know the truth."

  This sounded nonsense even to her own ears, but the butler's eyes—still bright in his ancient leathered face—were misting over with memory and emotion. "Aye, her poor ladyship was in tears that time, and many times... But I would not say, madam, that she went into a decline. She was always in excellent health."

  "But she died, so she could not have been in excellent health then. What was her final illness?"

  "I could not say, madam. It was a putrid fever which carried her off very suddenly, a great shock and sadness to the entire household. Here is your chamber again, Miss Dunbar. Will that be all?"

  Perceiving that she was not likely to get much more out of the butler, Catriona dismissed him. She could hardly ask him about the rumours outright, and when it came to think about expressing them, the idea seemed even more absurd.

  Cruikshank was a loyal retainer of the Buccleuch family, with an important position to maintain. He was never going to give her a true picture of how Sir Wallace had treated his wife, far less implicate him in her death. She needed to find someone else who had been around at the time, but who could speak frankly and impartially. Or she needed to find some kind of written evidence, such as a journal or a letter.

  Catriona had started dressing for dinner as she thought about this and reached this unsatisfactory conclusion, when she was interrupted by a message from Sir Duncan to meet him in his study immediately.

  Catriona could not help but remember Caroline's description of being summoned to her brother's study to be 'lectured and berated', and despite her determination to be composed and unconcerned, her heart started to flutter as she approached her guardian's door. Her knock, which was as firm as she could make it, was answered by his usual bark, and as she entered she saw he had a letter in his hand.

  Her courage failing her for a moment, she could not immediately meet his eye, and found herself looking at what he was holding for want of somewhere to rest her gaze. A quick thrill went through her as she recognised the sloping curl of her mother's handwriting, and saw that the ink was faded and the paper old and delicate. She had time to notice too that the letter appeared to contain several sheets, before he folded it up and put it away in the bureau, firmly shutting and locking the lid.

  She curtseyed. "You sent for me, Sir Duncan."

  "Tell me something, Miss Dunbar. Did you come here with the fixed intention of upsetting my household, or is it something you do to while away an idle hour? Would backgammon amuse
you better? There is a set in the library."

  "Sir, I do not have the honour of understanding you."

  "You have been asking prying, impudent questions of the servants about my family's private affairs."

  "Sir! I have not."

  "I do not expect to be contradicted, young lady. Hold your tongue while I speak. Old Cruikshank just came to me with tears pretty much running down his face, saying you had been asking him all about your damned mother, and my father's first wife, and blubbing about how you were your mother come alive again. And then he tells me that you asked him how your aunt died."

  "I was, sir, naturally curious about the final days of such a near relation. My mother had no word at all, either from her sister herself, who was forbidden to correspond with her, she believed—or from anyone else in the Buccleuch family."

  "Your mother, my girl, was turned out of this house for bedding the music-master, and by my father's account your aunt was forbidden from corresponding with her so that she should not be corrupted further by her. I don't expect old Cruikshank gave you that account of the matter."

  "Sir! I must protest, I—"

  "Be silent, girl! If you insist on going poking around for the truth, then don't be sorry when you hear it. For all I know your mother might have married your father after they ran off, probably did—but she lifted her skirts for him well in advance of that, and I know that for a fact."

  Catriona felt herself colour deeply, in part because she had no way to contradict him—it might be true enough, for all she knew—and in part because it was humiliating that he should speak to her of such a matter, and in such language. Sir Duncan might be a baronet, but he was no gentleman. She could make no reply.

  "Cruikshank was distressed that he might have spoken disrespectfully either to you or of his old master. I won't have that good old fellow put out of sorts, do you hear? Keep your impudent curiosity to yourself, or you'll feel my hand across your backside."