Mr. Napier opened the door after the coach stopped. Brentworth was handing over his mount when she stepped out. He strode toward her just as a big blond man appeared outside the entrance.
“That is Mr. Roberts,” Brentworth said. “He is the steward. He cares for the estate.”
“From the look of things, he has not cared for it well. Half of the building is still a burned-out derelict.”
“He, of course, must obey my commands about what is done.”
“So the fault is yours.”
He gazed at her steadily and silently.
“Why did you leave it like this, Brentworth? When I accused you of neglecting the property, I had no idea it went this far.”
“I chose to. That is all you need to know. It is mine, and I chose to. Now, let us go in. I am sure you will insist on a tour, so I will be agreeable on that from the outset.”
He introduced Mr. Roberts. She liked this man. Not only was he quick to smile, and so very Scottish in his form and speech, but he looked at Brentworth more manto-man than she expected. She admired him for that. He did not defer much, and actually carried some warmth in his eyes when he gazed upon the duke. She did not think that whatever loyalty he felt was merely a servant’s gratitude for a good situation.
“Miss MacCallum would like to see the house,” Brentworth said.
“I am more than glad to take her around myself, Your Grace. And the cook has some refreshments prepared for later. Would Your Grace be joining us as we take a turn through the property?”
Brentworth had actually taken a few steps away when that question came. He paused. “I think I will.”
After that, Roberts gave her all his attention. “There’s no need to explain that we won’t be going that way, Miss MacCallum.” He pointed toward the ruined side. A large, heavy curtain hung at what must have been the entry to that wing. “We will start in the library, on this side.”
* * *
Entering the house yesterday had been hellish. Today, Eric discovered he did not mind as much. He had ridden here beside the coach as if his body was a taut bow, and braced himself yet again when he dismounted from his horse. But actually walking inside did not affect him the same way.
He had chosen not to stay long yesterday after being greeted by the servants. He certainly had not paced through every room. He did so now, in Roberts and Davina’s wake. Into the library, replete with new furnishings he had paid for but never seen before. Back to the morning room, where he had eaten many morning-after breakfasts in the early afternoon light, temporarily sated but already anticipating more. Up to the drawing room, now decorated in a somewhat medieval style that suited the structure better than the forced classicism of before.
The ease with which he experienced it all fascinated him. Had he dreaded this place too much, for too long? Were the new furnishings enough to blunt memories? Had time worked its magic and absolved him?
Their party halted near a window outside the drawing room, while Davina took in the prospect. “I can see farms in the distance. Are those tenants?”
“They are,” Roberts said. “The long, low building closer to us is a stable.”
“Is there a garden down below?”
“There is, but it is quite wild now. More rustic than a proper garden, although there is a kitchen plot.”
They moved on to the ballroom. Davina gawked and peered and peppered Roberts with questions. A smile animated her expression. Her eyes gleamed with excitement and avid interest. She viewed the appointments as if she owned the place. She did not miss a single vase or chair.
They paced down the gallery that flanked the ballroom along the front of the house. Eric had never bothered to learn if any of the paintings were significant. He doubted it. The barons were no Argyles in wealth or worldliness. Of course, the walls also bore the portraits of barons past. Davina pretended to examine landscapes and myths, but he saw her gaze narrow on the faces above.
Which led his own attention to those heads.
One baroness near the end of the line arrested his attention. He looked hard at the painting, then glanced at Davina, who had moved on. She had not seen what he did. A resemblance, it seemed to him. Subtle, but there in the eyes and nose. Possibly. Maybe not. You couldn’t trust painters anyway. They always changed things to flatter their patrons.
“Would you like to go above to the private chambers, miss?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely. I must see everything, even the kitchens.”
She saw it all, until Roberts left them in the dining room to partake of the cook’s refreshments. As expected, the cook outdid all expectations and requirements.
“This is a lot of food,” Davina whispered when the fifth platter was deposited in front of them. “It is early for such a meal.”
“I would be grateful if you ate some. I think the cook is overcome with delight at cooking for me.”
“I will partake of everything if it is all as delicious as this soup. Why would you make do with the inn’s fare if you could eat like this?”
“Because I choose to stay at the inn.”
Her full spoon paused on its way to her mouth. “Why? Does this house not please you more than an inn? This part of it is lovely.”
He decided to do some eating himself.
“Of course, the other side . . .” She helped herself to the pheasant on one platter. “I suppose nothing is to be saved of it now, after years of rain and weathering. It will have to be rebuilt.” She bit into the fowl and made an expression of appreciation before continuing. “What happened to it?”
And there was the reason he had not wanted her to come here.
“It burned.”
“How?”
“A fire.”
She lowered her eyelids. “Really? A fire made it burn? Who would have guessed?”
“You want the particulars?”
“I do, thank you. None of this delicious pheasant for you until you give them, too.”
“One night, a fire started in the private rooms. As for exactly how the first spark occurred, I do not know.” Lies, but he’d be damned if he gave the details.
“Well, such things happen. I thought perhaps it was lightning. It is a rare building that survives that if it hits directly.”
“There was no storm that night.” He wished he had thought of that lie.
“It is very bad of you not to have done something with what is left. You cannot be blamed for the fire, but you can be blamed for that.”
“Do you think it devalues your supposed inheritance?”
“I think—you can have some pheasant now and really should taste it—I think it speaks poorly of you that it is a ruin, left to deteriorate. It has nothing to do with my inheritance.”
“Let us not lie to each other.” Bold, that, considering he just had. “You were not only admiring the house while you toured it. You were taking inventory of my property and belongings.”
“Partly. Mostly, however, I was wondering, as I have already indicated, why you would stay at the inn when you have this house within a few miles at your disposal.”
“Perhaps I thought I would have a better chance at seducing you if I were at the inn too.” He said it to send this conversation away from the reason he avoided this place, but the notion had passed through his mind, often, scoundrel that he was.
That took her aback for a five count, no more. She lifted a cover to see what else the cook had made. “I’ll wager this fish was caught within the last few hours.” She moved a chunk of it to her plate. “If that was your plan, you could effect it just as well here. Even better is my guess. Just invite Miss Ingram and me to stay here too.”
“You would like that?”
“Which? Staying here, or being seduced?”
“For now, you need only respond to the staying here part.”
“Who wouldn’t like that, except you? It is luxurious. The food is very fine, the mattresses are wonderful, I am sure, and I am guessing the linens are of top quality. A
re there other servants besides the cook and this footman who brings us too many dishes?”
“Several. They are spying on us through the keyholes.”
“As long as there is one woman to help Miss Ingram so I don’t have to, I would say this is a marked improvement over any inn.”
Could he do it? Stay here? Right now, he thought he could. While they toured the house, he could. Only he did not think anything had really changed about his feelings toward this house. All that had changed was Davina’s presence, and the way that pushed old histories away for a while.
Still, she wanted to sleep in the house she thought should be hers, and be served by the servants she thought she had a right to command. He could indulge her for a few days. He could conquer his aversion that long. Perhaps it would blunt her eventual disappointment about the property.
“I will speak with Roberts. He will send for our baggage and Miss Ingram and move us all here.”
Chapter Seventeen
For now, you need only respond to the staying here part.
He assumed they both understood and accepted that of course he would not seduce her, so he could joke about it. Little did he know she had almost blurted out that she would gladly be seduced.
She strolled through the overgrown garden while he went to give instructions to Mr. Roberts. One could still find the paths if one pushed away the bushes’ tall branches. A few blooms poked through in one area, indicating there had been a flower bed there, now all but swallowed by the encroaching wilderness.
A back portal beckoned. She unlatched it and walked into a field of heather. A short distance away, on a little hill, she saw a copse. The trees looked young enough to believe someone had planted them here, forcing an unnatural canopy over what should have been pasture or fields. After walking another twenty feet toward them, she saw why. The family graveyard enjoyed this bit of nature, the headstones and small mausoleums showing through the bare branches.
She took her time walking among them, reading the names of her ancestors. She knew in her heart she was one of them, just as she had known upon entering the house that her mission was just and right. She had experienced the same contentment she knew when her father and she had returned from one of their journeys into the country. Ah, home again. It brought a special peace to return to where one belonged. She had not enjoyed that feeling since he died, until she entered their home in Caxledge. Today, stepping into that house, she had once more.
She read the names of those buried here. MaCallums, most of them. No Marshalls. None of Brentworth’s ancestors had been laid to rest here. Perhaps if any perished here, their bodies were sent back to England.
One grave marker made her pause. Not a MacCallum. Not even a Scot, from the name. Jeannette O’Malley. Nor did the stone look very old. It showed no chips and not nearly as much weathering as the others. Not fresh either. Just more recent. A servant, most likely. She could see how one might end up here, if it were an old retainer without local family.
She turned to make her way back and saw Brentworth watching her from amid the trees. The branches sliced his form. She walked to him.
“There is no grave for the son of Michael MacCallum.”
“The records show him being buried in the parish yard.”
“The day is young, and I have eaten enough to last until morning. I think I will visit that parish yard.” They reentered the garden. “Is the church far from here? If you give me its direction, I will go now.”
“Do you think to walk? It will be a rigorous four miles each way. Roberts has sent my coach to the inn, but I am sure there is a gig or wagon to be had. I will call for it and take you.”
“I can drive a gig myself.”
“We will do this together, Davina. It was your rule that we both learn what is to be discovered, so neither of us misinforms the other.”
“Are you saying I would lie to you?”
“Of course not. Just as you did not insist on coming north with me because you thought I would lie to you.”
Together they went inside and waited for the gig to be prepared.
* * *
“A phaeton is hardly a gig. This is a most uncomfortable conveyance.” Davina kept gripping the edges of the seat so she would not bounce around. Because when she did, she bounced closer to him, he had no incentive to slow down.
“What an impractical carriage for the country,” she complained.
“I think Roberts indulged himself. It is far more fun to drive than a little gig.”
He glanced over whenever the road permitted it. Her blond hair swung beside her cheek and her blue eye sparkled with her spirited good humor. Despite her objections, she was enjoying herself. The brisk breeze caused her face to flush, and he thought she looked very lovely.
It went without saying that he would take her to the parish church. Not only because he needed to hear what she heard and see what she saw, but also because he enjoyed her company. There was another reason, perhaps the most important one, however. Should she start prying into the events surrounding the fire, he wanted to distract her. He did not doubt there were rumors about that night. Some might even be true.
He would prefer she did not learn about it. Ever, and certainly not now, here, in the shadows of that ruin. No one could hear that story and think well of him. He realized her opinion of him had come to matter.
“Ah, that must be it,” she said, pointing to the small stone structure up a short lane to their left.
He slowed and turned the carriage. Inside a stone fence, he stopped, stepped out, tied the horse and helped her down.
A smaller building flanked the church. An old man came out of it. He wore the clothes a farmer might, loose trousers and a linen shirt and a long frock coat many years old. He placed a low crowned hat on his white hair and approached them.
“Are you the vicar?” Davina asked.
“No vicar here. Just me. If you’ve come to marry, you’ll have a properly ordained Church of Scotland minister not some vicar.” His light blue eyes peered from a face so wrinkled it looked like crushed parchment. “Are you Brentworth?”
“Yes, he is,” Davina said. “How did you know?”
The old man chortled. “Well now, that is the silly carriage from the big house, and this one is looking a lot like a lord, so I just guessed. Been a while since you’ve been in these parts, Your Grace.”
“Yes.”
The priest looked at Davina. “Man of few words.”
She nodded. “We have come to look at the parish records. To see if there is any information about the barons or their families in them. The ones before . . .” She made a vague gesture toward the current owner. “The Scot ones, I mean.”
“Come in, then. I’ll pull out the books and you can look all you want. There’s probably at least a few marriages noted and whatnot else. You can use my dinner table.” He turned and walked inside with the careful, slow steps of the aged.
Brentworth followed Davina into the little cottage. Stone like the church, already it held the damp of winter. A low fire burned in a large fireplace. The whole lower level was one big chamber, with the dinner table close to the hearth. Beams overhead made for a low ceiling, and he had to duck to avoid hitting his head.
He sat beside Davina. The priest placed two very fat, large books in front of them. From the condition of the leather binding, it was easy to see which was more recent. He opened that one and saw that recent meant it began in 1685. “This is the one we need.”
She leaned over so they both could read the pages in the overcast light. The priest brought a candle, which helped, but she still hovered right over his arm, her face no more than five inches from his, her breast all but pressing his side. The impulse to give her soft, luminous cheek a kiss almost overcame him. Only the minister’s presence stopped him. The old man kept looking at Davina.
She paged through, curious.
“We should move forward in time or this will take many hours,” Eric suggested.
&nb
sp; “I know. It is just interesting to see these names follow through over the years. I supposed if I had lived here my whole life, I would recognize them as the ancestors of my neighbors.”
It no longer irritated him when she spoke as if she might have lived here her whole life because, of course, she was a descendant of the MacCallums noted on these pages. Thus did desire alter a man’s opinion, he supposed.
She permitted him to find the page for 1730, at which point they examined each notation more carefully. Births, burials, marriages—all received their space, with the marriages showing the signatures of the couple, and some deaths describing causes.
“Here he is. Here is my grandfather. I am sure of it,” she said, her delicate fingernail stopping on a birth notice in 1740. “James MacCallum, born to Michael and Elsbeth on 4 March. Now we know what name to look for, at least.”
“Was he known as James in Northumberland?”
“He was.”
“James MacCallum. It is such a common name.”
“Which is why they did not have to change it.”
She smelled so nice, he kept turning the pages. They did not see references to James MacCallum until the fateful year of 1745. At the top of a page, all but in the margin, came the brief notation that James MacCallum, age five, died on 17 December.
“That is odd.” Davina narrowed her eyes on that line, then turned back several pages, then examined it again. “It is almost as if it were added there later.”
It did look that way, at least a little. Furthermore, it had been inserted above a marriage documentation, with all those signatures and such. Usually those started new pages, in order to make sure everything fit together.
Not far after that page came the one with the last baron’s death. That did receive its own page, and a bit of a flourish. Michael MacCallum, baron, owner of Teyhill manor and lands, perished at Culloden on 16 April 1746, fighting for Scotland. Buried on the field. A few other men’s deaths followed on the next page, with similar statements.
The old man was gazing at Davina again. She did not notice when she turned to him. “We would like to visit the graveyard. I believe a relative is buried there.”
Never Deny a Duke Page 17