by Amy Jarecki
When the gong sounded, Brutus lumbered to his feet and yelped. Looking at the dog, Evelyn threw up her hands. “Why are you complaining? I think the earl is fonder of you than he is of me. And I tell you true, he’ll have some barbed remark I’ve never dreamed of, and I simply must be prepared for it.”
She stooped to give the Corgi a scratch behind the ears.
When she arrived in the dining hall, the boys were standing behind their chairs, waiting. “Where’s your father?” she asked, admiring the crystal vase of violet peonies adorning the table.
Thomas rattled the back of his chair impatiently. “Da hasn’t come down as of yet.”
Evelyn took her place and stood behind her chair as was customary until the lord of the manor entered. “I’m certain he’s on his way.” She prayed. After working the whole day, the boys were as excited as she to present John with the fruits of their labor. Leave it to him to come up with an excuse not to make an appearance.
The mantel clock ticked a rhythm, which reminded Evelyn of a drum on a Roman prison ship. Of course she’d never experienced the sound of such a drum, but she’d read about them. And at this moment, she felt like a prisoner of this tower, tried and convicted of treachery.
She was about to tell the boys to sit and the footmen to start serving when the door opened.
“Forgive my tardiness,” Mar said, strolling inside. “I received a missive that required a reply straightaway.”
Evelyn looked at him expectantly. Was it a communication from the queen? From anyone else in London? From her father? From Sir Kennan?
When His Lordship volunteered nothing, she slipped into her chair and sat back while one of the footmen placed a serviette in her lap. “How was your ride?” she asked—she had no idea where he’d gone but assumed he’d ridden the boundary, which seemed likely given he’d been in the company of his retinue.
Swenson poured a splash of wine, which John swirled in his glass, tasted, then gave a nod of approval. “’Twas a fine day.”
“I agree,” said Thomas while the soup was being served. “Did you visit the mine?”
Evelyn listened intently. The only time she garnered any information was when her husband conversed with his sons.
“I did,” John replied. “They have increased their output by a half and—”
She picked up her spoon. “A half? My, that is impressive.”
John didn’t bother glancing at her. He took a dollop of butter and spread it on a slice of bread. “As a result I gave the men a midsummer’s holiday.”
“Will we have a ceilidh, Da?” asked Oliver. “We always have ceilidhs when the laborers have holidays.”
Evelyn didn’t miss John’s eyes shift in her direction, along with his dour frown. But when he focused his attention on the boys, he smiled as if she weren’t at the table. “Aye. Bonfire and all.”
“I recall your telling me about them not long after we met.” She dipped her spoon into her soup. “There’s country dancing.”
“Aye, and reels,” said Oliver while Evelyn watched John’s reaction, yet there was none. Doubtless, the Earl and Countess of Mar would not be dancing.
Thomas waved his knife through the air. “I like the sword dance.”
John reached over and stilled the boy’s hand. “Do not play with the cutlery, son.”
Evelyn sat quietly through the remainder of the meal, since that was what her husband expected of late. And though he didn’t say a word about the peonies, she didn’t miss John asking the footman for a second helping of buttery mashed neeps. When the third course was placed on the sideboard, she motioned to the boys. “Are you ready?”
“Past ready,” said Thomas.
Oliver slipped off his chair and spun in a circle. “I’ve been ready all afternoon.”
“’Tis time,” she said, beckoning them to the sideboard.
For once, John looked at her expectantly without malice narrowing his eyes. Evelyn’s heartbeat sped so fast it nearly pounded out of her chest. She couldn’t help but smile along with the infectious grins on the boys’ faces.
“We made your favorite!” said Oliver, kicking his feet like he was dancing a reel.
“Well.” Evelyn picked up the bowl with the largest portion from the tray. “Mrs. Troup said your favorite is plum tart, but since plums aren’t in season, she suggested you might enjoy raspberry tart with warm cream.”
John actually licked his lips. “It does sound delicious. Hats off to Mrs. Troup.”
Evelyn’s breath stilled in her chest. There it was, the first gibe—but a trifle, really. Forcing a deep inhalation, she smiled. “The boys and I picked the berries, as you saw, then we spent most of the day baking.”
“Most of the day?” A crease furrowed in his brow. “What about their lessons?”
“We didn’t miss anything, Da.” Thomas walked at her side as they approached the table. “Mrs. Kerr taught us reading and letters in the morning.”
“And maths in the late afternoon,” Oliver finished.
“Och aye?” John sat back and rubbed his belly. “I’m surprised Mrs. Troup allowed you in the kitchen. She’s very territorial, that woman.”
Evelyn smiled as she placed the confection in front of her husband. Mrs. Troup certainly was territorial, but she’d never be again where the Countess of Mar was concerned. The cook could shoo everyone else in the household out of her kitchens, but not Evelyn. That had been their agreement.
John picked up his dessert spoon. “Aren’t the rest of you eating?”
“We want you to taste it first,” said Thomas.
Evelyn held her breath as she watched Mar take a bite. His eyes closed while a smile played on his lips. “Mm. This must be the best raspberry tart I’ve ever sampled in all my days.”
Oliver’s dance resumed with ten times the vigor. “I kent you’d like it.”
“Excellent work, lads. Your labors have paid dividends.” The footmen brought three more bowls to the table. “Now sit and enjoy the fruits of your labor.”
As Evelyn joined them, she chanced a smile at her husband, but the gesture was lost. Focused on his tart, John continued to make idle chat with the boys.
She stirred the cream, making the raspberry juice swirl from pink to red. To unlock the door and win Mar’s favor would take a great deal more than beautiful flowers and fine food.
The challenge is to find the right key.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Are you sure that barrow isn’t too much for you to push all the way to town?” Evelyn asked. “It wouldn’t take but a moment to ask a groom to hitch up a cart and pony.”
Stooped and looking more weathered than he had a few days prior, Mr. Morten shook his head as he trudged forward. “’Twould be far too much trouble. Besides, the Widow Boyd’s cottage is only a quarter-mile yonder. We’ll rest there.”
Evelyn didn’t believe him until they crossed under the arch of the mammoth stone wall and walked around a bend. “Oh my.” She stopped at the picturesque village before her. “I didn’t realize Alloa was so nearby.”
“Once you traverse the mile-long drive, everything changes.”
“How so?”
Mr. Morten inclined his head toward the tower. “On the earl’s estate, the world seems as if it exists in a fairy story. But beyond her gates exist all the foibles of man. Life is not so easy out here.”
“It is much like Thoresby Hall, I would imagine. Within the confines of my father’s walls, I knew nothing of poverty and despair. It wasn’t until I began traveling to Nottingham and read to the soldiers of the wars that my eyes were opened to the oppression of the common man.”
Mr. Morten turned down an overgrown drive leading to a cottage with a tottering roof. “Frightful thing, hardship.”
Evelyn selected one of the baskets she’d prepared with Mrs. Troup and stood behind the gardener as he knocked.
“A moment,” said a reedy voice from inside. After a bit of a wait an elderly woman opened the door. Leaning on
a cane, she grinned at Mr. Morten, one tooth missing and the others brown. “Thank the stars for market day.”
“Mrs. Boyd, please meet the new Lady Mar, come to pay her respects.”
Evelyn curtsied. “It is ever so lovely to meet you.”
“Oh, aye?” The widow looked her over from head to toe. “They said His Lordship married a Sassenach.”
Though Evelyn hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms, she was surprised not to receive the slightest of curtsies. “Indeed he did.”
Mr. Morten gestured to the basket. “We’ve a parcel for you.”
“Lamb shanks, oatcakes, a chicken, and plenty of raspberries.” Evelyn held out the offering. “I hope there is something inside that will be of use.”
Mrs. Boyd pulled a moth-eaten shawl around her shoulders and peeked inside. “My thanks, m’lady. Won’t you come in for a spot of peppermint tea?”
Evelyn smiled. “We’d be delighted.”
Inside, the air was musty and the furniture worn. Mrs. Boyd hobbled about using her cane. “We were all surprised to see the earl marry so soon.”
“To be honest, I was as well.” When Mr. Morten took a seat at the rough wooden table, Evelyn moved to the hob. “May I assist?”
“Nay, just make yourself comfortable and I’ll have the tea made in no time.”
“Very well.” Evelyn perched on a stool. “Your home is cozy. Do you have anyone to help you with repairs and the like?”
“Just the townsfolk.”
Evelyn learned that Mrs. Boyd’s husband had died fifteen years prior, and that her two sons were killed in the wars. The woman complained of rheumatism and relied on the assistance of others to make ends meet and had thought the world of the former countess—a Scottish woman from East Lothian. The tea was watery, which may have been why Mr. Morten added a tot from his flask. Evelyn finished every last drop, leaving a guinea under her saucer for the widow to find later.
Before they stepped outside, she grasped the woman’s gnarled hands. “Thank you ever so much for your hospitality. I am looking forward to seeing you again.”
Mrs. Boyd bowed her head and managed a curtsy. “It has been lovely to meet you, m’lady.”
“You made quite an impression,” whispered Mr. Morten as he picked up the barrow’s handles.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I think by the time Mrs. Boyd served the tea, she’d forgotten how much she hates the English.”
They continued on, meeting Mrs. Hardie and her son, Graham, who was off work due to a broken leg. There were other widows, widowers, and a single mother with a newborn babe who had been turned out by her family. All were in sore want, and all were living near the tower.
And Evelyn didn’t care for what she’d seen. “Does Mar know of this poverty within his midst?”
“The earl does what he can—a great deal, truth be told. He employs over half the town at the mine, and more on the estate.” Gripping the barrow handles, Mr. Morten trudged back up the slope and around the bend. “Though things are improving of late, ’tis why we take the baskets out on market day. And why you slip coins beneath your cups.”
Evelyn cringed. “You saw that?”
The gardener stopped and wiped his brow, then dug in his sporran and took a sip from his flask. “I may be old, but I’m nay blind.”
By the time they reached the gates, the old man was breathing heavily, his brow streaming with sweat.
“Perhaps we should stop and rest.”
“I’ll be fine. Not far to go now.”
Evelyn pursed her lips and followed. At least they’d given away all but one basket and the barrow was much lighter now. “I think the boys should come along next—”
The gardener stumbled and fell, collapsing in a heap.
“Mr. Morten!” Evelyn dropped to her knees beside him, fanning his face. “What happened?”
His tongue slipped across chapped lips. “It seems I’m not feeling too terribly well after all, m’lady.”
“Clearly.” She took his hand. “You’re trembling.”
“Perhaps I need a tot of whisky.”
Evelyn didn’t like that idea. She’d seen him take a few tots already that day. “You need water—or cider.”
He fumbled for his sporran.
“Oh, blast it all, I’ll find it.” She fished out the flask and found it empty. “Was this full when we set out?”
The man’s eyes rolled back. “Only half.”
She tossed it in the barrow, found the remaining basket, and pulled out a pair of dates. “Can you eat these?”
He shook his head, seeming disoriented.
She pushed one into his lips. “Chew it.”
Slowly Mr. Morten did as she commanded. And as soon as he gulped down one, she made him eat the next. By the time he finished that, his eyes weren’t quite as dazed. “You need to be seen by a physician.”
“N-not me,” he slurred. “I’ll be right as rain—just give me a good meal and a bit o’ rest.”
“Has this happened before?”
“Once or twice. But do not tell His Lordship.”
“Why? Do you think he’ll be unkind?”
His eyes glazing, Mr. Morten didn’t answer.
“Oh dear.” She tugged on his arm, convinced Mr. Morten was in fear of being dismissed. “Let me help you into the cart.”
He tugged away feebly. “N-nay.”
“I’ll not take no for an answer, sir.” She moved behind him and shoved her hands under his arms. “Now on the count of three you will rise and allow me to deposit you into the barrow.”
“But—”
“One…two…” Evelyn bent her knees and braced herself. “Threeeeee!”
By the grace of God, somehow she managed to help the man to his feet, turn him, and deposit his behind in the scoop of the cart. And by the pallid color of Mr. Morten’s complexion, the effort had sapped him of every last bit of strength.
Evelyn heaved up on the handles. “Hold on. I’ll have you to the tower in no time.”
“Help!” Evelyn shouted, the weight of the barrow straining her every muscle as she trudged toward the tower. “Swenson! Somebody. Please!”
The butler burst out the door, a cloth in hand. “Good heavens, Your Ladyship, what has happened?”
Mr. Morten’s head lolled. “I’m…”
“He collapsed near the gate. Quickly.” Evelyn kept pushing all the way to the stairs. “Have the footmen carry him to a guest chamber and call for the physician.”
“A guest chamber? Why not his quarters?”
With no time to argue she gave the butler a stern look. “Do it now, please.” All Evelyn knew about Mr. Morten’s quarters was that they were situated at the rear of the estate adjoining the caretaker’s shop. The man was in sore need of care, and he’d be best tended in the tower, not off alone in what might be a hovel.
“Straightaway, m’lady.”
Evelyn removed her kerchief and wiped Mr. Morten’s brow. “We must inform the earl at once.”
“He’s still out on his ride.” The butler motioned to the footmen. “Hurry. Take him to the blue bedchamber.”
“Thank you.” Evelyn found the housekeeper as soon as she stepped inside. “I’ll need water and food—cider. Definitely no whisky.”
While the men took the gardener to his chamber she collected her medicine bundle, and by the time she reached the guest chamber, Mr. Morten was tucked under the bedclothes and propped up against pillows. His eyes were closed, his face drawn and still very pale.
Evelyn moistened a cloth and ran it over his forehead. “Swenson has sent for the physician. He’ll be here shortly.”
The gardener opened one eye and scowled. “The charlatan will most likely bleed me to death.”
“I’ll not allow it.” She drew the cloth over his cheeks. “Now tell me, I noticed your tremors earlier. How long have you had them?”
“I’m older than most men—seven and sixty. My hands shake.”
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“Does anything make it better?”
“Food helps. Eating those dates gave me a wee bit of strength.”
A maid brought in a tray with a cup of cider and a plate of cheese slices with oatcakes.
Evelyn gestured to the table beside the bed. “Please put it here. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Of course, m’lady.” After setting the tray down, the maid wrung her hands. “Is Mr. Morten going to be all right?”
“I hope he will be. But make no bones about it, he is gravely ill.”
The maid glanced at the bed. “What’s wrong with him?”
“I’ll be right.” Mr. Morten still slurred his words. “Just bring me a tot of whisky to steel my nerves.”
“Cider first.” Evelyn took the cup and helped him drink. “Good?”
He coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He gave a nod.
“Do you think you can manage a bit of cheese?”
“I’ll try.” Mr. Morten nibbled at first and it wasn’t long before he finished the cider and ate a few more slices of cheese. When the physician came, Evelyn stood in the corridor with the door slightly ajar and listened until the man came out.
“What is your diagnosis, sir?” she asked.
Wearing a black coif, the doctor was about as gaunt as Mr. Morten, but his eyes shone, reflecting kindness. “He’s suffering from a bout of dropsy for certain. Also, without a urine taster I cannot be certain, but by the odor in the chamber pot, I suspect he has sweet urine.”
Evelyn had suspected as much. “His hands shake, and he seems to improve with food.”
“Aye, he mentioned that. He’ll need at least three days’ bedrest, and he’d best not skip any meals. Let’s see if we can pack a wee bit of fat on those old bones.”
“I’ll tend to it.” Evelyn led the man down the corridor and lowered her voice. “And what of his work?”
“I’m nay about to retire!” Mr. Morten’s reedy voice came through quite clearly for a man who’d appeared to be at death’s door not but an hour or two ago.
But those words struck a chilly chord. Evelyn would see to this man’s care, no matter what.