by Amy Jarecki
After spending the entire day at the mine, John returned home late.
Swenson immediately approached with a furrow in his brow. “Thank goodness you’ve returned, m’lord.”
His gaze shot to the stairs. “Is something wrong with Her Ladyship? One of the lads?”
“’Tis Mr. Morten. He collapsed returning from his trip to town with Lady Mar.”
“Collapsed? Where is he now?”
Swenson turned a bit red. “The blue guest chamber. Her Ladyship insisted.”
“And she was right to do so.” Mar started up. “Did you call for the physician?”
“We did. It seems the master gardener is suffering from dropsy and sweet urine. But…”
“There’s more?”
“The countess hasn’t left his side all day. Further, somehow she managed to lift the gardener into the barrow and then she wheeled him all the way up the drive by herself.”
“Och, why did someone not rush to her aid?” Mar stopped and jammed his fists into his hips. “You let Her Ladyship struggle to push a man in a wheelbarrow an entire mile?”
“Forgive me, m’lord.” The butler bowed. “I was cleaning the silver. I-I didn’t know she was in peril until I heard her shout for help.”
“Bloody hell.” John ran the distance, burst through the blue-chamber door, and stopped.
Standing beside the sickbed, Evelyn straightened with a cloth in her hands. “My lord,” she said as she turned and squared her shoulders almost as if she expected a berating.
John glanced at the butler. “Leave us.”
His wife thrust her finger at the sleeping man. “I refuse to stand idle whilst you dismiss him because he is old and infirm,” she said in a heated whisper.
John blinked and shook his head. “I arrive home to learn my master gardener has collapsed, and the first thing I hear when I enter his sickroom is nonsense about dismissing him?”
“My father would have done so.” Evelyn backed against the bed and spread her arms, acting Morten’s supreme protector. “And I’m not about to allow such scorn and disrespect for a servant who has been loyal throughout his lifetime.”
“I agree.”
“Furthermore,” she continued as if he’d said nothing, “he has expressed that he desires to continue his service, though it is my opinion he will not be able to sustain the same pace. He needs help. And I’m not about to stand by and listen to any argument to the contrary.”
John crossed his arms. “What do you recommend?”
“An apprentice master gardener. Someone Mr. Morten can groom.” She shook her finger. “And the sooner the better. But let there be no question, I will not watch whilst this man is dismissed because there are a few weeds in the flower beds.”
Finally unable to tolerate her continual implications that he might turn into a tyrant and immediately toss the gentleman out the window, John grasped his wife by the wrist. “Come. We will continue this conversation elsewhere.”
“You’re hurting me,” she said as he pulled her into the library.
“Forgive me,” he said with an edge to his voice. “I suppose I should stand and smile whilst you choose to indicate that I am some sort of barbaric landowner—a man who would turn his back on his servants in their old age.”
“Are you not?” She thrust her damned fists to her sides. “Mr. Morten was afraid to have you find out that he was ill—and he’s afraid to retire.”
John mirrored her stance. “I’ve given him no cause. If he wants to retire, he may do so, of course.”
“With a pension? A-and a cottage?”
“That is standard for his position.”
She stared for a moment, her mouth agape. “Truly?”
“I would have it no other way. And it cuts me deeply that you still see me in the same light as your damned father.”
Shaking her head, she pressed the heels of her palms against her forehead. “Goodness, forgive me.”
“What happened to make you so bitter?”
Releasing a long breath, Evelyn paced. “You may recall in London my father told you that I spent years under the tutelage of the master gardener at Thoresby Hall.”
“Aye.”
“Whilst Mr. Wilson grew old and I grew up, he taught me everything about soil, flowers, herbs, pruning—a lifetime of knowledge he imparted with care and love. But when he fell ill and the hedges weren’t properly trimmed, and a few weeds sprouted in the gardens, Papa dismissed him for dereliction of duty. Worse, he left the poor man without a pension and no place to live out the remainder of his days.”
“I find that difficult to believe.” John rubbed his fingers over the stubble on his jaw. “There was no real cause other than the man’s failing health?”
“None whatsoever. My father pays deplorable wages and his servants grumble and complain behind his back. He uses children in his mine because he can pay them less and they fit into smaller spaces. If a servant grows old, he’ll find a reason to dismiss the poor soul without a care.”
“Good Lord.”
“When Mr. Wilson was discharged from service, I found a widow in Nottingham who took him in. I used my pin money to pay for his board. But the trauma overburdened him, so he only lived six more months. Then I was forced to borrow from Frances to pay for his funeral.” Evelyn had paced to the door and she rested her hand on the latch. “I’ll not stand for such disdain in my own home. If you choose to send me away, then so be it.”
Before John organized his thoughts with a reasonable response, she left. No wonder she’d oft expressed a fierce loyalty toward the common man. She’d experienced tyranny in her own home, and then Dubois had preyed on her convictions. Good Lord, the woman wasn’t a misled conspirator, she was a bloody saint.
In conversation John mightn’t be able to convince her of his benevolence for the elderly servants in his employ, but he could do so with his actions. He took a seat at his writing table and dipped the quill into the inkpot.
Dear Mr. Morten,
Please accept my sincere concerns for your health. As you convalesce, I want to be clear that I admire your desire to continue your service as Master Gardener to my estate. I believe it is time to appoint an apprentice to work beneath your tutelage, and once you are able, I will enlist your expertise in finding the right candidate.
Please let it be known that when you do decide to retire, you will receive a pension and a cottage that will enable you to live out the remainder of your days in comfort.
Yours sincerely,
Mar
John opted to end the letter informally. He’d known the master gardener all his life and scribbling The Rt. Honorable the Earl of Mar seemed snobbish.
Then he slipped it under the door of the blue guest chamber and headed for his bed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Where the devil is she?” asked Thomas as Oliver chased him through the entry of Alloa Tower.
“We can do without the expletives,” John scolded. “‘Where is she’ is sufficient.”
“But you say ‘devil’ all the time,” squealed Oliver, dashing past.
Thomas leaped up to the third step. “Is ‘devil’ a curse word?”
“It ought to be.” John reached for the eldest’s wrist. “Now, would the pair of you stand still for a time?”
Thomas dragged his feet while he took his place beside his father. “But who can stand still when there’s a ceilidh to attend?”
Oliver followed suit as he usually did. “I can hear the pipers from here.”
“Forgive me if I’m a tad late.” Evelyn appeared at the curve in the grand staircase wearing a tartan arisaid and kirtle, of all things. “Mrs. Troup was giving me some instruction in Highland dress.”
John hadn’t really thought about what Her Ladyship might wear, but now he saw her, it came as a surprise for the Countess of Mar not to be dressed in an evening gown. But Evelyn was covered to the throat with a plaid pinned in the Highland style, though the simple attire did nothing to d
etract from her allure. In fact, she looked wholesome, except for the sad reflection in her eyes.
John, also dressed in full Highland garb, offered his elbow. “The lads are eager to join the celebration.”
Swenson opened the door, making music swirl through the hall.
“Aye, the pipers have been playing for hours,” shouted Oliver as the two lads ran for the grounds.
John’s skin tingled beneath Her Ladyship’s fingertips. “You look lovely.”
She glanced up, her gaze unsure, her hands clenching for a moment. “I know it may not mean anything, but I owe you an apology. I misunderstood the reason behind Mr. Morten’s concerns, and it seems I’ve misjudged you once again.”
John grimaced. “Thank you.” He hadn’t slept a wink last night, and the only thing that kept him from unlocking the door between their chambers was the fact that she had been so quick to accuse him of cruelty. Though welcomed, her apology took him off guard, and he stood flummoxed, staring at her for an uncomfortable moment. “The days are so long this time of year, ’tis hard to believe it is already time for the evening meal,” he finally said.
Evelyn smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling with the glimmer of the setting sun. “They are. No matter how much I love summer, ’tis difficult to fall asleep when the sky is still bright past ten o’clock.”
It was time to call a truce. “I’ve done some thinking and—”
“M’lord!” hollered Callan. Not only was he Mar’s man-at-arms, he always took charge at clan gatherings. “Will you not say a few words and formally introduce Her Ladyship to clan and kin?”
As the music silenced, every man and woman stood and faced them. Offering an apologetic smile to his wife, John spread his arms wide. “Welcome, Clan Erskine!”
As greetings rose from the crowd, he pulled Evelyn beside him. “’Tis past time I introduced my bride, Lady Mar.”
Though she smiled, the expression in her eyes reflected her unease. “It is lovely to meet you all,” she said. “I simply love Alloa and the warm welcome I have received here. Of course, my husband has gone out of his way to make me feel at home.”
John looked to his toes, not recalling one single thing he’d done to make her move to Scotland pleasant. In fact, throughout the duration of his rift with her, he hadn’t considered how she might feel being in a new home and surrounded by opinionated Highlanders.
“Callan, is the pork cooked?” he asked.
“Aye, m’lord, ready and waiting for you to give the word.”
One of the men gave them each a tankard of ale. John held his aloft. “Then let us make merry and celebrate our good fortune. Slàinte Mhath!”
Everyone raised their cups in kind. “Slàinte Mhath!”
John took Evelyn by the hand and led her to his plaid. “We sit among the others.”
“I like that.”
“You do?”
“Why should we always put on airs simply because we’re higher born?”
“I’m happy to hear you say it.”
She sat with her knees to the side and tucked her skirts under. “But what if it rains?”
He took his place beside her. “Then we’ll head for the ballroom.”
“Truly?”
“This is Scotland, lass. Believe me, it has happened more than once.”
“Will you join the lads in the shinty, m’lord?” asked Callan.
“I think this night I’ll remain beside my lady wife and chat among my clansmen.” John pointed toward his sons. “But keep an eye on my lads and ensure they remain out of harm’s way.”
“They’ll be safe with me—no broken bones or bloody noses. I’ll not be held accountable for bruises and blackened eyes, however.”
“Fair enough.”
Evelyn seemed to relax when a group of women stopped by and thanked her for the baskets.
“Mrs. Boyd ordered a new dress,” said Martha.
Her Ladyship glanced at John and blushed scarlet. “I’m happy to hear it.”
“How is Mr. Morten?” another asked.
“He’s already grousing about being abed.” Evelyn chuckled. “Imagine that? A few days of pampering in the earl’s castle and he’s champing at the bit to return to his beautifully manicured gardens.”
After the women moved on, John stepped beside her. “What’s this about a new dress for Mrs. Boyd?”
“Hmm.” Evelyn tugged her arisaid tighter about her shoulders and looked away. “Nothing.”
“Did you use your pin money to help the widow?”
“What if I did?”
“Then I shall repay you.”
“Oh.” Looking surprised, she swung her kirtle’s skirts. “That is very generous. Thank you.”
The boys joined them when food was served—juicy shreds of pork cooked over an open fire. There was nothing better—aside from Eve’s raspberry tart.
Once the musicians started playing again, the lads ran off with their friends.
“Are you not worried they’ll grow overtired?”
John batted his hand through the air. “Let them play. ’Tis good for the soul.”
“Why are you…” Turning away, Evelyn stopped herself from speaking further. She plucked a tiny daisy from the grass and twirled it in her finger. “My sisters and I used to make daisy chains when we attended family outings.”
“Do you miss them?” he asked.
“Very much.”
“Would you excuse me for a moment?”
While the ale flowed and dancers picked up their heels, John set out to find more daisies. He’d gathered a fistful when Oliver joined him. “What’re you doing, Da?”
“I’m making a daisy chain for Countess. Would you like to help?”
With the lad’s eager nod, John showed his son how to make a slit with his fingernail and pull the stem through.
“You’re quite good.”
“But lassies should play with flowers, not men.”
“Mr. Morten isn’t a lass, and he takes care of all our flowers.”
In no time they had two substantial chains. “Come, let us take these to Lady Mar.”
John tensed when they returned to find Evelyn missing. It had grown dark and the torches had been lit. Mrs. Troup pointed to the lines of dancers, thank heavens. “She’s over there, and so she should be kicking up her heels, a young lass left alone with no kin about.”
John looked on. “All of us are her kin.”
“Aye, and that’s why she’s dancing with Swenson. He was kind enough to ask her for a turn.”
“Then I must thank him.” John motioned to Oliver to sit on the plaid. “Where’s your brother?”
“Gave me the slip.” Aye, two days aboard the Highland Reel and the lad would forever talk like a sailor.
John glanced about, seeing neither Thomas nor Callan. “And he’s gone where?”
“Snuck back to the stables to show the other lads his pony.”
“Was Callan with them?”
“I saw him follow. He’s always following us about.”
Releasing a breath, he gave Oliver’s bonnet a rap. “That’s because his job is to watch your backs and see to it nothing ill befalls you.”
“And that we do not end up in mischief.”
“That, too, I suppose.”
“Suppose?” Oliver snorted. “I ken.”
“Thank you for the dance. You are thoroughly light on your feet,” Evelyn said while Swenson escorted her back to the plaid.
“I was quite a sought-after dance partner in my time.”
“Your time? Why, you speak as if you have one foot in the grave.” Stopping at the plaid, she bowed her head. “I would think you have countless more gatherings to attend of which you will be kicking up your heels at every one.”
“You are most kind.” The old butler bowed over her hand, then gave a respectful nod to John before he headed off to find his next dancing partner.
Oliver held up his daisy chain. “Look what I made for you, Countess.”
/>
Evelyn’s mouth formed an O and John could have sworn he caught a glimmer of a tear in her eye. “For me? Why that’s the most beautiful daisy chain I’ve ever seen in all my days.” She kneeled. “Would you put it on for me?”
Oliver draped it over her head.
John reached in and threaded one end through the other to make a crown. It was right for Oliver to be the one to give it to her, though he couldn’t stop the churning in his stomach. He’d intended to make the chain as a peace offering—at least the start of one.
When Evelyn straightened, she glanced to the chain in his fingers. “Perhaps we need the king and queen of the gathering.” She pulled the damned flowers from his grasp and pointed to the ground. “Kneel.”
It wasn’t a request, but an order. Filled with meaning, the single word expressed more emotion than the vicar during Sunday services, saying, “Bow to me, you overbearing brute, for I have had enough of your churlishness.”
But wear a crown of daisies amidst his kin? “Crowns of flowers are meant for fair maidens.”
She thrust another sharp point to the ground. “By law, I am a matron, not a maid. And I bid you kneel.”
Oliver stepped beside her, his expression ominous. “You’d best do it, else she might make you go to your chamber and miss the remainder of the gathering.”
“Bloody Christmas,” John cursed under his breath as he bent his knee.
Evelyn placed the ridiculous daisies atop his head. “There.”
He glanced up, expecting some sort of compliment or at least a mocking remark. When none came, he pulled Oliver onto his thigh. “Well?”
“Ye look like the king of the fairies in my picture book.”
“Ah, exactly the image I was hoping for.” John set the lad on his feet and stood, offering his elbow to Her Ladyship. “Since we are bedecked like royalty, may I have this dance?”
Looking to the merrymakers, Evelyn tugged her arisaid tighter about her shoulders rather than take his arm. “I do not think it necessary for us to put on airs as if we were…” Pursing her lips, she glanced to Oliver. “You know.”
“You are my wife and I believe it would be impolite of us not to dance. After all, Eachan and Gilreith are playing the fiddle, there’s Lachlan on the drum, Alec is our piper, and that’s wee Morag with the flute. ’Twould be very improper, indeed, to disregard their music.”