The Heart Queen

by Patricia Potter

  During those months, though, he’d tried to do what he could for the tenants but had felt unable to make any real changes that would improve their lives. Now, for the past six months, he’d been developing a plan. He finally had all the parts ready. Six months of work, of planning.

  Rory’s marriage had brought additional land to Braemoor, land already cleared of tenants, mostly through the carnage committed by Cumberland.

  Neil planned to entice some of his current tenants to move to those lands and tend cattle and sheep. Braemoor’s lands would continue to be farmed. He knew there were too many families on Braemoor to survive only through farming, but if some would voluntarily move, then Neil could make the best use of all the lands now under Forbes control.

  He just had to make the offer attractive enough to entice some of the young men to move miles away. He’d already decided to provide cottages, a cow and other livestock to anyone willing to move. He would give them a percentage of the profits of the sale of stock they tended.

  It would mean that those who stayed could keep more of their yield.

  Ultimately, he planned to offer to sell plots of land to the crofters tending it. He’d already checked with a solicitor. ’Twas legal, if unprecedented. He knew it would not be popular among the land owners—nor with Cumberland—which is why he hoped to keep his plans quiet for the moment.

  His proposal, he knew, was revolutionary. The land would not produce as much revenue as it would if he cleared it all off. But he should have enough to pay the taxes, and that was all that mattered to him. He had no need for money, clothes, jewels, or riches. Though his title and lands drew people to Braemoor, and no end of offers of marriage, he knew they did not seek him out. He had not wit nor charm, nor social graces, but that bothered him not a whit. He did have a passion for making changes.

  He outlined his scheme for Jock, whose eyebrows furrowed closer and closer together.

  “A share of the profits, my lord?”

  “Aye,” he said simply.

  “A cottage? Livestock?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why would ye do tha’?”

  “Because the prospect of having a share of one’s own labor should make our people more productive.”

  “The prospect of losing wha’ they have would be havin’ the same effect.”

  “Fear instead of reward?” Neil asked. “I donna believe so.”

  “I ha’ never heard of the like,” Jock said suspiciously.

  “Nor have I,” Neil admitted, permitting himself a small smile. He hoped it came out that way. God knew, he seemed to scare everyone to death, even wee lassies. That experience still stung.

  Suspicion oozed from the man sitting across from him. The tenants had received little from the Forbeses over the years except demands for more and more rents. “Wha’ about the other tacksmen?”

  Neil had been watching them carefully for the past year. He did not want them at Braemoor. “I will not renew their leases,” he said. “I will pay off the remaining terms.”

  “They will no’ be happy.”

  “They’ve been cheating the crofters.”

  Jock looked surprised, and Neil realized the man had not thought he knew what was going on at Braemoor. In truth, he knew everything that was going on.

  “I want you to take over their leases,” Neil said. “You are a fair man. I can trust you, and more importantly, the crofters trust you.”

  “But ye be wantin’ some to leave.”

  “The land is too crowded. There is not sufficient land on Braemoor for all the sons being born here. I am offering a new opportunity for them to start households of their own on vacant land. I hope you can persuade some of them.”

  “For a cottage, and a cow and space to garden, I am thinking ye will have some volunteers.”

  “We will run cattle and sheep on the new lands and put most of Braemoor into grain, build our own mill. The crofters can have gardens of their own and keep all but ten percent, which will come to me.” He hesitated, then added, “Eventually, I want to enable them to purchase their land for a fair price.”

  Jock’s eyes widened. He dropped his caution. “Are ye flummoxing me?”

  “Nay, Jock. I have too much land for any one man. I ha’ no children to leave it to. I want it in the hands of those who’ve worked it all these years.”

  Jock stared at him in shock.

  “This last is between you and me for the time,” Neil said. “My hold on Braemoor may be tenuous. I do not want word reaching Cumberland and give him reason to suspect my loyalty to his wishes.”

  Jock nodded, still obviously dazed. Still not altogether comprehending.

  “Will you talk to the other tenants—except about the sale of land?”

  “How do I know ye will keep your word?” Jock said.

  It was an unusually brave thing for a tacksman to say, and Neil respected him for it. “I shall put it in writing if you wish,” he said. “It will be a contract.”

  “I donna put much stock in that,” Jock replied. “The nobs always find a way around it.”

  Neil had to smile. That had been his experience, too. “What would you like?”

  “I will have to think on it.”

  “Then you do that, Jock. And talk to the others. Will you do that?”

  Jock hesitated, then said grudgingly, “No harm in tha’.”

  “Now will you drink with me?” Neil asked.

  Neil found himself going to the cottage once inhabited by Mary Forbes, who had grown herbs for the tower and for the nearby village. It had a deserted, forlorn look. He knew he should give it to someone; it was a waste such as it was. But it held secrets that he’d been loathe to give up.

  The furniture was still in place, even plates and cups. It had been rumored that Mary was a witch, and no one had wished to test the theory. The devil looked after his own.

  The fact that she’d completely disappeared, along with the village blacksmith and Neil’s own cousin had created no end of speculation. Had the blacksmith and herb grower been involved with the Black Knave? Had they been partly responsible for the death of Rory, the Marquis of Braemoor? No one but Neil knew that Rory and the Black Knave were one and the same. It was a secret he would take to the grave.

  The key to the secret was the clothes hidden beneath the dirt floor of the cottage in a secret compartment. Neil had thought many times about destroying it. If Cumberland ever discovered that he’d been outfoxed by the Forbeses, both Neil’s own neck and the estates would be forfeit. And yet … yet …

  He brushed aside the dirt, finding the boards that covered the cache. He pulled them up and looked inside. A black cloak, black trousers and shirt were there, along with a British uniform. And a deck of cards.

  Neil had found several other decks in Rory’s chamber. He’d destroyed those. Now he picked up this deck. New. His fingers went through them, pausing at the queen of hearts. He closed his eyes.

  How he envied Rory who had his heart queen, the lovely Bethia.

  Neil very carefully replaced all but the deck of cards. He tucked the deck into his belt.

  Then he covered the cache and went to the door, pausing only a moment before closing the door on his regrets.

  Every muscle in Janet’s body ached.

  True to her word, she’d put on her oldest dress and had helped the boy muck out stalls all day. For a while, at least, the animals would have some comfort. She’d also found a chest of coins, and she’d ordered oats.

  Then she went back into the house. She said a quiet thanks that she’d encountered neither Marjorie nor Reginald’s wife, Louisa. They no doubt would regard her with horror. They would, in any event, when they heard that she had worked in the stables. But she felt a surge of satisfaction. She had awakened something inside herself.

  For a moment, she remembered earlier days, days when she’d been a young girl out riding with her father or brother, and later, when—with the help of a stable hand—she’d slipped off alone to ride th
e moors and hills. She’d had dogs, a mare of her own, a family who loved her.

  Then it was all gone. And she had lost part of herself with it, and even more after years of being Alasdair’s wife. Only the wee bairns had kept her going, but they had not kept alive the independent, adventurous, curious girl she’d been. Because of the girls, then her son, she’d survived, was even able to love. But she’d walled off a sizeable part of herself.

  But now she felt a stirring, and she wasn’t going to let anyone spoil it. Tomorrow she’d demand to see the books. She’d already taken other steps. She’d taken one of the housemaids, Lucy, as her own personal maid. Clara, who had been promoted to nursemaid, was doing very well. The children liked her and that was Janet’s main criteria.

  Now though, she longed for nothing more than a bath, then to tell the lasses a story. She determined to buy some books for them. Her father had made sure she had an education, and she would continue to see that her lasses did. Weight seemed to lift from her as Lucy brought up buckets of water and after a few tch, tch, tchs at the sight of her mistress poured them into the hip bath.

  “Thank you,” Janet said, surprised that the girl still blushed with pleasure when she did so. “Will you ask Clara to bring Colin to me?”

  “Aye, my lady,” Lucy said. “I can bring him, myself,” she said shyly.

  “I would like that,” Janet said. Because she’d been so dirty she’d not stopped in the nursery where Colin had stayed while she worked in the stables. Now she missed him. She missed, in fact, every minute she did not spend with him. He was getting to the curious stage now, crawling and putting everything in his mouth. She loved the trusting way he looked up at her when she picked him up. He’d never had that look for his father, and she regretted that.

  She quickly washed the dirt and muck away, pleased that she had tucked her hair under a cap while working. The hot water soothed the aching muscles.

  Then the door opened and Lucy set a sleeping Colin in the cradle Janet had moved next to her own bed. She got up, dried herself off and stood for a moment in front of the flames in the fireplace.

  She put on a nightshift, padded over to Colin and looked down at him as Lucy left the room. She reached down and picked him up, noticing how much heavier he was getting day by day. Before long he would be toddling all over Lochaene. One day, he would be its lord. And she vowed he would be a good one.

  His eyes opened sleepily and he smiled a slow, lazy smile. Maternal instinct surged in her.

  Nothing would ever hurt him. Not while she had a breath in her body. No matter what she had to do.

  She sang a low lullaby until his eyes closed again and she gently placed him back in the cradle. Soon he would be too big for it.

  Despite her weariness, she felt restless. She checked Colin once again, then headed out the door, up to the battlement. It was a clear night. The stars would be out, as would the full moon.

  She quickly mounted the stone stairs. One hundred and twenty of them. She’d counted them many times. She reached the top of the tower.

  The sky was a carpet of dark blue sprinkled liberally with stars. A few lacy clouds darted in and out like children playing hide-and-seek. The wind was sharp, bracing. She heard a stone clatter somewhere. She swung around. Shadows bobbed and weaved but she saw nothing. She heard the wind. Only the wind.

  Yet she found herself shivering, and not from the cool, night air.

  She took a last look at the full moon riding high in the sky. It was at its best, a huge bold ball decorating the heavens. The cold air stung her but it also made her feel alive. She started to move away from the edge when she saw a shadowy figure, saw it start toward her.

  The lack of words, of greeting or apology, alerted her. She darted toward the stairs, making it just seconds before the shadow, and she flew down the steps. After reaching the third landing, she slowed and listened. Nothing. No sound behind her.

  Her breath was coming in fast, hard gusts. Her heart pounded. Her legs felt weak. She would have sworn the figure had meant her harm, had meant to sweep her off the parapet. Her legs felt weak. She stood. Still listening.

  Then she went down the stairs. She would find a servant downstairs and ask him to go up with her.

  There was no one on the second floor where her rooms and Reginald’s were. She decided to try his door.

  She knocked. Louisa opened it.

  “Reginald,” Janet said. “Is he here?”

  “No,” Louisa said. Her eyes narrowed. “Is something wrong? You look pale.”

  Janet had no wish to explain herself to Louisa. She just shook her head and closed the door and continued down to the main hall. There she found MacKnight, who’d been her husband’s man. She didn’t know his first name, had never heard it.

  “Will you look up on the battlement?” she asked.

  He looked at her curiously, but bobbed his head, “Aye, my lady.” He took a torch from one of the wall sconces and led the way up. She followed him up the steep, stone steps.

  She wasn’t surprised to find it empty. She took MacKnight’s torch and looked around the battlement. There was no sign anyone had been there.

  Her foot hit a pebble and it went skidding across the stone.

  “My lady?”

  She felt cold. And alone.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She led the way back to her chamber, then gave him the torch. An oil lamp lit her own chamber.

  “Would ye be wantin’ more wood?” MacKnight asked.

  She realized then she was shivering. She looked inside her room. Colin was still asleep, a thumb in his mouth. The logs in the fireplace were blazing. Several more logs lay alongside.

  “No,” she said, “I am fine.”

  “If ye be needing anything …”

  “I’ll call you,” she said with a small smile.

  Uncertain, he stood there for a moment, then bobbed his head and backed out of the door.

  Janet went to her son. He had kicked off the bedclothes. She covered him, leaned down and kissed him. It would be hard not to hover over him forever.

  She looked down at her hands. They felt ice-cold.

  Then she went to the window and looked out. Quiet. Everything was quiet. The few servants were abed. No strangers were outside lurking.

  Had she been mistaken upstairs? And if not, who had been up there?

  Chapter Four

  Janet confronted Reginald. He’d arrived home sometime in the morning and was coming out of his room.

  “I want to see the household books,” she said.

  He gave her what she was sure was meant as a reassuring smile. “Now Janet, you do not want to bother yourself with that. I will take care of everything.”

  “That is very kind of you,” she said, holding her temper. “But Lochaene belongs to my son, and I feel responsible. I believe I should know what is happening.”

  “’Tis a mon’s business,” Reginald said. “The servants and tenants would no’ pay mind to a lass.”

  “Mayhap,” she said, “but that is not your concern. Our debts are not being paid, the horses are not being fed. I want to know what rents are being paid and what are owed.”

  Reginald’s face turned the shade of a ripe apple. “You are a woman,” he said.

  “I have not been under the illusion of being anything else over the past twenty-seven years,” she retorted. “But my son is an earl, and I am Countess Lochaene.”

  “My brother died before his time, before”—he added with emphasis—“he made a will.”

  “The estate is entailed,” she said calmly, though her stomach was roiling.

  “But a guardian could be appointed,” he said. “A competent guardian.”

  She felt as if he had hit her in the stomach. She wondered whether that was where he’d been the past several days. Trying to have himself appointed her son’s guardian?

  Then, she knew, she could lose Colin. She would never, ever let Reginald and her mother-in-law control her son.r />
  She saw the expression in his eyes. He hadn’t meant to tell her that. So he hadn’t been successful yet. But that was the plan. It was written all over his florid face. Or was it just one of the plans? Could last night have been another?

  A chill crept up her back. If Marjorie and Reginald had control of her son, they would control Lochaene and its rents. And they could bring up her son as an angry, greedy selfish man, after their own image. She would die before she would let that happen.

  But one thing was true. Reginald, as a man and as a member of a family loyal to King George, would have far more influence with Cumberland and the English king than a Jacobite widow. Law meant nothing in the Highlands today.

  Reginald turned away. She had no doubt that he and Marjorie had been plotting together and had meant to tell her nothing until they won.

  “The books,” she insisted. She was not going to let him get away with his arrogance, not however long she had as countess.

  “No,” he said flatly.

  “It is my right.”

  “Not for long.” He turned around rudely, as if to go back in his room.

  “I will go to the solicitor.”

  “He was Alasdair’s solicitor and he agrees with me that a woman is incompetent to run an estate.” He went into his room and closed the door behind him.

  Janet was so angry she could not move. She stood there for a moment, wondering whether she should pound on the door, demand to see the books.

  And if he continued to refuse?

  What could she do except look like a fool? She was not large enough or strong enough to take them from him. Nor could she ask any of the servants to risk their positions, or worse, to do it for her.

  Was he lying about the solicitor?

  Fear played havoc with fury. Lochaene was not personally important to her. It was important only because of Colin and her three stepdaughters. And they were everything. If Reginald was appointed their guardian, he could send her away. He could limit her contact with her son. Dear God. She’d believed that once the authorities had not brought charges against her that she was free.