The Lady and the Laird

by Maura Seger

  He pushed away the delicate porcelain plate on which the remains of his eggs and kippers lay and glanced out the high windows at the street. Beyond the wrought-iron gates that surrounded his London residence, he could see a rather nice carriage passing by, drawn by a pair of grays he wouldn't have minded owning himself.

  At any time he chose, he could wander out into the city and find amusement, be it a ball, an evening at his club or a night spent with a congenial whore. Everything he wanted—everything any sane man could want—was right at his fingertips. The country was all well and good—a man of his standing was expected to spend time there—but the city was the thing. He couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

  But Katlin wanted him to come to Scotland and he wanted Katlin just badly enough to consider it.

  A liveried waiter removed the dishes without the baron noticing. He was deep in thought as to how he might manage such a journey with a minimum of inconvenience to himself. And, too, he had another matter to consider: how and when he might properly punish the wayward Miss Sinclair for making the trip necessary.

  ***

  Katlin paused as she came into the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, she lifted her heavy skirt and carefully wrung it out. A steady stream of water flowed from the garment to the muddy ground. It ran away in a tiny rivulet that joined with all the larger rivulets that were quickly turning the ground to a sodden mass.

  The rain had started six days before, suddenly banishing the glowing spring. At first, Katlin had thought nothing of it. There was plenty to do inside and besides, rain was needed for the crops.

  But after a week of downpour, she was forced to reconsider. She sighed as she finished wringing out her skirt and shut the door behind her. The kitchen was as dank and uninviting as when she left it. Sarah had managed to get a fire going that morning but it was in danger of sputtering out. Quickly, Katlin added more wood. Dry kindling was a major problem. She had to use the bellows until her arms ached before the logs finally caught.

  That done, she filled the kettle and set about making tea. That she should be doing such things herself no longer struck her as strange. Under the circumstances, she would do anything and everything she could.

  Maggie Fergus was sick, down with a nasty croup that left her racked with cough and hardly able to sit up. Two other servants were little better. Sarah was managing but she was reaching the end of her rope. John had held on stubbornly and would be working still if it hadn't been for the incident two days before when he'd slipped down a wet flight of steps and hurt his ankle. He, too, was laid up, which left only Seamus and Sarah to assist her. And Seamus was out seeing to what she had rapidly come to think of as the damned sheep. Somebody had to.

  "I'm sorry, miss," he had told her three days before as he prepared to leave. "But with this weather, the newborns have to be checked, otherwise we could lose all of them. Still, I'll stay if you want me to."

  "Don't be silly," Katlin had replied, far more confident than she would be later. "By all means, check on the sheep. It's your job, isn't it?"

  Seamus nodded. "That's what I did mainly for Mr. Isaiah once he couldn't get about too good on his own. Sheep are gold, miss, at least in these parts. If we lose too many..." He hesitated.

  "It will make the task of repairing Innishffarin harder than ever," Katlin said, finishing for him. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "Go on, Seamus. We'll be fine here."

  Now she had reason to reconsider. Like it or not, they most certainly were not fine. She was run off her feet trying to care for Maggie and the others. Yet what choice did she have? They were her responsibility. She had to do whatever she could for them.

  A humorous thought occurred to her as she poured the tea into sturdy mugs. No one coming upon her would guess he was looking at the Miss Katlin Sinclair, acclaimed beauty of the London social whirl, almost betrothed of Baron Charles David etcetera Devereux, cynosure of Almack's and so on. On the contrary, he'd be pardoned for thinking her a scullery maid.

  She was dressed in the oldest and simplest gown she possessed, the one she'd donned for her hapless effort at walking into the village. Her hair was down about her shoulders, secured by a single ribbon that held it back from her face. Her hands were red at the knuckles and the nails lamentably unbuffed. But she had no time—and certainly no energy—to think of such things. Not while there were people sick under her roof.

  Slowly she climbed the steps to the main floor. In the center hall, she had to stop for a moment to empty several of the buckets that were filled to overflowing. They were strategically positioned to catch the water from the worst of the leaks, which had revealed themselves as soon as the rain began in earnest.

  So far as Katlin could tell, water was coming in at several points along the old stone walls and running down the rafters of both storeys. There were leaks in the center hall, in the small retiring rooms to both sides and in almost all the bedrooms on the second floor. Some of the leaks were minor but they all bespoke the same problem—Innishffarin was slowly but inexorably rotting away.

  The thought made her eyes sting but she refused to give in. When the fullest buckets were emptied, she picked up the tray again and continued upstairs. She brought tea to each of her ailing servants, accepted their thanks and assured each that she was managing perfectly well, that they shouldn't be concerned with anything but getting better.

  The two young women—Mary and Margaret by name, kin to Maggie Fergus and good hands with a mop—seemed to believe her. John most certainly did not, but there was nothing he could do about it since every time he tried to put his weight on his injured ankle, the pain almost rendered him unconscious. As for Mrs. Fergus, she gave Katlin the most concern. The older woman's face had lost its cheerful plumpness. She was pale and wan, and her humble gratitude for the simple cup of tea did not give her sufficient energy to drink it.

  "You must rest," Katlin said softly as she smoothed the covers over the housekeeper.

  "That's all I've been doing for days now," Mrs. Fergus replied faintly, "and I don't seem to be any better for it. I'm sorry, lass, I mean, miss. I'm no use to you at all this way."

  "Don't you concern yourself about that," Katlin said firmly. "Everyone gets sick at one time or another. It's only bad luck we've been hit as hard as we have. That and the beastly weather."

  "It is bad, isn't it?" Mrs. Fergus said. "Is Seamus still with the flock?"

  Katlin nodded. "I hope he's all right."

  "Don't be worrying about him, he knows these hills like the back of his hand. It's you I'm concerned about. You can't keep up like this much longer, miss."

  "I'm managing fine," Katlin said, ignoring the weariness that threatened to overwhelm her.

  "You could send to the village for help," Mrs. Fergus suggested, "but there's sickness there, as well. Truth be told, when we get a spot of weather like this, it seems that everyone comes down with one thing or another. Hard it is, there's no denying that."

  "It will be over soon," Katlin assured her and prayed that it would be so.

  But when she went back downstairs, she found Sarah looking more exhausted than ever.

  "Go to bed," Katlin said firmly.

  The maid shook her head. "I can't do that. You've no one else to help."

  "If you don't rest, you'll get as sick as the others. Now go along."

  Sarah went, however reluctantly. When she was gone, Katlin sat alone in the kitchen and thought about how she had gotten into this predicament. The fire at least was cheerful and warmed her even through her damp clothing. She sipped a cup of tea and thought about fixing some food but lacked the will to doit.

  Still, she had to keep her strength up. The others were depending on her. Thankful that they had gotten in adequate supplies before the rain started, she cut a small slice of bread and a bit of cheese. Sitting at the table, she ate them slowly, forcing herself to finish everything. She had just swallowed the last bite when a sound behind her made her turn.

  He was there again, the
gray-bearded old man, and he was looking at her very sternly.

  Katlin gasped. The food she had eaten clumped in her stomach. Her hand flew to her throat.

  Cold... so terribly cold. She had never been so frozen in her life, not even the first time in the passage. This was far worse. She stared, horrified, at the ghostly apparition. He was clearer than before, and she could make out more of him. Something in the way he dressed—a high collar, doublet... But no, she couldn't be sure. It was the face she most looked at.

  His lips moved, but she could hear nothing. The deep, impenetrable eyes flashed. A ghostly hand rose, reaching toward her.

  A scream tore the air. In an instant, the specter vanished. Katlin rose shakily. Her eyes were unblinking, her throat tight, her skin icy cold. She had not moved or made any sound. It wasn't her voice that died away against the ancient stone walls. The scream had come from above.

  As quickly as the could manage, she hurried from the kitchen and climbed the stairs to the great hall. Sarah saw her coming and ran to her.

  Clinging to her mistress, the badly shaken girl said, "I'm sorry, miss! I only thought to light a fire in here to take away more of the chill. But my hand slipped and the next thing I knew, it was my skirt that was burning."

  Looking down, Katlin saw that she was right. A large swath of Sarah's skirt was missing, and the fabric around it singed. It was a miracle she hadn't been badly injured.

  "How did you—"

  A sob broke from Sarah. She smiled tearfully. "With my hands, miss. It was all I could think to do. I saw what happened once, you see, when a little boy on our street got too near the fire." She shivered at the memory. "Terrible, it was. I couldn't bear that. Thank God the flame hadn't caught hold."

  Perhaps it hadn't, but it had been enough to blister Sarah's hands in several places. Katlin nearly wept as she cupped them in her own. Sarah was in this place because of her, she had worked herself into exhaustion for Katlin's sake, and in return she'd come perilously close to a terrible death.

  "Oh, Sarah, I'm so sorry!"

  The maid's eyes opened wide. "You, miss? Don't you be saying that. It's my own fault for not being stronger or smarter. A bit of that ointment Mrs. Fergus has and I'll be right as rain." She managed a weak giggle. "Never mind about that, I'll be right, period."

  Katlin wanted desperately to believe her but she wasn't fooled. Sarah had been very lucky, but injuries such as hers didn't heal in a day. Worse yet, it had happened because there simply weren't enough hands to do the work. Now there were fewer than ever.

  "I'll get you to bed," Katlin said, "and get some of the ointment from Mrs. Fergus. But then I'm going for help."

  "Help, miss? But from where? They're ailing in the village, as well."

  "I'll wager they aren't ailing at Wyndham," Katlin said grimly. Privately, she thought that if illness had passed the great manor house by, it was because his high-and-mighty lordship simply wouldn't permit it to linger. Much as it galled her to have to turn to him, she had no choice. Her duty to those in her care demanded it.

  With Sarah safely stowed in bed, her hands treated and bandaged, Katlin set off for the stables. Although she had ridden all her life, she had never been required to saddle her own mount before. Fortunately, she had seen it done sufficient times to be able to manage the task for herself, but only just. The saddle was far heavier than she expected. It took all her strength to lift it onto the fortunately docile mare who stood patiently enduring her efforts.

  When the cinches were at last fastened securely and the bridle in place, Katlin mounted. She didn't bother with such niceties as riding clothes but merely threw an old cloak over her shoulders, pulling the hood over her head. Moments later, she was trotting through the stable yard and down the lane toward the shore road.

  Chapter Six

  Pride goeth before a fall, and so it did in Ratlin's case. She'd swallowed her pride to go to Angus for help but that didn't help her when it came to the rain-soaked shore road. The mare was a good, sturdy mount with careful feet, but in her desperation, Katlin urged her too fast. Several miles from Innishffarin, where the road rounded a steep curve, a sea of mud had come loose from the surrounding hillsides.

  The mare was managing a good canter when the mud suddenly appeared. She slowed, but not enough. Too late, Katlin realized that the footing had suddenly become treacherous. She moved to rein in the mare, but as she did, the horse lost her balance and went down.

  Katlin felt her going and did as she had been trained, kicking her feet free of the stirrups. She was thrown clear, landing several yards away where the mud was thickest. That saved her from injury. However, it did nothing at all for her appearance.

  Covered in mud, more bedraggled than she had ever been in her life, Katlin barely managed to get to her feet. Her first concern was for the mare, but fortunately the horse was unharmed. She righted herself without apparent effort and stood gazing calmly at her mistress.

  Lacking a mounting block to assist her—much less a groom—Katlin looked around for a likely rock. She found it some distance from the road and led the mare to it. Finally able to regain the saddle, she took a deep breath and said softly, "All right, girl, we'll try this again but more slowly this time."

  The mare seemed to understand her for she moved forward slowly, negotiating the mud with utmost caution. When they were safely on the other side of the road, Katlin gave a sigh of relief but she still didn't dare to urge the horse to too fast a pace. They were forced to proceed slowly, which meant they both got all the wetter. The mare didn't mind. Katlin was thoroughly soaked by the time they rounded the last bend in the road and came to the high iron gates of Wyndham Manor.

  She lacked the strength to do more than glance at the impressive mansion rising before her. Wreathed in rain, it looked utterly solid and secure. Cheerful light shone from the high windows and she could just make out the trail of smoke rising from the half dozen or so chimneys. She spared a grim thought for how Innishffarin looked by contrast but refused to dwell on that.

  Dismounting in the courtyard, she left the mare tied to a post and marched up to the front door. Too wet, tired and worried to bother overly much with the niceties, she pounded loudly and was rewarded a few moments later when the door opened.

  A young man dressed in household livery peered at her. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about the fellow except for the fact that as his eyes swept over her, his lip curled with disdain.

  "Go around to the back," he said and began to close the door.

  "Wait," Katlin said. "I must see Lord Wyndham."

  The footman looked at her in astonishment. Roughly, he said, "Don't be daft, girl. I don't know who you are, but you'll be getting around to the back where you belong." His gaze went past her to the tethered mare. "Hold on, that's a fine horse. What'd you be doing with her?"

  "She's my horse," Katlin said, exasperated. "I am Miss Katlin Sinclair and I must see Lord Wyndham at once. Is that clear enough?"

  The young man looked her over once more in obvious disbelief. "And I'm the King of England," he said. "Go around to the back." The door closed with a firm thud.

  Katlin stared at it in shock. She had never had a door closed in her face before, much less had she been mistaken for some sort of beggar. It was a humbling experience, to say the least. But it was also infuriating. She had swallowed her pride enough to come. Was she now to act the supplicant?

  It seemed she had no choice, for though she pounded again, the door refused to yield. Muttering under her breath, she untied the mare and walked her the considerable distance down one wing of the house and around it. The Wyndhams had built for size as well as strength. Fully five minutes elapsed before Katlin finally reached the kitchen entrance. She knocked, more cautiously this time. The door opened and a face peered at her.

  "What do you want?" a woman demanded. She was middle-aged, amply built and well if conservatively dressed, as benefitted the housekeeper of such an establishment.

  "I
am Miss Sinclair," Katlin explained again, "from Innishffarin, and I must see his lordship at once."

  The woman looked at her doubtfully. She saw a very dirty, very bedraggled young woman roughly dressed in a homespun cloak with her hair sticking to her head and so much mud on her face it was barely possible to make out her features. Miss Katlin Sinclair, indeed.

  "Go to the stables," the housekeeper said. "You can wait there. We don't encourage beggars at Wyndham but we don't turn them away, either. Say there," she went on as she caught sight of the mare, "what are you doing with that horse? Stealing's a serious crime, you know."

  "I didn't steal her!" Katlin exclaimed. This was turning into a nightmare. "I told you, I am Miss Sinclair from Innishffarin and I must—nay, I will!—see his lordship at once." And so saying, she pushed past the woman into the kitchen.

  Never in her life had Katlin done such a thing but there were times when the niceties had to be put aside. The very idea, taking her for a beggar and a thief. It was simply too much.

  Miss Katlin Sinclair lifted her head. Never mind the wreck of her hair or the mud clinging to her. The Wyndhams be damned, the Sinclairs had their own history and their own pride.

  "You will inform his lordship of my presence," she said in a tone that could have turned water to ice, "and you will do so immediately. Is that understood?"

  The housekeeper looked taken aback. "Why, I never. Where you come by the nerve to—"

  "Do as I say," Katlin ordered. She had never heard herself speak in such a way but she was fiercely glad to discover that she could do it. Her back straightened. "And do it quickly before I think Wyndham Manor a poor place to be so badly served."

  The housekeeper gasped. She turned on her heel and marched out of the kitchen. As a parting shot, she said, "Fine, let his lordship deal with ye. That'll teach you a thing or two."

  Perhaps it would, Katlin thought as she fought the urge to sit down. Not for a moment could she afford to show weakness, at least not while she was in such hostile surroundings. There were other servants in the kitchen—quite a few now that she thought of it—and they were all gazing at her in astonishment. Interminably long moments passed before the housekeeper returned.