by Aileen Adams
And it warmed him throughout to know that she held him in high esteem. He didn’t know until then that he craved her respect almost as much as that of her husband, laird of the Duncan clan.
But then, they all were solid, honest lasses, all of the women who’d come under the protection of the Duncans. Heather, Sarah’s younger sister, waved goodbye from the doorway while the infant against one shoulder bawled his protests. She assisted her sister in keeping the villagers healthy and had been the one to first suggest Margery live in the manor house while Derek went for Beatrice.
That had been another minor war, but Margery had quickly assessed how vastly outnumbered she was after her husband, Sarah, and Heather had surrounded the bed on which she’d rested. Broc had observed from the doorway, keeping his thoughts to himself, he wouldn’t have admitted it for anything, but he didn’t wish to attract Margery’s wicked sharp tongue, which had only worsened once her illness had come on.
“I’ll not have you living on your own in the village,” Derek had insisted.
“I would feel much better, knowing you were here with us,” Sarah had agreed.
“Either you come here, or one of us stays with you at all times,” Heather had warned.
That had decided Margery, who valued the privacy and peace of the little house she’d shared with Derek since their marriage. Most likely, because she’d never had anything that was truly her own, Broc supposed. He understood that feeling all too well.
And so, with the blessing of the laird, Margery’s belongings had been moved to the rooms prepared for her. She had continued to protest, but weakly, until there was clearly no point in arguing any further.
The horses stomped and whinnied, anxious to be on their way. Broc understood the sentiment and shared it, but took the time to accept the best wishes of the Duncan brothers before mounting the gelding which would be his to use throughout the journey.
Jake and Phillip Duncan both looked as though they envied the men about to depart, they were both pleased with their lives, their choices, but they were cut from the same cloth as the rest. They longed for action from time to time.
On the other hand, there were nights when Broc was alone in his vast, comfortable bed—one of many signs of the laird’s generosity—envying the warm bodies they had the luxury of sleeping beside.
It was a matter of compromise. A man could live the entirety of his life alone, free, making his own decisions and answering to no one but himself… but he’d have to accustom himself to being alone during the times when a man didn’t want to be alone. The dead of night, in the darkness, with nothing to do but stare up at the canopy above his bed and think.
And remember.
The three of them rode away on horseback, all of the many supplies they’d need packed and hanging from their saddles or tucked into the bedrolls which sat across the back of the saddles. There would be more loaded onto the ship in the day or two it would take to get things ready for sailing.
Tucked into a special pocket sewn into the inside of Derek’s tunic for just this purpose was the letter Margery had written her sister. The only way any of them could prove the truth of who they’d claim to be.
Broc cast a look over his shoulder as they made their way from the manor house, his eyes seeking out one particular window. There she was, her hair like a flag which waved behind her in the breeze coming out of the east. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement and saw her nod in reply, but it wasn’t him she was hoping to catch the attention of and he knew it.
Derek knew it, too, but he didn’t look back.
Broc had overheard the two of them talking before dawn and while Margery had wept and expressed once again how much it pained her to stay behind, Derek had stayed firm. Firmer than he’d been up to that point. He’d all but commanded her to take care of herself and obey Sarah’s orders in his absence.
It was too painful for Derek to look back and remember what he was leaving behind. Only Sarah’s great skill was enough to ease his mind and make the trip possible. Otherwise, Broc was certain, Derek would never leave.
Broc kept his focus on the trail carved into the ground, worn smooth and free of grass after years of hooves and feet having traveled along its length. It was only wide enough for them to ride single file. Hugh took the lead, having the most experience with the terrain, with Derek in the middle. Broc was glad to bring up the rear, even if it meant having to smell what walked in front of him.
It didn’t matter. He was outside, in the fresh air, even if there were several days of riding horseback ahead of him. He knew what that meant, though he’d spent hours riding in preparation for the journey with the discomfort of the past in mind. He’d still walk bowlegged by the time they stopped to set up camp for the night.
“I envy you at times like this,” Hugh called back, glancing over his shoulder at Broc.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t have anyone to leave behind.”
He was glad neither of them could see him wince. He knew Hugh meant no harm, but it was a clumsy thing to say nonetheless. He didn’t know Broc well enough to throw jabs like that one, didn’t know how Broc felt about having no woman of his own.
What if he’d suffered disappointment in the past? What if he’d experienced loss, as Hugh had, prior to meeting Dalla? He’d heard the story from Derek of Hugh’s first love, how she’d been gored by a boar and died a horrible death. Just because Broc had never told such a story of his own past didn’t mean there was no pain there.
Derek spoke up. “Broc has never lacked for the company of a woman when he’s been in the mood for it.”
The twins chuckled knowingly.
“Not much to choose from in the last months,” he admitted, more than a little rueful. It had been worst over the winter, with no one but himself to keep him warm during the long, frigid nights.
“There are a number of likely lasses in the village. Don’t pretend you don’t notice the looks Millicent gave you every time the two of you crossed paths.”
Hugh laughed. “And don’t pretend you didn’t notice the way she made it a point to cross paths with you every chance she got.”
Broc chuckled. He’d noticed, all right. The housekeeper’s daughter had done little to conceal her interest. It was an interest which he didn’t share, however—not that she wasn’t a comely girl, with a sweet nature. He simply wasn’t interested, even in the ways a man could be interested in a woman he otherwise wanted little to do with. She simply didn’t inspire his ardor.
“I’m beginning to worry about you, my friend,” Derek joked.
If it hadn’t been for his anxiousness over the health of his wife and child, Broc would’ve reminded him that not everyone was as insatiable as he. The evidence was back at the manor house, bedridden for the time being.
Broc was a man of few words and always had been. He shrugged with a good-natured grin, Derek knew enough to let the matter drop. He turned his attention to Hugh and the two of them launched into memories of their boyhood exploits through the Highlands.
The relative solitude was welcome. Broc surveyed the trees, thick with leaves and full of the sounds of birds and scampering squirrels. They were welcome, too, a distraction from the disturbing memories which insisted on playing in the back of his mind.
* * *
“The horses are secured,” Hugh reported, climbing the ladder which led up from below deck. The last of the supplies had been loaded by a handful of lads Derek had favored with a few pence for their service. The tide was high and the wind was calm. The sky, which had looked as though it threatened rain throughout the previous night, had since cleared up to reveal a brilliant sun.
After four days of riding and another of waiting for the ship’s preparation, Broc was fairly jumping out of his skin with anticipation. This was the part of the trip he’d most looked forward to. There was nothing like being out to sea, riding the waves and standing tall in the face of the wind and salty spray. It was when he felt the most alive.
>
Even as a boy on his father’s fishing boat, he’d always dreaded the announcement that it was time return home. To him, home was that boat, on the water, not in a cottage so far from shore.
His father had understood, at least, and had encouraged him.
When the time had come for him to strike out on his own, there had been little time spent in deciding what to do with the rest of his life. It wasn’t even a question, as far as Broc was concerned, and he’d already spent far too much time away from the ship’s deck.
“What say you, Captain?” Broc asked, looking Derek’s way in anticipation of the order to depart.
His friend merely smiled. “I don’t know who you’re referring to, seeing as how you’re Captain now. Remember?”
Broc warmed at Derek’s words, his blood flowing faster than ever. Yes, he was the captain of the ship, just as he was of the other two ships which Derek had left in his care. It was his business, free for him to run as he saw fit once Beatrice was safe in Duncan hands. That had been the final caveat he’d agreed to on his acceptance of Derek’s offer.
He’d agreed gladly, too, as he’d still been wrestling with the guilt over being unable to keep Margery out of enemy hands during their journey from Kirkcaldy. She might have been killed, and all because some villains had snuck up on him and knocked him cold. The least he could do, he reasoned at the time, was agree to bring her sister to safety.
Funny how he hadn’t considered that until the moment Derek had reminded him. It was his ship, his command.
He raised his chin, looking out over the ship’s bow. “Let’s take her to sea, then.”
3
When the rooster crowed its shrill song, Beatrice wondered as she did every morning why she hadn’t yet strangled the wretched beast.
“Be quiet,” she moaned, pulling the feather pillow over her head in a pointless attempt to block out the piercing call. “Please. Just be quiet.”
Nothing could hold back the dawn, of course. Nothing could hold back the endless amounts of work which constituted her lonely days.
It was something to do, anyway. Anything to drive out the constant, aching loneliness which pressed in harder and harder as each day progressed.
Why did she have to start so early, though? It felt as though she’d only just closed her eyes moments ago. Perhaps the beast was confused. Hope sparked in her chest as she lifted the pillow just enough to peer in the direction of her bedroom window.
No. The sun was already on the rise.
She tucked the soft, thick pillow more firmly around her head and resolved to ignore the burgeoning day. She would go back to sleep and pretend she hadn’t heard the rooster’s penetrating cry, that she had slept through sunrise in complete innocence of the facts. For once, she would rise from her bed feeling well-rested and ready to face another day.
But then… Poor Bess would bellow mournfully in her stall, udders full of milk. Her bawling would upset the chickens, who would run around and fret and generally cause noisy commotion as a result. Old Cecil would become agitated over this, and a horse of his advanced age didn’t need the aggravation.
Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut, willing all of this perfectly rational imagery out of her mind so she could go back to sleep. She deserved sleep! Of all the little pleasures of life she’d been denied, sleep was the one whose absence she felt most acutely.
It was no use. The animals depended on her, even if no one else did. She couldn’t let them down.
And so she tossed the pillow to the floor in an attempt to rouse herself. If there was no pillow to block out the light which slowly crept in through the window, there was less chance of her falling asleep again. The same with the thin blanket she used at that time of year, she kicked it off before the sleepy, lazy part of her mind convinced her to pull it over her head.
When her feet hit the floor, she was already well awake and determined to face another day.
Would there ever come a time when something would happen to her? For her? Something to break up the monotony of life?
To break through the ever-present grief which she wore about her like an invisible cloak?
Another day without Margery. She’d stopped counting once she’d reached one hundred, only a few days hence. It didn’t seem worthwhile to continue the count, what with each day only increasing her loneliness and the certainty that her sister hadn’t lived through the journey to London.
She splashed her face with cool water from the basin near the window and dried it on the linen strip folded on the surface of her dressing table. What would Margery think if she knew how her sister worried? She’d probably laugh herself sick before teasing Beatrice, calling her a silly old woman for allowing fear to get the better of her.
But it had been so long. So long, with no word from her.
Anything could’ve happened. Beatrice surveyed the fields beyond her window as she unwound the long, dark braid with hints of red and gold over one shoulder and combed it out with her fingers. It was a big, unknown world out there. Margery might not even have made it to Silloth.
Her hands shook a she ran a wide-toothed comb through her tresses. She noted the tremor and chided herself for it. What had become of her? In such a short time, she’d gone from being the mistress of the household and a bit of a nag—her sister’s chief complaint—to a trembling, frightened old maid.
There was work to be done. She squared her shoulders and quickly rewound her braid before slipping out of her nightdress and into one of two everyday kirtles she owned. Both were in need of replacement, worn thin in the elbows and the seat, but there was little she could do about that in the immediate future.
What was Margery wearing in London?
It was easier to imagine her being there, living a vibrant life in a vibrant town. Better than the alternative, that she’d died weeks earlier.
Did Margery ever miss the fresh, clean air of the farm just after dawn? Beatrice filed her lungs with all the air she could as she walked to the barn, using the footpath that had long since been worn between the house’s rear door and the long, ramshackle building. It needed work. Everything needed work. But there was no one on the farm to do it.
“Good morning, Bess,” she murmured to the tawny cow as she entered the barn.
It had once been full of life, every stall occupied. There had been young men on hand to do the milking, to clean the stalls and feed the animals. It was the same with the stables. Theirs had been a thriving enterprise, one her father was proud of.
But pride was a sin.
Mother had reminded her and Margery of this nearly every day of their lives. She’d held up their very father as an example of the sin of pride, of what it could do to an otherwise God-fearing person’s life. If Papa hadn’t been so proud, hadn’t always wanted to expand his land holdings and grow the farm’s prosperity, God would not have struck him down.
Even as a child, this hadn’t made sense to Beatrice. She’d always questioned things, silently, rarely including Margery until she was certain her sister was old enough to keep a secret. It made little sense that a man who only wanted to provide a secure future for his daughters would be struck down for it.
What was so sinful about working hard and taking pleasure in the results?
From what she’d heard in the years after her father’s death, mostly from friends such as old Cedric Miller, he’d been a fair man. Modest, kind, generous. He hadn’t built wealth for sake of his pride.
He wasn’t like the noblemen, including the one whose land abutted her own. He hadn’t merely bought up all the land around him in a show of power.
And he hadn’t forgotten the good of his soul, either. Deacon Eddard had assured the sisters on more than one occasion of their father’s godliness, how he had always placed his duty to God above all else. Just slightly above his duty to his family, who were granted him by God and therefore deserving of the remainder of his devotion.
Beatrice sighed over this as she finished milking Bess, who let
out a deep moo. Beatrice wondered if this was the cow’s way of thanking her for relieving the pressure in her udders.
“And thank you, my friend,” she whispered, running a hand over the silky flank. “Thank you for the cream and milk and butter.”
Mother had been wrong. Beatrice was certain of it, more certain every time she remembered all the whispered admonishments and warnings of an eternity spent in hellfire. Papa’s sin wasn’t pride. If anything, he had worked too hard and compromised his health in order to assure his daughters that they would have enough to their names when it came time to find husbands.
What a laughable prospect that was. She chuckled over it as she carried the full milk pail to the house and left it just inside the door before fetching the bucket of dried grain for the chickens and the basket for the eggs. A husband? Where, exactly?
Perhaps when she reached London…
The chicken coop was alive with activity when she stepped through the creaky wooden gate which enclosed the birds.
“Good morning, ladies.” She scattered grain over the ground. The half-dozen surviving hens pecked at their meal, chattering among themselves as always. She liked the sound, liked feeling as though someone on the farm wasn’t painfully lonely.
Not like her.
The sound of hoofbeats reached her ears as she finished gathering the eggs. Stepping out of the coop, picking straw from her hair, she recognized the deacon on the back of his old gray mare riding up the road.
“Good morning, Deacon Eddard!” she called out with a wave. It was nice, seeing another person so early in the day.
It didn’t take long for her to realize he wasn’t smiling. She hurried down the dirt path leading from the yard to the trail leading to the road and met the horse at her front gate.
The man’s thin face looked markedly more pinched and sallow than usual as he gazed down at her from above. As always, he wore dark clothing and kept his head covered. She wondered what his graying hair was like underneath. Thin, most likely. As the rest of him.