Balancing a heavy tray on one hand, Marsaili knocked on the door to the estate office.
‘Come in.’
‘Sit. Stay,’ she ordered Liath in a stern whisper. As usual, he’d padded behind her as she went about her daily work, but she knew this was one room he couldn’t enter. She managed to open the door and manoeuvre her way through without dropping either the tray or its contents. Leaving it slightly ajar, she went across to the desk and deposited Seton’s breakfast in one corner where there were no papers or ledgers at present. Porridge with thick cream and buttermilk, two bannocks and a quart of ale, as well as some honey and cheese. Nothing but the best for the factor.
‘Thank you,’ he said, without looking up at her.
Marsaili’s stomach churned. As housekeeper, it wasn’t really her job to serve Seton, but the maids were all terrified of him so she’d taken over the task a while back. Now she wished she hadn’t. She’d been dreading this encounter after what had happened the night before, but he seemed to be acting as if she didn’t exist. Well good, she thought. The less notice he took of her, the better. What on earth was he thinking? He’s much too old for me. But she knew there was nothing rational about men who lusted after women. And he was good-looking for his age, she’d give him that, so perhaps he’d genuinely thought she would welcome his advances.
As he pulled the tray over and started on the porridge, she turned to go, but before she’d taken more than a few steps she heard him spit loudly. ‘What the devil is this?’ he grumbled.
‘I beg your pardon?’ She looked over her shoulder, bracing herself for an eruption of wrath. His temper was volatile, to say the least.
‘I always have the great oats, not this pap, you know that well enough.’ He threw down the silver spoon borrowed from the laird’s cabinet and it landed in the cream, splashing globules all around. This made him visibly more irritated as he then had to mop the mess off his papers with his handkerchief.
Marsaili drew in a steadying breath and replied as calmly as she could. ‘There were none left, Mr Seton, only these. I informed you just the other day that we were running low on provisions. You said we’d have to make do as there’s no money for more.’ The so-called ‘black oats’ were an inferior type, usually given to the servants, but it was all they had now. Times were hard, or so Seton claimed, and the harvest still a good month away at least.
‘You’re the housekeeper, you should have rationed it better,’ he accused.
‘No one has been given any except you, Mr Seton, I assure you. I kept it under lock and key, as you instructed.’
‘Huh, this is what comes of giving a slip of a girl responsibilities above and beyond what she can manage. Housekeeper, indeed. It’s a position for older and more experienced women.’
Marsaili decided not to answer. She was nearly twenty-two and didn’t consider herself a ‘slip of a girl’ any longer, but since Seton was probably in his mid-forties, perhaps that seemed very young to him. Either way, they’d had this conversation before and she’d learned that maintaining a dignified silence worked better.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Find me something decent to eat,’ Seton snarled.
‘But the bannocks …?’
‘Are all well and good, but won’t keep hunger at bay till dinner time. I need proper victuals – eggs, mutton, something I can sink my teeth into. See to it.’
‘Yes, Mr Seton.’
Turning to leave again, she was halted once more by his parting shot.
‘And if I catch your dog inside the house again, I’ll personally shoot him, is that clear?’
Drat, she thought, he must have heard Liath’s claws clicking on the flagstones outside the door. ‘But the mistress said –’
‘Devil take it, woman! He’s to stay where he belongs and there’s an end to it.’
Marsaili closed the door behind her without a word.
Brice joined his father downstairs at last, clean and presentable, and slightly less hung over after a cautious breakfast of rye bread, cheese and ale.
Killian waved him to a seat and came straight to the point. ‘I want you to go to Rosyth. Something’s not right there and we need to know what it is.’
‘Why me?’ Brice asked. ‘Can’t you send someone else?’ The last thing he wanted was to go gallivanting across the North Sea when he’d only just come back from the long journey to Canton.
‘I could, but the estate is yours anyway, so it should be your responsibility. I’ve tried to look after it from a distance on your behalf, but it’s impossible. Since I can’t go myself to see what’s happening, you’ll have to sort it out.’
Brice frowned. ‘I don’t understand. It belongs to you. Has done for ages.’
Rosyth House was his father’s Scottish property, inherited some ten years earlier from old Lord Rosyth, Killian’s grandfather. Although technically Killian was now the laird and chief of clan Kinross, he hadn’t been able to set foot in Scotland since taking part in the Jacobite rebellion on the side of Prince Charles Edward, the man the English called ‘the Young Pretender’. Brice had been brought up to think of him as the true king’s heir, but most people had now given up hope of him ever gaining the throne. Rosyth House had remained in Killian’s possession, however, despite him being branded a traitor to the crown. He’d had the foresight to become a Swedish citizen and was therefore outside the reach of English law. Since the uprising, he’d lived in Sweden where he and Brice’s mother Jessamijn ran a prosperous trading company.
Killian shook his head. ‘No, I signed it over to you before I declared for the Prince. Apart from the fact that you’re Swedish, you were too young to fight so no one could accuse you of being a Jacobite. It seemed the best thing to do at the time and it worked. The English couldn’t confiscate Rosyth, no matter what. Other lairds did the same, or so I’ve heard.’
Brice was having trouble taking this in and squinted at his father. ‘So you’re saying it’s been mine all along?’
‘Since 1745, yes.’
‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’
‘I was going to when you were legally old enough to run it yourself, but you were in China when you turned twenty-one. I’m telling you now.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with it?’ Brice asked. ‘I thought you had a steward looking after matters. And what about your late cousin’s wife, Aunt Ailsa? Isn’t she keeping an eye on things? Why do I need to go there?’
Killian stood up and began to pace back and forth, his hands behind his back. Brice knew his father’s barely perceptible limp was a constant reminder of how close Killian had come to losing his life for the Jacobite cause, just like his father and two brothers before him. He’d been lucky though. He had lived to return to Gothenburg, together with a number of other Scotsmen whose lives he’d saved by allowing them to board his merchant ship before the Redcoats caught up with them.
‘Ailsa’s not in good health and I haven’t heard from her in ages. But there is a factor, yes, Colin Seton,’ he said now. ‘He sends me regular reports and the income that is your due. I’ve kept it for you and I’ll hand it over before you leave. Lately, however, there hasn’t been so much as a farthing and Seton’s letters are full of tales of woe. The tacksmen are insolent, they don’t pay their rents, the sheep and cattle are dwindling in numbers, the house has needed repairs, the crops are failing … The list is endless and as a result he’s asking me for money instead of sending any. I want to know why.’
‘Isn’t it possible he’s right though? I mean, the Scots have suffered since the forty-five and I’ve heard tell there’s a lot of hardship. Why not at Rosyth?’
Killian shook his head. ‘My grandfather ran it with an iron fist. It’s always been prosperous and in my youth, when he was teaching me all about it, he showed me that even during hard times, Rosyth ought to do reasonably well. Some losses are always to be expected, certainly, but not to this extent. I’m telling you, there’s something seriously wrong. I want you to get to the bottom
of it.’
‘Very well. I suppose it’s no worse than sitting around here brooding. And the whisky is good, I hear.’
Killian shot him an impatient look, his blue eyes darkening with anger. ‘This is serious, Brice. You’re the new Lord Rosyth, it’s your concern.’
‘Me, a Scottish laird?’ Brice almost laughed. He hadn’t been to Scotland since he was a boy and considered himself Swedish through and through, despite his father’s antecedents. Even though he’d known about it, becoming the next laird had always seemed like something that was too far away to bother thinking about.
‘It’s not a laughing matter. The oldest son always inherits and that’s you, whether you like it or not. Sooner or later, it would have been yours. It’s a very important position, but one which brings with it responsibilities. A Highland chief is almost like a father to his clan – less so now the accursed new English laws are in place, but the people will still expect things from you. And Scotland is beautiful. Who’s to say you won’t like it and want to stay? You used to love it there as a boy.’
Brice snorted. ‘Right now, going back to bed sounds more appealing to be honest.’ He caught another dark look from his father and held up his hands. ‘But fine, if you want me to go to Rosyth, I will. Just tell me what to do. Shouldn’t be that difficult.’ He knew his father was trying to help him forget about the recent marriage débâcle and to a certain extent he’d succeeded. Thanks to Killian, Brice now had a purpose and an excellent excuse for leaving Sweden. The more he thought about it, the more he realised it was a good thing.
‘Right. Then let me tell you my plan …’
Chapter Three
Edinburgh, August 1754
Brice stepped off one of his father’s merchant ships at the port of Leith and looked around with interest. He hadn’t set foot in Scotland for nearly ten years, but Killian had been right, he remembered now how much he’d always liked it here. In fact, there was no denying he felt almost as at home as he did in Sweden. The voices all around him spoke in a mixture of tongues, mostly Scots, Gaelic or English, but he understood them all for the most part, although his Gaelic was a bit rusty. He’d spent some time at Rosyth House every summer until the age of twelve and by mixing with the local children he soon picked up their speech.
He stood still for a moment while his mind adjusted to the unaccustomed sounds. He was sure the Gaelic would soon come back to him and he’d be fluent again in no time. He had an ear for languages since his mother had spoken to him in Dutch, his father in English and Scots, and all his friends in Swedish. Somehow his brain absorbed them all.
‘You must go and see Rory Grant,’ his father had told him. ‘I’ve already written to him and he’ll help you sort out the legal documents so you can officially take over the running of the estate. It’s important for you to be able to prove your ownership if you’re to avoid any problems.’ Brice thought this sounded like sensible advice.
He left orders for his possessions, including his horse, to be brought later and set out to walk the two miles or so into the town of Edinburgh. It felt wonderful to be able to stretch his legs after the week-long sea journey and he didn’t mind the exercise. He’d never been one for sitting still any length of time, which was probably another reason why he’d gone to China. It put off the moment when he’d have to start helping his father to run the family’s merchant business, something which entailed being perched at a desk for hours on end.
Edinburgh was much larger and noisier than Gothenburg, and Brice found it exciting to be there. The mostly stone-built tenement buildings rose all around him as he walked up the High Street. Closely crowded together, some were as tall as twelve storeys and he marvelled at such height. Wynds and closes snaked off at irregular intervals on either side, dark, narrow and noxious. The main street, with the imposing castle at the top, was teeming with people and he had to push his way through the throng, but as he was tall, he had no trouble keeping his bearings. Killian had told him how to find Rory’s lodgings and Brice was soon there. He was shown into a small parlour, sparsely furnished but comfortable, where his host greeted him with genuine pleasure.
‘Welcome back to Scotland, young man. You’ve changed a bit, I must say, but you remember me, I take it?’
‘Yes, of course. How could I forget my own godfather?’ Brice embraced his father’s oldest friend heartily. ‘Although it’s been too long. You should have visited us in Sweden. Father is forever talking about you.’
‘Alas, the sea is not for me.’ Rory ushered Brice to a chair and settled himself in another after calling for refreshment to be brought. ‘I turn green at the mere sight of it, so I’m afraid the thought of a whole week was too much to contemplate. I’m not as intrepid as the members of your family, I fear. Going to China …’ He shuddered in exaggerated fashion.
‘Foolhardy, you mean?’ Brice grinned.
‘Well, now you come to mention it, entrusting your life to what really amounts to a very large bucket does seem a bit reckless, but to each his own.’ They both laughed.
Brice knew Rory was no coward though. He’d been a supporter of the Jacobite cause as well, fighting bravely alongside Killian. Rory’s father, however, had been a Whig and somehow managed to keep his son from suffering any consequences of what he called his ‘rash actions’. Now, almost ten years after the uprising, Rory was once again an upright member of society ‘with some clout’, as Killian had put it.
‘Yes, don’t worry, I won’t have any problems helping you find a reliable lawyer,’ he told Brice when the subject was raised some time later. ‘He’ll soon have all the paperwork ready, then the estate will be yours. It will take a week or two at the most, I should think.’
‘Excellent, thank you,’ Brice replied. ‘Then if you don’t mind, I’ll go and do a bit of reconnaissance while we’re waiting. I take it my father put you in the picture when he wrote to you?’
Rory smiled. ‘Indeed he did. I wish you luck.’
Marsaili heard the yelp of pain through the half-open doorway to the kitchen and immediately set off in the direction of the sound. A high-pitched bark spurred her into a run and she sprinted into the stable yard at breakneck speed. She took in the scene at a glance and didn’t hesitate to intervene. Instinctively using the broom she’d been wielding, she struck Seton a heavy blow on one arm. It made him miss the kick he was aiming at Liath, whose collar was held in a firm grip by one of Seton’s minions, and he turned towards her instead.
‘What the …?’
‘Stop that this instant! You have no right to touch him, he’s mine,’ Marsaili snarled and raised the besom to thwack Seton across the shins before advancing on the stable boy with it. The youth let go of the dog and made a run for it, leaving Liath free to rush to her side and bare his fangs at Seton. There was no mistaking the menace in the growl that accompanied this stance.
‘You don’t understand. I was defending myself.’ Seton was red in the face and for an instant his normally handsome features were twisted with anger, but his expression quickly changed to one of conciliation. He backed up a couple of steps, keeping a wary eye on Liath. ‘The dog attacked me. I can’t allow such behaviour. He’s vicious and needs to be put down.’
‘That’s not true and you know it. He’d never hurt anyone unless he was threatened. Besides, how could he be attacking you with someone else holding onto him?’ Marsaili looked around to see if anyone was listening, then added in an undertone, ‘You have your own reasons for wanting him out of the way, but I’ve told the mistress and if anything should happen to Liath, she’ll know who to blame.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Seton’s tone was dismissive, as if she was talking rubbish.
‘Really?’
His face relaxed, then he smiled at her suddenly, his eyes glittering with suppressed amusement and something suspiciously like condescension. ‘Besides, do you think I’m afraid of the mistress? Locked in her tower, away with the fairies most of the time. Hah, much good her support
would do anyone.’
Marsaili clenched her fists on Liath’s collar, trying to stay calm. Although she disliked Seton, she knew it was irrational. Apart from that one night-time visit, he’d always been polite to her and he never tried to touch her surreptitiously the way some of the other men did. His general air of superiority grated though. He carries himself like a king, she thought, or as if he owned the place.
He didn’t, but there was no denying the fact that he was in charge of the Rosyth estate and she wasn’t.
‘The mistress still has the final say in how matters are run here until the laird comes back,’ Marsaili insisted, even though Seton was probably right. Ailsa Kinross, widow of the laird’s cousin, was nominally the head of the household in Lord Rosyth’s absence, but everyone knew it was Seton who decided everything. Ailsa was seldom seen.
He shook his head at her foolishness, as if she was a deluded child. ‘The laird’s not coming back, at least not as long as the Sassenachs still want Jacobite scalps. It’ll be years yet, mark my words. When was the last time he was here, eh? Ten years ago? No, the coward won’t set foot on Scottish soil any time soon, trust me.’
‘It’s been eight years since Culloden. Things have changed.’ Though perhaps not enough. The English would still be interested in a laird who’d been a confirmed Jacobite, even if they’d given up persecuting ordinary people after the Indemnity Act of ’47 had guaranteed underlings wouldn’t face further punishments.
Seton stepped closer, ignoring the increased growling coming from Liath, and whispered, ‘Never mind the laird. You really ought to think about your own future, Marsaili. If you want to retain that dog of yours, you should be nice to me and keep him under control. Putting on airs and graces won’t change where you came from, but your life could be so much better than it is at the moment. Your own cottage, fine clothes, trinkets … It’s your choice. Think on it.’
Highland Storms Page 2