Highland Storms

by Christina Courtenay

  But it required money and his scheme for obtaining enough of that seemed to be going awry. He clenched his fists as he walked towards the entrance to the courtyard on his way to the estate office. Something had to be done about the new laird, that was for sure. His mere presence stopped Seton from achieving anything.

  His brows lowered even further as he remembered the slight he’d received the night before. To put his own son higher up the table than himself, it was the outside of enough. The boy wasn’t even formally betrothed to the penniless girl he coveted. Seton had hoped that by delaying matters, he’d be able to talk Iain out of it altogether, but his son had proved surprisingly stubborn. Well, perhaps Seton would have to put up with Kirsty as a daughter-in-law, but in his own house he’d be the one highest up the table until the day he died.

  He entered the house and walked along a corridor, glancing out of the windows now and then. Movement caught his eye and he stopped to stare when he realised what he was looking at. The new laird and Marsaili, walking close to each other, strolling up from the loch. At this time of day? Seton blinked in shock.

  What was the whoreson up to now? Wasn’t it enough that he was interfering with the running of the estate? Did he have to try and insinuate himself into the ladies’ good graces as well? It was not to be borne.

  They were laughing, he’d swear to it, even though he had trouble seeing clearly from a distance. And the laird wasn’t even fully clothed. It was a disgrace.

  Seton felt bile rise up in his throat and his chest heaved. Marsaili was his. He’d wanted her from the first time he’d set eyes on her, when she wasn’t even fully a woman yet. He’d waited patiently and he was going to have her. No foreign whipper-snapper would take what was his, he’d make damned sure of it.

  Yes, the laird had to go and then the damned dog. But how?

  ‘Thank you for the escort, my … Brice. And your efforts as a lady’s maid.’

  Marsaili felt suddenly embarrassed, standing so close to him, especially since the drying cloth only partially covered his still half-nude form. He’d made her laugh with nonsensical tales of Swedish trolls and other magical creatures, which he claimed were much worse than any Scottish kelpie. It made her realise he wasn’t always the stern taskmaster she’d seen before. He had a lighter side to him, one she couldn’t help but admire.

  ‘Not at all, it was my pleasure. And although I enjoy being called “your Brice”, it might be best if you don’t say that within earshot of anyone else,’ he teased.

  ‘It was a slip of the tongue, as well you know,’ she said and held up a hand in a mock threatening fashion, as if she was going to punch him.

  He laughed. ‘Hmm, now don’t go giving me ideas.’ He wiggled his eyebrows at her and stared pointedly at her mouth.

  Marsaili felt heat flooding her cheeks. ‘For shame, my … Brice. I won’t listen to you any more.’

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t have to listen,’ he said, eyes twinkling mischievously. ‘Just close your eyes and I’ll show you.’ His voice was still husky, filled with some kind of promise that made Marsaili’s insides melt and actually almost persuaded her to do as he asked, but she pulled herself together and shook her head.

  ‘I’ll do no such thing. And now you’d better go and dry yourself or you’ll catch your death.’

  He sighed dramatically. ‘Very well, you cruel woman. I’ll see you at breakfast then. Make sure it’s not watery porridge this time, please, or I’ll tip it over your newly washed hair.’

  He walked backwards a few steps, grinning at her, and she couldn’t help but smile in return even though he was again reminding her of her previous misdeeds.

  ‘Lots of butter and honey, please, with cream,’ he added. ‘And I’ll need two helpings at the very least. Combing hair as long as yours is hard work.’

  ‘Away with you!’ She shooed him off and turned towards the kitchen entrance, determined not to pay him any more heed. She couldn’t resist one last glance out of the corner of her eye, however, and was treated to the sight of his broad back, bare in the sunlight.

  She sighed. He really was magnificent.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Right then, Mr Seton, I think we have a few things to discuss regarding the running of this estate.’

  Brice had postponed the inevitable meeting with Seton until the second day in order to see how the man responded to his presence at Rosyth. So far the factor hadn’t countermanded any of Brice’s instructions, but he hadn’t helped by making sure they were carried out either. His expression at the

  supper table the night before had been anything but

  joyful and he seemed, if possible, even grumpier this

  morning, as if Brice had mortally offended him. Perhaps I have, just by being here, Brice thought, but he had no intention of mistreating the man so his anger was a little premature.

  Seton had already been sitting at the desk when Brice arrived, but at a sharp look from the latter, the factor vacated the chair. Instead, he had to sit down on the opposite side, while Brice took his place. Brice was aware this might make the man feel uncomfortable, but perhaps that was all to the good in this case. Seton had a few questions to answer.

  ‘I’ve been having a look through the ledgers,’ Brice said, ‘and everything appears to tally.’

  ‘Aye, and so they should. I’ve kept them myself,’ Seton answered, his gaze stony and his eyes narrowed slightly as if he was on the defensive.

  ‘I’m not doubting your abilities to add up or keep accounts, Mr Seton. What I’m wondering, however, is why the amounts are so small. There seems to be no profit whatsoever for the last few years.’

  Seton shrugged. ‘As you may have heard, we’ve had some hard times here in the Highlands. The Redcoats saw to that. What with wrecking homes, then taxes and more taxes. There’s never an end to them.’

  ‘Even so, it’s been nearly eight years since the forty-five and as I understand it, the last two have been relatively good as far as harvests are concerned. And yet Rosyth’s yield is ludicrous. How do you explain that?’

  Seton’s cheeks took on a somewhat ruddier hue and Brice saw a muscle jumping in the man’s cheek, but he kept hold of his temper. ‘After the bad harvest in ’51, we didn’t have much grain to sow, therefore no yields either. The people had to eat and the families just keep growing. Too many damned bairns to feed.’

  ‘Surely you could have bought more grain for sowing? And what about the cattle? I reckon the pasture here ought to be able to sustain a herd of at least three hundred, half of which could be sold at market each year. Last year you sold twenty.’

  The factor attempted a look of unconcern, but Brice could tell the man was rattled. Perhaps he hadn’t thought the new laird would know anything about farming or even be interested for that matter. ‘We’d had to sell a lot of cattle in the previous years, so there weren’t enough calves being born,’ Seton said. ‘I sold the ones we could afford to lose. The rest have been slow to mature. Perhaps, being from another country, you’re not familiar with the Scottish beasts? The kyloes take up to four years to grow to full size and there’s no point selling them before that. Not all of them make it through the winter either.’

  ‘So how many are left now exactly?’ Brice checked the ledger. ‘According to this, there were only eighty-five making up the herd after the rest had been taken either to slaughter or the market last autumn. Assuming most of those were female and the bulls were doing their job, we should have had some seventy or eighty calves born in the spring. By my reckoning, that would make a hundred and sixty five kyloes.’

  ‘Ye-es.’ Seton drew out the word, as if he wasn’t quite agreeing with Brice.

  ‘Hmm, strange there seem to be about fifty more up in the pasture then,’ Brice commented. ‘Two hundred and sixteen. Were there a lot of twin births?’

  Seton’s dark eyebrows came down and he glared at Brice. ‘How did you arrive at that figure, my lord?’ He said the last two words in a slightly offensive way, bu
t Brice decided not to take any notice. He smiled instead.

  ‘I counted them.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ The factor’s eyes opened wide and he sat up straighter.

  ‘I went up there yesterday to invite people to last night’s supper. As I was there anyway, I took the opportunity to count the beasts. And I made it two hundred and sixteen.’

  For a moment, it seemed as if Seton wasn’t going to reply. His mouth opened and shut again. Finally, he drew in a deep breath and said, ‘You must be mistaken. They move around a lot after all, which makes them hard to count. And there are always a couple of extra belonging to the tenants themselves. Yes, that must be it, they’ve put theirs in with the rest.’

  ‘You think? Well, we’ll see when we bring them down later in the month I expect. I can assure you my eyesight is excellent, however, and if there are any less than the number I counted, I shall want to know what happened to them.’

  The factor didn’t reply to this, which made Brice suspect the man had intended to remove a few animals at a time, perhaps at night, and send them to market. He was satisfied he’d nipped that scheme in the bud.

  ‘As you may have noticed,’ he continued, ‘I brought some more females, so the total number ought to be two hundred and fifty now. I think we should sell fifty bullocks this year and slaughter about five to begin with.’

  ‘To begin with? Why that would leave a hundred and ninety-odd to feed for the winter. Impossible!’

  ‘Not if we buy some fodder and also start haymaking now. I’d like you to find some men for that job straight away please as a priority. I’ll help them myself this afternoon if you have a spare scythe. The cattle will be able to stay outside most of the year, I understand, but we’ll need extra feed for when they have to be brought indoors.’

  ‘That’s not how we do things here,’ Seton protested, his gaze darkening.

  ‘Why not? Come spring, I’d like at least a hundred and twenty animals alive so we’ll have a decent sized herd next year. As I said, the pasture should support upwards of three hundred.’

  ‘But where will you house them if the weather is bad? The townspeople can only take between three to six each, depending on the size of their huts, some only one.’

  ‘I’m sure we can build a new barn for the purpose. At a pinch, some of them can go in the stables, since they seem sadly empty with only four garrons and my horse in there. It shouldn’t be a problem. Also, I gather we need a new building for the hay. I think we ought to build that first. Do you agree?’

  Without giving Seton the chance to say anything or protest further, Brice changed tack.

  ‘I was told you’ve been reporting to Mrs Kinross in my father’s absence, is that correct?’

  ‘Aye, in as much as it was possible, her being female and all.’

  ‘You’re saying she didn’t understand estate matters?’

  ‘Not really, no. And half the time she’s sickly, as you must know. Mostly she gave me free rein.’

  ‘I see. And you’ve been dealing with all the correspondence on her behalf?’

  ‘What little there was, yes.’

  ‘So you would have been the one receiving my father’s letters?’

  ‘There weren’t many, as I recall. I did wonder at it myself, but then with things being the way they are here in Scotland, I thought perhaps they weren’t getting through. Mrs Kinross remarked upon it as well.’

  Brice frowned. ‘My father told me he wrote to you at least four times a year.’

  Seton shrugged again. ‘I didn’t receive anything near as many letters as that.’

  Since he didn’t believe him, Brice didn’t comment on this. Instead, he changed the topic of conversation again rather abruptly. ‘I had a quick look at the fields yesterday too – I’d say it will be time for the harvest within the next couple of weeks. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes, although we need a few more sunny days.’

  ‘Agreed. How about we make a start in, say, ten days?’

  ‘We?’

  Brice raised his eyebrows at the man. ‘Yes, of course. It’s all hands on deck during harvest time, is it not? At least where I come from.’

  Seton goggled at him, then shook his head. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, my lord, but I’m past my prime and I injured my back not long since.’

  ‘I see.’ Brice thought he saw all too clearly, but decided against forcing the man to take part. He hid a smile. He hadn’t expected anything else, although as far as he could see, there was nothing wrong with the factor whatsoever. In fact, he’d seldom seen a man his age in such good shape, apart from maybe his own father. ‘Let’s hope there are plenty of other strong men around then. You have enough scythes I take it or do I need to buy some?’

  ‘Scythes? What for? The grain is simply pulled from the ground so all you need are your hands.’ Seton looked confused.

  ‘Pulled from the ground? Roots and all?’ Brice couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Aye, that’s how it’s usually done. Then the grain is extracted from the ears by burning – graddaning we call it.’

  ‘Preposterous! No wonder you have to slaughter so many animals each autumn. You’ll have no straw for winter feeding.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Seton’s expression indicated that he thought he’d made his point, whereas in fact he’d only made Brice more determined to have his way.

  ‘Well, it’s not how I’d like you to do it this year. We’re using scythes. You’ll humour me by trying my way, at least this once, won’t you?’ It wasn’t really a question, they both knew that.

  Seton scowled. ‘On your head be it,’ he muttered darkly.

  ‘Indeed. Please tell the men to get started on the haymaking immediately then. I’ll join them as soon as I can.’ Brice nodded dismissal. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  After Seton had left, Brice sat for a long time deep in thought. He’d have a hard time proving the factor had done anything wrong so more drastic measures were called for. He pulled a clean sheet of paper towards him and began to write a letter to his father.

  He needed assistance.

  ‘He’s a strange carle, so he is.’ Greine came into the kitchen, carrying a basket full of kale which she’d just washed in the loch. ‘Don’t know what to make of him.’

  Marsaili, who was sitting by the kitchen table trying to make a note of all their new supplies in the household account book, looked up from her task. ‘Who?’

  ‘The laird, of course.’

  ‘Why do you say he’s a strange man? What’s he doing now? Handing out more food?’ Although she was joking about it, she knew it wasn’t a laughing matter, but she was also aware her employer wouldn’t be able to buy his tenants’ affection simply by giving them things. He should just comb their hair for them. She squashed the unruly thought, but couldn’t quite suppress a delicious shiver which trailed down her spine as she remembered how good his ministrations had felt earlier.

  ‘No, he’s making hay. Wielding a scythe as though he was born to it. And him the laird! That’s not something I ever looked to see.’

  Marsaili stared at Greine. ‘Really? Well, I never.’ It would seem he’d understood. A thought struck her and she smiled. ‘Has he got Mr Seton helping out as well?’

  Greine snorted. ‘Hardly. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since that meeting in the estate office this morn. Did you see him leave with his tail between his legs?’

  Marsaili frowned. ‘No, but I hope the laird knows what he’s doing. Antagonising Mr Seton can be dangerous. He’s likely to strike back.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t hear a stramash, so I’d guess the factor’s just a mite put out not to be in charge any more. He’ll come round. After all, he must have kennt it was going to happen one day.’

  ‘Yes, but not so soon.’ As he’d told her, not long ago.

  ‘Anyway, you should go for a wee walk down the meadow,’ Greine said with a twinkle in her eyes.

  ‘Why would I want to do that? I have wo
rk to do.’ Marsaili tried to look stern.

  ‘Well, he’s a fine figure of a man, and no mistake. A woman could do worse than look at him.’ Greine laughed out loud as Marsaili picked up a nearby rolling pin to mock threaten her with.

  ‘Honestly, is there anyone around here who’s not set on match-making?’

  But for the rest of the afternoon, she had to fight an overwhelming urge to go for a walk.

  Only a few men answered the summons to help with haymaking, but Brice was pleased to see Sandy Mor and his son Rob among them. He knew if he could win the trust of the main tacksmen, the rest of the tenants might follow. Despite being short-handed, they finished by late afternoon. They’d cut as much grass as they could of the kind which grew in the wetter fields near the loch. Some of the township women had spread it out to dry and had promised to turn it regularly. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Brice could only hope more would grow before winter set in. He’d also been pleased to see Archie and some of the other children arrive at regular intervals with baskets full of grass they’d collected elsewhere.

  ‘That’s a great help,’ he told them. ‘Keep it up, then come to me for payment. Archie, you’ll tell me how much I owe each child, won’t you?’

  ‘Aye, I will.’ Archie beamed at him and scurried off.

  Upon his return to the house, Brice washed and changed his clothes, then made his way to the north tower and knocked on the door to Ailsa’s rooms. Flora opened it and smiled when she saw it was him.