Mia Marlowe

by Plaid Tidings

  Much coarser. Doesn’t that sum up Scotland all around?

  He pushed open the door and entered a surprisingly well-appointed chamber. The walls were paneled in dark oak and the six-point buck mounted over the stone fireplace lent a distinctly masculine air to the space. The bed curtains and linens had been freshly aired and the multi-paned windows looked out onto the broad lawn where Alex had lately led his cricket team to victory.

  His foul temper improved slightly.

  The valet who’d been assigned to him had already laid out his evening clothes in a neat row across the end of the bed. His trousers and jacket had been freshly brushed. His cravat was crisp and white and looked to have just the right amount of starch in it.

  Water had been drawn in a great copper hip bath and when he tested it with his hand, it was still warm. A full kettle rested on the fireplace hearth so he’d have plenty more hot water when he needed it.

  Alex crossed over to the pitcher and basin that rested on a walnut commode beneath a large mirror. He frowned at the dark beard shadow on his cheeks, splashed water on his face, and wondered if he had time for a shave before he dressed for dinner. The valet had laid out his shaving accoutrements on the commode.

  “At least the Scots have servants who seem to know their business,” he grumbled.

  “Indeed, milord, we know a good deal more than that, which a body might learn if any took the trouble to listen to us.”

  A light flashed in the corner of his eye and Alex looked up sharply at his reflection in the mirror. There was an elderly gentleman standing behind him.

  The fellow’s beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, but the gold earring in the flange of one ear gave him the aspect of an old pirate. Brows like a pair of runaway scrub brushes hung above dark, piercing eyes. The man doffed a tam that was hopelessly out of fashion. The scant hair on his head had been scraped back into a neat queue. He was a little bird of a man, small-boned and sharp-featured, but he carried himself with exaggerated dignity that made him seem more substantial. The fellow flipped his hat with a flourish, and sketched an elaborate bow that belonged to another century entirely.

  In fact everything about the man harked back to an older time, from the frilly lace at his cuffs to the vibrant plaid of his outlawed kilt.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?” Alex asked. The fellow was soft-footed as a cat. He hadn’t heard a single footfall.

  “Callum Farquhar, Esquire, at yer service, milord.” His low Scottish burr was just on the edge of sound.

  One of the Dalkeith servants. If this was the valet who’d laid out Alexander’s things, he’d come in handy indeed. “Very well, Mr. Farquhar, you’re just in time to give me a shave.”

  Farquhar drew himself up to his full, if unimpressive, height.

  “Oh, no, milord. T’wouldn’t be seemly. Ye see, word reached us that the new laird of Bonniebroch was come to Dalkeith so I took the liberty of hieing meself here to present meself to ye before ye take possession of yer estate.” He puffed out his chest like a wren fluffing its feathers against the cold. “I am not attached to Dalkeith, ye see. I have the honor of being the steward of Bonniebroch and have been for many, many years.”

  “Steward, eh? So such simple duties as giving your master a shave is beneath you, I suppose.”

  “Ye may be me lord, but ye’re no’ me master. However, milord is correct.” Farquhar gave a dignified nod. “A steward doesna give shaves.”

  There was a bell pull next to the commode and Alexander considered ringing for the valet to return, but all the guests were dressing for dinner now. That meant every available servant was trotting in circles trying to keep up with their demands. He spared a moment of sympathy for the poor lady’s maid who was assigned to Hester MacGibbon.

  Alex picked up his razor and began to strop it on a bit of leather to hone the edge.

  “Och, I see milord isna the sort who’s too fine to do for himself,” Farquhar said approvingly. “That bodes well.”

  “It bodes well for servants who think they’re too fine to serve,” Alex muttered as he put the razor down and began to lather up his brush. “I assume since you rushed here from Bonniebroch—say, where the devil is Bonniebroch?”

  “The fair estate of Bonniebroch is situated in a fine arable valley, surrounded by a forest filled with game. It rests in a declivity between two of the loveliest peaks in the Highlands. It’s watered by the River Tay and—”

  “No, I mean how is it situated in relation to anyplace that’s civilized?” Alex said. “Not that Edinburgh counts especially, but let us reckon from there.”

  Farquhar frowned at this. “There are those who think the limits of civilization end at Hadrian’s Wall.”

  Alex laughed in agreement. The old Roman fortification had been built to contain the warlike Picts, the predecessors of the Scots, who resisted the conquering force’s efforts to bring them niceties like a legal system, a written language, and plumbing. Finally, the Romans threw up the wall and contented themselves with keeping the woad-daubed tribes behind it.

  “You’ve the right of it there,” Alexander said, contorting his mouth to one side, the better to scrape the day’s growth of beard from his cheek. “Hadrian showed a good deal of sense when he drew a line between the savage and the civilized.”

  “I fear ye’ve missed me meaning, milord,” the old man said. “The civilized side lies to the north of the wall.”

  Now it was Alex’s turn to frown. “At least on the southern side, an estate steward does not insult his lord.”

  “My apologies. No insult was intended, since I merely spoke the truth,” Farquhar said, not looking the least apologetic. “I see your valet has laid out the wrong ensemble for this evening’s festivities. Surely milord will want the belted plaid ye have stowed in yon trunk.”

  “How didy—” It was plain to see how the steward knew about the blasted kilt. Callum Farquhar was a world-class snoop and had already visited his new laird’s chamber without permission. “No, Farquhar. Leave the plaid. I’ll wear the trousers and jacket.”

  “With the MacGregor sash, at least.”

  “Not tonight.”

  The man’s shoulders slumped. He gave every appearance of releasing a long-suffering sigh, but Alexander heard no snort of breath. For tuppence, Alex would give him the sack, but he needed to see the lay of Bonniebroch’s land before he made any changes in personnel at the estate.

  “If ye willna heed my advice on the matter of yer wardrobe, how else may I serve my lord?”

  “Aside from giving me a shave?” Alex paused before starting another stroke from his chin to his cheekbone.

  “Aye, aside from that.”

  Alex scraped the razor over his skin. “Well, I suppose you’re here to give an accounting of your stewardship. Let’s hear it then.”

  “No, that’s no’ why I’m here. No’ exactly,” Farquhar said with an intense gaze. “Mostly I came to see what sort of accounting ye would give of yerself so we’d know what kind of laird Bonniebroch might expect in ye. If I may make so bold as to enquire, how is yer health?”

  Alex arched a brow at him. “Barring a few bruises from trying to ride that devil with four hooves called Badgemagus, I’m fine. Healthy as a horse. At least, I’m a damned sight healthier than that one will be if he continues to fight me.”

  Farquhar made a tsking noise. “Language, milord. Damnation is no light matter. But ’tis glad I am to hear that ye enjoy good health. We at Bonniebroch hope ye’ll be with us for a good long time, it being unsettling to everyone when we have to break in a new baron. The last one wasna with us verra long.”

  Alexander shook his head in disbelief at the man’s cheekiness as he swished the razor in the soap-scummy stand of water in the basin. “Heaven forefend I should discomfit the help.”

  “Aye, that’s good of ye, milord,” Farquhar said, obviously missing the irony dripping from Alex’s tone. “And yer sleep. How is that? No disturbing dreams, I trust?”
<
br />   Alex’s head snapped up sharply at that. He’d told no one about the dream of the weeping woman. He’d been plagued with visions of her every night since he became laird of Bonniebroch, but not even Clarindon knew of the recurring nightmare.

  “A man’s dreams, like his thoughts, are his own,” he said stonily.

  Farquhar rolled his eyes. “Verra well, but I canna help ye, if ye dinna trust me. On to other items of interest. I understand yer mother was a MacGregor—”

  “That’s of no import,” Alexander said, irritated that the little man seemed to know so much about him already. “In fact, you will never bring up the subject of my mother again or you’ll be seeking other employment.”

  “’Tis worse than I feared,” Farquhar muttered, rubbing one of his temples as if to ward off a headache. “Still, we must work with that which we have been given.”

  Farquhar folded his hands before the sporran dangling from his belt. It was out of proportion with the old gentleman since it appeared to be fashioned from the skin of an entire badger.

  “I understand felicitations are in order. Congratulations on taking a bride from the Campbell clan. A Miss Lucinda MacOwen, I believe. These are happy tidings indeed, milord.”

  “Perhaps for you—ouch!” A small bead of red blossomed on Alexander’s chin. He held a cloth to the wound to staunch the bleeding. “But don’t count on me bringing a Lady Bonniebroch with me when I come to claim my own. The wedding’s not set in stone.”

  Farquhar chuckled. “Aye, lad. And the trout thinks the hook is no’ set either just afore he finds himself flopping on the riverbank. But it makes no never mind. All will be in readiness for ye and yer new lady to celebrate the merriest of Christmastides at Bonniebroch.”

  “There’s no need for you to go to any trouble.” Alex lowered the cloth and inspected his bleeding chin. The wound wouldn’t require stitches but it was a near thing. “Besides, I thought Scots didn’t give Christmas more than a nod and a wink.”

  “Mayhap in other places that’s true, but we at Bonniebroch celebrate it with a good will.”

  “It makes no difference,” Alexander said, wondering if this botched shave was worth the effort. “I won’t be heading for Bonniebroch till after the new year.”

  A flat smile widened Farquhar’s lean face. “We’ll see ye when we see ye then. But we at Bonniebroch will keep the Yule log burning for ye and yer missus in any case.”

  Alex dabbed the cloth in the water basin, but another strange flash of light made him glance sharply back to the mirror.

  Callum Farquhar was no longer standing behind him.

  Alex turned quickly, but the fellow was nowhere to be seen. There was no place for him to hide in the chamber either. Alexander had heard neither the clack of a boot heel on hardwood nor the snick of the door latch. The Scottish steward simply wasn’t there any longer.

  Farquhar was wickedly fast for such an old gaffer, Alex decided. Sneaky as a cat.

  The man definitely needed a bell around his neck.

  And Alex desperately needed a valet. He nicked himself again with the razor before deciding it was time to give up on a shave.

  But it was not time to give up on his freedom. Farquhar could burn all the Yule logs he wanted. Alexander was not going to arrive at his new Scottish estate with a Lady Bonniebroch in tow.

  And that was final.

  “The new laird of Bonniebroch is not at all what I’d hoped. Lord Alexander Mallory is so far removed from his true self, I doubt he’d recognize his own soul were he to see it in a looking glass staring back at him. I’d confess myself totally dispirited, but I’ve misliked punning since I tried to talk Master Shakespeare out of using that low form of humor in his little plays.”

  From the private journal of Callum

  Farquhar, Steward of Bonniebroch Castle

  since the Year of Our Lord 1521

  Chapter Eight

  In the round chamber at the top of Bonniebroch’s tower, white light poured from the long stretch of silvered glass. Before the shaft of brightness flared and the flash blinked into nothingness, Callum Farquhar stepped through the mirror and back into the room.

  “Ah, there ye are, sir,” Lyall Lyttle said. “Welcome back. Did ye find Lord Bonniebroch?”

  “Aye. I went to London and Oxford and a bawdy house in Brighton before I ran him to ground right here on Scottish soil. He’s at Dalkeith.”

  “I must say, I had me doubts ye’d find him. ’Tis a long step to all those places and back,” Lyttle said, mopping his furrowed brow.

  “Nonsense. No’ so far at all by this method.” Now that he was with the estate’s butler, Farquhar could simply project his thoughts. If Lord Bonniebroch only knew how hard Farquhar had worked to send an approximation of a human voice to his ear. He might have been far more sensible of the honor done him by Farquhar’s visit. “Unlike the workings of man, there are no moving parts in the realm of the spirit which may break down. Even though I’ve had no call to use them in a hundred years, the secrets paths from mirror to mirror run smooth as . . . well, smooth as glass.”

  Of course, there was always the chance that some living person might shatter a mirror and destroy the spiritual conduit from that place to others. There was a risk to any ghost who traveled those invisible byways that the mirror through which he’d entered the system might be compromised while he was in another location. If that happened, he’d be forever barred from returning to his point of origin. To Farquhar’s mind, the penalty of seven years’ bad luck for breaking a mirror was extremely light.

  “And you’re sure no one saw you at Dalkeith?”

  “Lyall Lyttle, you fret more than an old woman. No one but our new laird saw me, and even then, he only saw me when I was safely behind glass.”

  Of course, Farquhar had been careful not to step through the looking glass into Dalkeith when there was another soul actually in the room. He’d inspected Lord Bonniebroch’s personal effects before meeting the man because there was no better indicator of what was important to a person than the carefully chosen items with which a body elected to travel. Farquhar had been cautiously hopeful when he found the belted plaid in the trunk.

  After meeting Alexander Mallory, he had his doubts.

  “What’s he like? Will he do, d’ye think?”

  “He’ll have to,” Farquhar said wearily. “We’ve no time to wait for another. The curse is coming to a head one way or another and there’s no help for it.”

  Farquhar settled himself at the writing desk and picked up his quill. Since Lyttle was the only one in the castle who could see and hear him, he communicated his wishes to the rest of the Bonniebroch staff through detailed instructions in his daily log.

  His personal fears and hopes he kept in another private journal. After he made each entry, he squirreled that one away behind a loose brick in the fireplace in the laird’s bedchamber.

  “How is the mood of the staff?” Farquhar asked as he began to assign duties for the upcoming Christmastide festivities.

  “Hopeful,” Lyttle said as he peered over Farquhar’s shoulder at the neat script rolling from the tip of the ghost’s quill. “Worried, too.”

  “That canna be helped. But the holiday season will lighten everyone’s spirits. We must be ready to welcome the new laird and his lady—”

  “His lady?”

  Farquhar allowed himself a small smile. “Aye. Lord Bonniebroch is set to wed on Christmas Day. And even though I’ve no’ met her, she’s the reason I’m optimistic. Nothing like a woman to show a man what he’s made of, aye?”

  Lyttle rubbed his hands together in glee. “We haven’t had a Lady Bonniebroch for, oh, I forget how long.”

  “It may well be that’s why none of the other lairds have been able to lift the curse. A woman is much like a mirror for a man, ye ken. She reflects back to him all his faults and strengths, both inside and out.”

  There was silence for a few beats. Lyttle didn’t have Farquhar’s aptitude for original
thinking. Farquhar had to be careful not to overwhelm his living assistant with the knowledge it had taken him centuries to accumulate.

  “All right,” Lyttle finally said. “Let us hope the new laird is willing to heed the looking glass of his lady.”

  “Amen to that,” Farquhar said. “In the meantime, set the girls to sweeping the place clean. Tell Mrs. Fletcher to prepare the goose. Have the lads scour the wood for the biggest Yule log in Christendom. I mean for us to celebrate this Christmas in the jolliest way possible.”

  Farquhar waited for Lyttle to leave and close the door to the tower room behind himself before he added, “For it may well be our last.”

  Bagpipes squealed out a strathspey tune. The first floor ballroom at Dalkeith Palace was a blur of color as a set of four couples stepped lively to a reel. Lucinda MacOwen and her sisters, along with one other Scottish lady, tripped along in time with the music. Some of the more intrepid members of the English contingent were willing to give the raw Scottish dance a go for the pleasure of bouncing around the room with such comely partners.

  Sir Bertram Clarindon was the first to volunteer. He invariably turned the wrong direction and trod on his partner’s toes, but all the dancers seemed to enjoy themselves.

  Alexander Mallory was not among them.

  Instead he’d been roped into sitting with Hester MacGibbon along the edge of the dance floor. In truth, it wasn’t terribly onerous duty. Once he convinced a footman to lace the old lady’s tea with a generous dollop of spirits, all he was required to do was make an occasional grunt of agreement with her. Hester was capable of pontificating on everything under the sun unassisted so long as she was given occasional encouragement.

  No one who knew Hester MacGibbon wanted to be pulled into her garrulous orbit if they could help it. But the enforced social isolation gave Alex a chance to observe the crowd without interruption and take the measure of the local nobility who’d turned up to welcome the English envoys.