by Karen Ranney
In the spring she’d helped in the planting, walking the rows, dropping seed into holes she made with a tall stick. Now the long, thin leaves of the seedlings were visible, a tenuous promise of a good harvest. She never failed to delight in a single sprouting seed, viewing life where only bare earth had existed before.
Each morning at dawn she walked the farms, following a routine proscribed for only a year. Today, however, her journey seemed almost bittersweet as she waved to the people working in the fields.
Tyemorn was a prosperous holding, a true legacy from a woman she’d never known. But sometimes, as now, Riona felt close to Mary.
“She loved the land, she did,” Old Ned had once told her. “Up until the time she couldn’t walk she’d take the path of a morning and survey all that was hers. Knew every lamb born, every calf. Even when she was confined to a chair she knew more about Tyemorn than most people who were able-bodied.”
Mary, too, had been wed to a man she disliked. Instead of the marriage mellowing into respect and admiration and even a type of love over the years, it had evidently remained the same as it had been in the beginning, a union of two people with nothing in common.
At least Mary had had Tyemorn Manor.
Times had not changed much since her mother’s great aunt had been a young woman. Women were still expected to marry. A scoundrel for a husband was better than remaining a spinster. A foolish notion, but one society embraced wholeheartedly.
Riona halted at the top of the hill, looking back at the house. A funny-looking place and one filled with history. A book in the library stated that it was two hundred years old, having had at least three owners.
Time was passing too quickly, and this morning was a precious memory. The breeze was cool, belying the heat to come in a few more hours. The cows were being led to pasture after milking, the chickens squawked in a hundred discordant sounds, the pigs rooted around in their pens.
She had become accustomed to the dullness of the air in Edinburgh. At Tyemorn, it was sparkling clear as if having been cleansed each night. In Cormech, the sound of seabirds cawing overhead woke her, and the scent of the sea permeated everything. In both places, she’d grown used to the noises of carriages, and wagons, and people moving from one place to another as if eternally restless.
Here, amid the hills and glens, there was a silent kind of peace, interrupted only by the screech of an eagle soaring above her head.
A place she belonged.
What a pity she was to leave it soon.
Rory MacRae woke feeling like a king. For the past year, the accommodations at Gilmuir had been stark at best, and prior to that he’d spent years aboard ship where a hammock was the most he could expect. Last night, however, he’d slept on a real mattress, one that felt as soft as a cloud. Standing, he turned and looked down at it, still in awe.
Not that he’d been treated badly at Gilmuir, but everyone had shared in the deprivations. Building the old castle meant that they all slept in communal quarters. All except Alisdair and Iseabal, of course. Even James had, more often than not, taken to sleeping aboard ship rather than sharing the crowded barracks.
True enough, he shared the chamber with the other man, but the bed was all his.
This room was grander than anything he’d had in his life. Besides his bed and the one James had slept in the night before, there was a bureau and a place to hang his clothes along with a washstand. Behind a folding screen was a cunning little chair with a hole cut in the top and a chamber pot affixed to it.
The knock on the door surprised him, enough that he squawked out a greeting before realizing he wasn’t fully dressed. He dashed behind the door as it opened, holding the latch firmly in his hand, pressing against it so that the girl on the other side couldn’t open it more than she did.
Abigail stuck her head in the opening, peering around the door and then darting back just as swiftly, her eyes wide. That’s what she got for not giving a man time to put his clothes on, Rory thought irritably.
“You’re to come and eat your morning meal,” she said, her voice somewhat muffled. He peered around the door to see her standing there, hand over her mouth, eyes gleaming brightly. “Unless, of course,” she said, removing her hand, “you’ll be wanting a tray.”
He shook his head. Last night, he’d not felt comfortable dining with the rest of them, him being a MacRae by default as it were. He wasn’t exactly sure who his father was, but after his mother’s death he’d been found by Alisdair in a wintry port in Nova Scotia, and given a job as cabin boy. Ever since then, he’d called himself a MacRae and had been welcomed into their midst as if he truly were one of them. But when the invitation had come to join the others at dinner, he’d stayed in his room, expecting to spend the night hungry. Instead, Abigail had brought him a tray of food, and he’d eaten his fill.
“I am hungry at that,” he conceded, “but I’ll not make you wait on me again.”
“Well, come down to the kitchen. But only after you’ve had a chance to put your trews on.” With a muffled giggle, she left him.
Smoke billowed up from the kitchen stovepipe, indicating that the household was up and awake. All going about their daily business while she wasted the morning away. Returning to the house and slipping into the kitchen, Riona greeted Susanna with a kiss to her cheek and a smile to Polly and Cook. Stealing a rowdie from Susanna’s plate, she took a bite of the soft dark brown roll, then stopped abruptly as the door opened and James walked over the threshold.
Last night he had looked the picture of a sea captain, and in the darkness he’d been a wraith, but one strangely companionable. This morning he looked impossibly handsome, a man steeped in power and authority even without a ship to command. He was dressed simply, in dark breeches and a white shirt with flowing sleeves. His tall black boots had been replaced for shorter ones of worn brown leather, and his hair had been queued at the nape with a black ribbon. But for all the casualness of his clothes, one would never mistake him for a field hand.
He looked, she thought in amazement, like a lord of the manor. As if he belonged here more than they did.
“You’re up early,” she said, startled at his appearance.
He smiled. “I am used to being up at dawn. At sea it seems we’re always pursuing the sun. Let’s say I anticipated morning.”
“As we have anticipated you,” Susanna said, standing and smiling at him. She pulled out a chair, a wordless invitation to sit at the head of the table.
“You will have some oatcakes, of course,” Cook said, loading a plate with the triangular slices along with a few chunks of their own cheese. A warm venison pastry lay on a platter along with a large portion of ham. Flanking the meats were several pots, one each of butter, cream, and honey. A selection of bannocks and a small wheaten loaf completed the breakfast, to be washed down with his choice of beverages, either whiskey, ale, tea, or cider.
“And a cup of tea?” Susanna asked, pouring from a squat little ceramic pot.
“Cook makes the finest jam,” Polly offered, holding out a small silver bowl and a long-handled spoon.
Riona hadn’t seen her mother so solicitous since Fergus lived with them. And the other women? She looked at the roll in her hand and smiled, thinking that she’d never been the recipient of the treatment James MacRae was now receiving.
“Riona will show you about the farms,” her mother said, glancing toward her. “She knows the manor lands better than anyone. You would have thought her born here.”
James looked in her direction, then away. “Wouldn’t it be better if I spoke with your steward?”
“Riona will direct you to him as soon as you’ve seen the farms.”
She glanced at her mother, but Susanna carefully avoided her gaze. Why should she give him a tour of Tyemorn?
Riona sat, waiting until James finished breakfast amid the fluttering of four females. Abigail had joined them, evidently preferring to tend to their guest than to dust the upstairs rooms. With her was the young
man who’d accompanied James to Tyemorn.
Riona waved him to her side of the table, smiling her welcome.
“Did you sleep well, Rory?” she asked.
“I did.” He looked, however, as if he wished to be anywhere but here.
Abigail served him, then turned her attention back to James.
Riona could understand why they fawned over him. He was charming and handsome, smiling his thanks for each task done for him. His cup was filled twice, and his plate would have been replenished as well if Cook had her way. But he shook his head, smiling his refusal.
Rory acted as if all this fluttering attention was nothing out of the ordinary, as if James received the lion’s share of female adulation as a natural course of events.
Impatient, Riona finally stood and walked to the door, waiting for James to notice her.
He finally looked in her direction again, then back at Rory. The younger man nodded, finished up his breakfast, and stood.
“No,” Susanna said hastily before the three of them could leave the kitchen. “I mean, would you allow Rory to remain here?” She looked pleadingly at the young man. “I could use the services of a stalwart lad.” She smiled again, the expression holding an edge of desperation to it.
A glance between James and the young man ended in Rory’s shrug.
“Then I’ll leave you here,” James said, and held the door open for Riona.
“The curtains in the parlor,” Susanna abruptly said. “I’ve long been wishing to clean them properly. Rory, it’s too big a chore for Abigail. Could you assist her, please?”
The young man nodded, looking as bemused as the young maid. After they’d left the room, Polly turned to her.
“Well, what do we do now?” Polly asked, having been apprised of Susanna’s plans the night before.
“Worry about Mrs. Parker. I have never seen a more curious or intrusive woman.”
“Can’t you simply dismiss her?”
Susanna looked askance at Polly. “According to the terms of our agreement, she will remain until both marriages are celebrated.”
“Do you not mind Maureen marrying an Englishman?”
“Who am I to stand in the way of true love, Polly?”
Polly snorted, a thoroughly rude gesture, and even Cook smiled.
“You’d do everything in your power to change her mind if you thought he wasn’t good enough for her,” Polly said, a decade of service giving her the freedom to speak the truth. “Is that why you invited James to stay?”
Susanna nodded in rueful agreement. “Do you think I’m wrong to want someone better for Riona? Did you see the way they acted toward each other?”
“Riona hardly said a word, and James didn’t notice her.”
“Exactly,” she said brightly.
“What are you going to do about Harold?”
“I’m not exactly certain,” she said, having come to no clear resolution of the problem. If Harold could be convinced to give up his suit, the situation would be perfect, of course. But she frankly doubted that he would, given the size of Riona’s fortune. Something, however, would have to be done.
Polly shook her head. “Mrs. Parker won’t be happy with your plan. What are you going to do about her?”
She sighed heavily and shook her head. “It’s a pity she can’t be ill. The woman feels every draft and every chill. How odd that she’s never truly sick.”
“She could be,” Polly said.
Susanna glanced at the woman who’d become her friend over the years. “Are you suggesting that I poison her?” she asked, shocked.
“A simple matter of a few herbs brewed in a tea. It would be enough to make her ill for a few days, that’s all.”
“And where did you acquire this knowledge?”
Polly shook her head, meaning that the answer wasn’t going to be forthcoming. Susanna glanced from Polly to Cook, wondering if the other woman had passed on this wisdom. If so, was it altogether a good thing to have a woman with such talents acting as her cook?
“Perhaps it would be better if we considered other alternatives for the moment,” she said, banishing the thought of that option.
“My dear Mrs. Parker,” Susanna said, entering the woman’s bedchamber a few moments later, “how are you faring this morning?” Placing the breakfast tray down at the foot of the bed, she went to the window and drew back the curtains. “The day promises to be a sunny one, if a bit chilly for this time of year. I’ve heard my share of coughs this morning and cannot but wonder if the weather is responsible for it. My own throat seems a bit sore as well.”
Mrs. Parker raised herself up on one elbow, blinking at her like a mole. “I slept as well as can be expected in this dreadful air, Mrs. McKinsey.”
“You do look the worse for the night,” Susanna said, peering around the bed hangings. Over her thinning hair Mrs. Parker wore a huge yellow lace cap with deep flounces, making it appear as if a large flower were sitting up in the middle of the commodious feather bed.
“Are you feverish?” she asked, picking up the tray. “I do hope not. I’ve heard that once this cough gets in the lungs it takes a few days to expel it.”
“I do not feel ill,” Mrs. Parker said.
Susanna reached out and touched Mrs. Parker’s cheek lightly with her knuckles. Shaking her head from side to side, she sighed heavily as if worried.
“I’m sure you’re correct,” Susanna said, placing the tray on the bedside table. She deliberately did not look in the other woman’s direction. “It is just that you look a trifle pale. Have you any joint pain? Or difficulty rising?”
Mrs. Parker was, generously put, a large woman, and the bed was absurdly soft. A thin person would have to push his way through the mountain of feathers. Mrs. Parker must be forced to roll to the edge and simply fall to the floor.
“Now that you speak of it,” Mrs. Parker said, frowning, “I have had some pain in my joints of late. I’ve taken it to be the Scottish air.”
Susanna smoothed her face of any expression. Mrs. Parker conveniently forgot that she was an inhabitant of the country and the widow of a Scot. In fact, in all the time she’d known the woman, Susanna had yet to hear of her departed, but evidently not lamented, husband. But the older woman never let it be forgotten that she was London born and bred. Some in Edinburgh might conveniently forget that antipathy had existed between the countries for centuries, but here in the country, memories were longer.
“I cannot think that this air is good for one’s lungs. And I did ask you to ensure there was no draft in my chamber.”
“I am sorry that there is not another room for your use. But I would be happy to close the curtains so that you might rest for a while.”
“I’m certain I’ll be fine,” Mrs. Parker said, leaning back against the pillows and tucking into her breakfast.
“Perhaps it would be better if you remained in your chamber today,” Susanna suggested.
“Nonsense,” the other woman replied, looking up from her sausages. “A good breakfast, a brisk walk, and I’ll be as good as new.”
“I have a restorative tea that will do wonders to fight off the ague. May I send it up?”
“That would be wise, I suppose.”
Susanna nodded, her hand on the door. Looking back at the older woman, she wondered if she were destined to hell for her actions. Praying that God would understand her motives, she went in search of Polly and the herbal potion.
Chapter 8
R iona led the way, thinking that she should have balked at the task of showing James the farm. Even now, she could feel him behind her, as if he were staring at the middle of her back. How silly, to think that she could feel a man’s gaze. She glanced over her shoulder at him to find that she was correct, after all. He was indeed looking at her, and his expression when she caught him didn’t alter. There was something somber and altogether disturbing about his look.
“You have very unusual eyes,” she said, a remark over which Mrs. Parker might have fa
nned herself vigorously. Too intimate, she would have whispered vehemently. Too much interest implied.
“My mother is beautiful and my father garners his share of attention from other women. I cannot help how I look.”
What had she done to anger him? Gone was the man she’d talked with the night before, and in his place was this creature of icy stares and clipped sentences. At least toward her. He’d been excessively cordial with the other women of her household.
Annoyed with herself for having felt the first inklings of friendship for him, she turned and led the way once more.
“I would think that you would not object to your appearance. After all, even in nature the more attractive of specimens captures attention. Bees, for example, will seek out the prettiest flowers.”
His bark of laughter startled her. “I’ve never been likened to a flower before. All in all, I’d prefer the role of bee.”
He would.
Facing him, she folded her arms. “What am I supposed to show you?”
“Everything.”
She smiled, thinking that he didn’t know exactly what he was asking. “Very well,” she said, more than willing to walk him over every inch of Tyemorn Manor.
The path was one she knew well, leading through the woods that intersected the property. Pointing to a cultivated patch of earth, she said, “There is no kitchen garden, so we grow our herbs here.”
He nodded, and she wondered how interested a man could be in spices and medicaments.
“Tyemorn Manor is actually seven farms,” she said, leading the way again. The path sharply rose, following the curve of the hill. At the top she halted, waiting for him to catch up with her. “The land here is more fertile than any near Ayleshire. We grow barley, oats, wheat, hay, and potatoes. In addition, we have over a hundred head of cattle, fourteen milk cows, four hundred sheep, seven goats, two hundred three chickens, and several barn cats and shepherding dogs.”
“An impressive litany. How are you so certain of the numbers?”