“You can do this?”
“In Scotland the hereditary titles of earl and baron can be inherited via a will, gifted as I am doing, or if left vacant, they can be purchased from the crown for a very healthy sum. I had originally thought to name your father as my successor in my will. The title would have been your father’s—Michael’s—had my father been a reasonable man and allowed my brother and Mary to marry.” She huffed. “Or had your grandfather bothered to tell Michael the true circumstances of his birth then I would have told Michael my plan, and he never would have felt compelled to write that foolish letter to you. But neither man behaved as they ought, so here we women are...in a quagmire.”
“But...but...”
“I know. It’s all very confusing, but please just do as I ask and sign where I point.” She took a pen and portable ink pot from her pocket and handed them to Olivia.
“This is beyond...generous, Your Grace. You barely know me.”
“Dear, I’ve known you from the moment of your birth thanks to your grandmother’s letters. I knew when you spoke your first words, when you took your first steps, when you fell down the stairs and broke your left arm. Now I’ve had the pleasure of your company and I very much like the woman you’ve become.” To herself she muttered, “Boots, the girl makes boots for—” She shook her head, refocusing on the matter at hand. “Dear, please just sign the documents. I’m confident that I’m doing the right thing for both of us.”
Her grandniece raked the hair out of her eyes and blew through her teeth. “I don’t know...”
“Olivia, please sign the damn papers.”
Apparently shocked by her frank language, Olivia issued a startled laughed and then nodded. Moments later the deed was done.
The moment the ink dried, Melinda picked up the documents. “Congratulations, Lady Dunfirth. You now have the armor you need. You’re also the proud owner of six hundred acres of rocky headland suitable only as pasture for your five hundred sheep on the northwest coast of Scotland, owner of a rock pile known as the Dunfirth Castle ruins and of the modest two-storied manor on the site currently occupied by my distant widowed cousin and her two spinster daughters.”
“Oh my. All that as well?”
“Yes. You’ll find that my cousin and her daughters are good tenants. They’ll only contact you when the wool is ready or when the roof leaks and such.”
As Melinda began to rise, Olivia placed a hand on her arm. “How can I ever thank you?”
Melinda patted her cheek. “Olivia, Colin deserves a woman of your caliber who truly loves him. He’s a good man. You just need to convince him of this.”
Olivia blushed. “I shall, Your Grace. And please call me Liv.”
“Very well, Liv. Please call me Aunt Melinda.”
As she took her leave, Melinda felt the weight of the world lift from her shoulders. Now her proud young neighbor just had to follow his heart. Once he did, she’d be able to make her last notation in the family bible. Then she could die a happy woman.
TARTAN BOWS AND MISTLETOE
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Olivia blew through her teeth. She’d never put in such a hectic morning in all of her twenty-two years. The Duchess had said she’d need a plan and so she’d developed and executed one.
At first light the Duchess’s coach was ready as promised and Liv had raced not to Clachankirk but to Haddington where she’d used the town’s telegraph office to contact her father, who thanks to his international business dealings, had a telegraph of his own. In the process she had to resend four of her ten messages just to make herself understood by her understandably confused father. But in the end, the deal was done and to her—and hopefully Colin’s—and her father’s satisfactions. She hoped.
Then she’d raced back to Blythe Hall where she’d spent an hour in the very experienced hands of the Duchess’s personal abigail Sarah.
“I do believe we’re done, my lady.”
Taking a deep breath, Liv murmured her thanks and faced the tall mirror. “You, Sarah, are a miracle worker.”
Gone were her puffy eyes, her dark circles and scarlet nose. Anyone looking at her now would never guess that she’d spent the night fretting, shifting between laughter and tears.
“Please let Her Grace know that I’m ready for my confrontation with John Colin MacNab, the Earl of Clachankirk.”
Grinning, Sarah said, “I most certainly will.”
As Sarah darted out the door, Liv whispered, “Please, God, let it be so.”
At the foot of the broad marble stairs, she was greeted by the Duchess and a man of about thirty-five years dressed in rough tweeds.
“Olivia dear, this is Colin’s gillie, Angus.” Turning to him, she said, “Please tell Lady Dunfirth what you over heard.”
“A banker from Bank of Scotland arrived unexpectedly not an hour ago at Clachankirk. I didn’t hear all that was said, but did hear the man tell the MacNab that he’s in far more debt than he realized. Apparently his father left some large outstanding notes that are now past due. Given these new debts, the banker said he canna extend further credit to m’lord. That he needs to be paid in full within ninety days.”
The Duchess wrung her hands. “Dear, I don’t know what to advise you. I’d pay the debts myself but know from past experience that Colin won’t even hear of it.”
Liv took a deep breath, her plan of attack shifting as she imagined various possible scenarios. Finally, she smiled. “There’s no need to worry. I can handle it.”
Please, God…
~*~
Mr. Howell held out his hands. “I’m sorry, MacNab, but my hands are—”
Baaaammm!
The crash of wood on stone was followed by shouting below causing both Colin and his banker to turn toward the stairwell.
To Colin’s utter surprise MacGill appeared to be backing up the stairs, the point of a parasol poking his belly with every step.
Through grit teeth MacGill shouted, “M’lord, Miss Conor is—”
A frowning Olivia Conor, resplendent in a deep blue embroidered gown trimmed in russet velvet, thick cream ruffles adorning her swan-like neck and wrists, suddenly came through the doorway. As he gaped, he couldn’t help but notice the diamonds the size and shape of partridge eggs dangling from each of her earlobes.
Seeing him, she smiled and strode toward him, her arms out in welcoming fashion. “Darling! There you are. You’ll never believe the morning I’ve had. Just getting my hands on the wool contract you requested would have broken a lesser woman and then I had to deal with your Mr. MacGill at the foot of the stairs. Is he going dautie, do you suppose? Seriously, you must speak with him.”
The last woman he ever wanted to lay eyes on in this lifetime had closed the gap betwixt them and kissed him on the cheek. As he started to jerk back, she hissed in his ears, “Please play along, Colin. I promise you’ll not regret it.”
She threaded her arm through his then apparently noticing his banker for the first time, said, “Oh! You have company.”
Jaw muscles tensing, Colin ground out, “Miss Conor, this is Mr. Howell from the Bank of Scotland. Mr. Howell, this is Miss Olivia Conor of Lynn, Massachusetts, a visitor at Blythe Hall.”
Flashing dimples, she patted his arm and told Mr. Howell, “He’s so modest. Truth to tell, Mr. Howell, I’m his fiancée.”
As Colin’s jaw dropped, she pulled her arm free of his and opened her reticule. Handing him a shaft of telegrams, she said “Per your request I contacted my father, who in turn, contacted Mr. Thomas, co-owner of the T & C Mills. I’m sorry to report there was a bit of confusion regarding your wool shipment to the United States. As you can see from the top telegram, Mr. Thomas said he’d take 15,000 pounds of clean, washed merino at thirty-five pennies per pound. Well, I knew immediately that that sum wasn’t right. You’d told me fifty pennies per pound. So I told Mr. Thomas that you’d take your business elsewhere if that’s all he could pay and in the end he agreed to fifty and a half penny per pound�
��I must admit I’m quite proud of that added half penny—providing we ship by steamer instead of sail.” She bit into her lip. “I hope that’s alright. And he’s covering the shipping.”
Turning to the banker, she said, “I can’t tell the difference betwixt greasy wool, merino and mixed wools, but fabrics I do understand. Did you know Massachusetts is ranked number one in the manufacturing of woolen goods in the United States? It’s true. We have more carding mills, most of which utilize 48 inch wool spinning spindles, which are perfect for menswear. King Cotton is dead thanks to our Civil War. Long live King Wool.”
Colin couldn’t believe his ears. “Fifty and a half pennies per pound?” The best he’d negotiated was thirty-eight.
“Yes, see?” She pointed to the telegram now on top.
But 15,000 pounds of clean washed wool? Aye, on occasion they’d shear that much but by the time ye combed out the twigs and burs, washed it then dried it, ye lost a third of yer wool weight. Where in hell was he supposed to get 15,000...?
He pulled Liv into his side. “Darling, are you aware that the agreed upon weight is for clean and washed wool? Even with the lambs—”
“Not to worry, dear. Which reminds me, Father asked about your lambskin, apparently it’s in high demand in the shoe industry.” She shuddered. “I told him I wouldn’t discuss lambskins or lamb chops or whatever else it is you men do to the poor creatures. You’re totally on your own with that.”
Mr. Howell, who’d been quietly listening to Olivia’s disjointed discourse said, “Your father’s in manufacturing, Miss Conor?”
“Yes, shoes.”
His brow furrowed then cleared. “Might he produce military boots?”
Liv beamed at him. “Why yes, he’s the major provider of footwear for the United States army. Why?”
Colin’s banker smiled for the first time since he’d arrived. “I thought I recognized the name.” To Colin he said, “My lord, I really must take my leave. I’ve a long road ahead of me.” He bowed to Olivia. “Miss Conor, it was a great pleasure making your acquaintance.”
“Thank you. I hope to see you again.”
Wanting a final word with his banker, Colin said, “I’ll walk you to the door.” Releasing his hold on Olivia, he growled through grit teeth, “We’ll talk when I get back, my dear.”
At the base of the stairs, Colin said, “So, you want the full amount by—”
Mr. Howell held up a hand. “Nay. I think it best that we just forget about our previous discussion. You’re obviously on the path to prosperity. And unlike your father, you’re also honest and have a history of paying debts, so we’ll extend your loans. I do wish you and the lovely Miss Conor well. And please keep in mind that an invitation to the wedding would be greatly appreciated.”
With that Mr. Howell climbed into his carriage and was gone.
Colin raked his hands threw his hair. “What in bloody hell just happened?”
An hour ago he was on the verge of total bankruptcy. Now his banker was begging for an invitation to an imaginary wedding.
Colin read the pile of telegrams in his hand. The agreed upon sums were just as Olivia described and worse, were beyond his ability to provide! But something else was amiss. He looked at the disjointed messages, date and times. Ah ha!
He stomped up the stairs. Finding Olivia pacing before the fireplace, he said, “Give me the rest of the telegrams.”
“Oh, uhmm.”
Stopping before her, he puffed up his chest and held out a hand. “The rest. Now.”
Obviously unsettled, she reached into her reticule and pulled out the missing telegrams. “Now, don’t be upset...”
“Don’t be upset? Woman, you just committed me to providing 15,000 pounds of clean, washed wool!”
“Yes, I know. I did err on the side of caution, averaged only ten pounds per ewe while knowing some can produce up to thirty.”
“Woman! Just stop right now. You don’t seem to understand that I don’t own enough sheep.”
Bursting into tears, she threw up her hands. “But don’t you see? With mine, you do.”
Oh, God, now she’s weeping. He hated when women cried. It unmanned him. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. We’ll get this sorted out.”
He took her by the hands, she flinched but he ignored it and led her to the bench beside the fireplace. When she plopped down, he sat beside her. “Miss Conor, I do appreciate that you—”
“It’s Lady Dunfirth, thank you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She sniffed back tears. “As well you should after all I’ve been through this morning.” She heaved a sigh. “I’m the Baroness of Dunfirth thanks to my great aunt. That’s right. I don’t need or want your bloody title. Never have. And with it came five hundred sheep and a pile of rocks.”
“But your father wrote...”
“His thoughts, which were misunderstood by you. This is what comes from reading another’s personal correspondence. Had you bothered to ask, I’d have told you that he’s obsessed and why.”
“So why is he?”
He listened as she told him about her parents’ early struggles to be accepted in Lynn. Aye, he’d experience the same kind of prejudice as a lad when his father had taken him to London for the first time. He hadn’t understood it then and still didn’t. At least Queen Victoria harbored no such irrational distaste for the Scots. With any luck she would turn the tide. “And now you have a title, but I still don’t understand how.”
She took a deep breath. “Decades ago my grandmother and the Duchess’s brother fell in love.”
As she talked, he marveled at yet another tale of blatant cruelty and prejudice.
“So that’s how I became a Baroness, which should thrill Father beyond words.”
She started to rise and he pulled her back down saying, “Please tell me why you contacted your father and negotiate a wool shipment without my knowledge.”
“Oh, that.”
“Aye, that.”
“Well,” she said, “I would have asked had I had time. But then I learned the banker was here. So I quickly estimated wool weight by combining flocks—yours with my newly acquired five hundred, and discovered I could be of help, and so I tried.” Looking dejected, she muttered, “Just read the telegrams.”
Colin arranged them in order. The first two were routine back and forth price negotiations. The third took him by surprise.
Daughter STOP I agree Australian wool could reach 75 pennies per pound by 1880 but this is now STOP Offering forty-nine pennies per pound via steam and not a penny more STOP
Humph! How on earth did she come to know anything about Australian wool futures? Last he heard she wanted to study law and vote. Shaking his head in wonder, he read the last telegram.
I understand now STOP Agree to 15,000 pounds of clean washed wool at fifty and a half pennies plus the shipping via steam STOP You drive a hard bargain STOP Happy to hear you love him STOP Contract to follow STOP
She loved him? Oh dear God, she’d done all this because she loved him. She loved him!
He looked at her as she sat beside him staring at her gloved hands. She must have swallowed a butt’s worth of pride before allowing him to read the telegrams. What an ass he’d been.
First, he’d jumped to conclusions about her motivations, giving her no chance to explain herself. Then he’d railed at her for selling his wool at a far better price then he could have negotiated, which in turn caused his banker to rethink his foreclosure. And now he had to undo all the damage he’d done.
“Olivia, I’m so sorry.”
Keeping her gaze downcast, she shrugged. “It’s alright. I quite understand. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
As she stood, he came to his feet and wrapped his arms about her waist, pulling her close. “Lady Dunfirth, look at me.”
When she did, his chest tightened seeing fresh tears welling behind her thick lashes. “It’s not alright. You’ve acted the guardian angel while I’ve behaved like an arro
gant bastard. I was wrong when I read your father’s letter then jumped to the wrong conclusions. I only compounded the wrongs by again doubting you when you were only trying to come to my aide.”
Nodding, she patted his chest. “Yes, that just about covers it.”
He blinked in surprise then laughed, scooping her into his arms then hauling her off her feet. “You wench!”
Chest to chest, she looked him in the eye. “Perhaps. But I was at fault as well. I deliberately kept you ignorant of my situation fearing you’d believe me a conniving heiress only in search of a title. And for that I’m sorry.”
“Ah hum!”
Colin turned at the sound. “Yes, MacGill, what is it?”
Eyes narrowing, his butler looked from Colin to Olivia. “’Tis Mrs. Stewart and the bairns, m’lord. They’re about to take their leave and wanted a final word with ye.”
“Send them up.”
Hating to let her go, he set Olivia on her feet. “My apologies, but a laird’s work is never done.”
A moment later, the Stewart bairns ran into the hall. Spying Colin, they came to an abrupt stop. When their mother appeared, the boys hid behind her skirts.
Mrs. Stewart bobbed a curtsey. “My lord, we just wanted to say thank ye and God’s blessings upon ye for yer generosity to the lads and myself.”
He took her hand and assured her, “Our doors will always be open to ye, Mrs. Stewart, should ye ever wish to return.”
“Thank ye, m’lord.”
The boys, spying Olivia, suddenly darted past shouting, “Miss Conor!”
Now what’s this about?
Arms out in welcome, Olivia knelt to be at eye level with the bairns. Giving them a huge hug, she cooed, “Oh my, look how tall you’ve grown in just two days.”
Robert, the elder, laughed. “Nay, ‘tis just these boots ye made for us, miss.”
“You made their boots?” Colin looked from Olivia to the lads’ neat footwear then to their mother. The woman nodded. Was this why Olivia hadn’t attended the games? And why was he just learning of this?
Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas Page 8