“Do ye hae a lot of gold, my lord?” she asked.
“Aye, a great deal, but that knowledge is only for ye and me to know. In time, lass, when we know one another better, and I am certain that I can trust ye, then I will share such information wi’ ye.”
“Ye can trust me, my lord,” Flanna said seriously. “I am yer wife now, and a Leslie. My allegiance is to ye and to Glenkirk. Where else would I place my loyalty.”
He gave her a warm smile, touched by her speech. This Highland wench he had so hastily married was perhaps a bit more complex than he had thought her to be. “I believe I can trust ye, Flanna,” he told her. “Now, however, is nae the time to discuss such matters as what I possess. Ye hae a great task ahead of ye, lass. Ye must make my castle a more livable place again. Since my mother left, and took Adali wi’ her, there has been no one to direct the servants. They hae grown lax wi’out a strong guiding hand. Ye must provide that hand.”
“Who was A . . . Adali?” she asked him, and sat in one of the two chairs by the blazing fire.
He sat opposite her. “Adali has been my mother’s servant since her birth. When she came to Glenkirk as my father’s wife, Adali became the castle’s majordomo. When she left Glenkirk after my father’s death, Adali, and the two other servants who hae been wi’ Mother her whole life, departed with her. They hae been together so long they cannot be separated. It was Adali who managed the household, seeing that the servants did what they should, making certain we had what we needed to survive, purchasing what we dinna grow, make, barter, or hunt. Now ’tis yer task, Flanna. There is more to being a duchess than fetes and beautiful clothing,” he finished.
She stared at him, astounded. “I hae nae been to a fete in my entire life, my lord, nor do I hae beautiful clothing. As for yer household, I will do my best, but I dinna hae the faintest idea of how to manage so large an establishment. I will learn, of course, but ye must be patient wi’ me. This is nae Killiecairn. This is a great house Even yer own mam had servants to do her bidding. I am nae a servant, my lord. I am yer wife.”
“Lass, I dinna mean . . . Ye will hae all the servants ye want to help ye. If I hae offended ye, I apologize,” Patrick Leslie said.
“My lord, ye wed me for the land,” Flanna replied in matter-of-fact tones. “We both understand that. I know my duty. ’Tis to make yer home a place of comfort and to gie ye an heir as quickly as possible. Fortunately, I hae my servant Angus to help me wi’ the first. Angus came to Killiecairn wi’ my mother from Brae. He remembers how a fine establishment should be kept and will help me. As for my second task, ’tis up to ye and I to manage.”
“I hae nae considered—” he began, but Flanna interrupted him.
“What month were ye born in, my lord?” she demanded of him.
“March,” he answered her.
“And how old will ye be on yer next birthday?” she pressed.
He thought a moment, then replied, “Thirty-five, lass.”
“I was born in August and was twenty-two this year, my lord. How old was yer mam when her first child was born?” Flanna asked.
Again he thought for a long moment. That had, after all, been before his time. His half sister, India, was the oldest of his siblings. “I think she was seventeen,” he said. “Aye! She was seventeen.”
“And how many bairns did she hae by the time she was my age?” Flanna queried him.
“Four,” he said, seeing where her line of questioning was leading him, but still not at all certain he was ready for fatherhood. He wasn’t even certain he was ready for marriage, though married he now was.
“Four,” Flanna repeated. “Yer mam had four bairns by the time she was my age! I think, my lord, we hae much work ahead of us. How many bairns did she hae in all?”
Patrick Leslie swallowed hard. “Nine,” he murmured, “but one of my sisters died before she was even a year old. Ye must understand, Flanna, that my mother had several husbands, and a lover, to father her great brood.”
“A lover?” Flanna didn’t know whether to be shocked or not.
“Prince Henry Stuart—he should hae been king after James—was the sire of my half brother, Charlie,” the duke told his wife. “It was before she wed wi’ my father, of course.”
“What happened to him?” Flanna wanted to know.
“Who?” Patrick said.
“The bastard. Yer mam’s bastard,” Flanna responded.
Patrick Leslie burst out laughing. He had never considered Charlie in that manner. To his knowledge, no one had. “My half brother, Charles Frederick Stuart, the Duke of Lundy, has never been thought of in that light, Flanna. While we teasingly call him our not-so-royal Stuart, he was always considered just one of mother’s bairns. Old King James and Queen Anne loved him dearly. He was their first grandchild. Sadly his father, the prince, died shortly after his birth. His uncle, our late King Charles, for whom Charlie was named, was very fond of him. One reason mother retired to England is to make certain Charlie doesna endanger himself by involving himself in this factional fighting over religion and Divine Right. Charlie is deeply loyal to his father’s family.”
“But he was born on the wrong side of the blanket,” Flanna persisted. “How can he be anything other than a bastard?”
“Lass,” the duke explained patiently, “the royal Stuarts hae always recognized their bairns nae matter the mother. ’Twas that way when they ruled here in Scotland, and ’tis that way now in England as well. They are a most loving family. My own blood is also mixed wi’ theirs, as are many families here in Scotland.”
Flanna shook her head. “I dinna understand,” she said, “but if ye say ’tis all right, I will accept yer word.”
Patrick laughed again. “Are ye hungry?” he asked her.
“I am, and I canna help but wonder why there is nae meal on the table, and the master in the house almost an hour now,” she replied. She stood up. “Who did ye leave in charge, my lord?”
“Nae one has been in charge since my mother left,” he said.
Flanna sighed. “Angus, to me,” she called, and the giant man who was her servant stepped from the deep shadows of the hall. In his arms he carried Sultan, purring noisily as Angus stroked him rhythmically.
Patrick Leslie chuckled. “’Tis rare he takes to strangers, but I trust his judgment in men.”
“He’s a grand beastie, my lord,” Angus replied. He was a man of indeterminate age, but he stood straight like a great oak, seven feet tall. His hair was dark brown with streaks of silver. He wore it pulled back and tied with a leather thong. His matching beard was full, but it was a small vanity of Angus’s that he kept it well trimmed and neat. All who knew him knew he took great pride in his beard, as he did in his dress. Angus always wore his Gordon kilt.
“Put the creature down,” Flanna said, “and see why there is nae supper on the table. Are the men supposed to starve after that long ride through the wet today? Tomorrow ye and I must see to putting the management of this house back properly.” She turned to her husband. “Is the castle mine?”
He knew exactly what she meant. “Aye, madame,” he replied.
Flanna turned back to her servant. “Ye’re now the majordomo of Glenkirk Castle, Angus,” she said. “Aggie, where is my chamber? I want a hot bath. I’m yet frozen through despite whiskey and the fire.”
“There are so many rooms, mistress, I dinna know where to look first,” Aggie said, coming forward in the company of an older woman. “She knows,” she continued accusingly, “but she will nae tell me.”
“Hae ye taken to bringing yer wantons into the castle now that yer mam is nae here, my lord?” the woman demanded. She was small and plump, with white hair, but a youngish face.
“This is my wife, Mary,” the duke said. “I wed wi’ her yesterday in her father’s house at Killiecairn. She is yer new mistress. Ye will render her yer respect. Flanna, this is Mary More-Leslie.”
“Can ye housekeep?” Flanna demanded fiercely of the woman.
�
��Aye,” came the reply, and Mary More-Leslie looked Flanna over critically, recognizing a Highland wench when she saw one.
“Then, ye’ll be the housekeeper here unless Angus says yer a slattern. Now show me to my chambers, Mary More-Leslie.” Flanna knew enough from her sister-in-law, Una Brodie, to know she must exhibit immediate and firm authority over those who served her or lose control of her household. Her gaze never left that of the older woman.
Mary finally looked away and, turning, said, “This way, my lady. We were nae expecting a bride, and so ’twill nae be in readiness; but we’ll manage tonight. Tomorrow is another day, eh?”
The Duke of Glenkirk looked on in surprise as Mary meekly led Flanna and her female servant away. He turned, and Angus was also gone. Sultan wreathed about his ankles. Patrick Leslie sat back down in his chair. The cat leapt into his lap and settled itself.
“Well, Sultan,” he said, “what think ye of yer new mistress? I think, wi’out meaning to, I hae found me a verra fine wife.” A day. He had known her only a day. He had learned she was brave and practical. She seemed to enjoy his lovemaking. She appeared honest and loyal. It was as good a basis as any to begin a marriage. Still, there was much, much more he had to learn about this young woman. He had done a very rash thing by marrying her, he knew.
Patrick Leslie smiled to himself. What would his mother think of this outspoken Highland girl of not particularly distinguished background? What would his siblings think? He numbered a duke and a marquis among his four brothers. Charlie and Henry led different lives than he led, although now with the difficulties in England, their lives must certainly be disrupted to some extent. Henry would know how to bend without breaking. He would survive with barely a wrinkle in his silken breeches, and his family as well. Henry was seven years his senior, and while he had been a kindly elder brother, he had had little time for Patrick Leslie.
His brother Charlie, however, was a different matter. The not-so-royal Stuart was only three and a half years older than Patrick Leslie. He had always had time for his little brother and, consequently, was closer to Patrick than even his two younger Leslie brothers, Adam and Duncan. What was happening to Charlie amid all the strife? He had always been devoted to his father’s family. Had Prince Henry been permitted to wed with the widowed Marchioness of Westleigh as his mother was then titled, Charlie would have been England’s king when old James had died. But Charlie didn’t care if he was king or not. He had been as loyal to the royal Stuarts as any legitimately born son would have been. News filtered slowly into the eastern Highlands. They hadn’t even known of the king’s execution until late spring. Where was Charlie now? “God keep ye safe, brother,” the duke whispered to himself.
“My lord.” Angus was by his side. “The cook will hae the supper ready shortly. I hae spoken wi’ him. Meals will be served on time in the future. Nae one was certain when ye would return, and hence the delay.” He gave the duke a faint bow. “Shall I tell her ladyship, or will ye?”
Patrick Leslie stood up, placing Sultan on the floor as he did so. “I will tell her,” he replied. “I am happy to hae my house in such safe hands now. Thank ye.” He walked from the hall.
Angus now took a moment to look about him. Flanna had done well despite her best efforts to avoid the responsibility accorded her sex. She was wild like her mother that way, although only he could remember Meg Gordon’s stubborn nature. Lachlann Brodie had been entranced with her and found her willfulness amusing. But the old Brodie had kept his promise to his dying wife, although how he would have done it but that the Duke of Glenkirk had fallen into their laps, Angus didn’t know. Still, it was done now. Flanna was both a duchess and a countess with this marriage.
Angus knew a great deal more about the duke and his family than Patrick Leslie would have imagined. His own grandfather had been the duke’s grandfather, the fourth Earl of Glenkirk, also a Patrick. This Patrick had spawned any number of bastards throughout the region. Angus’s maternal grandmother, Bride Forbes, had caught the earl’s eye and birthed a daughter, Jessie, in March of 1578. Jessie Forbes in her turn had caught the eye of Andrew Gordon, the Earl of Brae. She had died two days after giving birth to a son, named Angus after an ancestor, and who was recognized by his father as a Gordon and raised at Brae Castle. The young Countess of Brae, Anne Keith, had married her husband when Angus was three and given birth to her only child, a daughter, Margaret, when Angus was seven. She had treated her husband’s bastard as her own child, the only difference being that he would not inherit either his father’s title or his father’s lands. Those would go to his legitimately born sister, Margaret.
When the Earl of Brae had died shortly after his daughter’s twelfth birthday, it was Angus who had taken over management of Brae, protecting the widowed countess and her child from any and all who would make an attempt on either the heiress, her mother, or Brae. It was Angus who had seen Lachlann Brodie’s interest Meg Gordon one summer at the games at Inverness; but Meg Gordon would not leave her mother, who was then ill and failing. Only two years later, when Anne had died and was buried, did Meg, at her half brother’s urging, accept the suit of the Brodie of Killiecairn.
“Our blood is better,” he told his half sister honestly, “but ye’re far past yer prime, Meg. He doesna care if ye hae bairns, for he’s got half a dozen lads by his first wife, God assoil her. He’s old enough to be yer da, but he’s in love wi’ ye, any fool can see. Ye’ll do nae better, for all ye hae is Brae and its lands. Ye hae nae cattle or coin. This is as good a match as ye’ll get, and he’ll be kind.”
“What will happen to ye, Angus? I’ll nae leave ye,” Meg Gordon had told her half brother.
“Few away from Brae know I am our father’s bastard,” Angus replied. “I’ll come wi’ ye as yer personal servant. Brodie will nae deny ye yer servant, and anyone wi’ eyes can see I’m useful.”
So Meg had accepted the offer of marriage from Lachlann Brodie, a man thirty-three years her senior, and to her surprise her husband had, despite his years, proved a vigorous lover. He had also adored her and done everything he could to make her happy. And Angus Gordon had entered the household at Killiecairn, silently watching over his younger sibling and eventually her child, making himself as useful as possible so that none would complain that he didn’t earn his keep. When Flanna’s mother had been on her deathbed, she had confided to her only child that Angus was her half brother and Flanna’s uncle. Flanna had continued to keep the secret.
Angus Gordon noted the portraits hanging over the two fireplaces. He saw the well-made furniture, the fine tapestries, the beautiful silk banners hanging from the rafters, the silver on the sideboard, the porcelain bowls, and the beeswax tapers in the candlesticks. The lamps burned pure, fragrant oil, and there was both wine and whiskey on the table. The place needed a good cleaning, but it had not been left for too long a time, it was obvious. This was the great hall of a wealthy man, and his niece was now that man’s wife.
She had a great deal to learn, Angus thought to himself. Meg had loved her only child, but she hadn’t taken the time to teach her how to manage a great house. His sister had probably never thought Flanna would do so well. When Meg had died, Una Brodie had done her best to teach Flanna the rudiments of housekeeping; but Flanna had never been very interested, and besides, Killiecairn wasn’t an impressive establishment. His niece preferred the out-of-doors, riding and hunting from dawn to dusk. Meg had taught her daughter to sign her name; but other than that, Flanna could not write, nor could she read. The only language she knew was her own. Angus shook his head wearily. His niece was very badly prepared for her new high station. He wondered what the duke would think when he learned it. He shook his great head a third time. There was so much to do. The household, he could manage, but Flanna had to be educated enough so that she didn’t shame her husband. Had he not heard Patrick Leslie tell his wife that his own mother was a princess? Certainly a princess knew how to read, and to write, and to converse in foreign tongues. Flanna spoke a
brand of Highland English, and Scots Gaelic only a Highland Scot could understand.
He heard the servants begin entering the hall to set the high board and bring the food. He turned quickly and began directing them in an authoritative voice. The duke and Flanna entered the hall, and he escorted them to the high board, seating his niece at her husband’s right hand. Then, with a flick of an eyebrow, he signaled the servants to bring the meal to the table. “ ’Tis a simple meal, my lord, for the cook was ill-prepared, I fear. It will be better tomorrow.”
“I prefer a simple meal,” Patrick Leslie replied, his eye taking in the broiled trout, the roast of beef, the game pie, the steamed artichokes, the bread, the butter, and the cheese. “ ’Tis an amazing repast for one so ill-prepared,” he noted dryly.
“If ye are pleased, my lord, then I shall certainly tell Cook,” Angus said, pouring the wine with a deft hand and then stepping back. “I regret, however, we hae only pear tartlet for a sweet. Wine or ale, my lady?” He bent by Flanna’s side.
“Oh, wine!” she told him, turning to her husband. “We only had wine on special occasions at Killiecairn. Will we hae it at every meal, my lord?” She sipped at her cup greedily.
“If it pleases ye, madame,” he replied.
She nodded vigorously. “I hae never tasted a wine so good,” she enthused. “Where does it come from?”
“France,” he said, half amused. “My mother hae family there.”
“Is yer mam French?” Flanna asked him.
“Nay. My grandmother, who is the Countess of BrocCairn, and whom ye will meet, was English born. My mother’s father was the ruler of a great empire in the East. The English call it India.”
She nodded, and to Angus’s relief asked no more questions of the duke. It would have only shown her appalling ignorance. Flanna knew only that England was to the south and there was a place called Ireland just across the sea off the western coast of Scotland. She knew France was across the water from England, but other than that, she was woefully ill informed.
Just Beyond Tomorrow Page 8