by Amanda Scott
“I read him no lectures, my lady, but I am ashamed to say my behavior was less than sensible.”
“You may tell me all about it another time if you like,” Lady Strachan said with a smile. “I should like us to become friends. But you must be longing to change your gown. Your baggage ought to have arrived by now.” She rose to her feet, smoothing her russet skirts, and Mary Kate realized that she was only an inch or two taller than herself. She had expected to find her taller, as though so much dignity required height.
She liked Lady Strachan and felt comfortable with her, but she was grateful to her for not demanding more information about the unpleasantness with Douglas. She was not ready to discuss that episode with anyone yet and was dismayed that the subject had already been twice mentioned. She ought to have expected that, she realized, for Douglas’s parents would always have an interest in the circumstances at Tornary.
They crossed the hall of the twelve-light window and passed into the great chamber. In days of old, and even now in some manor houses, this chamber would have housed the master’s bed and would be the place where he dealt with business. At Strachan Court it was merely an oversized elegant parlor with carved wainscoting and a molded ceiling. Several marvelous carpets with floral patterns in shades of pale blue and gold decked the floor. Overlooking the forecourt were two window bays, into each of which had been built a low-backed settle. A huge hooded fireplace occupied the west wall, and once again excellent paintings hung on the walls.
Mary Kate followed Lady Strachan through one of the two doors in the north wall into a gallery, where a bank of windows on their right overlooked a charming inner courtyard. Bearing left, they crossed the gallery into another room, where a maidservant smoothing the coverlet on a huge carved bed turned at their entrance and bobbed a curtsy.
“Sarah, be so good as to tell Annie Jardine she is wanted,” said her ladyship gently. The girl bobbed another curtsy, and when she had gone, Lady Strachan said, “You and Adam will have more privacy here than in the east wing. I have put him here and you in the next room. I ought to mention that Megan has the bedchamber off. the window hall, whilst our own adjoins my sitting room. I should like nothing better,” she added, smiling, “than to take you over the whole house, but I still tire easily and am supposed to rest before supper, so I shall leave you to your own devices for now. I think you will like Annie Jardine. She is your housekeeper’s daughter, you know.”
Mary Kate was pleased and expressed her gratitude, adding shyly, “I don’t wish to keep you from your rest, my lady. I expect Adam will be along soon.”
Lady Strachan laughed. “I don’t know about that. Once he and Megan start remembering their childhood days, I am afraid it will be difficult to distract them.”
Mary Kate’s face fell, mirroring her thoughts, but Lady Strachan tactfully kept silent.
A moment later, alone, Mary Kate turned her attention to the bedchamber. Small trunks, roped bundles, and several boxes littered the floor, and she wondered where Lucas Trotter was and why he had not yet unpacked Douglas’s things. She stepped over some of them to look more closely at the intricately carved bed with its beautifully embroidered green tester and hangings before remembering that Lady Strachan had said she was to have the adjoining bedchamber for her own use.
Curious, she walked through the connecting door to find a room of equal size to the other. Again the floor was cluttered with baggage, but there the similarity ended. The bed in this room was smaller, though the violet hangings were just as prettily embroidered, and the atmosphere was cozy rather than elegant. She crossed to the window. The room overlooked a charming hedge garden with a fountain playing in the center. Through an opening at the left end of the tall hedge she could see the white-pebbled drive that led from forecourt to stables. She wondered where her husband was. Surely he could not still be showing off Valiant to Lady Somerville.
On the thought came a peal of hastily stifled feminine laughter, and Lucas Trotter entered, accompanied by a young woman dressed in the blue full-length kirtle of the house servant. Her smooth light-brown hair was tied back with a ribbon, and her sleeves were rolled up. The fact that she was of some stature among the maidservants was indicated by her apron, which was of transparent cambric instead of the usual coarse linen.
Trotter noticed his mistress first but was undismayed. He smiled. “Mistress, I’ve brung ye Annie Jardine, and a rare handful she be, too. I doubt she’ll be as useful tae ye as her brother Willie be tae the master, but my Lady Strachan says ye mun make do wi’ her nanetheless.”
The young woman laughed, her cheeks blooming. “That will be enough o’ your nash-gab, Lucas Trotter. Run along wi’ ye, else Sir Adam will find his bandboxes still on the carpet when he returns, and, certes, there’ll be an unco tirrivee.”
Reminded of his duties, the wiry manservant hurried into the other chamber, which soon echoed with the sounds of his industry.
Annie proved to be a successful product of her mother’s teaching as Mary Kate was helped into a fresh gown and the boxes and bundles disappeared, their erstwhile contents settled comfortably in the trunks, chests, and large press cupboard provided for the purpose. Annie kept up a light chatter all the while, inquiring about the welfare of friends and relations at Tornary. She had already seen and spoken to her brother, but as she laughingly informed Mary Kate, Willie was a dour man, expert at tracking game but not inclined to gossip. Mary Kate liked the girl and willingly assuaged her curiosity, despite a nagging suspicion that neither her husband’s mother nor Lady Somerville would approve of such open manners betwixt mistress and maid.
She did not see Douglas until he came upstairs to change for supper. She heard him first, laughing and shouting orders at Trotter while he dressed. She dismissed Annie, and a few moments later he entered.
“Greetings, lass. How do you like Strachan Court?”
“I cannot say, sir,” she responded coolly, “for as yet I have seen but little of it.”
He frowned. “Someone ought to have taken you ’round the place, sweetheart.”
“And who should have done so, sir? Your father is with his books, and your mother still tires easily and must conserve her strength. Should I have requested a servant to escort me?”
“Nay, lass.” He grimaced. “Say no more. I take your meaning well enough.” He strode over to her and dropped to one knee, lifting the hem of her skirt to kiss it. “I am a vile beast to neglect my lady wife.” He looked up at her. “That is what you truly would like to say to me, is it not?”
Unable to repress a smile at his un-Douglaslike posture, she shook her head. “Get up, sir. You should not kneel to me.”
“I know,” he agreed solemnly, “but I wanted to look into your bonny eyes, and ’twas the only way I could do so, downcast as they be.” The sally succeeded in winning another smile. He had not actually apologized in so many words, of course, but it would do. Seated upon a stool at her feet, he told her of his afternoon. “Megan hasn’t changed at all, though it must be five years since last I saw her. ’Twas when she married Somerville.”
“Has she children?”
“Not a one, more’s the pity, for I know Somerville dreams of lusty sons. He had one, and three daughters besides, by his first marriage, but the son was killed, hunting.”
“Then Sir Reginald is older than your cousin?”
“Aye, closer to my father’s age. In point of fact, one of his daughters is a year older than Megan. The other two are your age and younger. I wonder sometimes how she can be happy with him, so sweet and merry as she is. Sir Reginald is a strict, dour man who never laughs or jokes.”
Mary Kate bit her tongue, deciding it would not be wise to comment that Lady Somerville seemed well enough to her, however grim her husband might be.
Douglas chatted amiably while they made their way down the stairs, through the entry hall, and along a short passageway to an anteroom with doors leading off it in every direction. One of these, set at an angle across the south
east corner, was flanked by chamfered pilasters supporting a broken pediment. A gillie stepped forward to open the door, and they entered the winter parlor to find the others already gathered there for supper.
The room was too large to be termed cozy, for it was fully twenty-five feet to a side, but it was cheerful. Candles gleamed from wall sconces all around the perimeter and from candelabra at either end of the laden, white-lined-draped trestle table. A fire roared in the great fireplace, and red velvet curtains graced the forecourt windows as well as their tall and narrow inglenook brethren. Once again the click of her heels was muted by carpet as, guided by Douglas’s light touch at her elbow, she made her way to her place, pausing only to make her curtsy to Lady Strachan before she seated herself.
The ewerer approached with two. assistants. While the first held the basin, he poured rose water over her hands, after which the second assistant handed her a verbena-scented linen cloth to dry them. Then they passed on to perform the same service for Douglas, and Mary Kate turned her attention to the table.
Square wooden trenchers marked each place. Most of the plate was pewter, though the great salt at his lordship’s right hand and the spoons at each place were silver. Other beautiful silver pieces gleamed from the sideboards where they rested in anticipation of a feast-day. Huge platters of food already sat steaming upon the table, while others waited upon the dresser and sideboards to be served later. The carver, a leather case of knives attached to his girdle, stood poised behind Lord Strachan’s chair. Once grace had been said, he stepped forward, swept away the small white cloth before his lordship, and with a grand flourish raised up the two long carving knives thus revealed. Using one to steady the joint, he sliced dexterously, removing the juicy slices to a platter as he worked.
Saucers of cameline and yellow sauce were set between alternate places for dipping the roasted meat, and Mary Kate either helped herself from dishes shared by her husband or was served by him. Musicians played softly from the window embrasure, and servants hovered throughout the meal, attempting to anticipate demands before they were made. Thus, when Mary Kate began daintily to lick her fingers before wiping them upon the napkin tied around her neck, one of the ewerer’s minions sprang forward with a lave cloth. She smiled her thanks.
Another lad circulated with a basin into which the bones from various dishes were tossed. In the great hall with its rush-strewn floor, the custom still prevailed of tossing such bones and other bits to the floor, where they were pounced upon by the dogs almost before they landed. But here in the winter parlor, where the family took its meals, Lady Strachan had fixed upon the more civilized practice in order to spare her lovely carpets. Her new daughter approved.
Dish succeeded dish, saucers were replenished before they had been emptied, and French wines flowed freely, attended by the butler, who changed their glasses each time he poured. Although it was a light supper of only two courses, there was a wide selection of foods, and despite the number of attendants, conversation flourished.
Lady Somerville dominated the conversation, and it seemed to Mary Kate that she began every sentence with, “Adam, do you remember…” or perhaps, when she exerted herself to include Douglas’s wife, “Have you ever told Mary Kate about the time you and I…” At first, Mary Kate attempted to take part in the discussion, but she was never allowed much more than an interested noise or two before the others plunged deeper into their reminiscences. Ned Lumsden did ask her at one point to tell them something about her own childhood, but she had scarcely begun to speak when her words reminded Lady Somerville of a humorous anecdote, which she at once began to relate to the others. Ned winked impudently from across the table, but although the gesture cheered her momentarily, Mary Kate made no further effort to join the general conversation.
Douglas became so engrossed in his cousin’s tales that he absentmindedly stabbed at the stewed mutton with his dagger without looking, and narrowly missed slicing his wife’s fingers as they dipped into the same dish. He did not hear her low cry as she snatched her hand away, but a sharp reproof from his father instantly reclaimed his notice, and he apologized profusely before returning his attention to his cousin.
Finally, the table was cleared of the second course, the grease-stained surcloth was removed, and the ewerer and his helpers stepped forward again. While the butler prepared mugs of steaming spiced wine, other servants brought in the banquet, or sweet course, which consisted of plates of gingerbread, spiced fruits, and sugared delicacies. These were set upon the table along with a saucer of damson marmalade. Mary Kate refused the gingerbread but helped herself to a candied primrose from the sugar plate just as Lady Strachan announced her plan for a small gathering to take place at Strachan Court at the end of the following week, several days before the entire family would depart for Edinburgh.
“I have sent out invitations to a number of our friends,” she said with her gentle smile. “No one from any great distance, of course, but there are a good number of people nearby who will wish to make your acquaintance, my dear. There will be feasting and dancing—disapproved of, I am certain, by our Calvinistic neighbors—but I know that music and dancing are beloved by the highlanders, and I want you young people to enjoy yourselves. You are to make one of the family that night, Ned,” she added with a challenging sidelong glance at his lordship. “’Twill be an excellent opportunity for you to accustom yourself to being a guest rather than a secretary.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“Just see to it that you behave yourself, lad,” growled his mentor, but Ned only grinned at him.
When they adjourned at last to the great chamber, Mary Kate was astonished to see her husband pick up a lute and begin to pluck away at it with the skill of a strolling troubadour. He made himself comfortable on a low stool near the roaring fire and called to Lady Somerville to name him a tune.
Uh, Adam, she retorted, laughing, you will be sorry you asked. You must know by now that my favorite is ‘The Gaberlunzie man’—all ten verses of it!”
“Well, you must let me practice a while before I attempt so ambitious a song. What about you, lass?” He smiled at his wife.
“I didn’t know you played.”
“You know now,” he said. “What would you like to hear?”
“I like ballads, or perhaps something sad. ‘Bide Ye Yet,’ or ‘Here Awa’.’ I also like ‘The Gaberlunzie Man,’” she added, “though it is rather long.”
“Good enough.” He strummed idly for a moment or two, accustoming himself to the instrument, and then began to sing a love ballad, his voice a melodious bass. A few moments later, lost in the music, Mary Kate was startled when Annie Jardine appeared at her shoulder to ask if she needed anything. She sent for her embroidery. Lady Strachan was also occupied with her needlework, and his lordship soon bore young Lumsden off to the bookroom, while Megan displayed interest only in the music. Invited to join in the singing, she consented immediately, and ‘The Gaberlunzie Man’ was performed at last, as a duet.
Mary Kate found herself growing restless midway through the song. Somehow King James V’s tale of the beggar who ran off with the landlady’s daughter had lost its appeal, and when Megan sent a servant to fetch her music books, Mary Kate stifled a yawn.
“You must sing with us, Mary Kate,” the older girl said sweetly. “I am certain I can find a part for you in several songs. I have three books of printed music for the lute, thanks to Uncle’s penchant for collecting such things.”
“I do not doubt it, Lady Somerville,” replied Mary Kate politely, “but I fear I have an indifferent voice. ’Twould be a pity to inflict it upon your pleasant harmony.”
“Nonsense,” said Megan, smiling. “Despite the efforts of the reformed kirk, everyone sings, and particularly, as my aunt said earlier, everyone in the highlands. One still has music for dinner, music for supper, music for weddings, and music for funerals. Tinkers sing as they mend their pots, milkmaids sing ballads, and even beggars have their special songs. When I t
hink how my father moaned about the expense of my lessons—not just for singing and playing, of course, but for dancing, too—I simply cannot believe you do not sing perfectly well.”
“Well, I do not wish to sing tonight,” Mary Kate said flatly.
“She would prefer to tend to her stitching,” said Douglas with a chuckle. “Otherwise it will be Christmas afore that lace ruff is done.” He then proceeded, to Mary Kate’s acute embarrassment, to relate the tale of the tapestry bellpull. Megan was still chuckling when her music arrived. Soon she and Douglas had their heads together over the pages, trying first one air and then the next, their singing interwoven with seemingly endless reminiscences. It seemed to Mary Kate that they spoke in a sort of code, as much in half-sentences and gestures as in proper English words, often thinking of the same thing at the same time and laughing, having no need to go into detail and never thinking to do so merely for her benefit.
Finally, stifling another yawn, she set her work aside and looked for Annie Jardine. The maidservants had set up game tables in the window embrasure at the far end of the room and some were engaged in quiet games of Irish and draughts, while others plied their needles. Mary Kate signed to Annie, who arose from her seat immediately and crossed the room.
“Aye, mistress?”
Mary Kate spoke in low tones so as not to interrupt the others. “I wish to retire in a few moments, Annie, and I shall want a hot bath if you can arrange for one.
Annie didn’t blink at the strange request but bobbed her sprightly curtsy and set off to see to it. There was a pause in the music, and Mary Kate turned to her husband’s mother, who was still working neat stitches into the linen stretched on her tambour frame.
“My lady, will you think me churlish if I beg to be excused? Or must I wait for prayers?” she added, uncertain as to the prevailing custom at Strachan Court.