Now was one such time. Barely being used to having enough food to feed her family back home, Caoimhe had never even considered the hospitable need to provide some for one’s guests. How bizarre that the rich shared food they did not require for the sake of etiquette while the poor held not the supplies to give what was needed.
“Um…yes, please, Stewart. Thank you,” Caoimhe accepted, before the man bowed out of her company and left her alone at the door.
Trying to stall her nerves, Caoimhe closed her eyes for a moment and mentally flew the lengths and breadths of every hallway and room in the building. She knew this estate now. She knew all of the people within it and could recall the family backgrounds of each. She might not have been born to this life, but it was hers now. She would not let anyone set her feeling worse for it just because she had a little flour on her skirts.
With that emboldening thought, Caoimhe rested her hand on the door and pushed it open.
Lady Fiona Brodie was a woman who sat with such refinement that she looked positively ready to snap. Her back and shoulders were the straightest of postures that Caoimhe had ever seen, and flatly refused to find leisure in the back of the chair. Her feet were together and pointed, her knees precisely perpendicular to the floor, and her jawline could not have been straighter had she rested it on a table as a child. Like at Caoimhe’s wedding, the woman was beautifully gowned in pale blue silks that she must have had imported from the south. She wore her hair pulled back razor straight into a braided knot that reminded Caoimhe of the way horses had their manes tied for ceremonies. Atop it all, she wore a funny little hat and a fine sprig of thistle solidly pinned into place.
The older woman neither stood nor greeted the wife of the laird as she should have done, but Caoimhe was too ignorant of formal ways to notice. Instead, she simply smiled at the lady and moved to join her in one of the seats near the window.
“Thank you for visiting us today, Lady Fiona,” she greeted the woman. “Was there something that you needed?”
Her eyes flashing wide at the blunt delivery of such a thing, Fiona sniffed and trained her gaze upon the new lady of the house. At every slip of propriety, her nostrils flared. From the way Caoimhe’s hair curled free of her ear, to the lack of necklace at her bosom, the short nails of her hands in her lap and, of course, the remnants of baking that still clung to her clothes.
The old woman took a long and steadying breath.
“I came to offer a report on the festivities for Samhain,” she replied, her tone one of irritable boredom. “You may not be aware, but I orchestrate the new year event every autumn and am due to report to the laird all progress until the event itself. As Lord Niall is away from his duties, I thought it best to deal with you.”
Caoimhe felt an affront in almost every word spoken. The woman clearly held neither she nor Niall in any regard whatsoever and, while her words were technically polite enough, there was nothing in her face to suggest friendship or compassion. It was in that voice that Caoimhe recognized another, and she quickly recalled that Fiona was Malcolm Brodie’s mother.
Unsure exactly what to say to such a declaration, Caoimhe rearranged her hands in her lap and absently started to pick at one of her nails. When the action caught Fiona’s stare, she immediately stopped and flattened her palms to her thighs.
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you, Lady Fiona,” she began, not wanting to offend someone that already held her in contempt. “Are you wishing for aid in the festivities? Samhain is my favorite—”
“Are you suggesting, my lady, that I cannot manage the arrangement of this celebration on my own?” Fiona asked, offense in her tone. Yet, even the negative emotions sounded false when coming from between her pert little lips. “I have run this annual event for over ten years. You think me incompetent to continue in your stead?”
“No!” Caoimhe’s eyes had shot wide, her hands up in a surrendering reassurance. “No, of course not, Your Ladyship. I just…” She licked her lips, unsure of how to correct things. She felt as if she had lost the race before she had led her horse to the stocks.
Perhaps, it was best to change tactics.
“I hear that your son’s wife recently had their first child,” she offered with hesitation. “Perhaps you would pass along my congratulations? They must both surely be proud?”
Fiona sniffed.
“They are. I suggest you write them a letter with your words. It will come across as more personal than via a third party, do you not think?”
When the old woman’s lips began to curl into a nasty little smile, Caoimhe wondered if her expression had given away her limited abilities to read and write. She could just about follow a map or read sign posts, but an entire letter? Written in long sentences? It would be beyond her.
“Though, I suppose that the next babe to be welcomed will be your own, Miss Caoimhe?” Fiona asked, her tongue naturally dropping the title from Caoimhe’s name.
For a moment, Caoimhe was surprised. It was curious how easy it was to notice the absence of something you had only held for a few days.
“Er…” Caoimhe wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but the older woman’s shrewd stare was making her decidedly uncomfortable over the fact that her husband had yet to do anything that might culminate in a child.
But there was no way on God’s green and beautiful earth that she was going to tell this woman that.
“Yes. Of course. Should God be so kind,” she stated simply.
Fiona didn’t seem convinced.
It was Stewart’s soft arrival at the door that had Fiona coming to her feet. She spoke to the man as if he were her servant rather than Caoimhe’s, and was quick to place a thick envelope on a little, nearby table.
“No no, Stewart,” she insisted to the man, her years as a Brodie making her more familiar with him than his new mistress was. “I shall not be dining.” She glanced towards Caoimhe’s dress and Caoimhe felt a spark of fury in her belly.
She might not know how to be a lady, but she knew how to cook!
“The information for the festivities is in there for you to read, my lady,” Fiona stated, pointing to the little vanilla package sealed with red wax. “If you have any issues with my arrangements, I’m sure you’ll be good enough to let me know.”
And with a sweeping exit, Fiona departed the Brodie estate with all the abrupt speed of her arrival, leaving untouched food, an unreadable letter, and a deflated Caoimhe in her wake.
10
The Husband
As the week drew to a close, Caoimhe had been forced to readjust her thankfulness for Niall’s lack of reappearance. In those first few days, as she had shifted from one reality to another, she had been grateful to be given the privacy to adjust in her own time, to set her own identity amongst the staff, and to learn the ways of the house without the judgmental eye of a stoic husband at her shoulder. She had thought herself temporarily free of the man that she now called husband.
Yet, as the days followed on, this proved to be a fruitless venture when living in his estate. With more frequency than she might have liked, Caoimhe was beginning to know Niall, even in his absence. The husband that was a stranger to her was the center of everyone else’s world. From the elderly Stewart who had tended to him and his father in their babe years to the scullery maids that had been brought into the household when they came of age just a few years ago. Every decision within the house, every plan and routine, had been designed around the laird and his life.
“The master’s parents died in his youth,” Brogan explained to Caoimhe one afternoon when they were clearing away some of the clutter in one of the unused parlors. She had taken a liking to the light blue painted upon the walls and wanted to see the chamber reanimated. She had insisted on opening the windows and doors, sweeping out some of the cobwebs, and seeing what furniture might be salvaged.
“His mother at his birth and his father when he was seven years old. It has just been the master here for so long that the rest of us have
adjusted ourselves.”
Despite a level of trepidation when it came to the subject of their master, it was clear to Caoimhe that all within Aberlynn’s walls respected the man they served. No servant would remain so loyal for so many years, working to a single individual’s way of life without a degree of filial devotion.
She had seen it in all that they did.
Meals were served before sunrise in the morning to meet with the master’s preference for an early start. The dining table was always set with whiskey and savory refreshments in case the master returned with guests from other provinces. He would often turn up with others in tow to continue material discussions, and liked to be able to offer his guests food without the time needed to prepare it. There was no yellow in the decorations in the household because apparently the master did not care for the color, and Niall’s instructions to lock up at least half of his estate spoke to something deep in Caoimhe’s core. The idea that he could not bear to shred the rooms of their furnishings and see them locked away, but also could not live amongst the memories that they held, was a poignant one.
Everywhere she went, every question she asked, every observation that she made… All roads led back to Niall Brodie.
Caoimhe discovered yet another reminder when she pulled down a sheet masking a frame on the wall of the parlor and found herself looking into the soulful gaze of a young lady that bore such a strong resemblance to Niall that it could only be his mother. Dressed sedately in wool over silk and holding a Bible in her hands instead of a turn of pearls or other such frivolities, the young woman had passed on to her son a pallor that easily tanned and a set of features bold and strong in the face. In exchange, her hands were monstrously delicate.
“Niall’s mother,” Caoimhe murmured, half to herself. It was neither question nor declaration, but Brogan responded all the same.
“Indeed. Lady Jeanna.” He smiled softly up at the painting, which, despite the covering, had suffered from a little of the dust that lacquered the room. “A fine young woman even if she was not of such birth.”
“She was common-born?” Caoimhe’s attention was instantly grasped, surprised to know that Niall had followed in his father’s footsteps in his choice of bride.
What did that say of her own place within the estate?
“She was the daughter of the groundskeeper here on the estate. When their affair was discovered, the laird fired her father and Lord Gilroy married her regardless. It was the usual scandal of the month, but it led to unfortunate rumors around the master’s birth.”
Caoimhe wasn’t sure what to make of that comment. If Lord Gilroy had loved the woman in the portrait, and had married her then after, how could the advent of Niall have been a surprise to—
“They thought he was illegitimate,” Caoimhe realized, her thoughts leaving her lips as they drew to their own conclusions. “That he was conceived before the marriage.”
“They did.” Brogan confirmed, with a soft nod of his head. He stood, looking up at the portrait with his hands loosely held behind his back and his shoulders straight. It was as if he held all the dignity of the family in his own bearing.
Now that Caoimhe was Niall’s wife, he clearly felt no shame in revealing to her the truth of the family dynamics of the house. She was thankful for the confidences shared.
“And some of them still do.” Brogan’s lips twisted in distaste. “Lady Brodie and her son like to remind all that will listen of the old gossips, never allowing the rumor to truly die. But those of consequence have always disregarded such things.”
Those of consequence…
Did that include Niall?
Caoimhe wondered what it must be like to doubt one’s own legitimacy, to see all that Aberlynn had to offer, to call it home, and then be told by strangers or kin that you were undeserving of it.
That your birth meant that you were unable to claim that which made you feel happy and secure.
Caoimhe felt a soft little laugh in the bottom of her chest that she suppressed for Brogan’s benefit. Apparently, she and her husband were not so different after all.
This moment of false solidarity with a husband that was more ghost than man to her had Caoimhe turning to face Brogan with a determination to reach out from her own side of the divide. Whether she liked it or not, whether the laird wanted her or not, she was now Niall’s wife. And if he could possess her truths in his life, then she could deign to learn some of the necessities of his.
“Brogan?”
The older man turned to her with a look of query.
“My lady?”
“Who would I speak to about learning to ride a horse?”
Niall hadn’t meant to be away from home for so long. While his duties as laird always came first in his life and he felt no real guilt at leaving his new wife to fend for herself for the last week, it hadn’t been his plan to abandon her so completely. Nor did he like being away from his grounds, when responsibilities took him far enough away to require a stay elsewhere.
Not when his aunt and cousin were already sniffing around his throat for weakness.
As he rode back to Aberlynn, Niall spotted the low rise that, from this angle, blocked his view of the castle he called home. He had loved that rise as a child, had waited for it whenever his father had taken them on visits to neighboring lords. It was as he grew closer to it that the very tops of Aberlynn’s towers would appear, and then the tips of the walls. As he continued to ride, the windows would come into view, shining in the afternoon sunlight. They would glow white, lighting the place up like a beacon. By the time he could see the large oaken doors with their dark, wrought iron fixtures, he would be over the top of the hillock and moving down the road beyond towards the main gateway, barely a few minutes from home.
That rise was like the final obstacle on a long journey back to what was safe and secure. And even with his father gone, Niall still felt it every time he came home.
Though childish, he had admitted to himself years ago that it wasn’t surprising for a boy without family to hold onto nostalgia for a piece of earth. The landscape wasn’t as fickle as the lives of human beings.
This time, as Niall approached the view of his castle, there were differences that he hadn’t expected in the visage. As the sun broke over the towers and the walls, he spotted several dark openings in the face of the manor, with colorful sheets hanging from ledges. He frowned as he drew closer. Windows were open and tapestries and shades had been hung out to air in the late summer air. He journeyed down along the lane and up towards the main gates. The horse’s hooves clattered in echoing chants beneath the archway, as he passed into the Aberlynn grounds.
Closer now, Niall looked up and recognized one of the flags hanging from an upper floor window as a woven rug that his mother had once had in her sitting room. Another—the blue one—came from the front parlor.
Just what in all that was holy was going on?
His steed pulling to a rough halt, Niall dismounted and surrendered the reins to the grounds boy Ben, before marching towards the front doors of the castle.
They stood wide open.
The second he stepped foot in the entrance hall, Niall knew something was wrong. He sniffed at the air, looked about for things out of place. Nothing had been moved, nothing had been damaged. But there was a lightness to the air that he wasn’t used to, and the harsh, dirty smell of dust. Niall’s nose wrinkled when he sensed another scent, and he turned to spot bunches of fern and flower from the heath potted on either side of the door.
Apparently, his wife was making herself at home.
Already irritable from a long journey back, and the ache it had set up in his shoulders and rear, Niall took a calming breath in and strode for the nearest corridor. His voice echoed off of the walls as he stalked from chamber to chamber.
“Brogan?” he called. “Stewart?”
As he approached the western wing, Niall noted several open doors that would have normally barred the way. When he stopped to look inside
, he noticed more changes. Furniture had been cleaned and polished, walls removed of dust, and portraits taken down. The one of his mother, in her front parlor, was missing. Only a bright square in the paint remained as evidence of its years on the wall.
“Brogan!” This time, his anger was evident in his call. Niall wasn’t interested in excuses or reasons. He wanted his mother’s portrait back where it was supposed to be.
Why in the hell had it been moved?
There was a quick tapping of booted feet along the hallway up ahead, and Niall stormed forward. He almost collided with the little man that was his steward as they both hit the corner at the same time.
“Brogan, where is the painting?” he demanded, not waiting to offer a greeting or explanation for his departure or equally sudden return.
“My lord?” Brogan was trying to catch his mental bearings as much as those of his feet upon the floor.
“My mother’s portrait. In the Blue Room. Where is it?”
“Oh! The mistress, she—”
“Where is she?” Niall didn’t bother to let the man finish. He could imagine well enough. Women liked to come in and control everything. They just had to be mistresses of their own domain. In all likelihood, the honorable little Miss Webb had taken a liking for her status as the laird’s wife and decided she liked the room for herself. She wouldn’t have wanted a previous matron of the house looking down on her. No doubt, she would have something commissioned of herself in its place.
“I do not know, my lord. Perhaps the stables? She has spent much of her time there these past few days.”
Haunted By A Highland Curse: A Steamy Scottish Medieval Historical Romance Page 8