Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123)

by Coulter, Catherine

Meggie didn’t say a single thing.

  He became very still, then said slowly, “You believe I am weak? You believe that she could have succeeded in staying even though I ordered her to leave?”

  “You are so very good, Papa,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  She had no faith in him at all. Tysen felt the blow hard and deep. Did she see him as good or as simply ineffectual? As a man who dealt in the spiritual realm and had little understanding of the real world?

  Meggie said, her chin going up now, “Aunt Sinjun said a female always has to be prepared to act. She said that gentlemen many times don’t have the fortitude to do what is necessary. She told me about the time she was willing to kill one of Uncle Colin’s enemies. She didn’t kill him, as it turned out, and that was good since the man hadn’t been guilty after all, but she said to act, Papa. She said that a lady should never dither.”

  Tysen thought he would surely choke at the strange combination of irritation, bemusement, and despair mingling in his throat. He hiccuped, cleared his throat. “I am going back to bed.” He began to walk back up the stairs, paused, then turned to see Meggie standing exactly where’d he left her, staring after him. “Did you really swing your leg at her?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Dear heavens,” he said. “You must have whistled loudly to wake her up. What did you whistle?”

  “A song Aunt Alex taught me about how women will one day rule the world and all men will become butlers.”

  Tysen could only shake his head. It was laughter rather than self-doubt that got the better of him just before he fell asleep again.

  Vallance Manor

  Mary Rose brushed her mother’s thick dark-red hair that was still untouched by gray. It was long and smooth, perfectly straight, unlike her own hair, which curled and twisted, dancing about her head to some unknown but merry tune.

  “It will be a beautiful day, Mama. No rain in the sky.”

  “Tell me about the new laird.”

  Mary Rose started at the sound of her mother’s soft voice. As a rule, Gweneth Fordyce didn’t speak all that much, but when she did, it sounded like lilting music. “He is very nice, Mama. He is an Englishman, a vicar, and he is also very handsome. Perhaps too handsome, but nevertheless, he is very kind. An honest man, to be admired.”

  Her mother said nothing more, just nodded, her eyes focused on the beech trees outside her bedchamber windows.

  “His name is Tysen Sherbrooke, and his family is powerful in England. His brother is the earl of Northcliffe. Tysen is a widower. His little girl, Meggie, is here with him. She is precious, Mama. She helped me when I sprained my ankle.”

  “Donnatella will want him.”

  So soft her mother’s voice, so gentle, like a whispering breeze through her hair. “Well, yes, she probably does. But I don’t think he is at all interested—well, I don’t know what he will do. She is very beautiful.”

  “Donnatella is just like her mother. She is a bitch wrapped in lovely packaging.”

  Mary Rose blinked at that. “Mama? You really don’t like Donnatella? But you rarely even see her.”

  “I remember that the first word she ever spoke was ‘mine.’ What does that tell you? You know that everyone talks about everyone, Mary Rose. You know that. I hear everything. I even hear you speaking Latin to yourself when you’re upset, or in a stubborn mood, or you’re reading aloud one of those ancient books. I believe Ovid is your favorite.”

  Mary Rose gulped a bit. She did enjoy reading Ovid. It was terribly wicked, at least the parts she liked to read. She said, “Reverend Morley taught me Latin. I like it very much.”

  “I know. You can say anything you like about anyone and get away with it, since no one can understand you. Now, Mary Rose, you must take care, because Donnatella is still very angry at you about Ian.”

  It seemed to Mary Rose that her mother, quite suddenly and without warning, had fully recovered her wits. Perhaps her fragile mind, like a wheel that had gotten stuck in a ditch, was now back on its track. She’d prayed nearly every day of her life for that to happen. She said calmly, as if her mother really was with her completely, “There is no reason for her to be angry with me about Ian. The poor man is dead. I liked him very much, Mama. He was a good man.”

  “He was a gambler, Mary Rose. Perhaps it wasn’t yet a vice, but I believe he would have become more ensnared as he got older.”

  “Well, it is a moot point. He is gone, all his virtues and vices with him.”

  “There is still Erickson. Like Ian, he turned from Donnatella to you. Keep your distance from him, Mary Rose, he is not to be trusted. Why does he no longer want Donnatella? Also, he is much too close to your uncle. I have seen them speaking quietly together, all alone. Whenever your uncle deals with another in that low, quiet voice of his, he is up to no good. Take care.”

  “I will take care, Mama.”

  Her mother jerked suddenly, and Mary Rose realized that she’d pulled the brush too hard through her hair. “I’m so sorry, Mama. Oh dear, are you all right?”

  “Braid my hair for me, Mary Rose, on top of my head. I think I would like to go downstairs today, perhaps out in the garden.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Mary Rose said, and crossed her fingers. Please, she prayed, let her come back to me. Don’t let her mind cloud up again. “I want to work on my roses. You can give me advice.”

  Her mother was silent for a very long time. Then she said, “The English are untrustworthy. Not as untrustworthy as your uncle, but you still should never put your faith in one of them, even a vicar, Mary Rose, or you will be sorely disappointed.”

  “If you are thinking of the new Lord Barthwick, it’s true he is an Englishman and a vicar, Mama, but he is utterly trustworthy. I would wager my last groat on that.” Mary Rose paused a moment and smiled at the smooth braid she was plaiting. “I should have said that since I don’t have a last groat—or a first groat for that matter—my belief in him will have to suffice.”

  “Does Donnatella still claim that Ian was going to wed with her, that he was her betrothed?”

  “Yes, but it would have mattered only if Ian had lived. It doesn’t matter now. Let her say what she will. She was very fond of him too.”

  “No, she wasn’t. She just wanted him because he would be the new Lord Barthwick, and because he wanted you. She is dangerous, Mary Rose.”

  Mary Rose had nothing to say to that. She helped her mother dress in a lovely pale-yellow muslin gown that was many years out-of-date, but it didn’t matter because her mother was beautiful and so was the gown. She found some yellow ribbons to weave into her mother’s thick braids. “I wish Miles would soon return,” her mother said.

  “I do too. He is such a nice man, always so very polite to me. I very much like the way he’s always come over here to visit with us.”

  “Oh, yes,” said her mother.

  Mary Rose dressed herself quickly and walked carefully beside her mother downstairs.

  She saw Tysen standing in the entrance hall, looking up at them. Sir Lyon was at his side, looking up as well.

  Her mother raised her hand in a small wave, looked at him for a very long time, and then she said to her daughter, “Do not trust an Englishman. He is far too handsome. When a man is that handsome there is inevitably sin in his nature.”

  “No, Mama, really, it’s not true,” Mary Rose said in a low voice, hoping Tysen hadn’t heard her.

  “I was told,” Tysen said clearly, his vicar’s deep voice carrying easily to every corner of the grand entrance hall, “never to trust a Scotsman.”

  Sir Lyon threw back his head and laughed.

  Donnatella came out of the breakfast room. She said, looking for just a moment over her shoulder at Gweneth and Mary Rose, “Ignore her, my lord. She is only Mary Rose’s mother, and she is quite mad.”

  Gweneth Fordyce said, her fingers tightly clutched to Mary Rose’s arm, “I am mad when it suits me to be mad, Donnatella. You, however, are a bitch whet
her you wish to be or not.”

  Perhaps, Mary Rose thought suddenly—a revelation, really—that was the truth of things. Her mother purposely chose to live in a world of her own creation. Gweneth broke away from Mary Rose and walked gracefully down the stairs, her head back, looking like a queen. “I wish to have breakfast now, daughter. Bring the new Barthwick laird and I will question him.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Tysen gave her a brief bow. “I should be delighted, ma’am.”

  It had been a strange hour, Tysen thought later, riding beside Mary Rose. Because he had hours and years of experience dealing successfully with people of vastly diverse manners and behaviors and levels of impertinence, dealing with Gweneth Fordyce hadn’t overtaxed him. She had, however, embarrassed her daughter very badly in front of him, and he was sorry for that. She shouldn’t have kept harking to Mary Rose’s blind faith, particularly in men, when everyone knew that men were created by the devil to ruin women.

  Tysen had chuckled and said, “Sometimes I have held that opinion myself, Mrs. Fordyce.”

  “I am a spinster, Vicar.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Indeed you are.”

  “And perforce, my dearest daughter is a bastard.”

  “An appellation that perhaps fits the facts, ma’am, but not her character.”

  Mary Rose had stared at him, then abruptly choked on her tea.

  When Mary Rose pulled her old mare, Primrose, to a halt beside a rushing stream, she said, “This is one of my very favorite places. Would you like to rest for a moment?”

  He left their horses loose. Big Fellow had no interest at all in Primrose, probably because she was a gnarly old mare with a mean eye, so there were no problems there. Tysen sat beside Mary Rose on the bank of the stream, the sound of the roaring water like a low, continuous drumbeat. He raised his voice a bit to be heard over it. “Your mother did not seem at all mad to me, Mary Rose.”

  Mary Rose pulled up several water reeds and appeared to study them closely. “I believe now that she has chosen her madness, that she prefers it to dealing with what is real.” She shook her head, a spasm of regret, of hurt, in her eyes. “I realize, too, that her madness is a wonderful justification for saying exactly what she pleases.”

  “I am sorry, but you are probably right.” A mother who wallowed in madness, leaving her child to fend for herself. Gweneth Fordyce was a beautiful woman, seemingly harmless, but he didn’t think that was true. He didn’t like the looks of her soul. She was selfish. She had locked herself away. No, she wasn’t mad, he was very certain of that. He said, “Why does she dislike Donnatella so very much?”

  “Because Donnatella is the daughter of the house and I am The Embarrassment. Mama also heartily dislikes her own sister, Lady Margaret. Now you’re asking yourself why is it that we live at Vallance Manor if there is such discord.”

  “Yes, but I don’t mean to pry if it distresses you.”

  Mary Rose merely shrugged. “The truth of the matter is that we have no place else to go. I am a bastard. There is no money. My mother has never told a soul my father’s name. I look like her, so there are no physical clues.”

  “Your father was probably married—not an uncommon occurrence. It is a pity, though, that he provided no support for your mother. I imagine also that he was local. There have been no clues of any sort?”

  “I have thought of that, but Mama is of no help at all. She has always just given me a blank stare whenever I have inquired into it in the past. You’re right, of course. If he is still alive, his wife must be as well, else he would marry my mother, wouldn’t he?”

  “One would hope so.”

  “But who knows? It was twenty-five years ago, after all.” She paused a moment, looking out over that rushing water. She turned to him and said with a half smile, “Ah, Tysen, it is a strange life, is it not? And no matter how strange life becomes, we still must deal with it.”

  “Yes,” he said, “we must.” He very much liked the sound of his name when she said it. That soft lilt lightly whispering against his flesh, warming him. That was ridiculous, like the ravings of a bad poet. Melodramatic enough for the likes of Lord Byron, the nincompoop.

  “Your uncle has no idea who your father could be?”

  She shook her head, sending a thick tress of red hair curling about her cheek. “No. If my uncle knew who my father was, then the whole of Scotland would know. My uncle isn’t discreet. I am sorry that my mother insulted you.”

  “She did it with a good deal of heat and skill,” Tysen said, and picked his own water reed. It was slippery between his fingers, but smelled strangely sweet. “It is hard not to admire that. It did not hurt me, Mary Rose. Dinna fache yerself.”

  She grinned at him. “That sounded very Scottish, my lord.”

  “Aye, I am trying,” he said.

  “How are you dealing with Mrs. Griffin?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Griffin, my one-day guests, insulted me until I had no choice but to order them to leave. Meggie, who should be thrashed, doubted they would obey me and thus she took it upon herself to get them out of Kildrummy Castle at the crack of dawn.”

  “Goodness, how ever did she manage that?”

  “She played a ghost and terrified the old besom.”

  “I should like to hear all about that. Meggie seems very resourceful. Mrs. Griffin has been about Kildrummy Castle forever. Mr. Griffin, I have heard, was quite the rake in his younger years. Irresistible, he was, I’ve heard it said. But you see, it is now Mrs. Griffin who holds the reins of power. She has for as long as I remember. No one knows how it came about. Is his deference to her merely an act? I don’t know.” She paused and smiled. “She’s never paid me any attention at all, since I am a bastard. I wasn’t even invited to have tea with her. Just Donnatella was.”

  “Mary Rose, do you want to marry Erickson MacPhail?”

  She nearly slid into the stream, she jerked about so suddenly.

  He grabbed her arm to steady her. “I’m sorry, but I had to ask you that. You see, your uncle believes you will come around once Erickson has the chance to really speak to you. Your uncle is certain Erickson can talk you into it.”

  “I would sooner be sent to Botany Bay than marry him,” she said, that stubborn jaw locked, and he believed her.

  She added, “He looks like such a charming young man, but he isn’t. Actually, he isn’t really a young man at all. He is nearly thirty.”

  Suddenly Tysen saw a pain in her eyes that came from something that had happened long ago, perhaps an awful memory. He said, “What, Mary Rose? What are you seeing, remembering?”

  She slowly turned to face him. “Once, about ten years ago, I saw him accost my mother.”

  10

  TYSEN SAT AT the laird’s very old, scarred desk in the airless library, Miles MacNeily beside him. He had expected the estate manager to be a wizened old man with tufts of gray hair encircling his head, but he wasn’t. He was older, certainly, but not over forty-five. He was tall and lean, very smart and quite fine-looking, his hair the burnished red so common to Scotsmen and his eyes very blue. He dressed well. Tysen wondered why he had never wed.

  “Yes, my lord, you understand this all very well. It is because you come from great landholdings in England. All of this, well, it must seem paltry in comparison.”

  Tysen merely smiled at that intelligent face and shook his head. He would miss Miles MacNeily. He had learned a great deal from him in just the past day. It appeared that MacNeily’s mother had left him all her holdings near Inverness. Mr. MacNeily would, unfortunately, be leaving within the month. He would be his own master. Tysen thought he would do very nicely as his own master.

  “Actually, Miles,” Tysen said, “it is my brother who is the earl, the lord of all he surveys. Don’t forget, I am a vicar, I have always been a vicar. Anything I know I suppose I have simply absorbed over the years.”

  Miles gave him a charming smile. “Perhaps, but you have a fine brain, my lord. I have no doubt that I am l
eaving Kildrummy in good hands.”

  “Thank you. Even a vicar enjoys hearing such things said about him. Did you work well with the former Lord Barthwick?”

  “Ah, Tyronne, the old laird, he could yell like no man I have heard in my life. I learned to move away from him quickly when I knew he was working himself up to a fury. I didn’t wish to lose my hearing. It never took much to have him screeching his head off. Yes, my lord, we worked well together. It did not take him more than a dozen years to come to trust me. Kildrummy has been my home nearly all of my adult life. I have been happy here. I will miss it.”

  They worked for another hour, reviewing the situation of all the Kildrummy tenants, the problems they either faced now or would probably face in the near future. They spoke of all the Kildrummy holdings in the village, the number of flocks of sheep and herds of cows, improve-ments to be made. And on and on it went. It wasn’t an immense task, but there were many details that Tysen knew he would have to commit to memory if he were to run Kildrummy well. He remembered then that he would be returning to England, to his home and his church, to his life that seemed so very far away at this point. What would happen to Kildrummy when he was no longer here to watch over things?

  Meggie knocked and peered around the door an hour later. She grinned at her father and ducked a sweet curtsy to Miles. “I am here to fetch you to tea.”

  Miles, Tysen quickly realized, wasn’t immune to his little hussy of a daughter, who was flirting shamelessly with him. Since she was ten years old, her twinkling eyes and smiles were given to a man she was ready to accept as a favored uncle. This appeared to delight Miles. Tysen just shook his head at her.

  It was while Tysen was sipping his tea that he realized he had the solution to his estate problem; it was staring him in the nose. “Oliver,” he said aloud.

  Meggie turned to him, her head to one side. “What about Oliver, Papa?”

  “Your uncle Douglas wants him to assist in the running of Northcliffe. I, however, believe it’s Scotland where Oliver will make his way. I think Oliver might be just the man to run Kildrummy.” Tysen rubbed his hands together, then told Miles exactly who Oliver was. “. . . so you see, my brother Ryder Sherbrooke has always taken in abused children—loved them, cared for them, and ensured that they were placed with excellent families or given the skills for the trade they wished. Oliver Dalrymple was one of his first children. He is now—is he twenty yet, Meggie?”