The Freemason's Daughter

by Shelley Sackier

  “Get a move on, lass,” she heard Angus McGregor say behind her. “Your da will nay like it if we keep his things out in the rain.” He moved past her to set packs from the horses onto the dirty flagstone. “What’s got ye so grim? This?” He nodded at the inside of the cottage. “We’ll have this place fixed up in no time. Dinna worry.”

  She watched him unload. Angus was a cheerful, burly man, his bulk compounded by his mass of unruly brown hair. He winked at her beneath a hedge of an eyebrow and left to help the others. She dropped her own pack on the long wooden table in the middle of the room. A cobwebbed stone fireplace sagged on the back wall, sad with neglect. She moved closer and found a pewter bowl on the mantel, a few stubs of candle ends left inside. “Positively dreary,” she sighed, digging a fingernail into the waxy remains.

  “What’s that, then?” Her father stooped through the warped doorframe. “Angus says you’re still sulking. I thought seein’ such an estate would put ye in a more appreciative mood.”

  The soft burr of her father’s accent tickled her ears. She turned to look up at him and tried to hide her gloom. Malcolm MacDuff ran a hand through his rough black hair and stretched. His dirty linen shirt pulled across his chest, straining the threads of fabric. He showed no languor, and despite the silver along his temples, he was a force that once started, would not pause for breath.

  “It is a lovely manor, Da, and I’m trying to be appreciative. . . . It’s just that I appreciated Scotland more.”

  He made a sound deep in his throat. “We go where the work is, lass. Ye ken that.”

  “It’s not only the work, Da,” she said, chancing to meet his gaze.

  His black eyes flashed a warning. “It’s all part of the work in the end.”

  Duncan McPhee popped through the door, his hallowed box of medicines under his arm. “We’ll need to find a ready place for this. No doubt wi’ all the rain, folks’ll be coming down with one thing after t’other.” Duncan had spent a few years with a healer in his youth, and lucky for the clan, retained much of his knowledge. The other men ribbed him about his remedy box and the fact it contained everything to treat one’s ills apart from a cure for his own wildly crooked nose. “Nothing to fix McPhee’s McMuzzle,” they chided.

  The others came in, their shoulders burdened with packs. A few tilts of the head informed Jenna she had best be at her work. She picked up her bag and trudged toward the dark staircase in the corner, and everyone’s actions became a familiar reprise.

  It was always the same when settling someplace new: the six men split up into the customary two or three chambers and Jenna got the loft, if one was available. Space was a luxury reserved for the rich.

  Sometimes, Angus would fix a corner of a room by hanging old blankets for walls. It was cramped during those bitter winter nights when she shared the same room. And though she was grateful for the feeble heat of their fire, it took getting used to the racket that regularly accompanied hardworking, tired men. The snores, grunts, and shuffling on squeaky trundle beds or floorboards was an orchestra unlike any other.

  This cottage was shelter in its most basic form. At the top of the stairs she opened the door to the loft, which boasted a twisted bed frame, a battered wooden chest, and three grimy windows. One narrow casement perched on the front wall, while a larger one, deeply set with a roughly hewn window seat, revealed the manor. It was imposing, a formidable retreat. On the other side of the cottage, rolling hills bubbled around a silver loch.

  “Not a loch,” she muttered to herself, scowling. “It’s a lake. This isn’t Scotland.”

  Regardless of its name, the sight was striking, with a grove of colorful trees beckoning one into the woods beyond. Even so, Jenna was used to steeling her heart against attachments, whether they be to places and sights, or people and things.

  Once, when she was eight, she’d developed a fierce fondness for a sweet and shaggy highland cow, living in the pasture next to their quarters. She’d begged her father to buy the animal and bring it with them, but as she learned, they would only travel with necessities, and two sharp horns covered in fur was not one of them.

  She gazed out the window toward the manor and saw a woman, plump as a busty quail, draped in brown homespun, bustling her way down to their lodgings. No doubt someone from the house had noted their arrival. Her own unpacking must wait. She should help downstairs.

  At the bottom of the steps, she held back, hearing the men chatting with the hefty woman.

  “Mrs. Wigginton. Your servant, madam. We’re the stonemasons for the garrison.” Jenna watched Colin Brodie bow deeply to the woman. He often said living with five other men tended to make them forget the social graces needed when in polite company. In particular, female company. Therefore, he encouraged them to practice whenever the occasion presented itself. The clan ribbed him after each episode, but he shrugged it off gaily and told them he would soon have a fine, fat wife to look after him in his old age.

  Colin schooled Jenna in the rudiments of etiquette. He’d said, “My father spent his days as a schoolmaster and a tutor to a wealthy family. He passed the lessons down to me, not that I had much chance to employ them. Use them or no, it pays to learn them.”

  Colin had also pressed upon Malcolm the importance of teaching Jenna to speak the King’s English. They found folks of this country would soften the grip around their grubby coins when asked in the dulcet tone of their own dialect, versus the harsh brogue of a foreigner.

  Her face warmed seeing the lanky-boned Colin twisting his bonnet between nervous hands. He stooped over the woman, his thin brown hair matted and flat. She tittered and patted the white-capped bun into tidy order atop her head.

  The bosomy figure turned and made for the entrance to the cottage, saying, “Ye wouldna believe how delighted I am to have fellow kinsmen here. What a fine sight finding men in proper dress again. It’s right difficult tending to their elegant costuming. The fabrics are too frail.” She eyed the men before they followed her in with more packs off the horses.

  “My heavens, what a state this is in!” The woman took in the room, her lips pinched with distaste. She turned to the group, revealing an apologetic gaze. “I do wish milady had given me notice ye were coming. We would’ve had this prepared for your arrival.” She poked through the long-ignored chambers in the back of the cottage, muttering in broken Gaelic. Jenna slipped farther into the shadows and pulled a blooming sliver of melancholy with her upon hearing her native tongue.

  Mrs. Wigginton marched back to the front room, full of purpose. “Well, I’ll see to it that a few of the girls come down to spruce it up.” She took a bowl from the table and blew on it, then waved at the swirling dust mites she’d sent flying, reaching for the table to steady herself. Her hand knocked a stack of Jenna’s books to the floor. “Oh, pardon me,” she said, bending to retrieve them. “It appears that not only have we left the place littered wi’ dust, but old books as well. Ye’ll not be needin’ these round here.”

  Jenna jumped into the light and reached for the books. “Those are my—”

  “Those are for milord’s library,” Gavin Munro interrupted, his expressive face catching the housekeeper’s attention. “A gift of gratitude.”

  Jenna felt the sudden flush of fire scorch her cheeks and watched as the woman muscled the books under her arm. “How kind of ye,” she said with a quick bob. “And I see ye brought a maid wi’ ye.” The woman turned to Jenna. “Tell me if there’s anything ye might be wanting, lass. I’m Mrs. Wigginton, the housekeeper of Withinghall. You’re welcome anytime up at the house wi’ the other girls. Just use the back kitchen door.”

  “I’m not a—”

  The men’s eyes flashed to Jenna and Gavin stepped forward again. “Ah yes, that’s Master MacDuff’s daughter, Jenna. She’s a real help indoors.” He put a guiding hand onto her shoulder and directed her outside. “Thanks so much for whatever ye feel obliged to send down. Good day to ye, madam.” He mumbled awkward thanks and closed the door. />
  Jenna felt the heated glare of everyone present.

  Gavin leaned his back on the frame and sighed, his rubbery mouth frowning. “The woman had every right to assume you’re a wee maid. And as for the books . . . just remember to think before ye talk, lass. This job is bigger than the ones we’ve done before. It’s more than just picking up a few coins for the crown. If anyone on the estate finds out what we’re doing . . .” He pressed his lips together. “Now let’s get this place sorted.”

  Jenna dropped her eyes. Gavin was right: she shouldn’t have been so quick to speak, nor upset at the swift assessment. It was likely because of her age. At sixteen, most girls were sent off to work in houses with wealthier families, emptying chamber pots, hauling water, and cleaning fireplaces. At night, they were easy prey for the master of the house, his sons, or whatever guests he wanted to please. Few other options were available. The girls were simply another mouth to feed at home. Another burden to unload.

  The men got to work emptying bags, and Jenna withdrew to the table to unpack the leather sack containing pots and pans.

  Angus leaned over and whispered, “Dinna fash yourself over it, Jenna. It takes us all a while to adjust.”

  She studied him as he emptied his sack; soggy and dripping from the relentless trickle of rain, his face still held a smile. Even his cheeks were pink with color, although much of it was hidden by his great bushy beard.

  “If ye keep up wi’ that kind of chatter, you’re doing her no favors—just filling her head wi’ nonsense.” Jenna looked up at Ian Ross, who’d come to the table and stood in front of them. The scowl on his face was deeper than usual, the lines on his forehead etched with permanence. She thought it improbable that his eyebrows could move any closer together. Pretty soon, she figured, they’d fuse to each other.

  “She doesna need any mothering from you, Angus. It’s time she pulled her share.”

  Angus stood from the table. “Now here, Jenna, is a fine example of where the good Lord has given a man more brain than most, but taken the surplus from his heart.” He tousled her hair, pulling a few bits of grass from it. “No minding Ian, now, then—he’s just a bit of an old woman.”

  Angus walked away, having filled his arms full of kitchen goods, and retaining a face full of cheer. Ian caught Jenna by the arm and turned her to face his cold, black eyes, “Aye, start using less of your mind and more of your hands like a woman should. Put away the books and find your apron. Stop bringin’ trouble to the door.”

  She bit down on her tongue.

  Ian grabbed another armload and left the table, unaware of the hateful glare at his back. She returned to unearthing the kitchen goods and pulled out Angus’s frying pan. She inhaled the smoky perfume from its etched surface. Bacon. Yesterday, one of the men had bagged a few rabbits, and their reward at last night’s campfire was a rich game stew with the remaining roots and onions they’d foraged along their journey.

  “Jenna.” Her father’s head poked through the doorframe.

  She snapped out of her daydream and looked up.

  “Your horse is waiting for its bed. Take Henry down to the stables and give him to one of the lads there. Tell them you’re wi’ me and they’ll ken where to put him.” His face grew solemn. “And, Jenna, ye must be on your guard here. Speak of James to no one, understand?”

  She nodded and pushed herself from the table, putting the pan beside the others.

  “A little bit of air will do ye good, I think,” he said, and grasped her arm as she passed him in the doorway. “But be on guard. There could be trouble round every bend.”

  She moved out into the drizzle and graying light and snatched her horse’s reins, pulling his head down closer to hers. “Then I suggest we avoid every bend. And make a beeline straight for home.”

  SIX

  ALEX FOLLOWED THE WET FOOTPATHS THROUGH the gardens of the inner courtyard to the long stone building that housed the horses. He couldn’t understand why his father had bought the thoroughbred without first seeing it. If they employed a decent horse handler, they might not make such costly mistakes. They’d have a stable full of elegant, well-bred horses, rather than ill-tempered animals the duke passed off as champions. There was nothing gained in arguing with his father on this point, for whatever the duke wanted, the duke received.

  The stable hands were lighting the lamps around the stalls, and a dim glow slipped through the windowed slits beneath the eaves of the roofline. He smiled at the sounds the horses made, feathery-soft gratitude for their evening meal. He stopped to glance back toward the house, wishing it too could be filled with horses rather than people.

  His father, Edward Abney Clifton, was the Duke of Keswick and the Marquess of Pembroke. As the duke’s only son, Alex held the title of Lord Pembroke. Withinghall, their home, was an estate held by the family for the last century. The great stone house with its fortified towers, walled courtyard, and gardens was situated above the banks of Esthwaite Water in the Cumbrian region of northern England. It stood solidly, a mass of bricks and stone.

  The house was an oppression. When Alex returned here he yearned only to be among the woodlands and shores of the lake, which held breathtaking beauty. What a shame his perfect world was soured by many of the people inhabiting it.

  Trees and water asked nothing of you. People demanded everything you had.

  He reached for the stable door when the hefty gate opened toward him. An elderly stable hand hobbled through with two horses he didn’t recognize.

  “Jeb,” Alex said, brightening, “a face I’ve longed to see. Have you been keeping well?”

  The snowy-haired man bowed stiffly to Alex. “I have at that, milord. It’s kind of you to ask of my health. And might I add the house is in dire need of your honorable presence.” His eyes twinkled.

  “Honorable presence?” Alex grimaced. “You slather me with nonsense, Jeb.”

  “Ah, well, I had to be safe, didn’t I?” he said with a smirk. “One never knows what that swag-bellied school has stuffed into your mind. Soon you’ll come back all saucy and fatheaded, filled with your own self-importance. I’ll be forced to give you a reminder of who you are, milord.” Jeb cuffed the side of Alex’s arm and shuffled ahead with the drowsy beasts. “I’m sure you’re here to size up the newest prize, but have a care, she’s got a real temper. Snapped at three of us already.”

  Alex followed Jeb with his eyes, wondering how much longer he might be able to work. His footslogged gait was the result of one of his father’s half-crazed beasts backing him into a stall and throwing him against the rear of the box with a Herculean kick. His leg was fractured in three places, the injuries never healing properly.

  Jeb kept his post as one of the handlers, but it was understood he was no longer capable of working with any of the belligerent horses. Alex knew it would be a difficult day when Jeb was forced to rely solely on the mercurial generosity of the duke.

  But this matter would have to wait. Frankly, a temperamental horse was the last thing he wanted to tackle. Cook’s meat pies and a glass of ale were better options, although a quick peek at his longtime companions was a draw he could not resist.

  Alex came in from the drizzle and was enveloped in a murky fog, courtesy of the barn’s heavy-breathing occupants and the smoky lanterns glowing around the stalls. He inhaled the tang of hay and wet animals. The scent gave rise to childhood memories of hiding beneath the straw in the loft and spying on the barn’s visitors, whether dignitaries taking a tour, or stable lads taking a chambermaid.

  He walked with thresh-muffled footsteps and greeted a few of the animals with a soft stroke. The stables were L-shaped, which allowed Garrick Wicken, the latest in a series of overly eager head horse handlers, to keep the edgier, newly purchased animals in an area removed from the serenity of the others.

  Alex rounded the corner and heard nervous whinnying coming from one of the last stalls. The newest mare. His jaw went rigid. Damn his father! The man created problems, but never dealt with t
hem. He grabbed a few apples from the barrel by the tack room and approached the horse, offering the fruit. He crooned sweetly, “I’m sorry. You should be treated better. My father is nothing more than an arrant slug who would never sully his noble hands. Aquila non capit muscas.”

  “An eagle would catch flies if he were hungry enough.” A pale-faced girl with wild hair peeked out from behind the horse, a brush in her hand.

  Alex leapt back, his eyes widened with alarm. “Who are you there?” he sputtered, mortified she’d heard him speaking to the horse. “Where is your good sense? Can’t you see this animal is dangerous? She’s not been broken yet! And she’s already bitten three handlers.” He glared at the girl.

  She laughed, patting the horse’s rump. “Well, you might want to inform old Henry here that he’s a girl.”

  “Wha? I . . .” A rush of heat filled Alex’s chest and he tugged at the cravat around his neck, his shirt collar suddenly too tight.

  The girl put up a hand, still smirking. “Simple mistake. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Housemaids are not allowed in the stables, and I intend to take this up with the housekeeper in order to have you dismissed.” He jabbed a finger toward the stable door, fumbling desperately to regain a shred of his dignity.

  “On this estate, are the stable lads granted boundless authority?” the girl spat.

  Alex narrowed his gaze. “They are when they are given the title of Lord Pembroke.”

  The girl’s face flushed with bright pink spots upon her cheeks. She slipped through the stall door and closed it behind her with a perfunctory click, then turned to face Alex. He took in her shabby woolen riding clothes, wet from the day’s rainfall.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord. I seem to have forgotten my place.” She made an obedient bow and darted down the corridor and out the stable door.