Alex stood in the center of the barn, looking around to see if anyone had overheard their conversation, or was an eyewitness to the exchange. It was empty. The girl was the only one who had heard him malign his father—for now.
He abandoned his purpose for the visit, now determined to find the housekeeper.
The brisk ten-minute walk from the stables propelled Alex on through the massive house, his step matching his heated pulse. An ignorant scullery maid all too eager to make a fool of me! He rounded a corner and smacked into the bountiful form of the housekeeper.
“Mrs. Wigginton, are you all right?” He grabbed her elbows to steady her.
“Oh aye, I dinna keep the extra padding on for naught.” She tugged and preened his coat, the brown velvet wrinkles resistant to reform. “Does her ladyship ken you’ve come home yet? Ye canna go in to greet her all rumpled like.”
“Please, Mrs. Wigginton, I’m fine, and yes, I saw her earlier this afternoon.” Alex backed up to avoid further patting.
“Well, then, you’d best be getting to the library. Mr. Finch and the two others are here.”
“Are they?” He glanced down the hall.
“Will you be needin’ anything? I can send in some of the girls if they’ve not had enough to eat or drink.”
The image that appeared in his mind, of his friends and the entitled attitude that accompanied them, made him cringe, and he shook his head in answer. He made to go and then turned back. “Oh, Mrs. Wigginton?”
“Aye, milord?” She looked up, her eyebrows at crooked angles.
“Speaking of girls”—he wondered how to put it, for Mrs. Wigginton took pride and pains to ensure all her staff were suitably behaved—“I’ve had a bit of a run-in with one of your maids.”
“Oh? Which one?” Her eyes narrowed under their graying brows.
“I’m not sure. In fact, I think she must be a recent addition, for I’ve not seen her before.”
“Describe her to me. I’ll ken who it is and it willna happen again.” Her eyes grew determined. Someone would be receiving a most unpleasant scolding.
Good.
“Well . . .” Alex faltered. He tried recalling the girl’s features, which wasn’t difficult, for the face that bedeviled him was etched into his memory. An outspoken servant was a small matter, but appearing foolish in front of her left him feeling exposed.
Her skin was light, almost translucent in some places, and her hair was coppery, a circle of heat around her face. How was he to describe her eyes to Mrs. Wigginton? It would sound absurd for him to say that her eyes were shockingly green. Green would have to suffice.
“Well, then?” Mrs. Wigginton said, waiting.
“Green. She was green.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No. I mean . . . her eyes were green. Red face, pale hair—you know the sort of thing.” He waved at her.
“Red face?”
“Hair! I meant red hair. Or orange and brown—whatever.” Alex shook his head.
“I’m afraid we dinna have any girls wi’ red hair in the house. Not sure I ken anyone of that description—save the young lad who washes pots for me.” She crinkled her face, thinking.
“Well,” Alex continued, heat prickling his neck, “maybe she’s his sister—but she most definitely was not a boy.”
The housekeeper scratched her head. “Well, boy or no, there are three gentlemen in the library making a fuss while waiting for you. Do ye think ye might calm them a bit?”
Alex clenched his fists. He’d been sent to handle an ornery horse, an inappropriate servant, and now his unruly friends. He couldn’t wait to sort out things with his cantankerous father. Yield to all, and you will soon have nothing to yield. One day he would decide whether Aesop, teller of fables, was advising or warning him.
SEVEN
JENNA SCRAMBLED BACK TO THE CROFTER’S COTTAGE, nerves twisting her stomach into a ball of knots. The cold drizzle added to the frozen sense of dread creeping beneath her skin. The young man in the barn had made an error, and she’d laughed, trying to be witty. It wasn’t until he announced his intention of throwing her off the estate that she overstepped and spoke brazenly.
She’d had no inkling he was important. And that he had absolutely no sense of humor.
He’d thought her a servant girl. Was it her clothing—worn and frayed as it was from weeks of rough travel?
“Lord Arrogant,” she would call him. A wicked smile crept to her lips when she recalled the tidal flush of red on his face after he discovered he’d been overheard. His livid blue eyes had stared accusingly at her. She wondered if they were still enraged, only now making demands that she be found and dealt with.
Remorse filled in where her pride had leaked out, for if her father, or any of the other men, heard of her talk in the stable, they’d strip her of what was most valuable: the rest of her books. And if Lord Arrogant was true to his word, she’d have to endure six livid faces perched on their horses, on their way out of the estate.
Upon reaching the cottage door, she hesitated. Should she prepare them? Admit to her mistake? She glanced back toward the stables, but steeled herself and swung through the door.
“It’s about time, Jenna. I was beginning to think you’d taken the horse and run wi’ him,” her father said, looking up from the table, a hint of humor around his eyes.
She stepped into the snug, smoky cottage, seeing the men sitting together, engaged in gladsome conversation. These were people who truly loved one another, and with them, she felt safe. It was clear they’d worked quickly to clean and settle the shabby house with their collective furnishings. They never carried much with them, but familiar things eased the transition.
The patchwork quilts, gifted by women friends they’d made along the way, were stacked neatly on a chair, ready for beds. The table was set with their old crockery. Chipped as they were, they had seen this family through years of festive meals and serious discussions. Duncan, when not busy with the clan’s ailments or carpentry work with the masons, was adept at bartering. Conveying a resourceful and sweet-tempered nature, he found the salt-glazed earthenware in a town market, and negotiated the set out of their owner in exchange for two hours’ worth of labor. Although each of them possessed skills to barter with, Duncan was more than canny. Angus often said Duncan could sway a bird to part with his song.
A blazing fire in the hearth heated a beefy broth, probably sent down by the housekeeper. She must have included bread and cheese, for those also appeared on the table. Bonnets and cloaks hung on pegs by the door. The copper pots were placed around the hutch on the side wall, and the men sat at the hearth, a jug of ale at their feet.
She watched Angus lean over the pot, stirring with his spurtle—the magic spoon he’d first shown her when she was a child. The spoon that kept them from hunger. Angus once told wide-eyed Jenna that this very spoon could extend a meal made for seven into enough to feed twelve, should they need it. And oftentimes they did. There were many nights when outsiders joined their family suppers.
Many of those evenings had music, stories, and food. Mirthful events. But lately, their dinners were serious-natured, the tone subdued. She was usually allowed to eat with everyone, but then dismissed to an early bed, where she would sit, straining her ears from behind a distant doorway, interpreting muddled words. The conversations began in English, but would switch to Gaelic, and although she understood and spoke the language well, the sound of all those deep voices mingling together had a soporific effect. Sleep would overcome her.
“Well, don’t just stand there, lassie. Come and grab a seat by the fire. Tell us what you’ve seen.” Angus pushed a crooked wooden stool closer to the fire and gestured to her.
“Nothing more than the stables.” Jenna sat and straightened out the folds of her bracken-colored skirt. Perhaps it was just her grubbiness that had made the young man jump to the conclusion that she was a servant.
“That’s it, then? That’s the best ye can give us? Ye d
idna peek in all the corners of the castle to see where the wee fairy folk live, then?” Angus looked around at the other men. “Surely ye remember when it was all we could do to keep Jenna from finding them first thing and deciding to run off wi’ em? She’d tell us that they’d much better food than we and the schooling would be less as well.”
The men chuckled and nodded.
Jenna reached up for a lock of hair, twirling it between her fingers. “No, Angus, I never did find any fairies, and it’s been a long time since I have looked.” She singled out two strands and felt the tiny snap of hair parting from her scalp. “I did find a most unpleasant young man, however.”
“A young man?” Colin piped up, grinning ear to ear. “Ah, I can see it now, Jenna, you’ve left the fairies for the fellows.” The men erupted with laughter.
Her father glanced up from the kitchen table where he was writing and shushed the others. “What man is this, then?”
“A rude one,” Jenna answered.
The men choked back their amusement and Malcolm raised one eyebrow with interest. He put down his quill. “Could ye be more specific than that?”
“Not really.” Jenna rose from the stool and walked toward the front window. “Except he wasn’t as tall as you, Da, and he had blond hair . . . that flipped around his ears.” I bet he has someone comb it for him in the mornings.
She reached the casement and lost herself in the dim reflection. “His clothes were tailored. And he wore new leather boots. I doubt they’d ever stepped into a stable before.” Jenna breathed onto the glass to make it fog and traced a pale finger through the vapor. “And his hands looked like they’d never seen a hard day’s work.” She turned to face the men. Each was grinning.
“Sounds like ye weren’t paying attention at all.” Her father chortled and picked up his quill. “Still, I’m curious to know who it was and ye can only tell so much by someone’s clothing or the flip of his hair.”
“His name is Lord Arrogant,” she said without thinking.
The room exploded with riotous laughter.
“But apparently he is known to others as Lord Pembroke.”
Her father raised both brows this time. “Jenna . . . I’d think it best ye keep that first name to yourself, aye?”
“Sorry, Da,” she said, biting her lip. “It’s just that he assumed I was hired help.”
“Ye are hired help, Jenna.”
“Yes, but not in the way he was presuming.”
“It doesna matter what people think, lass. It’s your actions you’ll be judged upon, and I’ll not have ye making harsh assumptions of others based on what they wear as well. Do ye understand me now?” He gave her a sharp glance. It felt like a slap.
She blinked hard several times, her eyes stinging from the reproach. “I do.”
“Now go get washed for dinner. Angus here has cooked up one of Mrs. Wigginton’s meat broths, and I’m sure it’ll be ready soon.” He nodded toward the door.
She trudged outside to locate the rain barrel the men had used to clean the cottage and found it butted against one of the side walls. Her hand brushed the wall’s rugged surface. It seemed to radiate stability, and she wondered how long this building had been standing.
Her entire life was filled with the memories of building sites. She followed their rise from the earth as if day by day the formations grew on their own. She watched as the men fed them stone and mortar, sweat and strength. And at completion, there was nothing more satisfying than to stand back and see how man had altered earth, had improved its beauty and left his mark. How long these structures could stand to face the elements and exist through time’s cunning whims was a testament to the builder’s skill.
Her father was a master stonemason, gifted with a deft competence bestowed upon few. Many sought his talents, and he was fortunate enough to choose his work. The men who accompanied him had been with him for years, at least as long as Jenna had been alive. Except for Ian. He joined their family two years ago, and Jenna still had a difficult time regarding him as part of their circle.
Each man had unique skills, and when combined with one another, the architectural results were inspiring. Apart from being highly accomplished in stonemasonry, they were also Freemasons, members of a small and secret guild of men who regulated not only their craft, but their philosophies. They clung to virtue and truth as fundamental values, solid as the foundations they built. Charity and morality were held as high in importance as the beams of each vaulted ceiling. These men were brothers, not of blood, but of mind-set. And their minds were set on righting a wrong done to James Stuart—believer in the Divine Right of Kings. They must help reclaim his throne.
It was within this world and these walls that Jenna was raised. And it was by these men and their ideas she was educated. The life she lived and the knowledge she was given were not of the usual sort for women. In fact, Jenna’s education was kept secret. What had begun as food to satiate a child’s simple curiosity had bloomed into a monstrous appetite. And although her father insisted upon slaking that thirst, Jenna knew, and grieved to admit, that nothing would come of it in the end.
She was female. The options before her were few.
She washed her hands in the rain barrel and took a deep breath. Her lungs filled with the smell of damp leaves and black earth. Autumn was here, changing the land.
One could not control nature, her father would tell her, but controlling the nature of others was altogether a different matter. The fates of many were often altered by the voice of just one.
EIGHT
ALEX HEARD SHOUTING FROM THE FAR END OF THE dark corridor. He approached the library’s open doorway and stood back in the recessed shadows.
Hugh Fowler spit onto the carpet. “You call this wine? It puts me in mind of what the maids throw out of the chamber pots.” He thumped a glass onto the table, some of its contents sloshing out the sides. A young maid started and scurried forward with a cloth to catch the spill. “Mind it doesn’t get on my breeches, you witless dolt,” he snapped.
“I’m s-sorry, sir. Might I g-get you another?” The girl clutched the rag and stared hard at the floor.
“Not of that ilk. If I wanted to drink swill, I’d dine at Charles’s manor,” he said, flashing a grin at his friend. Two dimples pierced the flesh of his cheeks. “As we’re already here, find something more suitable. I doubt your employer would be pleased to see we’re drinking the dregs of his cellar.”
With a quick curtsy in Hugh’s general direction, the pale-faced girl fumbled for one of the bottles on the table. Hugh shot out a hand and clamped down on the girl’s wrist. “And bring food. It breeds ill will that we should be expected to wait with an empty stomach.”
The trembling maid dashed for the door. She flew past Alex without seeing him in the dim passageway. He was about to speak, but pulled back again at the sound of a scraping knife. A flash of brassy firelight caught the blade as Julian Finch sliced mud from his Moroccan leather boots. He flicked the muck into the fire. “You’re a first-rate leech, Hugh. We’ll be thrown out before we’ve been welcomed.”
Alex emerged from the gloom. “If such a thing were possible, I’d have done it already. Stop harassing the help, Hugh.”
Hugh looked up and broke out in his winning grin. “You know I just like a good game, and that little tart looked like an excellent pawn to play with.” He leaned back, stretching, his chair tilting on two rear legs.
Charles, who had slyly moved around the table behind his goading friend, darted in and tipped Hugh’s chair back, catching him off guard. “We’ve barely arrived and already you’ve begun with the servants.”
Hugh righted himself and narrowed his eyes at Charles, a sardonic grin curling his lips. “Let the games begin, I say. We’re out of school and I feel in the mood for a little mischief.”
Charles scowled at him, his pitted skin dull and pale. “It’s because of our mischief that we’ve been cast out in the first place, you clodpoll.”
Hugh
feigned a look of affront. “Well, it was about bloody time. I’d been behaving myself for far too long, wouldn’t you agree, Alex?”
“No,” Alex said, fixated with the wine stain on his mother’s Spanish silk carpet.
“Neither do I,” Julian said, continuing to remove slivers of mud caked to the outside of his expensive boots.
“Julian,” Hugh sighed, “you must learn to relax a little. Get dirty. Be dirty. You’re much too perfect with the press of your clothes and the shave of your chin. . . . Even your hair tonic outperforms. Your locks are so shiny black they’re almost blue.”
Charles grunted in amusement. “Disheveled is not a word Julian Finch will have saddled to his description.”
“Shrewd, cunning, and ambitious, but never soiled,” Hugh agreed.
Charles picked a strand of hair off Julian’s velvet coat and patted him on the back. “Perhaps you should take a page out of Hugh’s book, Julian. After the mind-numbing journey from Cambridge, he expects nothing less from the house than a week’s worth of free entertainment.”
Alex held up an empty wine bottle. “It seems you’ve begun already. How long have you been here?”
Hugh sniffed. “Well, when one is kept waiting by one’s host, one must find some distraction.” He reached over for Charles’s wine goblet. “I’ve rather lost track of time, and I had a fair mind to dismiss the maid who sullied our arrival.” He took a deep swig and drained the glass of its ruby liquid.
Julian sighed and moved to the adjoining bookshelves, fingering the spines of the gold-leafed titles. “Hugh, you are nothing less than sponging baggage.” He opened a leathered tome and handled its delicate pages.
“Me?” Hugh said, feigning shock. “Not at all, Julian, I was simply raised with standards that refuse to be ignored. The impudent maid said our rooms were not ready and sent us to wait here. Then the sniveling one came in with the liquid sludge.”
Alex stiffened. “What did the first one look like, Hugh?”
“Like all of them”—he waved a hand—“afraid, meek, lowly. Uninteresting to the extreme, but very easy to frighten.” He cast a wicked smile at Charles.
The Freemason's Daughter Page 3