The Freemason's Daughter

by Shelley Sackier

  “Well, I think there isna anything left to do wi’ this at the moment,” Gavin said, holding her exercises in his hand. “I think it’s best we continue tomorrow, and maybe we’ll throw in a wee bit of Homer, if you’re lucky.” He grinned, an absent tooth revealing a pink space of gum.

  She sprang up, her face lit with enthusiasm. “The Iliad? The Frog Mouse War?”

  Gavin smiled devilishly and shook his head. She would have to wait until tomorrow to find out.

  Jenna loved Gavin’s storytelling. Sometimes, when they sat around the campsite fire after a day’s travel, he would recite in Latin or Greek, and anyone sitting there would swear they understood the tale, whether they knew the language or not.

  His audience would lean closer, lured like moths to his firelight. Gavin pounded on his breast with punctuated enthusiasm, and his face molded to the features of his characters, portraying their feelings. The saga unraveled in the flickering glow and Jenna sunk into the story. She wanted to know what their narrator was truly saying. She needed to know. And thus, her Latin lessons began.

  Ian came through the door carrying the same heavy scowl on his face Jenna had seen for the last two years, only varying in degrees. She tried not to mirror his image, fearing she’d make the situation worse. She often wondered what brought Ian to the business of stonemasonry. With his lithe, spare-framed body and finely boned fingers, he looked better suited to paperwork and ledger keeping, but according to her father he never shirked a hard day’s labor.

  Gavin rose and clapped Ian on the shoulder. “Bene vale vobis.” He gave her an encouraging smile and headed out.

  Ian sighed with annoyance as he pulled the straight edge from his sporran, the fur-covered pouch he kept his tools in. He set himself on the bench next to Jenna, his plaid swinging off his shoulders. “All right, then, let’s get down to it.”

  He worked out a set of points for her to label with angles and measurements. While she calculated, he paced the room, his impatience heard with every footfall. His grumbling, which made her self-conscious, added minutes to her computations. After the better part of an hour, Angus showed up with two parcels that clearly held the contents of dinner.

  “Who’s up for venison stew, then?” His face beamed with exuberance. “One of the stable lads had a good bag today and gave us more than we’d need ourselves. Aye, that’s a nice group of lads down there.” He turned to look at Jenna with widened eyes and pointed with a pudgy finger. “Save for that plumped-up one ye met, I’m sure. Although,” he added with a stern look beneath his brows, “ye must remember to keep that opinion to yourself, aye?”

  Ian stood to gather his materials and huffed. “I’d say that’s enough for today, Jenna. Your entertainment has arrived and your attention has departed.”

  She beamed at Angus behind Ian’s back, but he gave her a stern shake of his head.

  “Well, then, if you’re sure you’re finished wi’ her, I wouldna mind a hand in the kitchen. Mrs. Wigginton was kind enough to send down vegetables from the late summer garden, and they need chopping.” Angus held out a clean knife, handle end first, toward her.

  She looked at Ian, who waved a hand in dismissal and left mumbling as when he first came in, something about Jenna finally doing what she should be in the first place.

  They settled into their tasks for the stew and Angus told her news of the building site. He also spoke of meeting the man Wicken—the duke’s new Welsh horse handler, who appeared to be spending more time nosing about the site of the garrison than handling horses. Their knives stilled as there was a knock at the door.

  Angus wiped his hands on the old linen apron covering the front of his plaid and heaved himself from the table. When he opened the door, his figure filled the space and Jenna could only make out the high-pitched squeak of a little boy.

  “What is it?” she said when he returned and tossed a sealed envelope onto the table.

  “One of Mrs. Wigginton’s lads wi’ a note addressed to your da, so we’ll not ken till supper I s’pose. Come on, then. Let’s get this all into the pot. I’m famished.”

  She stood on a chair to reach for one of Angus’s bundles of hanging herbs. She thought about the letter, about how unopened correspondence always set the family on edge. Often, the next day found them packing their bags and heading elsewhere. Given that the note came from Mrs. Wigginton, it was an unlikely scenario. Nonetheless, her level of patience was abysmal, and the thought of leaving for Scottish soil left her eager with anticipation.

  She spent the next three-quarters of an hour physically preparing the evening meal, but mentally envisioning what lurked behind that sealed wax. It was all but torture waiting for the men to file in. They took their time to wash and tidy before sitting, the sharp scent of Angus’s pine needle soap filling the room. Her father was the last to come in, and after cleaning the day’s dirt off his hands and face, he sat at the table with no notice of the letter beside his bowl and cup.

  “Ah, Angus, another fine meal you’ve prepared for us. Your skills have gone wasted, I think.” The men laughed, but he went on. “Aye, but it’s true. You’re a canny fine cook and a good friend.” He raised his cup. “To Angus and the way he fills our hearts and bellies!” Everyone lifted their glass in a toast to the dark and hairy man, who suddenly looked as coy as a young maiden.

  Jenna couldn’t wait any longer. “Da . . . you’ve got a letter.”

  “Ah, so I have.”

  Angus went round filling each of the bowls with the rich, meaty stew while her father sat back from the table to break the wax seal and read the note.

  “His Grace has invited us to attend the engagement of his son—day after next,” he said at last. There was a lot of looking around, and a dozen eyes settled on Jenna.

  “Lord Pembroke?” she asked, her eyes meeting with Angus’s.

  “Aye, ’tis likely the off-putting young man ye met in the stables a few days back,” Angus said, and then mumbled to Jenna, “the one Mrs. Wigginton came about.”

  She felt her pulse quicken and color rise in her cheeks. She shrugged and added under her breath, “I pity the unfortunate woman who must put up with him permanently.” Angus heard her remark and she could tell he wasn’t pleased. She glanced at her father. “Must we attend?”

  “I think it would be rude not to,” he said. “The duke seems to be extending his hand in friendship. To deny it might cause suspicion, Jenna.”

  She would not look him in the eye, for if she did, he would see the flash of panic, the sickness that spread. She caught Angus biting his lip. He was anxious.

  She was in trouble.

  TEN

  “MAI. È BRUTTO!”

  “Lucia, please settle yourself. And use your English.”

  “I won’t wear it. It’s dis-gus-ting.” Lady Lucia pushed the lavender silk dress away, its embroidered hem swinging buoyantly.

  “But darling, bella, you thought it exquisite when we had it made for you just last month. I don’t understand.”

  “You never do, Mamma, for you are so—what is the word for vecchio stile?—old-fashioned. I said away.” Lady Lucia swatted at the outfit, making it slip from the maid’s fingers.

  The chambermaid dove for the gown before it hit the ground, bowed, and returned the dress to one of several massive trunks containing Lady Lucia’s clothing.

  The young woman ran her hand down the upholstery of the settee where she reclined. “Their things are drenched with luxury. I must surpass the splendor of this house, or they shall judge me as not befitting, Mamma.” She strolled to where the other dresses hung, waiting for her evaluation. She regarded each with a tight-lipped expression indicating an uncompromising resolve. The young servant beside them shuddered at the girl’s mood, which was as dark as her pitch-black hair.

  The countess glanced at her daughter and the cowering maid. A resigned sigh escaped her lips. “Well, soon these handsome things may truly be yours. And if you are desirous, you shall have money enough for a dres
s made every day if it suits you.” Her mother stroked a discarded dress lying on the sumptuous featherbed, smoothing its shiny fabric.

  “It will,” Lady Lucia said, her black eyes challenging her mother’s. “Soon I will be the lady of this house, and I shall run it as I see fit.” She walked to the fireplace in the bedroom and inspected herself in the beveled mirror above it.

  “Tesoro mio,” her mother said, pleading. “I beg you to be patient . . . and reasonable.”

  Lady Lucia’s thin lips pulled back into a terse curve. “Of course, your words are full of the wisdom that comes with old age, but I see my future here and I must act with strength to secure it.” She pointed to the dresses. “Now, please, Mamma, pick out a dress that is appropriate for the occasion or I will refuse to come down to be seen.”

  The countess pressed a hand to her mouth and nodded to the maid, who began pulling out a series of dazzling gowns.

  Lady Lucia snapped her fingers at the girl. “The red one. I shall wear the red one with the slippers matching. This color shows off my skin. Molto bene! And something will need to be done with my hair. I will not wear a wig tonight, for I want everyone to see its true color. Something so stunning should not be disguised, don’t you agree, Mamma?” She played with the strands of ink that lay silkily about her shoulders. “You must find my hair jewels,” she said to the maid. “And why have we not yet been served tea?” Lady Lucia turned to the girl with a sharp eye.

  The maid scrambled up from the side of the trunk, and apologizing, left for the kitchen. Lady Lucia returned to the mirror, and posed from different angles. “I think it appalling the duchess stays away not seeing us. We’ve been here for a wearisome hour.”

  “I’m sure she is laboring over our dinner party this evening, not to mention the engagement reception next week,” the countess said, looking through her own wardrobe. “There is much one must do in a household of this size to prepare for such elaborate events.”

  “That is what servants are for. Given fit direction, a household should run uninterrupted by such occasions. She has a most displeasing staff. This will not be so when I am here.”

  “First things first, amore mio. I think you will need to work on your English so that the staff will understand you—don’t you agree?”

  “Sì.” Lady Lucia rolled her eyes and held the red dress against her body, gazing into the mirror. “Perhaps I shall make everyone speak my language so I can understand them.”

  “Yes, Lucia,” her mother murmured. “Perhaps it will turn out this time.”

  Alex waited in the library with a glass of sherry and fiddled with his sleeves. He watched the steward return books to their shelves and fluff pillows to invite visitors to recline on them. He would need something stiffer than a pillow to support him now.

  The thought of meeting the young lady to whom he was betrothed made his stomach churn. He’d received a miniature portrait of Lady Lucia, painted on an enamel snuffbox. Nevertheless, he had no taste for tobacco and gave the box to his wardrobe groom. Although he had a general idea of her physical appearance from the neck upward, a miniature was incapable of describing a person’s intellect, or personality, or even humor. Would they find each other entertaining?

  His father assured him months ago, when the arrangements were made, that this was strictly a political union, created for the benefit of both families, as had been done for centuries. This would in no way curtail his quest for other pursuits, as was “natural for every man,” and simply advised discretion. His mother was more judicious in her counsel, and encouraged Alex to wait and see if something might develop over time. This, she warned him, wouldn’t occur unless he put sincere effort into the relationship.

  The door opened and the house butler peered at him. “Sir, the ladies are in the drawing room. Shall I escort you there?” His bushy eyebrows rose in expectation.

  “No, thank you. I shall see myself.”

  “Very well, milord.” The butler backed out silently and closed the door behind him.

  A shiver ran through Alex as he stared, unmoving, at the door. He hoped his mother would arrive before him. She was much better than he at making idle conversation with strangers. He took a deep breath and swallowed the last of the amber liquid. The warmth it provided gave him a shallow sense of courage, but not enough to affect enthusiasm.

  He traveled the long hall and glanced at the wall displaying family portraits. The gallery was filled with fashionable wigs and stern, scholarly faces. He stopped in front of the drawing room doors. The butler stood, one hand on the latch, his face giving no hint as to what lay beyond the threshold. “May I see you in, milord?”

  A deep breath and a slight nod was Alex’s answer.

  The butler opened both doors just enough to be seen and said, “Good ladies, I present Lord Pembroke.” He eased the doors open and stood aside, gesturing Alex into the room.

  He moved past the butler and looked at the two women, then took a step back.

  “Alex, please, join us.” His mother rose from her seat. She walked toward him, arms outstretched, and kissed both his cheeks. She turned to face the other woman, who wore an apricot gown of delicate Chinese-woven silk, her black hair piled atop her head.

  The woman looked as old as his mother!

  “Alex, may I present the Countess of Provenza?”

  “Lady Lucia?” His voice was a whisper.

  “Lady Lucia’s mother.”

  His heart made a palpable thump and then slowly regained its normal rhythm. He took the outstretched hand in front of him. “Your servant, madam.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard admirable things from Her Grace.”

  Alex scanned the uneasy face and tried to pinpoint the resemblance from Lady Lucia’s miniature. “Please, dismiss half of what she reveals, as she has a rather distorted view of my strengths and achievements.”

  “As any mother who loves her son would!” The duchess laughed, mischief in her eyes.

  The butler appeared at his elbow. He leaned in and whispered, “Would now be a good time, milord?”

  Alex tilted back to look at the butler’s face. “For what?”

  “For the young lady to make her entrance.”

  “Her entrance?”

  “Lady Lucia left earlier after discovering you were not present. She insists she does not wait on anyone; rather people anticipate her.”

  Alex’s eyes narrowed. Could he be serious?

  The butler went on. “She asked I come for her once you’d arrived.”

  “Ah . . . I see. I guess you’d best fulfill her wish, then. Better we don’t start things off on the wrong foot.” He sighed and turned back to the women.

  The countess leaned forward. “Your mother says you are home from Cambridge.”

  “Yes,” Alex said, glancing toward the duchess. “I’m unsure when I’ll be returning, as my father would like me to begin my Tour, but I would prefer continuing my studies. We haven’t had an opportunity to . . . discuss it yet.”

  “The Grand Tour, such a wonderful name for travel,” the countess said, smiling. “I remember my son journeyed after schooling too. He was away two years and returned filled to the brim with experience, eager to begin work with my husband.”

  Eager? Alex could barely hope for a transformation dramatic enough to make him eager to spend time in the company of his father.

  At that moment, the butler appeared within his customary crack in the door and announced, “Ladies and gentleman, I present to you, Lady Lucia.”

  Alex got to his feet. His pulse quickened.

  The butler pushed the doors forward and stepped aside as a slim girl wearing a plush red gown sailed into the room. She was enveloped by the dress, and occupied the middle of it with some difficulty. Alex judged that she needed four feet of clearance to successfully maneuver the costume, and the sleeves that encompassed her slender arms could have housed several others. She held a broad, white-laced fan over the bottom half of her face, whic
h allowed her intense black eyes to peek over its edges. It fluttered back and forth and created a breeze, making the fringe of dark curls above her forehead rise and fall unexpectedly.

  Alex bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing and covered his amusement with a deep bow. As he rose, Lady Lucia thrust out her hand to be kissed. When she leaned beyond the perimeter of her dress she swayed forward and wobbled. Alex grasped her hand to steady and save her from an unrecoverable embarrassment. Even so, her eyes widened with displeasure as they both noticed he stepped on the trim of her frock. He quickly removed his foot and decided the young lady bore a strong resemblance to an aggravated peacock.

  Her demeanor recovered, she curtsied and said in a thick Sicilian accent, “How very pleasant to meet you, Lord Pembroke.”

  He forced a thin smile and said, “Welcome to our home, Lady Lucia. Please, do sit.” He gestured toward the chairs where both their mothers were seated, and then realized there was no place to accommodate both the young woman and her dress. A brief panic widened her eyes, but he pretended not to see it, and again clamped down on the flesh in his mouth.

  The duchess spotted the problem and rose from her spacious settee. She offered it to the young woman and insisted she would be more comfortable in one of the simple, straight-backed chairs. With stiff-necked pride, Lady Lucia lowered herself to the settee and finally removed the fan from her face in order to parade the dress’s fine silk and conceal the hoops supporting it.

  Alex studied the rest of her features. Her highly rouged cheeks and red-stained lips seemed most comfortable in a pursed position. Attractive, but unwelcoming. For his mother’s sake, he chided himself for allowing any negativity to color his first impressions. When Lady Lucia finished her preening, Alex said, “Our butler has taken special pains to ensure the house is stocked with grappa. Shall I pour you a glass?”

  “No. And your butler is a fool, for no Sicilian of high class ever drinks grappa. It’s reserved for the unintelligent and the poor.” She cast a scowl in the servant’s direction.