The Freemason's Daughter

by Shelley Sackier

  She moved with Henry’s breathing as he bit off tufts of sour grass, his jaws munching loudly. His massive rib cage expanded and contracted with the movement of air. “I bet a saddle is like wearing a corset, isn’t it? It’s a horrible feeling, and I speak from experience.” She played with the long strands of hair that fell past her head.

  “Imagine trying to hunt whilst bound up in one, or grappling in a spar.” She thought of the practice duels she had with the men. She’d been gifted a smallsword, its weight almost nothing, and given lessons on usage from the age of seven. Crossing blades while wearing a poking corset would leave her constantly wondering if she’d been skewered.

  “It has taken more than a month to heal my aching ribs. Rather a long time to suffer for such a daft evening, don’t you think?”

  He moved his head in the direction of her voice, and she took that as an agreeable response.

  “Such a lavish affair for two people who I’d wager have barely exchanged half a dozen words with each other. I would never marry for family connections. I would rather stay at the mucky bottom of the social heap than wed my way into better living conditions. Sleeping in a straw-tick bed on my own is much more enticing if the alternative was marrying some dimwitted ignoramus just for the feathered mattress. Truthfully, I’d rather sleep on rocks.”

  “Well, you could always sleep on your horse, it seems.”

  Snapping up with surprise, Jenna slipped off the horse and fell to the ground in a mound of scratchy woolen riding clothes. She scrambled up to confront the intruding visitor. Standing before her was the sun-wrinkled face of Jeb, the elderly horse handler from the barn.

  Putting her hand to her heart, she said, “Oh, you gave me such a start. Have you been listening?”

  “Listening to what?” His voice had the rasp of old age and disuse.

  “To me talk—babbling about . . . It was private.”

  He patted the rump of Henry, who Jenna thought betrayed her by not notifying her of approaching company. The horse paid no heed to the gnarled, warm hands resting on his backside.

  “I’ve found over the years that you needn’t hear so much of what a person says to figure out their story. Just paying attention to their behavior tells you who they are.” The corners of his mouth curved, but he showed no teeth, which Jenna figured must not fully occupy the spaces provided for them.

  She mentally scanned back through the one-sided conversation with Henry. Well, I doubt you discovered anything about me by watching my backside hang off my horse. “Did I reveal anything shocking?”

  “Miss MacDuff, is it?”

  She nodded.

  “Shocking? No. But it seems you don’t have many friends at the moment, and a horse makes a poor substitute. If you’re like the rest of them, I’d say your interest is sparked with the duke’s son, despite that he’s spoken for, and . . .” He paused, seeing her eyes pop outward. “I’d suggest you find one of the scullery maids to chatter with, to keep out of trouble.”

  Jenna’s face flamed like a bright spark. “I—”

  “Don’t pretend to be shaken with what I’ve said.” Jeb wagged a crooked finger at her. “I’ve been around the barnyard long enough to know when one animal is sniffing another out.”

  She winced. I think all the manure has left you addled! “I’ve taken no notice of . . .”

  “The marquess.”

  “Yes, the . . . ,” Jenna said, dismissing the florid title with her hand and wishing the whole conversation could just stop.

  He gave her the crooked smile again, but revealed a hint of amusement. “Well, I would never call him that either, so you’ve made a good mark with me. And if it’s naught but a figment of my mind, I beg your pardon. But I’d hate to see either of you get mixed up in the middle of something that could lead to trouble.”

  “I assure you I have no intention of getting into the sort of business that could create problems for anybody.” She raised her chin and nearly choked on the fact she’d just told a barefaced lie. “I’m simply out for a quiet ride.”

  “And talking to Henry about marriage, don’t forget.” Jeb looked at her from under his bushy white brows.

  “Well, Henry isn’t particular with the content of our conversations. He merely likes the sound of my voice.”

  “I know a great many people who like the sound of their voice, but because it never spoke of common sense, it did them little good.” He scratched the thin white hair under his cap, gave the horse one last pat on the rump, and turned to go.

  Jenna watched him limp back toward the barns, brushing off the absurd conversation. She had no designs on anyone. Her mind was focused on her family’s problems.

  Looking down, she noticed she’d mindlessly been tracing a finger back and forth over her scar. She itched with the uncomfortable realization that once you’ve told the first lie, the second one comes easier.

  FIFTEEN

  HER NOSE WAS COLD. JENNA REFUSED TO PUT IT UNDER the woolen blankets with the rest of her body because she felt, almost absurdly, that she would suffocate with the lack of air beneath the heavy covers. She knew this untrue, but the panicky anxiety that started without fail after the first few inhalations was difficult to suppress.

  She raised one reluctant eyelid. Objects were fuzzy in the muted gray light with only half her sight, so she opened the other and confirmed her suspicion. Snow. Delicate flakes pirouetted among one another in a deceitful dance. Harmlessly intoxicating until one had to face it without the protection of four walls, a fire, and a bowlful of Angus’s parritch.

  It also helped to have the long brown serge stockings Mrs. Wigginton instructed her how to make. Colin, despite his gangly-limbed appearance, had skilled, nimble fingers as well. He’d shown Jenna how to sew and knit from the time she was old enough to sit still, but he continued to do most of the family’s repair work. Sadly, he possessed few patterns to draw from, and Mrs. Wigginton took pity on Jenna. She believed Jenna should be capable of creating more feminine designs and took it upon herself to tutor Jenna in snatches of spare time. Thankfully, they finished one pair of stockings before the weather made them a necessity. To Jenna’s disappointment, no one would ever admire her newfound skills, since every inch of her handiwork was covered with the heavy fabric of her skirts and quilted petticoats.

  She poked one toe out from underneath the bed linens and decided no other body parts would be brutally punished by following suit. She curled her body into a ball, wishing she could ignore the persistent calls coming from below.

  The men, who she heard at the kitchen table, were taking turns calling her to breakfast. She burrowed deeper. Their next effort was to serenade her out of bed. She covered her ears, but knew further lingering would bring on severe reproach. Finally, she heaved herself out from her cocoon and, wrapping her body in as many quilts as she could muster, trudged down the stairs.

  The room fell silent as she settled in a bulky heap at the table, and Angus popped up from the wooden bench in pursuit of his long-handled spurtle. He stirred the contents of the kettle above the glowing coals and scooped a bowlful of his much-loved brose. He placed it before Jenna, whose eyes were determined to remain shut. The steam rose from the dish and carried with it a scent that slithered to her nose. Her sleepy gaze and smile turned to Angus.

  “You’ve added whisky,” Jenna said, inhaling its aroma.

  “Aye, I have. It’s cold out there, and I’ll nay have anyone complaining I didna do what I could to protect them from the wee bits of snow flying round.” He moved his head an inch in the direction of Colin. “Especially Mr. Brodie over there, who canna keep enough fat on his bones to attract a proper wife.”

  “And until I do, you’re making me a fine one—I’ll nay complain!” Colin quipped.

  Jenna glanced down to Ian at the end of the table, his head over his bowl, not participating in the men’s rallying banter.

  “Aye, ye spoil the child with all your antics,” he grumbled. “She’ll be good for no man with
a tongue that loose and a head that tutored.”

  “Ye afraid of a woman wi’ a mind, then, Ian?” Duncan goaded him.

  “Do ye see how she has the lot of ye dancing about, trying to please her?” Ian pointed his spoon at each of them. “You’ve done her no favors by making her think she’ll find a husband who’ll do the same.”

  “Perhaps I’ll be the kind of woman who’ll choose not to marry,” Jenna said.

  “Given as ye are, Jenna, I doubt you’ll be presented an offer to refuse.”

  The words stung.

  “That’s enough, Ian.” Her father’s normally hypnotic voice sounded narrow and checked. Ian’s agitated reproach created an icy atmosphere and dulled whatever warmth the whisky-infused porridge had fashioned. Malcolm pushed himself from the table. He leaned on his hands and stood looking at the men.

  “I’ve gotten news,” he said, his eyes dark and serious. “The site plans have been approved, as has the location of the . . .” He paused and then murmured, “chambers. We’ll soon get directions for what’ll happen next. When I’ve received word, I’ll tell. We’re also being sent a lad. He’ll be joining as an apprentice and arriving in Hawkshead late in the day.”

  Jenna stopped eating to stare at her father. “Someone’s coming to live with us?”

  “Aye. It’s a terrible time for us to be takin’ in someone new, but we’ve really no choice, and he’s nowhere else to go. He’ll be learning the trade and then life as a Freemason, should he want it. He’s very young, though.” He leaned in toward her, his tone softening. “Treat him kindly, Jenna. He lost his family to fever just six months past. Ye ken what he’s going through.”

  She nodded. It was how her mother had died, or so she’d been told. At four, Jenna’s memory of her mother was that one moment she was there, and the next not. Although she found it difficult to mourn someone she could not remember, there remained a void, the loss of the individual’s promise with their presence.

  Malcolm continued. “Right now I’ll need Colin, Duncan, and Ian on the site to begin with.” He turned to Jenna. “Duncan has brought ye a present from town. After you’ve had a peek at it, ye need to do your studies with Angus and Gavin. Then head to the barn and clean all the gear in the tack box before goin’ to town. I want ye to pick up the lad later.” Finally, he looked to the two men. “When you’ve both finished, make your way down, aye?”

  The men left and Duncan returned from his room with a brown parcel, tied and tucked under his arm. He offered it to Jenna, who took it with widened eyes. She unwrapped the package and stared.

  “Newton’s Cambridge Lectures?” she read.

  “Aye, it took some doing, but I got them sent from a friend in London. We’ve all agreed it’d be worthwhile to instruct you of his latest theories. Much has changed because of the man. I think you’ll enjoy his teachings.” Duncan nodded toward the papers.

  “Lectures from a real school.” A smile curled her lips, and she looked up at Duncan. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll be quick to ready yourself for your lessons, lass.” He winked at the others.

  Jenna laughed and climbed the stairs to the loft, but her thoughts returned to Ian’s caustic remarks. He considered her unmarriageable. Perhaps these men and her father had done a disservice by teaching her things useless to her life, or the future of a happy union. Was it time she concentrated on attracting a prospective suitor so she’d no longer be a burden to her father? The thought both disturbed and intrigued her. But first she wanted to find out what had moved the members of her family to decide Newton’s lectures should be added to her daily curriculum. Clutching the lectures to her chest, she beamed with giddiness and said to herself, “Although my academy walls are invisible, I nearly feel like a true scholar.”

  Finished at last with the studies Angus and Gavin had given her, Jenna rushed to the barn to begin the arduous task of cleaning the bits and bridles, saddles and reins within the tack box Mr. Wicken had assigned to her when first arriving. They were ample chores keeping her from examining the pages of Sir Isaac Newton’s works that would clarify many of the clan’s lessons in mathematics and astronomy.

  She recalled Ian’s less than enthusiastic teachings on the laws of motion and the law of universal gravitation. Hands-on experiments, contrived by many of the men, helped her grasp the general concepts, whetting her appetite for more.

  The hunger to devour Newton’s words spurred her labors onward, but as she cleaned and polished, she could not help repeatedly staring at the tack box, the treasure chest where she’d placed the papers. She sighed with gratitude when Jeb and Mr. Wicken came around the corner, deep in conversation while picking up their barn tasks on her side of the stables. At last, something to keep her mind off those alluring writings.

  “I’ve no doubt the duke will see your efforts here, Master Wicken, as long as those efforts prove successful to that which interests him now. If you wanted his immediate notice, ’twould be better if you’d been hired to serve as the estate steward rather than head groom.” Jeb bent to adjust the ironworks on one of the stall doors across from where Jenna sat polishing. “Truthfully, His Grace is too taken up with his new garrison to notice much else, but the young Lord Pembroke has a keen eye on much of the same things and visits the stables frequently. He’d be the individual I’d advise you to set your sights on impressing. If you’re hoping to work your way up through the ranks of Withinghall, he’ll soon hold the key to most doors.”

  Mr. Wicken glanced thoughtfully around, taking in the expanse of the stables. “Is that it then? Be ever present and hands-on?”

  Jenna heard a piece of hardware click into place, and Jeb stood to test the swing of the door. “That and perhaps hinting at a long-term pledge to the estate. You might consider taking a wife to show you’re dependable and serious.” Jeb glanced over to Jenna. “There are plenty of young kitchen maids eager to do the same.”

  A shiver of apprehension rippled across her arms as Mr. Wicken’s gaze followed Jeb’s and landed on her. He quickly turned toward the stable’s main door. “I think I see Lord Pembroke now. He’ll need know of the state of things as last I’ve checked. Excuse me.” Mr. Wicken made a quick nod of his head to Jeb and bolted down the corridor.

  Jeb gathered his tools and raised a bushy white brow at Jenna as he hobbled off in the other direction. Jenna gave him a withering glare as her parting gift and then glanced back down the hall to see Mr. Wicken trailing a very determined, if somewhat dismissive, Lord Pembroke.

  “When is she due?”

  “Well, far as I can see, should be around cross-quarter day of Beltane, sir.”

  “And the rest of the foals, what about them?” Lord Pembroke’s eyes caught Jenna’s and he made the tiniest note of acknowledgment as they moved closer to where she worked.

  “All are due anywhere between Lady Day and St. John’s Day, milord,” he said, attempting an authoritative voice.

  “Mr. Wicken,” Lord Pembroke said, abruptly stopping and causing the other man to bump into him. He sighed with irritation and went on. “I prefer you state the dates from the calendar we share and not report everything to me in terms of Catholic feast days. New Year’s and Midsummer, then, correct?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  Jenna made a mental note of Lord Pembroke’s aggravation, curious as to what lay behind it, while Mr. Wicken spoke again.

  “Milord, I don’t know if anyone’s informed you, but there’s been rumor as to some unrest in the area.”

  “With the horses?” Lord Pembroke pulled back, his face perplexed.

  “No, milord. What I meant was there’s been talk of difficulty . . . in pledging fealty.”

  “To whom?”

  “Well, to the new king, of course, milord.” Mr. Wicken seemed surprised his cryptic message wasn’t decipherable. “Might be some are disappointed with the fact he’s German.”

  Lord Pembroke looked toward Jenna and rolled his eyes. “He could be God himself
and people would still grumble. It’s the fact he’s not inherently English is what’s likely bothering them. I wouldn’t let it worry you.”

  Mr. Wicken straightened himself and persisted, “It’s not just that, sir, but there’s other whisperings as well.” He looked around and lowered his head. “Talk that there might be one . . . better suited for the job.”

  Jenna’s heart suddenly strained to beat.

  “Mr. Wicken”—Lord Pembroke sighed—“if I had a coin for every time I heard a drunken man utter the words, If I were king . . .” He let his words trail off, shaking his head.

  Mr. Wicken’s face grew dull with confusion and Lord Pembroke exhaled again. “Everyone thinks they have a better way, a superior idea. In any case, I’m not disposed to speak of politics—in fact, I’d give a day’s wages to anyone who would avoid the topic altogether in my presence.”

  Jenna’s brows shot up with surprise. Disinterested in both religion and politics? Did he think there was any way of escaping it, coming from his lineage? She lowered her head and industriously went back to polishing.

  “That’s enough for now, Mr. Wicken. You may take your leave. Just tell me where you’ve put the new double bridles you wanted me to see.”

  Mr. Wicken made a deep bow. “The tack box at the end of the row, milord. Good day.” He spun on his heel and left. Jenna snuck a peek to see Lord Pembroke staring off at Mr. Wicken as he departed, a slight shake to his head. He then turned and made for the bridles, but moved toward the wrong tack box. Jenna panicked and leapt from her seat, the silver bit in her lap clanking in a heap as it fell to the floor.

  “That’s the wrong box, milord!” she blathered, rushing toward him. But it was too late. He’d lifted the lid and was peering inside.