The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

  “When you’re tired, Annie, please stretch your legs and go to the kitchen. Cook has made big urns of coffee and tea for everyone, and I do believe there’s also a grand tray of broonies.” Sinjun rolled her tongue as she said the name of those tasty little oatmeal gingerbread biscuits.

  “Thankee, m’lady.”

  Sinjun smiled, hearing the carpenters working on the stairs. After all the main stairs were repaired, the railings sound again, they would continue to repair the stairs that surrounded the minstrel’s gallery. Then it was onward to the stairs in the north tower. All was proceeding apace. Sinjun felt quite pleased with herself.

  She went into the Laird’s Inbetween Room and was delighted to see Dulcie seated between Philip and Dahling.

  “Good morning, Dulcie, children.”

  Dulcie said, “Good morning to ye, m’lady. Philip, dinna frown like that, it’ll put creases in yer forehead fer all yer lifetime, ye ken? Dahling, stop smearing yer eggs on th’ tablecloth!”

  Another normal breakfast, Sinjun thought, remembering the breakfasts with all of Ryder’s children. Bedlam, sheer and utter bedlam.

  She served herself from the sideboard and sat down in Colin’s chair, since it was closest to the children.

  “That’s Papa’s chair.”

  “Yes, and it’s a very nicely carved chair. It’s even big enough for him.”

  “You don’t belong there.”

  “You don’t belong here,” Dahling added.

  “But I’m your father’s wife. Where do I belong if not here, at Vere Castle?”

  That stumped Dahling, but not Philip.

  “Now that Papa has your money, you could go to a convent.”

  “Master Philip!”

  “But I’m not Catholic, Philip. What would I do there? I don’t know anything about crucifixes or matins or confessions.”

  “What’s matins?”

  “Prayers said at midnight or at dawn, Dahling.”

  “Oh. Go to France and be the queen.”

  “That’s quite good, Dahling, but unfortunately there isn’t a queen of France at the moment, there’s just Empress Josephine, Napoléon’s wife.”

  Both children were at an impasse. “This is delicious porridge. The fresh oatmeal makes all the difference. I love it with brown sugar.”

  “It’s better with a knob of butter,” Philip said.

  “Oh, really? Then I will try it with a knob of butter tomorrow.” She took the last spoonful, sighed with pleasure, took a sip of her coffee, and announced, “I have worked very hard for the past three days. This morning I have decided to reward myself, and you will be the rewards. You will go riding with me and show me around.”

  “My tummy hurts,” Dahling said, grabbed her middle, and began to groan.

  “Then ’tis buckbean ye be needing, Dahling.”

  “I’ll ride with you,” Philip said. Sinjun caught the evil wink he gave to his sister.

  * * *

  It took Philip less than two hours to get her lost in the Lomond Hills. It took Sinjun another three hours to find her way back to the castle. However, the morning wasn’t a waste by any means. She’d met five crofters’ families and drunk five different ciders. She found one man who could write—Freskin was his name—and thus he had a quill and some foolscap. She began to list all their names and what needed to be done in repairs. They had little grain, and nothing could keep the fear from Freskin’s wife’s face when he said it. They needed a cow and a couple of sheep; ah, but it was grain that was most important.

  If any of the men, women, or children believed it a pitiful state of affairs for her that she was here only because of her healthy stock of groats, they were polite enough not to say so. Sinjun began to understand more and more of the local dialect. It was either that or drown in lilting sounds. A sweetie wife, she learned, meant a gossip. Freskin’s wife was certainly a sweetie.

  Since the day was beautiful, she let her mare canter over the soft rolling hills and through the forests of larch, pine, birch, and fir. She drank from her cupped hands from Loch Leven. The water was so cold it made her lips tingle. She let her horse wander through a clump of fir trees and nearly stumbled into a peat bog. She held her mare to a walk over the harsh barren moors of the eastern hills. All in all, when she returned to Vere Castle she was tired and had quite enjoyed herself.

  She paused atop the rise she and Colin had halted at such a short time before. Vere Castle still looked magical, perhaps even more so now that she felt a part of it. She reminded herself to purchase some material to make pennants to fly from those four castle towers. Perhaps she could even find a lovely young girl with golden hair to sit in one of the tower windows and plait and unplait her hair.

  She was singing when she espied Philip, surely on the lookout for her, near the massive Tudor front doors.

  “Why, Master Philip, what a fine chase you led me! Goodness, you did best me, didn’t you? You just wait until I take you with me to visit my home in southern England. I’ll get you lost in the maple woods. But I will leave a trail of bread crumbs for you to follow home.”

  “I knew you’d come back.”

  “Yes, naturally. I live here.”

  Philip kicked a pebble with a very worn shoe. “I’ll do better next time.”

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. She grinned and ruffled his beautiful thick black hair—his father’s hair. “I have no doubt you will try to do better, but listen, Philip. I am here to stay, you know. Best accustom yourself, don’t you think?”

  “Dahling’s right. You are ugly.”

  Sinjun was lying in her bed, wide awake, staring up at the black ceiling. It had been well over a week now, and still no word from Colin. She was worried; no, she was angry. The Tudor rooms were all immaculate and nearly all her two hundred pounds were gone. She was tempted to go to Edinburgh, not just to track down her husband but to get more funds. The people who were working for her surely deserved money for their efforts, not promises.

  The carpenters were ready to move on to Colin’s north tower. Perhaps she should wait; perhaps she should allow him to oversee the work. No, damn him. He didn’t deserve the fun. She turned on her side, then flopped again onto her back and sighed.

  She’d had her first visitors today, a local viscount and his wife, and they had come to see the heiress who’d saved the laird’s hide.

  She chanced to hear Aunt Arleth say, “ ’Tis a mighty burden for all of us, Louisa. She might be an heiress, but she’s most ill-bred and has no respect for her betters. She pays me no heed at all, ordering everyone about, she does.”

  Sir Hector MacBean had been looking about him with growing appreciation and no little astonishment. “I fancy her orders have accomplished a great deal, Arleth. The place smells positively clean. Louisa, just look up at the chandelier. I vow I used to fear walking beneath that monstrosity. Now it sparkles and it looks to have a new chain holding it up.”

  And that, Sinjun thought, arranging the skirts of the only gown left to her, was her cue to enter, which she did, all smiles.

  The visit had gone off nicely. Philpot, attired in his new uniform of stark black and white, served Cook’s clootie dumplings, surely the most delicious dish in all the world. He was as regal as King George III on one of his better days, and just as frigidly polite.

  Aunt Arleth looked ready to spit. Sinjun had offered her a clootie dumpling, saying, “The custard sauce Cook makes defies description. Isn’t it delicious, Aunt?”

  Aunt Arleth was stuck. She could but nod.

  The MacBeans were pleasant and appeared sincerely fond of Colin. When they were on the point of leaving, Lady Louisa smiled at Sinjun, patted her arm, and said in a low voice, “You seem a very competent girl. There is much here at Vere Castle that is odd, and all those damnable rumors, of course, but I fancy that you will bring things aright and ignore the talk, for it is nonsense naturally.”

  Whatever that meant, Sinjun thought, thanking the woman.

  She
remained on the front steps to wave them away. Aunt Arleth said, “You think you’re so much better than the rest of us. Well, I daresay that Louisa saw through you. She will tell everyone that you are a mushroom, a no-account upstart that—”

  “Aunt Arleth, I’m the daughter of an earl. If that makes me a mushroom, then you have need of further education. You will cease your diatribes. I have much to do.” She turned, not giving Arleth a chance to say more. “Dahling! Come here, sweeting, we have a gown to fit on you.”

  The night before there had been a snake in Sinjun’s bed: long and black and slithering frantically about, trying to hide. She’d blinked, then smiled. Wrapping it gently around her arm, she had carried the poor snake downstairs and let it escape into the overgrown gardens.

  She wondered what they would do this night. She hadn’t long to wait. It turned out to be a repeat of the first hoary ghost performance. They were quite talented actually, and Sinjun, smiling into the darkness, said aloud in a quavery voice, “Oh dear, not you again. Leave me, O Spirit, please leave me.”

  The spirit departed shortly thereafter, and Sinjun would have sworn she heard a soft giggle.

  Colin called out her name even as he strode up the well-indented stone steps of the castle.

  “Joan!”

  It was Philip and Dahling who greeted him, Dahling flinging her arms about his leg, crying that Sinjun was mean and nasty and ugly and utterly cruel.

  As for Philip, he kept still. Colin hugged both his children and asked them where Joan was.

  “Joan?” Philip said blankly. “Oh, her. She’s everywhere at once. She does everything. She won’t let anyone rest. It’s provoking, Papa.”

  Then Aunt Arleth was there, hissing as close to his ear as she could get that the girl he’d had to marry was giving everyone orders and ruining everything, and what was he going to do about it? It lacked but Serena, and she made her entrance in the next minute.

  She smiled at him sweetly, went up on her tiptoes, and kissed him on the mouth. He was startled and drew back. Her smile didn’t falter.

  “I am glad you’re back,” she said in her soft voice, and his eyebrow arched upward a good inch.

  “All of you—Dahling, let go of my leg now; Philip, take your sister away from here. Where? Anywhere, I don’t care. Arleth, a moment, please. Where’s Joan?”

  “I’m here, Colin.”

  He looked up to see her coming down the wide staircase. She was wearing a new gown, a very simple muslin of soft pale yellow, not at all stylish, a gown such as a country maid would wear, but, somehow, on Joan it looked smart as could be. He’d missed her. He’d thought of her more than he’d liked and had come home before he’d accomplished all he’d needed to in order to see her. Yes, he thought, she looked very nice indeed, and he couldn’t wait to strip off that gown and kiss her and plunge into her. Then he sniffed, and his pleasant fantasy vanished. Beeswax and lemon. Images of his mother rose to his mind and he stiffened, for that was surely impossible.

  Then he looked around and what he saw made him blink.

  Everything was spotless, not that he’d ever noticed that it had been particularly dirty before. But now he remembered, oh yes, he remembered.

  The chandelier looked to be new, the marble floor was so clean he could see his reflection. He didn’t say anything. He was stunned. He walked into the drawing room, then into the Laird’s Inbetween Room. There were new draperies that appeared nearly the same as the old but weren’t, and there were what couldn’t be new carpets, yet their blues and reds shone vivid in the afternoon sunlight.

  “It’s nice to see you, too, Colin.”

  He looked at his wife, saw that her lips were pursed, and he said low, “I see you have been busy, Joan.”

  “Oh yes, we all have. You will notice the draperies, Colin. They are new but I copied the same fabric. Can you believe the warehouse in Dundee still carried the same fabric? It’s a pattern from nearly fifty years ago! Is it not wonderful?”

  “I liked the draperies as they were.”

  “Oh? You mean you liked dust and years upon years of grime dripping onto the floor?”

  “Those carpets look odd.”

  “Assuredly so. They are clean. They no longer send up clouds of dust when you walk across them.”

  He opened his mouth but she forestalled him, raising her hand. “Let me guess—you preferred them as they were.”

  “Yes. As I said, you have been busy, have done things I did not approve.”

  “Should I perchance have lazed about on a chaise, reading novels that you don’t have in that moth-eaten chamber you call a library, eating broonies?”

  He realized they were standing three feet apart, but he made no move to close the distance. He was in the right and he had to make her understand, make her apologize. “You should have waited for me. I specifically asked you to make your lists for my review and then we—”

  “Papa, she is cruel and nasty to Philip and me! She even made me stay in my room one morning and it was a lovely day.”

  “Even my children, Joan?” Colin looked down at his daughter. “Go to Dulcie. I wish to speak to your stepmother.”

  “We don’t want her here! You will tell her not to beat us anymore?”

  Sinjun stared at the little girl, then gave a shout of laughter. “That is really quite good, Dahling. A front shot of the cannon. Quite good.”

  “Go, Dahling. I will see to Joan. Ah, Aunt Arleth, you are here, too? Please leave now and close the door. I’m speaking to my wife.”

  “You will tell her to stop ruining everything, will you not, Colin? After all, ’tis you who are the laird, the husband, and the lord, not this girl here. It isn’t she who is in charge at Vere Castle, it is you. You will see that she—”

  “Send her to a convent!” Dahling yelled, then disappeared from the doorway.

  Arleth merely nodded and took her leave. She closed the door behind her very softly. They were alone in the middle of the beautifully clean and scrubbed Kinross drawing room. Even the battered old furniture had a fine patina to it, but Sinjun wasn’t paying any attention to all her accomplishments at the moment. All her attention was on her husband. Surely he wouldn’t believe Dahling’s dramatic performance, surely . . .

  “Did you strike my children?”

  She stared at him, and he was beautiful and her pulse speeded up just at the mere sight of him, but now he seemed a stranger, a beautiful stranger, and she wanted to hit him.

  “Did you, Joan?”

  It was absurd, ridiculous. She had to stop it and stop it now. She quickly walked to him, laced her fingers behind his neck, and rose to her tiptoes. “I missed you dreadfully,” she said, and kissed him. His lips were firm and warm. He didn’t open his mouth.

  He grasped her arms in his hands and drew them down. “I have been gone for nearly three weeks. I came back only to see you, to assure myself that you were safe, that the damned MacPhersons hadn’t tried anything. I couldn’t find that damned Robbie MacPherson in Edinburgh. He’s avoiding me, curse his coward’s hide. Of course, I would have been told if something had happened, but I wanted to come myself and see for myself. You are quite the queen of the castle, aren’t you? You have made yourself quickly in charge and done whatever it was you wished to do. You had no care for my opinions. You ignored my wishes. You ignored me.”

  She felt his words wash over her. She wasn’t used to words that hurt so very much. She looked at him now and said simply, “I have done what I believed best.”

  “You are too young, then, to be trusted to know.”

  “It’s absurd and you know it, Colin. Ah, here is Serena, doubtless here to kiss you again. Do you wish to continue your sermon with Serena present? I can call the children and Aunt Arleth again if you like. Perhaps they can harmonize in a chorus, singing of my sins to you. No? Very well then, if you wish, you may come to your tower room. You might as well relieve yourself of all your bile now.”

  She turned on her heel and strode away,
just like a young man, he thought, his jaw tightening, almost no female sway to those hips of hers, yet he knew the feel of her, and his hands fisted at his sides. He followed her, saying, “It would have been nice had you made an effort to befriend my children. I see they still think you’re an interloper. I see that you dislike them as much as they dislike you.”

  She didn’t turn about to face him, merely said over her shoulder, “Louder, Colin. Children tend to behave in the ways of their parents, you know.”

  He shut his mouth. He kept on her heels all the way to the north tower. He could smell the beeswax and the lemon here and knew that she’d had the gall to do as she pleased to his room—the only room that was truly his and only his—as well as to the rest of the castle. He speeded up. When he saw the repaired tower stairs, he said, “I didn’t wish to have them repaired in this way. What the devil have you done?”

  She was three steps above him when she turned. “Oh, what would you have authorized, Colin? Perhaps you wished to have the stairs placed diagonally? Or perhaps skipping every other stair, with a dungeon below for those who were not careful walkers?”

  “You had no right to interfere with what is mine. I told you not to.”

  He said nothing more, pressing past her on the narrow stairs. He opened the brass-studded door of his tower room, and the fresh smells that assailed him were more than he could bear. He stopped in the middle of the circular room, staring at the vase of summer roses set on his desk. Roses, for God’s sake, his mother’s favorite flower, and the smell mingled with the tart scent of lemon.

  He closed his eyes a moment. “You have overstepped yourself, madam.”

  “Oh? You prefer filth, then? You prefer that your books continue to rot? They were quite close to it, you know. Naturally, the shelves upon which they sat had worm rot and beetles and God knows what else. It was a close thing.”

  He turned then to face her, furious and feeling utterly impotent. She was right, damn her, he was being a dog in the manger, but he’d wanted to oversee things, it was his home, his rags and his tatters, his responsibility. But no, she’d set herself up as the arbitrator of everything, and done just as she’d wished to do and without any direction or permission from him. He could not forgive it. He’d exiled himself to protect her, and she’d done him in, taken over, all without a by-your-leave. He continued to wax eloquent in his mind, then blurted out, a new outrage coming to the fore, “I despise lemon and beeswax! The smell of roses makes me want to puke.”