The soft tap on the door was followed by the unceremonious entry of a young serving woman. Jean, no doubt. Catherine realized suddenly that she was still standing about in her wet traveling clothes. But watching the young woman cross the room carrying a large two handled ewer gave Catherine a dim hope of warm water to wash away some of the grime of her travels.
“Mistress Susan said ye might be needing this.”
“I’m obliged to you.”
As the servant placed the ewer on the stool with an odd glance in her direction, Catherine considered the so far faceless Mistress Susan. This was the second time her name had come up since she had arrived at Balvenie Castle. Other than the earl’s name, the only other information she’d been able to gather about the family had come from Ellen Crawford, and no mention had been made of a Susan.
Nonetheless, the earl’s former intended had been quite outspoken in expressing her disappointment with Lady Anne Stewart, the dowager Countess Balvenie. From the way Ellen had described her, Catherine’s impression was that the earl’s mother was a sickly and yet personally overpowering woman who still very much controlled Balvenie Castle and, for that matter, her son as well.
“Also, mistress said to tell ye that Lady Anne takes an early supper in her chambers, of course. So it’d be best for all if ye’d clean up as quick as ye can and be ready to pay the countess a visit before she calls for her food to be served.”
“Very well,” Catherine responded quietly. She was not about to return the servant’s snappish tone. Then, as she undid the tie of her soaked traveling cloak, the serving woman reluctantly crossed the chamber to take the heavy garment off her shoulder.
“You are Jean, I take it.”
“I am,” she replied, eyeing with overt surprise the plain, unembroidered, dark wool dress that Catherine was wearing beneath her cloak. As the servant stood waiting, Catherine noticed the questioning look on her face. A frown quickly replaced the look. “If ye step out of the dress, I’ll take that to the kitchens, as well, for washing.”
“I am very grateful for your kindness.” Catherine leaned down and opened her travel chest, taking out a clean shift, a blouse, and the only other dress she had in her possession--a modest, well-made woolen garment of deep blue. Walking quickly to the ewer of water on the stool, she looked hesitantly around for a cloth of some sort to wash herself. Realizing what Catherine needed, Jean promptly dropped the cloak in her hand on the rush-covered floor and opened the single chest in the room.
By the time she’d stepped out of her dress and removed her boots, Catherine’s teeth were chattering. Standing in her chemise as Jean rummaged through the chest, she realized that even her undergarment was soaked and covered with mud to her knees.
“Most of the household still doesn’t know yet, mistress, but I was told by Mistress Susan that ye are the master’s new bride.”
Catherine accepted the cloth out of the younger woman’s hand. Gritting her teeth and dipping the linen into the cold water in the ewer, she fought back the urge to deny it. Like it or not--for the time being, anyway--she was his wife.
“I do not know why the men are so slow to bring up your things, m’lady.”
Catherine hurriedly ran the cloth over her face and her skin, trying to get as much of the grime as she could. “Everything I have is already here, Jean.”
A cloud of confusion again darkened the woman’s eyes. “But we were told--”
“I am Catherine Percy.”
The name evoked no glimmer of recognition in Jean’s face.
“Before your master...took me as his wife, I was to work with the good fathers at Elgin Cathedral. To start a school here.”
Slowly the look of confusion was replaced by one of panic. The woman’s hand suddenly flew to her mouth. “By the saints, mistress, I do not think...why, Mistress Susan...and Lady Anne...”
The young maid’s eyes suddenly cleared--perhaps at the vision of Catherine’s blue lips--and she hurriedly moved to the fire, stacking more pieces of wood on the growing flames and racing back to her.
“Mistress, you’ll catch your death in that wet shift. Here--out of that thing and let me get you dry!”
Catherine was too cold to argue. So, nodding obediently, she quickly pulled off the wet garment. A moment later, dry at last, she appreciatively accepted the soft blanket that Jean had yanked from the chest and was wrapping around her.
“Sit by the fire a wee bit, m’lady,” Jean said, moving the stool closer to the fire and placing the ewer on the floor. “Ye’ll warm up in no time.”
Settling before the hearth, Catherine watched the maid moving about the chamber, taking her few possessions out of her bag and airing them on the bed. There was an attentiveness that bordered on concern in Jean’s manner now, and it was an attitude that had certainly been absent before.
Clearly, Catherine realized, her new husband had not even bothered to inform his household as to the identity of his new wife. But it was also interesting how greatly, and how openly these people were prepared to dislike her, thinking she was Ellen Crawford.
“I’ll be back to dress ye in a wink, mistress. I need to be running along for just a moment...to tell Mistress Susan about...about...supper.”
“Thank you, Jean. I can manage to dress myself, if you have other duties.” The serving lass wanted to warn her mistress about the mix-up; Catherine could understand that perfectly. But then, as the young woman leaned down to pick up the soiled clothes, a question popped into Catherine’s head, and she asked it before Jean could escape. “About your Mistress Susan. Is she...I mean, does she run the household?”
“Aye, mistress, that she does. Since Lady Anne has taken to her bed, Mistress Susan has taken charge of the castle.” Jean lowered her voice to a whisper. “And I do not mind telling ye that she does a fine job of it, too. The serving folk are much happier taking directions from her. She’s a great deal easier than Lady Anne and her tantrums. But then, she came up to Balvenie Castle to do just this sort of thing. My understanding is that she was trained for it from the time she was a wee lass.”
“So Mistress Susan hasn’t been living at Balvenie Castle all her life?”
“Nay, mistress. She only came here last summer, before the harvest. She was brought up here by the countess herself...to marry the master!”
*****
The sun had only been winning its struggle with the rain clouds for about an hour when the burly, bristle-bearded miller led Athol and Tosh along the Kettles Brook. Behind them, where the broad creek tumbled into the Spey at the village of Rothes, the rest of the earl’s men waited, happy for an hour’s respite from a day of hard, wet riding.
“I know where my old man likes to fish, m’lord,” the miller tossed over one broad shoulder. “We’re not far, now.”
Athol frowned and stared at the man’s bald head, shining and beaded with sweat from the walk. Hopefully, the miller’s father would have more information to share than the others he’d spoken with. They’d offered little enough.
The ancient, wizened little priest and his equally aged housekeeper at the village of Knockandhu had been more than happy to sit before a morning fire and share with Athol their memories of his father. With a gentleness and diplomacy that would have shocked those who knew him well, though, he’d finally gotten them down to business. Aye, the earl had spent a great deal of time, in the old days, at the little hunting lodge he’d kept there. They both recalled the hunting parties with Duncan, the laird of Ironcross Castle, and his family as well, joining in the festivities. Aye, the earl was a lusty, great-hearted man, that they agreed on wholeheartedly. But when it came to the rumors of the laird keeping a mistress there, they’d been vehement in their response. Nay, he’d kept no mistresses at Knockandhu. The earl was not that kind of man.
And then later, in the hovel nestled snugly against the eastern slope of Corryhabbie Hill, Athol had spoken with a blind old woman who’d kept sheep there for longer than anyone remembered. It was she who’d s
upposedly cared for the earl after a boar had torn a hole in his side large enough to put your fist in. She’d smiled when Athol had delicately mentioned that there were still rumors abroad that she’d cared for more than just his wounds. Alas, nay, she’d said. He was a good and handsome man, and a generous laird, but he’d never been more than a friend to her...though she was as handsome a lass as any in those days, if she did say so herself.
The keeper of the Inn at Dalnoshaugh had no more to offer than the others, though he did recall the lass asked about, the one who’d drowned herself there in the river all those years back. That incident had nothing to do with the earl, though. In fact, the bridge keeper knew for a fact that the lass had been carrying the bairn of a godless, murdering outlaw whom the earl had subsequently searched out, caught, and hanged from the bridge there, bless his heart.
The mists rolling in around Cairn Uish were just beginning to blanket the descending sun when the miller turned to Athol and pointed ahead. There, beneath a great old oak overhanging the stream, an older, frailer version of the miller himself sat sleeping, fishing pole across his knee, a basket of trout beside him.
“Hullo, Wink,” the miller shouted as they neared. “Wake up, old man.”
The older miller raised his head and turned his head only slightly, picking up the end of his line and baiting the hook before tossing the line back in the water.
“Up, Wink, you’ve got folk here that want to be speaking with you.”
“Quiet down, you fool,” the old man spat out of the side of his mouth. “D’ye want to be scaring off yer supper?”
“Never mind that,” his son said as they came alongside of him. “The Laird of Balvenie himself has been traipsing all over the countryside looking for you, so get your carcass up.”
Wink, who’d probably been the miller at Rothes when John Stewart’s father was a bairn, turned his bristly face toward the visitors, and gave Athol an appraising look.
“Aye,” he said without rising. “Ye’ve got the face of old King Jamie, rest his soul, but ye’ve got your father’s height, too. Come and sit, m’lord, if ye’ll not mind yer own soil for a place to be restin’ yer arse.”
Waving away Tosh and the miller, Athol took a seat on the grass, resting his back against one of the thick, gnarly roots that protruded from the ground.
“Ye’ve come to ask me about my daughter and yer father, have ye not?”
Stunned by the directness of the old man’s question, Athol nodded. “Aye, Wink. I’ve heard some things...”
“Well, none of them are true, and you can all go to the devil!”
Wink’s son shouted from the distance. “Watch your tongue, old man.”
“I’m not saying anything against your kin, miller.”
“I told him, I’m telling you, and I’ll tell anyone else who comes to call. My daughter was a good lass, a bit bold perhaps, but a good lass.”
“Will you tell me what happened?”
“Aye, ‘tis simple enough.” The old man yanked in his line and dropped the fishing pole on the ground between them. “Yer good father came up to Rothes when Makyn was just a lass. They were building the church in the village, and the earl come up to see the doings. That’s when Makyn asked him.”
“Asked him what?”
“She wanted to be a nun, the brazen thing. So the laird gave her a bag of gold to get a good place at the cathedral at Elgin, and she went off without so much as a ‘by yer leave’ to her own father.”
“That’s it?”
“Aye, that’s it.”
“Then what of all the talk?”
“‘Twas all wickedness and lies, I tell ye.” Wink glared at the earl. “They were all jealous that the laird would be so good to her and not to them.”
“So there was no bairn.”
“Nay, m’lord. There was no bairn.”
“And your daughter went to Elgin.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Athol’s look of barely concealed skepticism was met with a look of anger from the old man.
“She’s still there, for all I know. I told the other the same thing. Go and look for yerself!”
Athol stared at the man for a moment. “What other?” he asked quietly. “Has another been here before me?”
The aged miller looked away quickly. Clearly, his tongue had revealed more than he’d intended.
“Who has been here, miller?”
Wink hesitated a moment, mumbling to himself before turning and looking the earl directly in the eye.
“Adam, m’lord! Adam of the Glen! Why, the lad asked near the same questions that ye’re asking now. I’m telling ye, the lad’s keen to know the name of any mistress the laird might’ve had. But I sent him on his way, m’lord, that I did. Yer father kept no lasses here!”
CHAPTER 5
So why did he marry her? Catherine wondered. He could have had Susan and made everyone happy!
She frowned at the slender shoulders and tight braids curled beneath the starched cap of the young woman walking half a step before her. These were the same corridors that Catherine had traveled earlier, and the deepening of the gloom into night did nothing to improve their character. The only architectural relief was a narrow ledge that ran along the wall, beneath the occasional slit windows that looked down on roof of the kitchens and the courtyard. Jean walked just ahead of the other two, carrying a flickering taper and occasionally glancing back inquisitively from one woman to the other.
Well, Catherine thought, it was no wonder that--even after knowing that she was not Ellen Crawford--Susan MacIntyre had had little to offer her but the most indifferent whisper of greeting.
Catherine furtively studied the other woman again. It was interesting to see how, in appearances anyway, she and Susan were so similar. Though Susan appeared to be a few years younger, they were both of medium height, with black hair and fair complexions. Susan had a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, but her tightly pursed mouth and downcast eyes allowed no hint of humor to break the somber look of her. Even her dress, black and plain, was modest to the point of primness, its neckline high with a collar of linen to hide any glimpse of skin. She appeared to have a taste for a fashion that made her look much older. Of course, Catherine knew she was somewhat partial to that style herself. She’d been taught early on that it was much better to have people remember you by your wit rather than the fanciness of your dress.
Lady Anne Stewart’s chamber lay in the southwest corner of the castle. As they passed into the wider corridor, Catherine’s eyes took in the fine tapestries hanging on the whitewashed, plastered walls. This section was clearly finer than the wing where Catherine had been placed, but even if it were her nature to complain, she was not about to. No doubt John Stewart’s chambers were nearby, and she was grateful for the distance.
From the few words she’d been able to drag out of Susan, the earl’s mother had become bedridden for the first time in her life, early in the summer, after a cough began to weaken her. But as the weeks had passed, the castle physician had shaken his head, speaking of the kink and then, the ague. And as the body of the aging woman grew thin and frail, Susan said, the dowager’s spirit had grown weaker. Now, for more than a fortnight, the physician had been telling all that the end was not far away.
It occurred to Catherine that it was sad to meet someone under these conditions. No matter what mistakes Lady Anne might have made in raising such a stubborn son, she still commanded great respect in Catherine’s mind, as one who had lived so long in such ruggedly wild country. She frowned as they neared the dowager’s great oak door, thinking how, under different circumstances, they might even have developed a good and lasting relationship.
Putting such thoughts aside, Catherine followed Susan quietly into the large, darkened chamber. The thickly perfumed air of the room struck Catherine like a slap in the face. Remaining by the entrance, she watched Susan whisper some orders to the two waiting women positioned by the dowager’s bed. An ancient woman-in-wai
ting that Susan called Auld Mab sat silently listening by a wide hearth. From where she stood, Catherine couldn’t see past the heavy, French damask bedcurtains, or make out anything of the figure stretched beneath the embroidered bedclothes. Instead, she let her gaze drift about the huge chamber. The fine furnishings were lavish and comfortable, and Catherine might have been impressed, were it not so grim. Darkness hung like a shroud in the room, and the heavily curtained windows seemed to be intentionally holding out all light, and all fresh air, as well.
Catherine heard the dowager cough weakly behind the curtains. The thought struck her that, between the smoke from the burning logs on the hearth and the closeness of the unaired sick chamber, it was a wonder that the older woman could possibly take in a full breath. Catherine could hardly breathe herself.
A low croak cut through the darkness. “Come close!”
When no one else moved, Catherine realized that the raspy words spoken from behind the curtains were directed at no one but her.
Wiping her wet palms on the skirt of her dress, Catherine threw a hesitant glance in Susan’s direction and acknowledged her nod before approaching the canopied bed. As she came near, the two attendants and Susan all backed away to a respectful distance. Clenching her jaw, she prepared herself for the worst. Hadn’t Jean told her that the dowager’s wish had been for her son to wed Susan? Catherine could feel the mother’s disapproval hanging in the air like the sword of Damocles above her head.
“Closer, I said! Come closer!”
Catherine stared at the gleaming amber stones of the rosary laced between the bony, wrinkled fingers of the older woman, and took another half step.
“Closer!”
So be it! she thought. Lifting her chin, she walked around the side of the bed, her gaze meeting and holding the piercing gray eyes of the aged woman. The sharpness of that look, the intensity that radiated from those eyes, bespoke intelligence and will. John Stewart had his mother’s eyes. A long moment passed in silence as Lady Anne continued to examine her. And then she heard the noise.
Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) Page 5