Leesil laid her head against her husband’s upper arm. “Now what do we do?”
“Hang Lady Okerman,” Cathleen suggested.
“I am all for that,” said Egan.
“You know her?” Hannish asked.
“‘Twas years ago,” Egan answered, “Lady Okerman came when you were not long gone to America.”
“Came? Do you mean she came here – to the castle?” Hannish asked.
“Aye, and she was in a rage. She and the duchess had harsh words, and Lady Okerman was none too pleased when she left either.”
“Do you know what they argued over?” Cameron asked.
“Aye, the duchess claimed Addie is the daughter of Lady Okerman’s brother.”
Cameron wrinkled his brow. “The brother that died?”
“Did he die?” Egan asked, “I had not heard that.”
“He was thrown from a horse last year,” Cameron answered.
Hannish kissed his wife’s forehead, and then stood up and walked to the window. “Addie is not Lord Bayington’s daughter as we thought.”
“If you believe the duchess,” Cathleen put in. “When has she ever not lied when ‘twas convenient?”
“True,” Leesil agreed. “‘Twas just a way to get wealth from the wealthy, only this time from Lord and Lady Okerman.”
Hannish began to rub the back of his neck again. “If Addie is the daughter of Lady Okerman’s brother, why did he not marry her? Surely he would have done the honorable thin’ by his child.”
Cameron stared at the rug for a moment. “Brother, do you not remember he was suddenly sent away? We thought at the time ‘twas odd how quickly he left, and without a word to any of us.”
“I do remember, now that you mention it. ‘Twas Queen Victoria herself who sent him…to Germany, I believe ‘twas.”
“How handy to be related to the Queen,” Leesil muttered.
“Not handy for me,” Hannish reminded her. “A year later, ‘twas Maude who introduced me to Olivia and now we know why. She wanted the duchess married off so she could not marry Maude’s brother.”
“We are losing sight of the problem,” Cathleen reminded them. “We must find the duchess and make her tell the truth before Hannish is arrested.”
“Finding her,” Egan asked, “would help Lady Okerman find her brother’s child. If the private detective cannae, she hopes we will find the duchess for her.”
For a long moment, everyone remained deep in thought, until Cameron spoke again. “Even the duchess cannae prove Addie is hers. I adopted her in America, thanks to McKenna’s husband.”
“She looks so much like her mother, though,” Leesil reminded him.
Hannish left his place at the window and returned to his seat. “We can take her back with us, if you think she needs be kept out of Scotland.”
“True,” said Cameron.
“I should not have insulted Lady Okerman,” Leesil muttered.
Cathleen sighed. “If a detective cannae find her, how can we?”
“Well,” Egan said, standing up, “I promised to help in the kitchen. Send for me if there is anything I can do.” When Cameron nodded, Egan quickly walked out the door and closed it behind him. He hurried down the back stairs, walked down the three steps into the kitchen and was relieved to find Malveen alone.
“I am in need of your help?”
“Truly?” she asked.
“Truly.” He leaned his back against the pantry door and folded his arms. “When the duchess, I mean, Olivia, lived here, did she have any friends in the village?”
Malveen put the bread dough she finished kneading in a bowl and covered it with a cloth. “She came to the village once a week, at least, mostly to tell us what was wrong with the place. Nay, I dinna recall anyone she fancied.”
“Did she go see your father?”
“Egan, a parson was the last person her highness ever wanted to see.”
He chuckled. “I had forgotten that’s what we called her.”
“Aye, and to her face occasionally. Why do you ask?”
“I hoped she might have confided in someone. A confession might have been nice, although your father most likely would not repeat it.”
“He never has that I know of. What is wrong?”
“We may need to find the duchess, but I cannae explain why just now.” Egan watched her wash her hands and dry them. She pulled a stalk of celery out of the bin, carried it to the sink and began to pull the stems apart so she could wash them. “More potato soup?”
“Aye.” She smiled and continued her work. “I should have your Cathleen fattened up in no time. And just now I am reminded. You forgot to give me the directions so I can write to Blanka.”
“Letters! That’s it, letters!” Impulsively, he went to the sink and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you.”
As he raced back up the steps, a slow smile crossed Malveen’s face.
*
Sarah was all a flutter when she rushed to her Butler husband. “Someone is in the attack!”
Seated at his desk in the butler’s small office, he quickly stood up. “What?”
“I went to dress Cathleen for dinner and we both heard it.”
Alarmed, he rushed out of the office and headed up the front stairs, just as Cameron and Hannish were coming down. “Someone is in the attack.”
The brothers quickly turned and followed. “I’ve not been in the attack in years,” Hannish said.
“Nor have I,” Cameron admitted.
As they climbed the narrow staircase at the back of the castle, they slowed and quieted, unsure whom they might find up there. Alistair gently opened the door and in the dim light a small window provided, they saw a dark figure. A lit candle sat on at dusty table and the man appeared to be going through one of the trunks.
“Egan?” Alistair asked.
Startled, Egan spun around to face them. “Great balls, you scared the life outa me.”
“What are you doing?” Hannish asked.
“I thought the duchess might have left some letters behind when she was sent away.”
“Letters that might tell us who Blair’s father is?” Cameron asked.
“Aye, and where to find her,” Egan added.
“Alistair, fetch more candles and tell our wives they have nothing to fret over. Tell them to enjoy their dinner; we shall eat later.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Egan didn’t realize his hands were dirty when he wiped sweat off his brow. “When the duchess left the cottage, we put everything in trunks and moved them up here.”
“Aye,” said Cameron, but I had her trunks brought down and went through them. I found no letters.”
“All three trunks?” Egan asked.
“Three?” Cameron asked. “Nay, there were only two.”
Egan looked around. “I thought this was one of them, but it belonged to your uncle.”
Hannish walked around Egan and looked at the things his uncle left behind. “We were hoping to find more stories up here.”
Cameron ran his hand through the top of his hair. “I forgot about that. Look at this place, there must be a dozen trunks and furnishings I never knew we had.”
“Well, no time like the present,” said Hannish. “You take that trunk and I’ll look through this one. Egan, can you not recognize Olivia’s trunk? Most likely, it has less dust atop it than the others.”
“Good point.” Egan started to go from trunk to trunk, checking the dust until he came to a vacant area. “If only I could remember where we put them. I could have sworn ‘twas here, but ‘tis empty now.”
The attack was the one place still not wired for electric lights. Alistair brought more candles, and then left to attend his other duties, while the brothers and Egan went through the trunks. Sadly, there were no letters to or from the duchess, and no journals filled with old family stories.
“What do you suppose this is?” Egan asked, opening the last, and by the looks of it, the oldest trunk in th
e attack. He reached in, and then held up an ancient sheepskin flask. As soon as he did, a powdery substance began to pour out of a hole in the bottom, so he tried to pinch it closed with his other hand. Unable to stop the flow, he quickly put the flask back in the trunk. Instantly, his hand began to itch and when he scratched it, the powder spread to his wrist.
“Itching powder,” Cameron gasped. “Dinna scratch it, Egan. Go wash! Make haste afore you get it everywhere.” He tried not to smile until the footman was gone, but he couldn’t help himself. “Uncle warned it was here. He saved it in case the English came back.”
Hannish smiled too. “Came in handy the last time they set foot in the glen.” He was about to close the lid on the trunk until he spotted something else inside. He looked around, found a rod, and then lifted the candle higher. Carefully, he put the tip of the rod inside an ancient, wooden goblet and lifted it out. “Do you suppose this is Laird Justin’s goblet? Or better yet, Laird Neil’s? Does the story not say his goblet was kept in a trunk?”
Cameron came closer to see for himself. “I believe it does. You best put it back; it is covered with itching powder.” Cameron turned and started for the stairs. “I am sad we found no more stories.”
Hannish carefully closed the trunk lid and sighed. “‘Twas worth a try. Now what?”
“Now we bathe and eat,” Cameron answered, making sure the candles were put out. “There is nothing more we can do. Tomorrow is another day.”
“If I am not arrested by then,” Hannish mumbled, putting out the last candle with his fingers, and then following his brother down the stairs.
*
It was after the morning meal that the American, Charles Whitfield, called again to speak to the Duke of Glenartair. “Your Grace, I have bad news.”
“What sort of news, Charles?” Cameron asked, taking the call in the Great Hall. “Are you hurt, do you need assistance?”
“No, Your Grace, I am fine. A private detective by the name of Garrott was here looking for Mrs. Sinclair. She lives, rather used to live, across the street.”
“I remember. She moved away?”
“A few months ago, although I told Mr. Garrott it was a year. He asked if she had any daughters. I told him two, and that she had taken a new husband. Your Grace, I’ve never seen a man at her door in all these months. Anyway, I thought that might sufficiently dissuade the detective.”
“Good for you, Charles. Did Mr. Garrott say why he was looking for Mrs. Sinclair?”
“He was hoping Mrs. Sinclair could tell him how to find Alexandra. What has my wife done this time?”
“She has disappeared, but that is not out of the ordinary for her.”
“She’s run off from another husband?”
“It appears so. I wouldn’t fret over it; it has nothing to do with you.”
“I am greatly relieved. Call if I am needed, Your Grace. You know I’ll come straight away.”
“Thank you, Charles. I shall tell your mother we have heard from you.”
“Yes, please do.” Charles hung up and wiped the perspiration off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “She is like a ghost that returns to haunt us when we least expect it.”
*
The duchess was not the only thing on Hannish’s mind when he placed the call to his office in Colorado Springs. He hoped to catch his cousin before he went home for the night, and was relieved when Moan answered. “Has our lumber arrived?” he asked.
It was a modest two-room office on the upper floor of a downtown building, with just enough space for Hannish’s business partner, Claymore Whitfield, and their secretary, Moan. Instead of having an office, Hannish preferred to be at the warehouse or on site with the men.
“Not yet,” Moan answered. “We are beside ourselves, but I have called the lumberyard repeatedly and each time they give a different delivery date.”
In the Castle’s parlor, Hannish put his feet up on a footstool. “And the men?”
“Some have gone to work for Mr. Swinton, just as we suspected they would.”
“I see.”
“He offers higher wages. Seven have stayed, but they have little to do. What shall I tell them, Mr. Hannish? They are good lads and they cannae bear bein’ idle much longer.”
“Have they finished the foundations?”
A Scot through and through, and just ready to walk out the door, Moan sat on the corner of his cleared off desk. “Aye, we have five houses ready to put up. All we need is the lumber. Should we import from Denver? If we do, the Pikes Peak lumberyards will find it insultin’.”
“Aye, order enough to keep the lads busy for another month, but dinna hire the others back until I get home.”
“They’ll want to come back too, even for less pay. Mr. Swinton is a harsh lad, and he uses but the least measure of good materials. Most are unhappy working for him.”
“Good. Let them suffer another month and let the lumberyards be insulted. Cancel our orders with them first thing in the morning.”
“Aye, cousin Hannish.”
“How is Claymore?”
“He went fishin’ and happily so.”
Hannish chuckled. “Good for Claymore. I look forward to a little fishin’ myself. And the family, are they all well?”
“Very well. Mrs. Whitfield would have it no other way, and comes to call at Marblestone every day.”
Again, Hannish chuckled. If anyone could keep an eye on Marblestone, Abigail Whitfield could. “Tell her we miss them beyond measure, and say we have spoken to Charles. He is well and sends his love.”
“I shall, Mr. Hannish. I surely shall. Your sister and the Judge came to dinner last evenin’.”
“How is the murder trial goin’?”
“The judge finds it the most interestin’ trial he has seen in years, but he does not speak of the particulars.”
“Nay, he is not allowed to.”
“The newspapers are full of it, nevertheless. Even a reporter from Denver came. I have saved the papers for you.”
“Thank you, Moan. I look forward to readin’ them. Our young Mr. Wade; is he well?”
“I am happy to report, my little sheriff has stopped capturing Mr. Whitfield, although the milk man is not happy. He has refused to deliver again if I cannae keep Wade inside.”
Hannish laughed. “Dinnae hamper him too much, he delights us all. Call if you have a need.” As soon as he hung up, Hannish went to the upstairs sitting room to give everyone his report.
*
At her home in Colorado Springs, as soon as she hung up the phone, Abigail Whitfield got right to work. Loretta and her Mr. Swinton were coming home, and Abigail felt beholden to give them a wedding reception. What else could she do? Therefore, there was a guest list to make, a wedding cake to order, decorations to plan and perhaps she might need to hire an orchestra. After all, what was a wedding reception if the groom did not dance with the bride? Suddenly, Abigail caught her breath, put her hand on her heart and picked the telephone back up. Thankfully, there was no one else on the party line.
“Marblestone, please,” she told the operator.
“What number please?”
“Cynthia, you know the number as well as I do, and I’ve not got time for gobbledygook. Simply connect me, if you please.” She could hear the operator huff, but in no time at all, the phone rang at Marblestone Mansion. “Mr. Prescot?”
“Yes, Mrs. Whitfield.”
“My husband says you are the best fighter he has ever seen. That dreadful Mr. Swinton has married our poor, dear Loretta, and I am put upon to give them a wedding reception. Mr. Prescot, he is likely to bring that…that contemptible cane gun of his, and has it not already accidentally gone off once?” She didn’t bother to wait for his answer. “Mr. Whitfield shall be none too happy to have Mr. Swinton in the house, not after he burned down our warehouse and stole our lumber, but what can I do? Will you come, Mr. Prescot, just in case there is trouble?”
“I shall be honored, Mrs. Whitfield.”
/> Abigail let out a relieved breath. “Bless you, Mr. Prescot.” She hung up without telling which day it was, but she would get around to that later. She had but four days to make all the arrangements. There was not a moment to waste, and she instantly picked up the phone again.
“Connect me with the bake shop. I need a wedding cake.”
*
If any place in the world exhibited a woman’s flamboyant personality, the Whitfield Mansion did. Every room was decorated in a different color, which Abigail changed more often than other wives did – but then, other wives weren’t married to a man who sold his gold mines for a very impressive sum. Magnificent chandeliers lit the way as the guests were ushered into the spacious parlor, where a four-tier wedding cake was arranged on a mahogany table, especially brought downstairs from Abigail’s new sewing room for the occasion.
China plates just the right size, were set out, as were folded cloth napkins and real silver plated forks. Crystal glasses surrounded a large punch bowl. Small crystal bowls with rose petals floating in water, decorated the smaller tables, and white ribbons were tied nearly everywhere Abigail could think to tie them. It was a bit overdone, but something had to keep her from thinking too hard.
Marblestone’s butler, Prescot, dressed in an ordinary charcoal suit, stood near a door keeping an eye on everything, which eased Abigail’s mind considerable. It did little for her husband, Claymore, a robust man with short, graying hair. He was trying his best to be civil, but the thought of having Swinton in his home kept him riled the whole four days. Still, he promised Abigail he would not start anything, and he intended to keep his promise…if he could.
As soon as the bride and groom entered, the small gathering applauded. There were hugs for the exuberant Loretta and congratulatory handshakes for Mr. Swinton. Claymore, however, thought of something that needed his immediate attention and left the room. It did not go unnoticed by Mr. Swinton, but the always cheerful Loretta was still floating on air, and had no idea who was there and who was not. She wore a new dress, one her husband obviously bought for her, and not once did she shift her weight from foot to foot as though her shoes hurt.
Marblestone Mansion, Book 5 Page 13