"You ken that I dinna have tae accept that English title?" Duncan said.
"Do you understand that you will become the Marquis of Birmingdale whether you want to be or not?"
There was a long, uncomfortable—at least for Henry—moment of silence, which included a bit of teeth grinding on Duncan's part before he said, "So why are you here tae tell o' this now, when, as you said, the marquis isna dead yet?"
"You have come of age. Part of your mother's promise was that you would be sent to Lord Neville at this time, if he was still living, which he is, so that he could himself instruct you on your responsibilities, and also so that he can see you settled properly before he dies."
"Settled?"
"Married."
"I suppose, then, he'd even be picking me a bride?" Duncan said sarcastically. "Well, yes, actually, he has," Henry replied with the utmost reluctance. But it was at that point that Duncan MacTavish burst out laughing.
Chapter Six
Duncan had been amused because he hadn't believed that his English grandfather's gall could actually affect him. Neville Thackeray could pick for him a'dozen brides. Who was to force him to marry any of them? He was his own man. If Neville had wanted to direct and control him as his solicitor was claiming, he should have sent for him sooner, before any and all decisions were his own to make.
The entire situation was incredible. Archibald had turned over to Duncan the running of the farms, the mines, and the other MacTavish enterprises when he'd turned eighteen. Why would he have done that if he'd known all along that Duncan wouldn't be there to carry on? A promise made before he was born, that everyone knew of—except him. Utterly incredible.
He had nothing against the English personally. His own mother had been English, after all, though after she became a MacTavish, that was pretty much overlooked. It was an ingrained animosity for him, the result of the distrust and dislike he'd witnessed all his life. Yet he was expected to go to England, to live among the English? Even to marry one? Be damned if he would.
His amusement didn't last long after he turned the little Englishman over to Archibald's housekeeper to put to bed. And he spent a restless night himself, by turns amazed and infuriated over the magnitude of
what had been kept secret from him. In the end, though, he decided that Archibald must have a plan to get him out of fulfilling that long-ago promise. Nothing else made sense to him. And he'd find out what it was first thing in the morning.
As expected, Archibald was already in the kitchen while dawn was still making its first appearance. Duncan joined him there as he did each morning. They were both early risers. And the kitchen, the warmest room in the house at that hour, was where they took their meals, the formal dining room too big and drafty for just the two of them.
Such had been the case ever since the last of Archibald's four sons had died fourteen years ago. The last had been Duncan's father. Two of the sons had died due to pure carelessness, two due to nature's fury. Duncan's parents died together. They had been sailing to France to sign contracts for a new market for MacTavish wool. Such a short trip, yet the storm had been so sudden and so violent, the ship never made it to its French port.
Duncan would have been on that ship as well if he hadn't experienced such a horrid bout of seasickness before it even set sail. Archie, there that day to see his kin on their way, had insisted he stay behind. Duncan had been disappointed. He had wanted to travel. At seven years of age, it would have been his first trip so far from home— and his last.
Being the last of Archibald's direct line, Duncan had been coddled thereafter, and so overprotected, he often felt stifled by Archie's concern. He couldn't blame the old man, though. It couldn't be easy, outliving all your children. And Duncan was his only grandchild.
Two of Archibald's other sons had been married before they died, but three pregnancies between them had gone bad, so the two wives, both being childless, had returned to their parents when their husbands died. The last son had become a priest. It was falling off the roof of his kirk when he'd been repairing it that had taken his life.
Archie had experienced much tragedy in his life. Duncan had as well, having known all but one of his uncles. It was amazing, though, that Archibald wasn't a bitter old man. He wasn't even that old, though he was certainly referred to as the "auld" man by one and all. But he'd married young himself, and his four sons had each been born on the heels of the other, in the four years following his marriage. His wife likely would have given him many more children if she hadn't herself died giving birth to the last.
He'd never remarried, though he certainly could have, and still could. He was only sixty-two this year. Most of his red hair was still red, if somewhat faded, the gray at his temples and in his beard giving him a distinguished look, or it did when he took the time to fancy himself up. Having retired, though, when he turned over his many concerns to Duncan, he rarely left home these days, and at home he was usually a bit on the unkempt side.
Having no one to impress other than the cook, whom he'd kept up a long-standing flirtation with, and who, unfortunately, never took him seriously, Archie could often still be found in his bedclothes in the middle of the day.
Today he was fully dressed, combed, and scrubbed, and he wasn't looking too pleased when Duncan joined him in the kitchen. So he'd been told of the solicitor's arrival. Good. It allowed Duncan to get right to the point of his own concern the moment he sat down.
"Why did you no' tell me, Archie?"
Archibald grimaced, and not because Duncan used his first name. That wasn't a matter of disrespect, but as he would have it. And he didn't try to evade the question by pretending he didn't know what Duncan was talking about.
"Because I didna want ye dividing yer loyalties afore ye needed tae."
"What dividing? My loyalty is here and will always be here."
Archie smiled at that, looking rather smug for a moment. But then he sighed.
"Ye hae tae ken how it was, laddie. My Donald was fair smitten by yer muther. There was nothing for it but that he hae her, despite her being English. But she was a young lassie, no' even eighteen yet. And her da was no' happy that she had her heart set on Donald as well. Nor did he want her living sae far from home. He refused tae let them marry. For nigh a year he refused. But he loved his daughter, and couldna help but see she was dying o' heartbreak. Sae he compromised. He demanded Donald's heir, my heir, be sent tae him at his—yer—majority. If she'd promise that, then she could marry Donald."
"I ken why the promise was made, I dinna ken why I'm the last tae know aboot it."
"Tae be honest, lad, I'd been hoping that auld bastard would die long afore now, and his solicitors wouldna know aboot ye. Surely he mun have some other kin somewhere, that they could've been finding tae give his damn title tae. But nay, he's going tae bluidy well outlive us all."
The last was said in such disgust, Duncan might have laughed if he weren't at the center of this dilemma. And he hadn't heard yet what Archie's plan was, to get him out of it. But neither had Archie finished answering his question.
He reminded him, "And my mother? Why did she keep it a secret from me?"
" 'Twas ne'er a secret. Ye were just tae young afore she died, lad. She would hae told ye when ye were a bit aulder. She was no' unhappy wi' her promise. She was English, after all, and pleased that ye would be the next Marquis o' Birmingdale following her da. She held much stock in titles, ye ken. Most o' the English do."
"You should have told me, Archie. You shouldna have let it come tae the day o' collecting, wi' me no' knowing. And what am I tae do wi' that wee Englishmon upstairs who thinks I'll be going wi' him?"
"But ye will be going wi' him."
"The devil I will!"
Duncan shot out of his chair so quickly, it toppled over to the floor, startling the cook across the room into dropping a knife, which caused her to shriek when it almost stabbed her toes. She cast Duncan a glare. He didn't notice, glaring himself at his grandfather. Archi
bald, wisely, kept his eyes on the table.
"You canna sit there and tell me you've no' figured a way oout o' this," Duncan continued hotly. "I willna believe it! Who's tae manage here, then, if I go?"
"I managed well enough afore ye took o'er. I'm no' sae auld—" "You'll drive yourself intae an early grave—"
It was Archie's chuckle, this time, that cut Duncan off. "Dinna think tha' my giving ye the reins meant I was ready tae retire. Nay, ye just needed the learning, laddie, and hands on was the best way tae get it."
"For what purpose then? So I could go off and be a blasted marquis instead?"
"Nay, sae ye'd hae firsthand knowledge tha' ye could teach tae yer son."
"What son?"
Chapter Seven
There had been many letters between the two old men—and much arguing. This was explained to Duncan that morning as he ignored the breakfast Cook set before him, and asked for a dram of whisky instead, ignoring, too, the stern look the old girl gave him for imbibing so early of a morn. The arguing had not been over whether Duncan would go to England, but over who would lay claim to his firstborn son.
"The one that'll be taking o'er here," Archie explained. "Nae one expects ye tae divide yerself, Duncan lad. We've tae many businesses here, and there'll be tae many duties there in England for ye tae assume. That'd be tae much for any mon, and tae long a journey for ye tae be making constantly back and forth."
They both wanted him wed posthaste so that he'd have a bairn by next year that would be farmed out—just as he was being. They didn't care what he thought of their arranging his life for him. They'd already agreed between the two of them that with Neville getting him, it was only fair that Archie get his firstborn.
He had a good mind to board a ship to some far-off place and to hell with both of them. But he loved Archie. He was furious with him at the moment, but he still loved him and could never break his heart that way.
Yet he felt like his life had never been his to live. They'd decided long ago that he would do as he was told to do, and that was that. Perhaps if he'd been raised differently, it might not have bothered him at all, to be so controlled. But Scotsmen were a fiercely independent lot, and Highlanders even more so. Which was why he still couldn't believe that Archie had ever had any intention of honoring that damned promise. Agree to it, aye, to keep the peace and get Donald his bride, but in the end, he should have ignored it.
Yet he found out why Archie was resigned to honor the promise when he'd asked him directly, "And what if I refuse tae go?"
Archie sighed and said forlornly, "I loved yer muther like a daughter. I didna think I would, her being English, but she was the sweetest lass, and she grew on me verra quickly. I realized long ago, afore she died, that I couldna dishonor her by breaking her promise. Even after she died, and the choice was truly mine, I still couldna dishonor her memory."
"The choice is mine , Archie, no' yours tae be making for me."
"Nae, ye dinna hae any more choice than I did, because ye loved yer muther, tae, and wouldna put such a stain on her memory, would ye now?"
Duncan didn't answer that. What he wanted to say stuck in his craw. Of course he couldn't dishonor his mother. But he was hating her at the moment, for putting him in this despicable position, and that put another knot in his throat that was nigh choking him.
His silence, however, prompted Archie to add, "Yer no' seeing the benefits yet, that I gained for ye by delaying yer going. Had auld Neville got ye when he wanted ye, three years ago, ye'd hae been at his complete mercy. Now he'll find that he mun be careful in what he asks o' ye, tha' he could as easily get a nay from ye as a yea. For yer muther's sake, ye'll be taking over the duties she was sae happy tae dump on ye, but ye can accomplish wha' needs doing in yer own way, no' as Neville would hae it."
As appeasements went, that one didn't hit the mark for Duncan, when what he wanted was to kick Henry Myron on his way back to England— without him. That thought was so appealing, he almost left the kitchen to do just that. None of them, not his mother nor either grandfather, had taken his own preferences into account. He'd lived all his life in the Highlands. How could any of them think he could possibly want to live anywhere else? Title or not, great wealth or not, he didn’t want to live in England.
But if there was an easy way to manipulate Neville Thackeray as Archie had apparently done, he wanted to know it. So he picked up his chair and sat again, asking Archie, "And just how did you manage putting this off?"
Archie smiled then, proud of his accomplishment and how he'd gone about it. "First I pointed oout tha' yer my heir as well, and since I already had ye, he'd hae a bluidy hard time getting ye away from me."
"When you already planned tae sacrifice me?" Duncan said bitterly.
"Och, laddie, I wish ye werena sae upset by this. 'Twas a bluff, aye, wha' I told him, but he didna know tha'. Nigh six months o' some serious threats passed atween us, then anither nine months o' arguing when I told him I'd settle for yer firstborn, that he didna want tae relinquish. I ken he was thinking tha' if ye didna settle in proper like, he'd hae yer bairn tae mold tae take yer place. The mon wasna thinking clearly, though, if he thought he'd live long enough tae do any molding."
"And you will?"
Archie chuckled. "Yer no' thinking clearly yerself, Duncan lad. As my heir, as well as his, ye'll be glad o' a son or tae or three, tae pass on all we're leaving ye. Tae send yer firstborn here early will only be tae his benefit. But aye, I'll be outliving that auld bastard by many a year, and he knows it."
"You mentioned only fifteen months," Duncan mumbled. "What put him off till now?"
"Well now, the talk o' bairns naturally led tae talk o' brides. He was insisting ye marry an English lass. He wouldna budge on that, though anither five months passed while we . . . er, 'discussed' it. Then I insisted the lassie be the most bonny tae be found, and it took him a good long while tae find her."
"An English lady, I suppose?"
Archie chuckled. "Aye, tha's wha' took sae long. Titled and the most bonny was no' easy tae come by."
"Yet a pure waste o' time," Duncan replied, adding, "I may go tae England, but I'll no' be marrying some handpicked lass that I've ne'er set eyes on."
"Dinna fash yerself on tha' account, laddie. 'Twas only anither delay on my part, insisting he find ye a bride. If ye dinna want tae marry the prettiest lass in all o' England oout o' stubbornness, nae one is going tae insist on it—well, Neville might, but as I said, yer auld enough tae be telling him nay and meaning it."
" 'Tis nothing tae do wi' stubbornness," Duncan said, his tone rising in annoyance.
"O' course it isna"
That condescending tone got Archie a glare. "I'll be picking my own bride, is all, nae more'n any mon expects tae do, yourself included."
"And glad I am tae hear it. But why burn the bridge afore ye cross it? Hae a look at the wench Neville found for ye first afore ye decline her. Ye may like her well enough. But if ye dinna, at least make an effort tae find anither."
Duncan snorted. "I've nothing again' marriage, Archie, but I'm a bit young tae be thinking o' it yet."
"And I'm a bit tae auld for ye no' tae be. I may outlive Neville, and I'll find someone tae help me here in the meantime, but I willna feel comfortable retiring completely again till yer son is auld enough tae take o'er."
Which meant that Archie was in complete agreement with Neville, that Duncan marry immediately. One of the major undertakings of his life, and they both wanted him to rush into it.
Duncan left the kitchen in disgust. He'd go to England. But he wondered if his grandfather Neville would be glad of his coming.
Chapter Eight
It was quite possibly the most gloomy, forlorn-looking place Duncan had ever seen. He supposed the thick carpet of fog that rose several feet above the ground might be responsible, as well as the leafless trees that could be dead as not, for all he knew. Or perhaps the early hour of the morning was why it looked so deserted.
O
n the other hand, Duncan truly doubted that any small bit of sunshine would impress him much in his current mood, nor any bright fauna if there was any to be found this time of the year. He was in a state of mind to hate Summers Glade, and hate it, he would.
Sir Henry had wanted to arrive last night, which would have been easily done since the inn they had stayed at had been less than twenty minutes away at a steady clip. But Duncan wasn't about to meet this English grandfather of his for the first time after a full day of traveling. He wanted to be at his most alert, not tired and thinking only of a hot bath and bed.
He hadn't planned to arrive before Neville Thackeray was even out of bed, though, which turned out to be the case, and was a letdown, since he was primed for a confrontation with his grandfather. And the place wasn't deserted, as he'd almost been hoping by the look of it. Inside it was teeming with servants, more than ten large families could possibly make use of, all there to wait on one old man.
To be fair, though, Duncan allowed it was a very large house the marquis lived in, which might be needing a few extra servants to see to the care of it. He also allowed the English might be a wee bit pampered, great lords like his grandfather in particular, and so they might think they needed huge staffs when they really didn't.
But for all the bleakness on the outside of the old estate, there was much bright grandeur to be found on the inside. The furniture in most of the rooms that Duncan had a glance of in passing was old-style French, the delicate, overly carved kind. It was well preserved for its age, but so ornamented as to give the place a gay, if gaudy, feel.
Mirrors and pictures were in gold-leafed frames that were nearly as wide as what they framed. Chandeliers were so large and with so much dangling crystal, they were likely to blind anyone unfortunate enough to look up at them when fully lit. And there were flowers in each room, suggesting that there was a hothouse on the estate somewhere.
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