“He will figure it out,” she said shortly, looking out over the barley rows to the east. “It hasn’t rained in three days. We need it.”
“It will rain, it always does. This is paradise for growing. Colin is truly blessed with all the arable land. Here on the Fife Peninsula there are usually mild temperatures and ample rain. Much of Scotland is barren crags and empty moors and savage hills. Yes, Colin is very lucky to have Vere Castle. His ancestors, naturally, were lucky to be here and not in the Highlands or the borderlands.”
“I doubt the first Kinrosses had their pick of where they wished to be in Scotland. Who are these Ashcrofts, MacDuff?”
He smiled. “Friends of my parents. It was a long-overdue visit.”
“We’re long overdue as well. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I wish to see all that you’ve done. Incidentally, what does Colin think of all your improvements?”
“Not much.”
“I hope he hasn’t hurt your feelings.”
“He has. I fancy you know that.”
“Perhaps. Try to understand, Sinjun. Since he was a little boy, Colin usually lost those things that were his. He learned secrecy. He learned to guard what was his. But even then he wasn’t always successful. He was the second son, you see, and as such, anything that was his that his brother Malcolm wanted, why, it was taken away from him. I remember he had this small stash of items, nothing valuable, you understand, just things that were his and were important to him, things he didn’t want taken away from him, and Malcolm would have, I never doubted it. Anything that was Colin’s he wanted. Colin hid them in this small carved box in the trunk of an oak tree. He would go to the oak tree only when he knew Malcolm was somewhere else.
“Perhaps that explains why he still wishes to keep the doing of things here at Vere Castle to himself. You see, everything is now his and what is his, he protects. He guards jealously.”
“I see,” Sinjun said, but she didn’t, not really. It made no sense. He was no longer a boy, he was a man.
“It has sorely chafed him that there was no money to bring the castle back into its former splendor. You have made a very big difference, Sinjun.”
“Why does Aunt Arleth hate him so?”
“She’s a strange old witch. The workings of her mind have eluded any meaningful analysis. Malcolm was her favorite, I don’t know why. Perhaps because he’d be the future laird and she wanted him to look at her with lasting respect and affection. She treated Colin like he was a gypsy’s get, of no importance at all. I remember she told Malcolm about Colin’s love of poetry—he got that from his mother—and Malcolm told his father that he also loved poetry and he wanted Colin’s book. He got it.”
“But that wasn’t fair!”
“Perhaps not, but the laird saw the Kinross future as being in Malcolm’s hands, thus Malcolm wasn’t thwarted in anything he wanted. It ruined his character. Naturally Aunt Arleth hated her sister for the simple reason that she wanted the earl for herself. The word is that she got him after her sister died, but only in her bed, not at the altar. Odd how life goes, isn’t it?”
Sinjun shivered, not because wispy gray clouds had moved to block the afternoon sun, but because she’d never seen such behavior in her family. Her mother had always been a trial, but it hadn’t mattered. It was even amusing now that she could think about it from a goodly distance and not have to live with it.
“But now Colin is the laird. He’s a good man and I daresay he’s found himself an excellent wife.”
“That’s true,” she said, voice tart. “It’s just a pity that he isn’t here to enjoy his good fortune.”
What to do?
Sinjun chewed over all alternatives she could think of during the next two days, always changing and honing down her list of pros and cons. There was no word from Colin. MacDuff was helpful and kind. He consented to give both her and Philip fencing lessons and both of them proved adept with foils. He complimented her continually on the state of the house, and her reply was only that soap and water were not expensive.
“Aye,” he said, “but it takes fortitude to hold out against Aunt Arleth and all her plaints.”
She herself studied Colin’s gun collection, finally selecting a small pocket pistol with a silver butt cap and a double barrel, not more than fifteen years old, that would hide itself in the skirt pocket of her riding habit.
Now she had to rid herself of MacDuff and be available for Robert MacPherson to come upon. She’d decided on making herself bait. It was the cleanest, most straightforward way of getting him. She didn’t doubt for a moment that he or one of his minions was watching Vere Castle. For that reason, she kept both Philip and Dahling close. They were never alone, and if they wondered at her firm stricture, they didn’t voice it.
It was at breakfast the morning of MacDuff’s departure that Dahling swallowed her porridge and said, “I’ve decided that you aren’t ugly, Sinjun.”
MacDuff stared at the little girl but Sinjun only laughed and said, “My thanks, Dahling. I have nearly broken my mirror in my anxiety.”
“May I ride Fanny?”
“Ah, I understand now. The child is attempting a stratagem,” MacDuff said.
“Would I be ugly again if I said no?”
Dahling looked undecided, but finally shook her small head. “No, you just wouldn’t be a Great Beauty, like I will be.”
“Well, in that case, why don’t we compromise? I’ll set you in front of me and we’ll both ride Fanny.”
The little girl beamed at that, and Sinjun, knowing quite well that the child had gotten exactly what she wanted, didn’t mind a bit.
“So both children call you Sinjun now.”
“Yes.”
“I daresay that Colin will have to come around. Is there any message you wish me to deliver to him?”
Now she realized that she didn’t want him around, not until she’d dealt with MacPherson, and only the good Lord knew how long that would take. She said only, “Tell him that the children and I miss him and that all goes well here. Oh yes, MacDuff. Tell him that I would never steal that box of his in the oak tree trunk.”
MacDuff leaned down from his great height and lightly kissed her cheek. “I don’t believe Colin has read any poetry since Malcolm took his book.”
“I will think about that.”
“Good-bye, Sinjun.”
Sinjun marveled that MacDuff’s horse, a hard-jawed hacker a good eighteen hands high, didn’t groan when he swung onto his back. Indeed, the stallion even managed to rear on his hind legs. She remained on the deeply indented front stone steps until he was gone from her sight.
Now, she thought, now it was time to act.
But it was Philip who prevented her. He begged and begged to show her the Cowal Swamp. He even promised her, in a voice that offered a great treat, to let her bring some of the swamp ooze back for her own uses. And that, she thought, wondering how Aunt Arleth would react, convinced her.
Crocker accompanied them, and Sinjun noted that he was well armed, despite the fact there’d been no further violence. She wondered if Colin had told him to arm himself. Very likely. Crocker had said the MacPherson name but once, and he’d spat after he’d said it.
It was a good hour through some of the most beautifully savage moors Sinjun could have imagined. Then, quite suddenly, there was a peat bog that deepened and thickened into a sluggishly repellent swamp, with rotting vegetation hanging into the mucky shallow waters.
Crocker gave her a history that included any moving lumps that one could see rippling beneath the surface of the water. Sinjun wouldn’t have placed a single toe into that swamp had her life depended on it. The odor was nasty, like sulfur and outhouses that hadn’t been limed, both mixed together. It was hotter here, which seemed curious, but it was so. Hot and wet and smelly. Insects buzzed about, dining off the newcomers, until finally Sinjun called a halt. She swatted at a huge mosquito and said, “Enough, Crocker! Let’s fill our buckets and leave this odi
ous place.”
It rained all the way back to Vere Castle, thick, sheeting rain that turned the afternoon to night very quickly. The temperature dropped dramatically. Sinjun took off her riding jacket and wrapped it around a shivering Philip. As for Crocker, his single cotton shirt was plastered to his stocky body.
Sinjun fretted about both of them, seeing to it that Crocker bathed in front of the fire in the kitchen and Philip in his bedchamber. He appeared to be fine at bedtime.
The following morning Dahling climbed onto Sinjun’s bed, ready to ride Fanny.
“It’s late, Sinjun. Come along, I’m all dressed.”
Sinjun opened an eye and stared with blurry vision at the small girl sitting beside her.
“It’s very late,” Dahling said again.
“How late?” Her voice came out a croak, hoarse and raw. Sinjun blinked to clear her vision. A shaft of pain over her eyes nearly knocked her senseless. “Oh,” she moaned and fell back against her pillow. “Oh no, Dahling, I’m ill. Don’t come any closer.”
But Dahling was leaning forward, her small palm on Sinjun’s cheek. “You’re hot, Sinjun, very hot.”
A fever. It was all she needed to go with the pain in her head. She had to get up and get dressed. She had to see Philip and make her plans to get MacPherson, she had to . . .
She tried but couldn’t make it. She was too weak. Every muscle, every fiber of bone and sinew and muscle ached horribly. Dahling, worried now, climbed off the bed. “I’ll go get Dulcie. She’ll know what to do.”
But it wasn’t Dulcie who came into the laird’s bedchamber some ten minutes later; it was Aunt Arleth.
“Well, felled at last.”
Sinjun managed to open her eyes. “Yes, it appears so.”
“You sound like a frog. Crocker and Philip are quite well. I suppose one would expect an English miss to be the one to become ill.”
“Yes. I should like some water, please.”
“Thirsty, are you? Well, I’m not your servant. I’ll have Emma fetched.”
She left without a backward look or another word. Sinjun waited, her throat so sore that it hurt to breathe. Finally she fell into an uneasy sleep.
When she awoke Serena was standing beside her bed.
“Water, please.”
“Certainly.” Serena turned and left and Sinjun wanted to cry. Oh God, what was she going to do?
Unlike Aunt Arleth, Serena returned with a carafe of water and several glasses. She filled a glass and put it to Sinjun’s lips.
“Drink slowly, now,” she said, her voice soft and crooning. “Goodness but you don’t look at all well. Your face is quite pale and your hair a ragged mess. Your nightgown looks sweaty. No, you don’t look well at all. It came on you so quickly, too.”
Sinjun didn’t care if she looked like a goat. She drank and drank and drank. When she didn’t want any more, she lay back, panting with the effort it had cost her.
“I can’t get up, Serena.”
“No, I can see that you are quite ill.”
“Is there a physician nearby?”
“Oh yes, but he’s old and infirm. He doesn’t visit just anyone.”
“Have him come here at once, Serena.”
“I will speak to Aunt Arleth about it, Joan.” And she left, floating out of the bedchamber in a rich silk gown of deep crimson that was so long it trailed the floor behind her like a train. Sinjun tried to call after her, but her voice came out a whisper.
“We haven’t the money to pay any doctor.”
It was Aunt Arleth. Sinjun felt light-headed now. It was difficult for her to focus on the woman. It was late afternoon, according to the clock that stood near the bed. She was thirsty again, terribly hungry, and she had to relieve herself.
“Fetch Emma or Dulcie for me.”
“Oh no, Dulcie is quite occupied with the children. Goodness, it’s so very warm in here, isn’t it? You must needs have some fresh air.”
Aunt Arleth shoved open the windows and tied back the pale gold brocade draperies. “There, that should cool your fever. Do get better, my dear girl. I will look in on you later.”
She was gone again. Sinjun was alone. The room was getting colder by the minute.
She managed to relieve herself through sheer effort of will, and stumbled back into bed. She burrowed under the covers, her teeth chattering.
The following morning, Philip slipped into the room. He ran to the bed and looked at Sinjun. She was asleep, but she was also shivering. He put his palm on her forehead and jerked it back. She was burning with fever.
He realized then that it was very cold in the room. The windows were open. Aunt Arleth, he thought. He’d known she’d come to see Sinjun, for she’d told the rest of them that she had, and that Sinjun was very nearly well. She was still lying abed because she was English and thus slothful, enjoying ordering everyone about. Aunt Arleth had meant mischief, that was clear. His mind balked at pursuing that thought.
Philip closed the windows and untied the draperies. He fetched more blankets from his own bedchamber and piled them on top of his stepmother.
“Thirsty,” Sinjun whispered.
He held her head in the crook of his elbow and put the edge of the glass to her lips. She was so weak her head lolled against his arm. He felt a shaft of fear.
“You’re not better,” he said, and Sinjun dimly heard the fear in his voice.
“No. I’m glad you’re here, Philip. You’re here . . . I’ve missed you. Help me, Philip.” Her voice trailed off and he knew that she was more unconscious than asleep this time.
Aunt Arleth had told them all to stay away from the laird’s bedchamber. She didn’t want any of them catching their stepmother’s slight cold. She’d assured them that all was well, that their stepmother didn’t want them to come see her.
It was more than a cold. Aunt Arleth had lied. Sinjun was very ill.
He stood there, staring down at her, wondering what to do.
“You disobedient little boy! Come out of here now! Do you hear me, Philip? Come here!”
Philip turned to face Aunt Arleth, who stood ramrod straight in the open doorway.
“Sinjun is very ill. You were wrong about her condition. She must have help.”
“I’ve been giving her help. Has she said anything? If so, she’s only trying to gain your sympathy, to turn you against me. You see? I’m here yet again to help her, you silly child. I don’t want you to be near her, you might sicken as well.”
“You said she was just lying about because she was lazy. How could I get sick from laziness?”
“She still has just a touch of fever, nothing much, but it is my responsibility in your father’s absence to see that you’re well taken care of. That means seeing to it that you don’t become ill.”
“Sinjun was taking care of both Dahling and me very well.”
“She’s a shallow chit, thoughtless and clearly negligent, or she never would have gone to that wretched swamp with you. Surely you see that she was just playing at being responsible. She cares naught for either you or Dahling. She cares naught for any of us. She merely enjoys telling us all what to do and flinging her wealth in our faces. Oh yes, she sees all of us as mere poor relations she must tolerate. Why do you think that your dear father isn’t here in his own home? It’s because of her; he can’t bear her company because she rubs his nose in his own poverty and lords it over him. She doesn’t belong here, she’s a Sassenach. Come away now, Philip. I shan’t tell you again.”
“The windows were open, Aunt.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! She ordered me to open them. I told her it wasn’t wise, but she just kept fretting and whining until finally I simply obliged her.”
She was lying, he knew it, and he was suddenly very frightened. He didn’t know what to do. He looked back at Sinjun and knew deep down that if something wasn’t done she would die.
“Come away from her, Philip.”
Slowly, he walked toward Aunt Arleth. He even nodded
as he came up to her. He knew exactly what he was going to do.
He turned to watch Aunt Arleth place her hand on Sinjun’s forehead and nod. “Ah yes, I knew it. Hardly any fever at all now. No need for a doctor.”
Philip left the bedchamber.
CHAPTER
14
Northcliffe Hall
Near New Romney, England
ALEXANDRA SHERBROOKE, THE countess of Northcliffe, was napping in the middle of a warm Wednesday afternoon. She was permitted this indulgence, her mother-in-law had assured her, even going so far as to pat her cheek with what could be termed affection, because she was carrying another child for Douglas—as if she were some sort of vessel for her husband’s use, Alex had thought, but nonetheless had slipped off her gown and fallen quite easily to sleep.
She dreamed of Melissande, her incredibly beautiful sister, who had just borne a little girl who greatly resembled Alex, even endowed with Titian hair and gray eyes. It was justice, Douglas had told her, since their own twin boys were the very image of the glorious Melissande, a happenstance that still made Tony Parrish, Melissande’s husband, grin like a smug bastard at Douglas. But in her dream something was wrong with Melissande. She was lying motionless on her back, her beautiful black hair spread like a silk fan against the white of the pillows. Her face was pale, faint blue shadows showing beneath her skin, and her breath was hoarse and low.
Suddenly, her hair wasn’t black, it was chestnut, and drawn into a long thick braid. It wasn’t Melissande’s face now, either. No, it was Sinjun’s.
Alex blinked, dragging herself from sleep. What a strange dream, she thought, as she closed her eyes again. She’d just written to her sister-in-law, so that was perhaps why she’d taken Melissande’s place in her dream.
Alex quieted. Gently and easily, she dozed, but this time there wasn’t a dream awaiting her, there was a soft voice, a woman’s low voice, and it was near her ear, saying over and over, “Sinjun is ill . . . Sinjun is ill. She is in trouble. Help her, you must help her.”
Alex frowned, then moaned. She awoke with a jerk. There beside her bed stood the Virgin Bride, calm and still, her white gown gently shimmering in the silent bedchamber, and she spoke again, but the words were in Alex’s mind, not coming from the ghost’s mouth, soft and quiet, but insistent. “Sinjun is ill . . . in trouble. Help her, help her.”
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