“Not if I can help it.” With a grin, she unwrapped another sweet.
Chapter One
Castle Dunrannoch
23rd November, 1904
“Wake up, Lachlan!”
Lady Balmore prodded her husband’s shoulder.
With a snort, he bolted upright. “What is it, Mary? What’s going on?”
“The door!” Lady Balmore whispered. “Someone’s there.”
“Then answer the damned thing!” Viscount Balmore yanked the covers back over himself, mumbling a few choice words.
“Lachlan!” She shook him again. “I don’t think it’s Murray or Philpotts. It was such a strange sort of knock—not their usual way at all.”
“What are you talking about, woman! Strange knocking! It’s probably the plumbing. Get ye to sleep and leave me to the same.”
Lady Balmore returned her head to the pillow but remained alert.
Only the night before, Lachlan’s grandmother, the dowager countess, had sworn she’d seen a shrouded figure wafting through her dressing room. It had disappeared before her maid had arrived, of course.
The castle was supposedly brimming with apparitions. There was a headless warrior who stalked the battlements, a wretched chambermaid who ran sobbing through the minstrel’s gallery, and the fearsome fetch of Camdyn Dalreagh, first chieftain, who was said to play a ghostly rendition on the bagpipes whenever a member of the clan was due to meet his end.
Lady Balmore had never liked the moor, nor the castle. She wasn’t even particularly fond of those living in it. She’d been far happier in their lovely townhouse in Edinburgh. The shops really were most excellent, and there were always friends to call upon. That was where she and Lachlan should be—not here, in the middle of nowhere, having to step into Brodie’s shoes.
But what could one do? A frayed strap beneath his saddle was the cause they’d said—and now his brother was no more and Lachlan was obliged to step up.
The old laird had been bedridden these five years and couldn’t last much longer. Lachlan would then be Earl of Dunrannoch. She ought to be pleased, she knew, but all she could think of was being obliged to spend the rest of her days in this damp and draughty hulk of granite. It was simply too misery-making!
With a sigh, she closed her eyes. She must make the best of things—and there were only a few more weeks until the Yule season. She’d take Bonnie and arrange a prolonged stay at the apartments in Princes Street, on the pretext of needing to purchase gifts and so on. The younger girls could join her upon completing their Michaelmas term at Miss McBride’s Academy for Ladies and they’d have a jolly time of it.
Yes, she’d go up to town. Goodness knows, she deserved some respite from this dreary abode.
She was just drifting off when the knocking came again. Five slow taps, with a lengthy pause between.
Nobody announced themselves like that.
“Lachlan!” Lady Balmore shook him again. “The door!”
“Ah, ye doaty woman! Am I to have nae peace ’till you’ve had me oot o’ this bed?”
The viscount lit the candle at his bedside and shuffled his feet into his slippers. Fumbling for his dressing gown, he continued cursing.
“I’ll look noo, then I want to hear nae more aboot it!”
Entering the corridor, all was dark, but for the small circle of light about his person. There were few enough windows, each narrow and embedded deep in the walls. It took a full moon and a cloudless sky to illuminate this part of the castle.
Balmore held the candle aloft. “There’s nae a soul here, Mary. ’Tis jus’ yer imagination playin’ sleekit!”
Shaking his head, he made to return but, just at that moment, the distant wailing began. Balmore froze on the spot!
It couldn’t be. Not again!
A full six months had passed since the phantom bagpipes had last been heard; and Brodie’s death had followed on the morn. ’Twas Camdyn Dalreagh returned to warn them once more!
With trembling hand, Balmore approached the stairwell balcony, peering into the shadowy depths from which the mournful ululation rose.
It must be Father’s time, may the Lord have mercy on him, taking him to his rest.
Balmore sent up a silent prayer.
’Twould be fitting to go to his bedside and hold the old man’s hand as he passed to the next world.
His father’s chamber was on the floor below. Grasping the bannister, he felt his way to the cold stone wall and the first downward steps.
All too late did Balmore feel the draught of movement behind him. A great shove in the small of his back propelled him into thin air. Landing on the fifth step, Balmore dashed his skull upon the stone’s edge.
As soft footsteps retreated, the bagpipes too faded. The candle which had flown before him guttered, and the darkness was complete.
Chapter Two
Santa Maria Ranch, near San Antonio, Texas
3rd August, 1905
Rye looked up as the door opened. José Luis and Antonio nodded to him as they stepped through, followed by Alejandra.
“It won’t be long.” She raised red-rimmed eyes to Rye’s and seemed to consider saying more but simply touched his arm. “I’ll send coffee and some hot water for washing.”
Rye had come straight away, not even changing his clothes, the dust still thick on his face. All this time he’d been away, driving the cattle up to the railhead.
He shouldn’t have gone. He wouldn’t have gone. Not if he’d realised.
Had Alejandra known?
Not that it mattered.
None of it mattered.
“I’m here, Pa.”
Rory Dalreagh turned to face his son. But for two high points of colour in his cheeks, he was deathly pale. Rye took the chair by the bed and slipped his hand into his father’s.
“I’ve something to show you, Rye.” A folded piece of paper lay on the coverlet. “I should have given it to you when it came but I wasn’t ready. Not then. I thought we had more time.” He gave the half-smile Rye knew so well, then wheezed and turned away, coughing.
Lifting his father upright, Rye brought his arms about the older man’s shoulders. “You have time, Pa.” Rye rubbed his back. “Take it slow now.”
He saw the spots of blood on the linen, and more on the pillow. Blood in the handkerchief his father held to his mouth.
“Just a bit…short of breath.”
His father took the water Rye passed him, managing a sip, though he seemed to have difficulty swallowing.
Rye’s chest constricted hard. His father had been getting weaker these past months. Now, his face was etched cruelly with pain and, beneath the thin nightshirt, his body was skin and bone. Rory Dalreagh had always been strong, working on the ranch alongside Pedro, his partner—working harder still since Pedro had died, four years ago.
“Read it.” His father’s fingers fluttered over the dove-grey notepaper, his voice insistent.
The letter was written in an elegant hand, covering both sides in tight script, and bearing a gold crest.
Dunrannoch Castle
Perthshire
December 18th, 1904
My dear Rory
I hope this finds you well and that you will be kind enough to indulge me in reading all I must impart. Please believe that I remain your devoted step-mother, despite the troubles of the past.
Your father wished to write by his own hand but is indisposed at this time, being beset by arthritis, and by a great depression of spirits, in which we all share.
He has urged me to write to you on his behalf, but please know that I write from my own heart also. I pray that this letter finds you, though it must travel such a distance to do so.
Despite the estrangement that has existed between your father and yourself these thirty years, he has never ceased to regret the angry words exchanged and your hasty departure. His dearest wish is that those offences may be forgiven, and a reconcilement achieved.
I discovered some time ago
that you had kept correspondence with Mrs. Middymuckle. Owing to the circumstances under which I write, I was able to persuade that good lady to share with me your address, and to impart what news she felt comfortable to share of your life in the New World.
From her, I learnt of your wife’s death soon after your arrival in Texas, following the birth of your son. I hope you will accept my condolences. Perhaps the news I share here may gladden her, even as she watches over you from the celestial sphere, and that what may come to pass shall make some reparation for the injustices of the past.
With sadness, I must tell you that both your brothers, Brodie and Lachlan, have been lost to us within these past twelve months. We need not discuss the details at length, suffice to say that their passing was unexpected—through mishap rather than illness, and that the family has been deeply shocked and saddened. Your father’s grief, as you may imagine, has been severe.
Were I to have correctly addressed this letter, I should have named you Balmore, for the viscountcy now falls to you, as your father’s heir.
You have built a life for yourself, far from this ancestral seat, but Dunrannoch needs you.
I exhort you to return home, to take the mantle of your title, and to fulfil our best hopes.
With all regard and fondest love
Lavinia Dalreagh
Countess Dunrannoch
Frowning, Rye set the letter aside. He knew the story of why his father had left Scotland—knew that it was the choosing of his bride that had brought the estrangement.
Ailsa had been a companion to Rory’s grandmother, Flora Dalreagh—beneath their attention, as far as the earl had been concerned. Even as the third son, Rory had been expected to marry into the gentry. Ailsa had been a rector’s daughter. Genteel for sure, but not sufficiently well-positioned to please the Dalreaghs.
It had always angered Rye, this knowledge of how his mother had been treated—and his father, of course.
“They’ll have to do without you.” Rye spoke brusquely. “They gave up on you all those years ago. Why should you return now, just because it’s convenient for them?”
“Duty.” Rory lay his head back upon the pillows. “It’s the only reason that matters.”
“I’ll write the reply. I’ll explain. What they’re asking is too much. Let them find someone else.” Rye took up the paper, folded it small and pushed it into his pocket.
“They already need someone else.”
Rye placed his hand within his father’s. The fingers were wasted thin, the skin papery. He wanted to tell him not to speak this way—that he just needed to rest, that he’d grow strong again.
But that would be a lie.
He’d been able to make himself believe it before he’d left on the cattle drive—but he wasn’t a fool.
“It’s you they need.” His father’s gaze remained fixed on Rye’s. “I can’t make you do anything you don’t wish to. A man has to go his own way. I know that better than anyone. But I want you to go, Rye. I want you to be what they need you to be. It’s more than a title. There’s an estate to run—just like this ranch, but with a lot more people to care for. Your tenants, relying on you to keep things running smoothly.”
Rory’s face was pale, coated in a sheen of sweat, and his voice rasping but he held firm to Rye’s hand. “José Luis and Antonio have witnessed my will, Rye. I’m leaving the ranch to Alejandra and the boys. With Juan coming up for twenty-two and the others close behind, they know what they’re doing.”
An ache seared Rye’s chest. He’d been born on the ranch—had been raised here boy and man. The landscape, the cattle, the horses, the people—they were part of who he was.
And his father wanted him to walk away?
“Pedro’s family owned the ranch long before I came in as partner. It’s only right that his sons take over.
“Head east, take the train, book yourself a passage from New York. Find your way to Dunrannoch. They’ll take care of you. Find you a wife in the bargain, I’ll bet! You’re coming on for twenty-seven Rye. A man can’t stay single forever. Telegram ahead and they’ll have her lined right up—some rose-complexioned beauty to make your heart hammer faster than a stampeding herd of longhorns!” Rory’s laughter was brief, dissolving in a fit of coughing.
Rye brought the water to his father’s lips again.
“I’m just a plain Texas rancher and that’s a whole ’nother world. ’Fraid I’ll make a sorry excuse for a viscount.”
“You’re a Dalreagh. We’re stubborn and proud but we do our duty.” He squeezed Rye’s fingers. “You’ll do just fine.”
He gave his half-smile again. “Besides which, it sounds like it won’t be long before the whole caboodle is yours. My father’s a tough old goat but you’ll soon be stepping into his boots. You’ll be more than a viscount; you’ll be an earl.”
And I don’t want any of it, thought Rye. Only for you to stay with me—for everything to carry on as it always has. You and me on the ranch, Pa. This is all I’ve known. It’s my home.
Could he do this?
His father’s eyes were already closing. He was exhausted from whatever was eating him up inside.
One thing was for sure: Rye was his father’s son. If he set his mind to something, he’d do it.
He’d show the Dalreaghs that his father had done a fine job raising him.
“Well, it sounds mighty swell, Pa.”
Content to hear the words, Rory passed into fitful sleep.
Rye splashed his face and hands clean, drank the coffee, and reclined alongside his father. With the curtains open, silvered light illuminated the foot of the bed—a bright thread leading into the night.
Rye lay awake, holding his father’s hand, listening to the ragged draw of his breath.
At last, the body that had become so frail lay still and calm.
Rory Dalreagh slipped beyond pain, following that moonlit path.
Chapter Three
Arrington House, Eaton Square, Belgravia
Afternoon, 12th December, 1905
Tilly, Ursula’s maid, entered her mistress’s bedchamber. As had become her recent habit, Ursula was seated at the window with a book, but appearing to concentrate neither on the view nor the text in her lap.
Pushing the door closed behind her, Tilly gave a slight cough and bobbed a curtsey as Ursula looked her way. “His Lordship wishes to see you in the library, miss.”
With a sigh, Ursula set aside the novel she’d begun several days ago without reaching further than the twentieth page. It was impossible to keep her mind on anything for more than a few minutes.
Just over three months had passed since her father’s funeral. Time was needed—as everyone had been telling her, in the most sympathetic of tones. She wasn’t the first to lose the person she loved most. At this very moment, there were probably thousands of young women in London bereaved of their parents and having to face a new sort of future. One simply kept one’s chin high and soldiered through.
Such platitudes were supposed to make her feel better. But, of course, they didn’t.
On that last morning, she’d kissed her papa goodbye, reminding him that she’d be along around noon to help inspect the new shipment of leather. Though he’d remained reluctant to allow Ursula to spend full days at the factory, he’d begun to take more seriously her desire to learn about the business. Little by little, she’d persuaded him to share the finer points of how Fairbury and Berridge was run, and to allow her to become involved.
She’d been tying her hat when the messenger had knocked boldly at the front entrance, breathing hard from his caper across Victoria Bridge. She’d pushed him into her carriage and they’d set off through the slug of traffic, Ursula all the while trying to extricate more information from Mr. Berridge’s lad.
By the time they’d arrived, it was too late. The doctor was packing up his bag. A quick end, he’d assured her—a single seizure to the heart. A moment of brief pain. Nothing more.
Shaking out her
crêpe skirts, Ursula stood. An audience with her uncle, Viscount Arrington, was never pleasurable, but she appreciated the need to be courteous to his requests.
She’d been grateful at the time, when he’d made the necessary arrangements and instructed Ursula to stay with the family in Eaton Square. He’d been adamant that the Pimlico house, purchased for being close to the Battersea workshops, was unsuitable—and most especially for a young lady alone.
The change of surroundings had been welcome, since every room in the home she’d shared with her father brought her to tears.
Now though, she was itching to do something, to go somewhere, to escape this terrible feeling of everything being wrong.
Her days contained a cycle of nothingness in which the afternoon ride through Hyde Park had become the highlight—crushed between Aunt Phillippa and Lucy, with Amelia, Harriet and Eustace seated opposite.
Other days, there was just Eustace and herself, with Aunt Phillippa as chaperone, which was just plain awkward.
Yesterday, she’d mentioned visiting Fairbury and Berridge, to see how they were managing without her father, but Uncle Cedric had brushed away the idea, suggesting that she accompany her cousins on a shopping trip to Burlington Arcade.
So, she’d written him a note, making clear her wish to return to the Pimlico house and resume her regular habits.
She was suffocating at Arrington House, as if part of her had died alongside her father, and the part that remained was desperate to draw breath.
“Your father indulged you far too freely.”
From behind his writing desk, Uncle Cedric fixed Ursula with an imperious eye. “Here you are, not far off your twenty-fifth birthday and you still haven’t formalised things with Eustace.”
Ursula shifted in her seat and gave an inward sigh. At seventeen, Eustace had proposed that she marry him if she didn’t find anyone else she wanted. They only saw each other at family gatherings and she’d hoped, by now, that he’d realised it was just a childish notion. There was nothing of substance behind it. They were fond of one another, but nothing more.
Once Upon a Christmas Wedding Page 64