Till Next We Meet

by Karen Ranney

  “Your Grace, if you’ll follow me.”

  They were led again through a labyrinth of corridors.

  “I shall never be able to find my way,” she said, as they turned left and encountered a winding newel stair before turning right again.

  “I’ll give you a ball of string,” Moncrief said, “and you can use it to retrace your path.”

  Only once did she recognize where they were, and that was when they encountered the cantilevered stairs. They climbed them to the second floor while the footman waited above at the landing.

  “Where is Barrows?” Moncrief asked at the top.

  “He died, sir, a year this April.”

  “And you’ve had no replacement?”

  “No, Your Grace. Her Grace didn’t think we needed a majordomo.”

  “Mrs. McElwee? I trust she is still with us?”

  “Well, not exactly, Your Grace,” the footman said.

  “What does ‘not exactly’ mean, exactly?”

  “Mrs. McElwee broke her foot a few months ago, and she’s gone to be with her sister. None of us think she’s coming back, since she and Her Grace don’t get along.” The young man halted, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously in his throat. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace.”

  “What, exactly, do they disagree about?”

  He looked panicked, and actually glanced from the left to the right as if seeking an escape route. But perched as they were at the top of the stairs, there was nowhere to go. Catherine could have told him that it was no use trying to escape. Moncrief had a way of obtaining what he wanted.

  “Money, Your Grace,” he finally said, as if realizing only the truth would do. “Mrs. McElwee called the duchess a harridan of a miser with no idea how to run a place like Balidonough.”

  She had never before seen Moncrief look so surprised. Catherine smothered her smile with some difficulty.

  “Indeed,” he said.

  “Yes, Your Grace. Mrs. McElwee was wanting the maids to have new uniforms and her Grace refused. They even came to words about it, with Mrs. McElwee threatening never to speak to her again. It’s how she broke her foot, you see.”

  Moncrief was leading the way down the corridor, the young footman following, warming up to his tale.

  “How did she break her foot?” Catherine asked, curious.

  The footman turned to look at her. “Well, Your Grace, it’s after one of their rows, and Mrs. McElwee came into the servants’ dining room and kicked the door shut. When she screamed a minute later, we knew it wasn’t because of Her Grace.”

  Moncrief was at the doors at the end of the corridor, as if, in escaping the suddenly voluble footman, he could equally ignore the evident chaos at Balidonough.

  “Thank you,” Catherine said, fumbling for the young man’s name.

  “Wallace, Your Grace.” He bowed again to her and once to Moncrief, who wasn’t paying him the slightest attention. Evidently deciding that it was better to escape the new duke’s notice than to garner it, the young footman bowed once more, turned around, and walked quickly away.

  Moncrief flung open the double doors and walked inside. He strode to the windows and pulled back the curtains where the watery sunlight gave some illumination.

  Catherine had never before seen a bedchamber of such proportions. She could have fit the entire first floor of Colstin Hall into it and still had room to spare.

  On the opposite wall was a massive bed with one post at each corner hung with burgundy draperies matching those on the windows and puddled on the dark, heavily waxed, floor.

  A tapestry on the wall behind the bed was of Helen of Troy watching Paris’s departure. Another was of Achilles encamped before the city. But the greatest feature of the room was the height of the walls, and the life-sized portraits mounted there.

  Each one of them looked arrogant, and each bore Moncrief’s coloring and distinctive blue eyes.

  “Will you be able to sleep with so many of your ancestors looking down upon you?” she asked.

  Moncrief glanced around him. He might have been a portrait, himself, someone who had stepped down from a frame. “I think we’ll do fine.”

  She glanced at him, but he was walking to the side of the bed, where he drew back the curtains.

  “It doesn’t seem an entirely comfortable room.”

  “It isn’t meant to be, I think,” he said, looking about him. “Dukes are born here, and die here as well. Momentous deeds of state are performed here, not the least of which is bedding reluctant heiresses.”

  She looked at him, eyes widening and knees suddenly weak.

  “You needn’t look so frightened, Catherine, I was talking of the past.”

  But she was an heiress and reluctant.

  “Is my chamber similarly adorned? Filled with portraits of duchesses?”

  “I haven’t seen the Duchess’s Chamber for years. I don’t know.”

  She’d been so fascinated by Balidonough that she’d forgotten the essence of their arrival. She was his wife. Unwilling, but nonetheless a legal spouse when all she wished to be was herself. Was she supposed to forget Harry simply because Moncrief had arrived at her home one night and deemed her to be worthy of rescuing? How foolish a thought.

  A door was set alongside one of the tapestries. She walked to it and placed her hand on the handle.

  “Catherine?”

  Did he realize how badly she wanted to escape?

  The door was ornate, filled with delicate carvings of leaves and flowers. She wondered how long it had taken the craftsman to create this one door. She concentrated on a particularly blowsy rose all the while hearing him walk toward her.

  Please, do not touch me.

  If he did, she would shatter like a porcelain statuette.

  “Catherine?”

  He was not going away. She knew, even without turning, that his face would be set in stern lines once again, every inch the duke.

  “I am not prepared to share your bed, Moncrief.” The words sounded as if they came from far away.

  “And I am not prepared to have my estate revert to a distant relative. I must have an heir, Catherine.”

  How unemotional he sounded, how distant.

  “I did not bear Harry a child.”

  “You were not married that long.”

  She traced one enormous blossom—a primrose?—fighting back the urge to flee. Where would she go?

  “It’s too soon.”

  When he didn’t speak, she mustered her remaining courage and turned to face him.

  “We’ve known each other less than a week,” she said, raising her gaze to encounter the glittering brightness of his intense blue eyes. “Can you not give me some time?”

  “How long would you consider sufficient, madam?” His lips only hinted at a smile; his eyes held absolutely no humor.

  She hadn’t expected him to ask her that. She fumbled for an answer, but evidently was not quick enough for him.

  “I do not intend for this marriage to be a celibate one, Catherine. And if you intend for our familiarity to be based on years and years of companionship, then I must disagree.”

  “A month.”

  “Very well, a month. But you will sleep in my bed until then.”

  “Is that necessary? Harry and I did not even share a chamber.”

  For a long moment he simply looked at her, then the corner of his lip turned up in a half smile. “That is hardly a recommendation, madam. You’ll sleep here.”

  He turned and without another word left the room, leaving the door open behind him. She wanted to slam it, but at the last moment held on to it so it barely made a whisper when it closed.

  She leaned her forehead against the ornate carving of one panel, and urged her heart to slow its frenetic beating. Until he returned, she would have some privacy, some peace. There, she would take her comfort in minutes and hours.

  Memories of the night of their marriage came back to her in flashes, almost dreamlike pieces of thought and memory.
She sincerely hoped that some of those recollections were only sketchy pieces of a nightmare. Otherwise, she never wanted to remember all of it.

  She thought at one point that she’d stood before Moncrief entirely naked, warmed by the fire and the curious lassitude that the drug had caused within her. She’d felt as if her body were detached from her mind, and she was free of any pain or uncertainty. She had not felt anything at all but those physical sensations. Gone was the overwhelming sense of loss that had accompanied so much of her waking hours.

  Perhaps Moncrief had been right after all, and she had found too much solace in opium. She hated to think she’d been so weak.

  She needed courage now, more than ever before. One day at a time, and if that were too much to face, one hour at a time.

  Chapter 7

  Moncrief left the room and retraced his steps down the hall, then the grand staircase.

  There were probably servants still at Balidonough who dated from his youth, but he found it difficult to accept that Barrows was gone. The old man had mussed his hair, inspected his nails, and when he needed it, scolded him and sent him on his way. The cook had given him an extra scone when no one was looking, and he’d sought refuge in Mrs. McElwee’s room more times than he cared to remember. The housekeeper would slip him a horehound candy and talk to him of silly things, and pretend not to see that he could barely sit, so bad was his latest beating.

  He had easily set aside the trappings of his rank and his occupation, as if he simply took off the uniform and reverted to the man he’d always been.

  The boy was dying a harder death than the colonel.

  At the bottom of the stone steps, he turned left, down the servants’ stair and into the large kitchens that served Balidonough. As he had suspected, the footmen and two of his acquaintances, both attired in uniforms that should have been replaced years ago, sat at a large wooden table, tankards in each of their hands.

  Balidonough might be in shambles, but they evidently still made good whiskey.

  He frowned at them and braced both hands against the doorframe.

  “Wallace.”

  At the sound of his name, the young man sprang to attention, nearly knocking over the bench in his hurry to stand. The other two were slower, but they stood as well. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “You said there is no majordomo at Balidonough, no one to oversee the male employees, correct?”

  “That’s correct, Your Grace. The duchess hasn’t hired one yet.”

  He would have to talk to Juliana to obtain an answer to that riddle. In the meantime, however, he would establish his own chain of command.

  “From this moment on, you are our majordomo, Wallace.”

  “Me, sir?” The young man looked terrified and amazed. Moncrief gave him a moment to decline the position and when he didn’t, asked another question.

  “Are there any other members of the family living at Balidonough?”

  Wallace looked confused.

  “Any aunts, cousins, uncles in residence?”

  His face cleared, and he shook his head. “No, Your Grace. Only the duchess and her sister.”

  “The dowager duchess. My wife is now duchess.”

  Wallace ducked his head in an embarrassed nod. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “I want the maids sent with some cleaning supplies throughout Balidonough beginning tomorrow. I want it cleaned as if the king himself was to visit here.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, and Wallace,” he said, turning to leave the room.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Do something with your hair. Slick it down or have it cut.”

  The young man who’d just been promoted to a position of unparalleled responsibility, clamped one hand over the top of his head and nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Every great majordomo has to begin somewhere, Wallace. Move your belongings into the butler’s quarters as well.”

  As he left the room, Moncrief had the distinct notion that he’d made at least one person at Balidonough ecstatic. However, he doubted his chances of continuing with that trend. His sister-in-law had made an effort of concealing her irritation at his presence, but he doubted that it would last long. Juliana had a way of grating on him like metal against metal. And his wife…well, Catherine was another story entirely.

  By nightfall, the servants’ coach had arrived, along with the wagon containing their trunks. Moncrief stood at the front of Balidonough watching the vehicles pull into position. A few moments later, the servants, including Peter, descended from the coach. The young man looked distinctly irritated.

  “An eventful journey, Peter?”

  “A crowded coach, Your Grace. And a great many women.” He sent a disgusted look toward two of the maids, who giggled in response. Moncrief noticed that Glynneth ignored him and her traveling companions with the insouciance of royalty.

  “She wasn’t annoying, sir,” Peter said, as if answering a question Moncrief hadn’t voiced. “At least she didn’t spend half the time giggling. Kept to herself, she did.”

  Moncrief didn’t care if Glynneth had hung out the window singing riotous drinking songs, but he kept that thought to himself.

  He pointed to Catherine’s trunk. “Put that in the duke’s apartments, Peter.” He glanced at Harry’s trunk and wondered if the damnable thing would haunt him for the rest of his life. “You might as well take that one, also. One of the footmen can show you where.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” After a pause, he spoke again. “Balidonough’s a lot bigger than I expected.”

  “It was built for a dynasty.” Now, however, it seemed empty. Time had not magnified the size of the castle in his mind. A hundred people could have lived comfortably within its walls. Evidently, however, the twenty-some-odd bedrooms were uninhabited, the various state rooms no doubt rarely used.

  Moncrief turned and looked up at Balidonough, shadowed and looming against the fast-moving clouds of night. He’d never expected to stand here, heir to it and all its attendant responsibilities. But he had expected to return home. To be welcomed, perhaps, by his father, by Colin. They were both gone, and he was angry at them for dying. They had suddenly disappeared from his world, and all those months when he’d not known of his father’s death, and that moment he’d been informed of Colin’s, came at him now like attackers from the darkness.

  The river was a ribbon of black. The orange disk of the moon slid into a pocket of clouds. It was not a serene night; it heralded troubled dreams, a tinge of tears on the back of the throat, a disturbing dream waiting for him to sleep.

  He’d always thought there would be time to know Colin better, to mend the rift time and distance had accentuated. He’d thought of coming home, of discussing the memories they’d evoke by sharing a meal, talking over a glass of Balidonough whiskey. They’d get to know each other, become the friends they’d never truly been.

  At an early age Moncrief had been branded a wastrel, a disgrace, someone who did not deserve to truly be a member of such an auspicious family. His sins? The fact he dared to disagree with his autocratic father or that he was different from his brothers. He challenged every dictate, every command.

  But being a recalcitrant son had proven to be a blessing in disguise. He recognized insubordination when it came and knew full well how to handle it. The seeds of his promotion to colonel had been sown by the intractable youth he’d been. By refusing to back down, by standing up to his father, he’d developed a singular type of courage, and a sense of identity that had served him well as a man of war.

  “Your Grace?”

  Peter bowed before him, effectively ending his reverie. “Is there anything else you need, Your Grace?”

  He shook his head. “No, Peter, after you’ve delivered the trunks, find your own room and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow is soon enough to reconnoiter Balidonough.”

  Peter bowed again and was gone, Harry’s trunk easily braced on one shoulder.

  Moncrief walke
d down the gravel drive to the fountain and stood there, his hand braced against the stone. Once again he turned back to look at Balidonough. The night was full upon them, the moon now obscured by the fast-moving clouds. The rain had left puddles on the ground and a freshness to the air. The lowlands of Scotland had a pastoral beauty that never failed to calm him. Until now. Now his mind was too immersed in chaotic thoughts to allow scenery, however bucolic, to affect his mood.

  Catherine stood when Peter knocked, and smiled as he entered the room bringing her trunks. He and a footman made a parade of it, until they were neatly stacked in the corner of the room. Tomorrow, she’d unpack and place her things around her, pretending that this was home.

  The last of the trunks was Harry’s, and she directed Peter to place it at the end of the bed. During the past few days at Colstin Hall, Catherine found Peter eager to serve with a pleasant disposition, and a ready smile.

  A strange companion for Moncrief.

  The day after their marriage, Peter had come to her room with her dinner tray, bowed low, and introduced himself. After she’d recovered from the surprise of his impromptu gesture, he’d done something even more startling. He’d straightened and faced her, his expression solemn and sober.

  “Congratulations on your marriage, Your Grace,” he’d said. “I hope you’ll be very happy.”

  She’d only nodded to him, bemused.

  Now she addressed a question to him. “Did you know my husband, Peter?”

  “The duke, your grace? Yes, ma’am, I’ve been with him since North America,” he said proudly.

  “Not Moncrief,” she said shaking her head. “Harry Dunnan.”

  Peter was too young to school his face like Moncrief. He was not a master of concealing his expressions quite yet. Therefore, she saw when his eyes changed and his face tightened.

  “Did you not like my husband, Peter?”

  “I didn’t know him well, Your Grace.”

  “But you didn’t like him,” she said, certain of it.

  “No, Your Grace,” he said straightening. To his credit, he didn’t look away, but directly at her. That was one thing he still had not lost, an almost painful honesty of youth. “I knew plenty of men who did like him though.”