“Fenny, tell me more aboot Kennon. All I really know is that he’s Brodie’s cousin. But he’s never accompanied Brodie to court, or at least not as far as I know.” Cairstine shifted the attention to Fenella’s relationship, hoping it would distract Fenella from Cairstine’s undecided future.
“He’s simply wonderful. He’s kind and patient, and he’s rather quiet.” Fenella giggled. “I suppose that’s not a dreadful thing since I like to talk so much. He’s intelligent even though he didn’t have as much instruction as Brodie. He enjoys reading as much as he does hunting and riding. He’s very strong, and,” Fenella’s face turned red, “very braw.”
Cairstine’s mind drifted to how she would describe Eoin, and she found similarities to what Fenella listed, but she considered his natural leadership, his sense of humor, his protectiveness, his faith, and something she couldn’t describe that drew her to him.
“I’m happy you’ve found a mon who cares for you so much. Do you think he loves you just like you love him?” Cairstine wondered aloud.
“I’m certain he does. He told me before I said it.” Fenella sank onto the stool before the small table that held her combs and ribbons, still clutching the fabric.
“Fenny, put the velvet aside before you crush it,” Davina suggested. “Tell Cairstine aboot the lambs that dropped a few sennights ago. What did you name them?”
Cairstine smiled at her mother, grateful that she’d distracted Fenella. Her sister regaled her with a tale of baby lambs that looked like clouds but ate like wolves. The afternoon slipped into evening, and it was time for the evening meal before Cairstine realized it. She was exhausted and wished she could take a tray in her chamber and climb into her bed, but she knew people would expect her to make an appearance during her first night home. It came as a relief to see her mother and a trail of servants approaching her chamber as she stepped into the passageway. She saw a tub, steaming buckets, and a tray laden with enough food for two. She stepped aside to allow everyone entry.
“Thank you, Mama,” Cairstine smiled. Tension eased from her shoulders and neck as she waited for the serving women to fill the bath. Once the servants left, Davina helped unlace Cairstine’s kirtle even though she could have done the side laces herself. She eased into the scalding water as her mother laid out a fresh chemise before uncovering the various plates of food. Cairstine would have loved nothing more than to soak until the water went cold, but she didn’t want to keep her mother waiting. She hurried through washing her hair, appreciative of her mother’s help when Davina poured clean water over her sudsy locks. She ran the soap-lathered linen over her body before her mother held up a drying linen that she wrapped around Cairstine. Davina led her daughter to the stool she’d placed before the fire and began combing her daughter’s hair.
“You did a brave but impetuous thing trying to join the order. You knew your father would never agree, yet you were willing to face those consequences and still proceed.” Davina ran the comb through Cairstine’s hair with long, gentle strokes that threatened to lull Cairstine into sleep despite the topic. “I wish you would trust me and reveal the real reason for your decision, but I won’t force you. Whatever it is, and I can imagine a few possibilities, I need you to understand that I will never turn on you, never turn you away.”
“I know, Mama.” Cairstine had never been so tempted to confess to her mother as she was in that moment, but the shame was too great. She couldn’t bear the possibility that her mother would blame her and that she would lose her mother’s esteem.
“Your father isn’t an easy mon to draw close to. He’s taken on a life that was meant for his brother, not him. Did you know that when I became a widow my parents and your father’s parents intended me to marry your uncle, Gilmore, before he died? Not only did your father inherit the lairdship and all that entails, he also inherited a bride. He’d never once considered having a wife nor fulfilling his duties as a husband. I’ve grown to respect and rely on your father over the years, but it wasn’t instantaneous. It took many years before we grew comfortable with one another, but now I hold him in the highest esteem.”
Cairstine was wide awake by the time her mother finished speaking. She understood her mother’s implied message, but she was more shocked to hear the fondness in her mother’s voice when she described her father. Both Edward and Davina revealed more about their relationship in one day than Cairstine had ever supposed in her entire life. She’d been under a false impression, and it had never occurred to her that her father might have entered the marriage with trepidations about his marital duties. As she considered it, she realized that her fears were mostly likely similar to her father’s. He’d intended to live a life of celibacy, but his clan, his wife, and her clan expected him to perform as a secular man would. Cairstine had never asked whether they forced her mother to endure a bedding ceremony, but she suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for her father if they had. She realized Edward probably dreaded the conjugal part of marriage as much as Cairstine, but he’d overcome it. He’d sired two daughters who looked more like him than Davina.
Cairstine remained quiet as she considered what she learned, and her mother didn’t press her into conversation. They both enjoyed the companionable silence while they ate. When they finished, Davina summoned servants to clear away the bath and supper tray. Once they were alone again, Davina kneeled beside Cairstine as they recited their prayers then tucked Cairstine into her bed like she had countless times when Cairstine was a child.
“Mama?” Cairstine called out as her mother approached the door. “I know I keep saying thank you over and over, but I really do mean it.”
“I ken you do, Cair. Sleep well, mo ghruagach.” Cairstine blew out the candle on her bedside table and drifted into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
Cairstine shut her eyes as she steeled herself for Fingal’s approach. She was once more watching their horses flirt as his stallion attempted to lure her mare into mating. She wasn’t in the mood for any of Fingal’s euphemisms or less-than-subtle hints that they should marry. She held him in high regard in all ways—except as a potential suitor. She was confident he would be a well-respected and formidable laird when he one day inherited the title from Edward. She was well aware of his skills and successes on the battlefield. She appreciated his quick wit and intelligence, but she was not enthused about his hints that they should marry. She knew he held no more affection for her than she did for him. He viewed their marriage as a business venture, and while she could accept that, she couldn’t overcome her trepidation about her wifely duties. She’d spent both morning Masses contemplating what she’d realized the night before about her father.
She saw the obvious similarities between their circumstances, but she reminded herself that Edward hadn’t suffered the same trauma she had, and while she couldn’t imagine her father hurting her mother, he was invariably in control. She sighed just before Fingal stepped next to her. She still hadn’t resolved the matter, but she reminded herself that she promised herself that she wouldn’t allow it to consume her anymore.
“Has Twinkle accepted the inevitable yet?” Fingal grinned as he leaned back on the top rail of the pasture fence, so he could face Cairstine.
“Nay, not yet. They’re still dancing around each other, but I think she’s coming around.”
“She may as well. She can’t fight this forever. She’s a mare; it’s her fate to breed.” Fingal’s cocked brow made clear that he meant it was all women’s fate, including hers.
“She might yet reject him. Maybe choose one of Father’s studs instead. She doesn’t have to take the first choice presented to her.”
“Aye, but we tried that already. Only my horse will take her.” Fingal’s eyes narrowed, as if a hard stare would make his point any clearer.
“Fingal, ye dinna want to marry me any more than I want to marry ye. Ye want what comes with me. The assurance that nae one can contest yer inheritance. Who would? Nay one. There is nay one to do it
. We all ken ye’re the closest living male relative. Even if I married, and an argument was made that ma husband should inherit, the candidates being presented are all heirs or lairds in their own right. They arenae going to take the title from ye. Ye’re welcome to the bluidy thing.” Cairstine’s irritation caused her burr to slip out. During her early days at court, it had been an ongoing challenge to minimize her accent and to sound more like a Lowlander. Eventually, it became more normal, but when she grew irritated or too tired, it returned.
“You have a chance to stay here among your people at your home. Why wouldn’t you take that?”
Cairstine collected herself, consciously diminishing her burr. “The Grants will always be my people, but Freuchie stopped feeling like home two years ago when my parents sent me to court. When I come home, the faces are the same, but I’m not the same.”
“It can feel like home again if you stayed long enough,” Fingal pointed out. “If you married me, if you have that opportunity, why not take it while it’s being freely offered rather than being forced upon you?”
“I’m sorry, Fingal, but it doesn’t feel like it’s freely offered.”
“Don’t you remember how you used to imagine that you were Lady Grant when we were children? You have that opportunity.”
“That’s when we were children, but dreams change as we grow older. Sometimes they lose their shine. Sometimes they become grittier and more realistic. Fin, you deserve somebody who can offer you genuine affection. Somebody who wants to be married to you rather than forced.”
“I never knew you were so sentimental at heart, Cairstine. Why would I even worry aboot whether the woman loves me? I need not love her.”
“Even arranged marriages can grow into ones with affection, mutual respect, and even warmth. But I can’t say that I see there’s that likelihood for us. Fin, you’re more like my brother than my husband. I just can’t see you as aught else.”
“You might over time.”
“Highly unlikely,” Cairstine dismissed him. “Why commit us both to the future of unhappiness when we know that’s a probability before we even start?”
“Because that’s what’s expected of us, Cairstine. We don’t always get what we want. You want to talk aboot dreams losing their shine and your wishes. Well, what aboot when we have duties people expect us to fulfill? We were both born into the laird’s family, so it was never aboot our choice. Why do you think you should have more choice than everybody else? What makes you so special?”
“I never said I think I’m special. I just see a different duty to serve the clan ahead for me.”
“How the bluidy hell can becoming a nun in a covenant help serve this clan at all? It sounds more like you insisting upon getting your way, Cairstine. I never knew you were so self-centered.”
Fingal stormed away. He entered the pasture and called to his stallion, swung onto the animal’s back without a saddle, and charged out of the field, through the bailey, and out through the gates. Cairstine knew he needed time to blow off steam. It had been this way ever since they were children. But she regretted that they’d argued. They’d done that very few times in all their lives. Cairstine might have disagreed with him, but he was still a lifelong friend and family member.
Cairstine couldn’t overlook Fingal’s words. She knew she was being self-centered with her wishes, and she knew they didn’t serve her clan as much as she might want to argue that they did. She’d felt guilty about her wishes and the choices she was clinging to even before she spoke with Fingal, but this conversation upset her more than any of the previous ones. Somehow hearing the words and accusations coming from Fingal made their message even more real, even more significant.
Maybe I need to give up on what I want and accept what’s better for the clan. Who am I to insist my wishes outweigh the needs of my clan? There are plenty of other women who experience what I have and go on to become wives and mothers. They weren’t given choices either, and perhaps that’s not as bad as it would seem.
* * *
The next week dragged on for Cairstine. The endless rounds of Mass offered her too much time to consider her options and what choice she should make instead of what she wanted to make. Her father continued to send messages to various clans, seeking a potential husband for her. It was during an evening meal that she felt her world crumble.
“Laird Gordon would make you a fine husband, Cairstine.” Her father turned to talk to her and smiled. “He’s been a widower for several years. His sons are full grown, so you wouldn’t have children to raise nor would he expect you to bear him any. He’s well respected and would never harm you. That I can be sure of that.”
Cairstine’s heart sunk even as she recognized the truth in her father’s words. Andrew Gordon was the best man her father had proposed thus far, but the idea of marrying Andrew and living at Huntley with Andrew as her husband made her stomach flip, and not in the way it would if she were excited. Instead, she felt nauseous knowing that she would share a home with Eoin while being expected to go to his father’s bed each night. She couldn’t do it.
I have no choice. I have to get Eoin’s help. He swore he would come if I ask. I have to imagine that me marrying his father would be as unsettling to him as it is to me. If it’s not, then I know he didn’t feel the same way aboot me as I have grown to feel aboot him.
Cairstine nodded her head yes to her father. “I discovered he is a highly honorable mon and would make a woman a fine husband.” Just not me. “I will surely give that some thought, Father.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I intend to send him a missive within the sennight. I will draft it in the morning. We will host the Highland Gathering in a few sennights. We can announce your betrothal then.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cairstine rushed to her chamber as soon as she could leave the evening meal. She went to her trunk and pulled out a sheath of parchment, a quill, and a small jar of ink. She’d packed them away the last time she was there to make it easier for the servants to dust. There was no need for them to lay about when she wasn’t there. She sat to the small table and pushed her combs and ribbons to the side as she laid out her writing utensils. She tapped the quill against her lips. She considered what she should say. All she knew at that moment was that she needed to ask for Eoin’s help, and she needed to do it faster than her father could write and send his missive.
Who can I trust to take this? The only mon I can think of is Bram. But I don’t know if he would agree. I’m not scared that he would tell Father, but he may turn my request down. If that happens, then I don’t know who to turn to.
Cairstine put the nib of the quill on the parchment, the scratch of it moving across the vellum somehow reassuring that she could solve this latest problem.
Eoin,
I hope this missive finds you safely arrived at Huntley. I am settling back into my routine here with nearly as many Masses as at the priory. My father continues to suggest candidates for me to marry. It is with great trepidation that I learned this evening that my father is considering yours as a potential husband.
Eoin, I can’t bear the thought of becoming your father’s wife, having to come live in your home, seeing you every day. I can’t be bound to your father. Not after what we’ve done and shared.
Christine considered striking out that last sentence or starting a fresh letter, knowing that if anybody intercepted the missive, the last sentence would sound far more incriminating than she intended. But she wanted him to know even if she didn’t say it in as many words that their time together, the kisses and touches they shared, had meant something to her.
I cannot come to Huntley to not only become your father’s wife, but to become your stepmother. How can I become your stepmother when I’m younger than you are? The only argument I could make for marrying your father is you and Ewan are both adults, so your father already has an heir. He has no reason for me to bear him children, and I feel he is an honorable man with whom I could share my secret with
out fear of judgement. But that doesn’t make it feel any more right to marry him while living in your home.
My need to avoid a betrothal has become even more dire than before. My father has sent missives to nearly every eligible man in Scotland. My courtly reputation precedes me, for which I’m grateful, but if no one else accepts his offer, he will force me to marry Fingal. The man may be like a brother to me, but he will expect me to make myself available at his whim. Eoin, I can’t tell Fingal. He might never strike me, but he would never understand, and he would remind me of my shame every time I went to his bed.
I’m growing more desperate by the day, so I am asking you again. Please consider agreeing to a betrothal until my sister marries. I don’t know what else to do. My father intends to announce a betrothal at the gathering. I need to do something before then, so Fenella can wed and I can retire to a convent.
Yours truly,
C
Cairstine waited for the ink to dry before folding it and pressing heated wax to seal it. She contemplated waiting until morning to seek Bram’s help, but the dark would lend her stealth. She pulled her arisaid over her head until the plaid concealed most of her face, then she slipped from her chamber and made her way belowstairs, avoiding the wooden planks that squeaked. The snores of people bedded down in the Great Hall drifted to her, reassuring her that she would go undetected. She peeked around the corner, scanning the sleeping bodies for anyone who appeared awake. When she spotted no one, she crept to the kitchens then through the side door. She kept her head down as she crossed the bailey to the barracks, and prayed she’d remembered the correct day of the week that Bram stood watch. She’d considered it divine intervention when she realized Bram, the only person she trusted as her messenger, was supposed to stand watch the night she needed to dispatch her missive.
A Rake at the Highland Court: The Highland Ladies Book Four Page 13
