by Karen Ranney
There were hundreds of places like that around Hearthmere, where long-dead people had made their mark of some sort or another, where history came alive and her own heritage was too powerful to ever ignore.
Today, however, she was experiencing a sense of sadness that seemed to hover like a cloud over her.
She made her way to the second floor, to a room at the end of the corridor. Pulling out a key from her pocket, she unlocked the door. She and a maid always dusted in here during her annual visit, but otherwise no one was allowed in this room. Her father had lovingly placed all those items of her mother’s here. Her dresses hung in the armoire. The vanity was laden with the silver-backed brushes and mirror that had her initials inscribed on them. Bottles of perfume, some of them imported from France, sat in front of the mirror.
This room might be considered a shrine, but it had never been her mother’s room and was only a repository for those things she’d liked or valued during her life. Eleanor didn’t think her father had come here, but it was a place she often visited, as if becoming familiar with her mother’s belongings would help her learn about the woman she’d never known.
Closing the door behind her, she went to the trunk at the end of the bed. Kneeling, she opened it and removed the tray containing her mother’s stockings, corset covers, and shifts, putting it aside.
A moment later she pulled out a blue fabric-wrapped parcel. After replacing the tray, she closed the lid of the trunk. Carefully she unwrapped the blue fabric, revealing her mother’s wedding dress. To her surprise, not a hint of yellow marred the silk fabric. It was still as brilliantly white as it must have been on the day her parents had married.
This was the dress she would wear to her own wedding.
Her father had once told her that it was better not to spend a lot of time looking back. Yet it was important not to look forward so much that you forgot to live today. He was always so firmly fixed in the day-to-day of his life, in breeding horses and raising her. She was lucky that she had a treasure trove of memories to recall.
She should take his advice. However, her father had never been faced with the prospect of marriage. Nor of knowing that once married she’d probably never be able to live at Hearthmere again. Michael had his own estate and, unfortunately, no love of Scotland. More than once she’d had to endure his lectures on how politically backward her country was.
Her father had been a true Scot and had loved Scotland and Hearthmere. He’d loved the land, too, and every time she rode out, she missed those rides with him. He’d showed her the tree where he’d marked his initials as a child, surprised that the mark was high above their heads now. He would point to a far off and hazy Ben Hagen, saying that they should go there one day and climb to the very top of the mountain.
She had known that she would eventually marry, but she’d always imagined a life in Scotland for herself. She and her husband would come back to Hearthmere often or even live here. The house would be a lodestone for her, a stabilizing influence.
Deborah had settled into life in London with barely a ripple, reacquainting herself with Hamilton, a wealthy widower. Everything had fallen into place for Deborah and even Daphne. Nor was Jeremy discomfited at all. He, too, had made his life in London, with side trips to Edinburgh from time to time to see his friends. She was the only one who hadn’t made the transition well, looking back at Scotland as her home.
And now?
Now she had to face the future, whatever it was going to be.
Chapter Six
The next morning, Eleanor occupied herself with another chore, going over the previous year’s expenditures.
“Miss Eleanor?”
She looked up from her father’s desk to see the housekeeper standing in the middle of the doorway, a curious expression on her face. Putting aside one of the bills she was reading, she asked, “What is it, Mrs. Willett?”
With any luck, the woman didn’t want to discuss menus again with her. Or the paucity of salmon this year. Since there wasn’t a family to feed, it seemed like a great deal of trouble to worry about her meals. She just wished that the housekeeper would continue on with whatever she did when Eleanor wasn’t here. The staff was well fed, and Cook certainly appeared that way. Therefore, someone was doing something right.
“We have a situation, Miss Eleanor. You’ve been given a present.”
“A present? From whom?”
Jeremy was in Edinburgh. Not that he was likely to give her anything. The rest of her family was in London. None of them would be sending her something in Scotland.
“I haven’t the slightest idea who could have brought me a present, Mrs. Willett.”
“Regardless, Miss Eleanor,” the woman said, “it’s here. And it’s causing quite a commotion in the kitchen. I would appreciate it if you would address the matter at your earliest convenience.”
Before she could ask the housekeeper any further questions, Mrs. Willett disappeared from the doorway.
What on earth?
She heard the giggles long before she reached the kitchen. She couldn’t imagine what kind of gift she’d been given, especially one that seemed to elicit such amusement.
In the kitchen the maids were excitedly talking, two of them on their knees.
She started to ask a question when something darted out between the legs of the chair and headed for her. It was a large black, tan, and white ball of cotton. It skidded to a stop directly in front of her, aimed for her shoe, and began to chew on her laces.
The puppy was inspiring a great deal of hilarity, even more so after he assaulted her footwear. Eleanor took a step back, but it was no use. The puppy followed her. When she turned to leave the kitchen, he was right there on her heels.
“It’s like he knows you’re his mistress, Miss Eleanor,” one of the maids said.
This was her present? This?
She knew immediately who had gifted her with this rambunctious puppy. There was no mystery whatsoever. Reaching down, she picked up the puppy, tucked it under her arm and left the kitchen without a word.
Once in her bedroom, she put the puppy down and looked around for some way to contain him. He started gnawing on the leg of her vanity, but when she approached him, he stopped chewing long enough to look up at her. His expression was one of utter joy like he’d been transported to puppy heaven.
She picked him up and raised him to eye level.
“You’re only going to be here for a little while,” she said. “Until I can deliver you back to your benefactor. Until then, I would have you not chew on my furniture, please.”
The puppy yipped at her, a tiny little bark that only hinted at what it might become.
How dare he give her a puppy. Who did he think he was?
She really was going to write the duke now. He needed to know that she did not appreciate his shepherd’s attitude or actions. The man was a menace and now she would have to find a basket of some sort to put the puppy in so that she could transport him back to his original home.
The puppy was a roly-poly little thing, a bundle of soft fur with teeth. She put him down on the floor and he began biting at her shoes again.
“Stop that.”
That didn’t seem to work. She simply moved out of range of the puppy’s teeth, which might have been successful if he hadn’t grabbed the hem of her skirt and held on. When she took a step, the puppy growled and was dragged with her. She bent, retrieved him, and managed to get his teeth off her skirt.
“You have to stop chewing things,” she said. Except that now he was gnawing on her fingers. His teeth were exceptionally sharp and when she pulled back her hand and said, “No!” he looked surprised.
No doubt he was like the shepherd—unused to being chastised.
“Until we return you to your proper place, I would appreciate it if you would have some kind of manners.”
He barked at her. Not a tiny little yip this time but a full-throated bark. She put him down on the floor, moved to the armoire, and began
to change her clothes.
Once dressed for riding, she turned to find the puppy relieving himself in the middle of the two-hundred-year-old chrysanthemum-patterned rug beside the vanity. She screamed, raced to his side, picked him up, and deposited him outside the door before ringing for a maid.
Ann had only been at Hearthmere for two years. She was very young, not more than seventeen Eleanor guessed, with a rangy body and light brown hair frizzing around her face. She was not a pretty girl, but she made up for it with a charming smile she used often. After a while, you didn’t notice Ann’s looks—you only paid attention to her pleasing character.
Eleanor told her what she needed. The girl nodded, retreating to get the requested articles.
The puppy still sat just outside the open door. Instead of escaping to other parts of the house, he looked like he was waiting to return.
“If you think you’re coming back in here, you’re mistaken,” she said. “You belong in the stable. Or the barn. Not in my bedroom.”
He barked at her again.
In a matter of moments, Ann was back with the items Eleanor needed. Plus, she’d found a round basket with a lid suitable for transporting the puppy back to the shepherd.
The sooner done, the sooner over. That’s the way all distasteful tasks should be accomplished.
After she finished cleaning the rug alongside the maid—she felt partly responsible for the mess since she’d brought the puppy to her bedroom—Eleanor went to find the puppy and place him in the basket, only to find him asleep in a tight little ball just inside the doorway. When she picked him up, his head lolled sideways. He slitted open his eyes and gave a sleepy yawn, then licked her fingers. Gently she placed him into the basket and put it over her arm, grabbed her divided skirt with the other hand, and made her way down the stairs.
“I wasn’t here, Miss Eleanor,” the housekeeper said when questioned a few minutes later. “Sally was, however. Would you like to speak with her?”
“I would, thank you.”
She remembered Sally from a few years earlier. The girl had been burned in a kitchen accident. The scar on her arm had been a source of embarrassment for the maid. The intervening years had evidently made a difference, because Sally greeted her with no hesitation, even though the scar was still visible.
“Of course I remember him, Miss Eleanor. A handsome man, he was, and him with the little puppy in his arms. That was a sight to see.”
“Did he say anything to you, Sally?”
“Oh, yes, miss. Very polite he was. He went on about the pleasant day and asked about my family. I told him as how they live in the Bailthorne Village. My brother’s a smith there. Him and my sister’s husband.”
Evidently, the shepherd had elicited more information from Sally than Eleanor had in all these years.
“Did he say anything about the puppy?”
The girl nodded. “That the little one was a gift. Something to get you over your fear, he was.” Sally smiled, no doubt pleased to impart such news. “He said a great many nice things about you, too.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, miss. That you were beautiful and had a voice like a mother’s lullaby.”
“A mother’s lullaby?” She felt herself warm.
“Yes, miss.”
“But all he said about the puppy was that it was a gift?”
The shepherd was the only person with the temerity to do something like this.
“Did he give you no other information, Sally?”
“No, miss.”
Yet he’d taken the time to tell the maid that she had a voice like a mother’s lullaby. What, exactly, did that mean?
“Thank you, Sally,” Eleanor said, picking up the puppy and heading for the stable.
Maud was skittish, but that might have something to do with the dark clouds on the horizon. Many of the horses at Hearthmere were high-strung and didn’t like storms.
She gauged the distance versus the sky and thought that she’d have plenty of time to reach the shepherd, hand over the puppy, and return to the stable before the storm arrived. Or, it might do as storms sometimes did, veer to the east or west and miss them entirely.
The sheep weren’t on the road now. Instead, they were contentedly grazing on the slope of the glen. She stopped almost exactly where she had yesterday morning, but the figure on the hill didn’t descend. Nor did the dogs.
Finally, tired of waiting, she raised her arm and waved, hoping the shepherd would see her and know that she wanted to speak to him. Otherwise, she would have to take Maud up the hill, which could be dangerous for the mare. Or leave Maud on the road and climb the hill herself.
She raised her arm again. She knew that he’d seen her, but the irritating man didn’t come down.
The stable boy had handed the basket up to her once she was mounted. Now she didn’t know how to handle the puppy while she dismounted. She was too high to simply drop the basket.
The shepherd had a great deal to answer for. She had a few thoughts about an apt punishment as she tied the reins to the basket handle before wrapping them around the pommel. Once she dismounted she untied the basket.
She would have to climb the hill with the puppy. The least the shepherd could have done was make this easier for her, but of course he knew what she was going to do. He didn’t want his gift returned.
That was unfortunate, because she had every intention of doing exactly that. You didn’t simply leave a puppy with someone, especially when that person didn’t care for dogs. There was a reason for her antipathy, but she wasn’t going to share it with him. All she was going to do was hand over the basket, turn, and walk away.
There wasn’t any reason to exchange a word with the annoying man.
Chapter Seven
A rumble of thunder had her glancing toward the sky. The storm clouds were approaching a little faster now. If she didn’t hurry, the storm was going to be on top of them before she returned Maud to the stable.
The distance to the top of the hill was a little farther than it looked. The puppy kept peeking his head out of the top of the basket and she had to coax him back inside.
“I’m sure you’re a very nice puppy,” she said, halfway up the hill. “I’m sure you’ll be a good companion to someone. It won’t be me, however. I don’t like dogs, you see.”
He only whined in response, which was understandable, especially if you got the gist of what she was saying. She didn’t suppose she would like it if someone talked badly about her species. In a way, people did, all the time. Scottish women were sometimes portrayed as fishwives in English newspapers. As if they alone were responsible for every political decision made in Scotland. As if Scottish men were under the thumbs of their wives. Nothing could be further from the truth, but that didn’t stop the newspapers from featuring their unflattering cartoons.
Finally she was at the top of the hill, and for just a moment she turned to survey the view. She might choose to be a shepherd if it meant witnessing such beauty every day. The only companions were the sheep. Perhaps after a few hours she would become accustomed to the various sounds they made.
Turning, she looked for the shepherd, but he had disappeared.
What kind of game was this idiotic man playing?
The clouds were darkening and growing closer, blown across the sky by a fierce September wind. If she didn’t hurry, she and Maud were going to be drenched and that would certainly anger Mr. Contino. As far as he was concerned, the horses came first. If anyone forgot that lesson they were the target of his temper. She wasn’t exempt, despite being his employer.
She didn’t know the shepherd’s name and didn’t want to call out, Shepherd! Besides, she wasn’t sure he would hear her over the sheep’s increasingly loud complaints. Did sheep fare well in the rain? How strange that she didn’t know. She hadn’t made an effort to seek out Hearthmere’s flock or even their shepherd.
She pushed her way through the sheep, finding some of them quite willing to give way. Oth
ers, like the one that blocked her path, were prepared to be obstinate. Were sheep always difficult to manage?
“What are you about?”
She turned to find that the owner of the voice was an older man wearing a long, dark brown coat, something that reminded her of a monk’s habit, but open in the front. He planted his crook in the earth and eyed her with a frown, his wrinkled face bearing witness to years—if not decades—out in the elements.
The dogs at his side were the same ones that had frightened her before. Peter and Paul, unlikely names for vicious beasts.
“Are you Old Ned?” she asked, since he resembled her housekeeper’s description.
“Aye, that I am.”
She hadn’t heard such a thick brogue since her father died, and it took a minute for her mind to translate the words into some semblance of English. She’d let her knowledge of Gaelic fade through the years or she would have asked him a question in that language.
“I’m looking for the other shepherd,” she said.
“There is no other but me.”
“Of course there is,” she said. “The younger man.” The handsome one. The annoying one.
“There is no other but me,” he repeated.
“That can’t be right.”
“Aye, it is.”
The first raindrops began to fall, large splattering drops that hinted that the clouds would soon release a deluge.
The puppy took that opportunity to pop out of the basket again.
Eleanor put her hand over his head to shield him from the rain and coax him back inside the shelter of the basket.
“I’ve come to return his puppy to him.”
The man glanced around as if looking for someone. “You’ll not see anyone but me here.”
“He has to be here,” she said. “I’ve come to return his puppy.”
“I’ve no use for a puppy.”
Nor was she going to leave the animal with him. The poor thing would likely be trampled beneath the hooves of the suddenly milling sheep. Thunder rumbled overhead and it disturbed them, enough that they were beginning to move of their own accord.
