by Karen Ranney
The newer section of the house was an immense quadrangular structure of five stories with towers on all four corners. The older portion of Bealadair was to the rear and connected by a four-story building.
The entire complex, consisting of one hundred and eighty-nine rooms, had been swept, dusted, polished, and refreshed with new potpourri in the past several days. The chandeliers had been lowered, each crystal immersed in a bucket of vinegar and water, then polished to a sparkle before being replaced. The tapestries had been gently brushed, even the ones that were four hundred years old. The runners had been removed from all the corridors, taken outside and beaten by a laughing team of maids and footmen.
Everything was being readied for the man in the carriage approaching the long drive.
Would he care? Would he even notice?
The blowing snow obscured everything but the yellow glow of the carriage lanterns.
None of it belonged to them anymore. It was all owned by the man who would soon emerge from the carriage, the same man who could so easily wave his hand and banish them.
She shivered, wishing she had been able to wear her cloak. And a scarf around her throat. And a hat pulled over her hair. She couldn’t feel her lips or her fingertips.
People were stamping their feet against the packed snow of the drive and wrapping their arms around themselves. She could see plumes of their breath against the night sky.
Didn’t Rhona notice that everyone was about to freeze to death?
Sometimes, she thought that Rhona forgot that the people who staffed Bealadair were human beings. A great many of her dictates didn’t make sense. Yesterday she’d given an order that the laundress was to starch all the maids’ aprons and today no one was to sit or otherwise crease their uniforms until the duke arrived. You could either do the job you were supposed to do or you could walk around acting like a marionette.
Rhona made decisions like that, making changes that weren’t the least practical. A few months ago she’d given an order that all of the maids were to have their hair arranged in the same fashion, in an overly intricate braided bun. It took so long for the girls to arrange their hair that way that Elsbeth had countermanded Rhona’s orders, more than willing to go to battle for the staff. Fortunately, the duchess hadn’t noticed.
Rhona liked to issue decrees. She made pronouncements, waved her hand in the air like a queen, and demanded certain behaviors. Just as quickly, however, she forgot what she’d ordered.
Elsbeth had the feeling that Rhona really didn’t care. The duchess just liked being obeyed, even if it was only momentarily. Elsbeth took great pains to ensure that Rhona got that impression, even if it wasn’t exactly correct.
In the past year she’d taken on the duty of housekeeper. Mrs. Ferguson had increasingly incapacitating arthritis. It was easier for the poor woman to remain in her quarters than it was to traverse the many staircases of Bealadair.
None of the family had any objections to Elsbeth assuming the role. They wanted their meals on time, their suites kept clean and sparkling, and their lives not disrupted by petty things such as laundry, staffing expectations, and inconsequential details like leaky roofs.
As for Elsbeth, she enjoyed having something to do every day. Each evening she met with Mrs. Ferguson, consulting the woman over the tasks that needed to be done. The housekeeper had been at Bealadair for over twenty years and knew the house as well as—if not more so—the McCraights. The woman was an organizational genius, acquiring details about the many collections housed at the estate from armaments to historical documents.
No doubt the new duke would want to know the extent of his inheritance. Thanks to Mrs. Ferguson, she could provide him with an exact inventory.
The carriage was turning into the drive. A stableboy ran out to steady the horses. A footman strode forward to open the carriage door.
Rhona stepped up, accompanied by her oldest daughter, Lara, and Lara’s husband, Felix.
Elsbeth was too far away to hear the duchess’s words, but they were probably those of welcome. Maybe the duchess said something in Gaelic, evoking Scottish sentiment. After all, the new duke was an American who needed to be educated on his Scottish heritage. At least that’s what she’d been told.
No one had ever spoken of this unknown nephew. Until Mr. Glassey had sent back word from America, they had expected that the 14th Duke of Lothian and the Laird of Clan McCraight would be Gavin’s brother.
This man who stepped down from the carriage was a complete mystery.
She saw his boots first, well-worn with a pointed toe and quite unlike the polished black leather favored by the previous duke and his son-in-law.
He was wearing what looked to be a black wool suit but his coat was unlike anything she’d ever seen. Of brown leather, it hung nearly to his ankles and seemed to be lined with thick white fleece. A hat was pulled down over his head, but she didn’t recognize the style of it, either. How odd that she’d never considered that the new duke would be dressed unlike anyone she’d ever seen.
He glanced behind him, said something to a tall thin man dressed in a similar fashion, who followed him out of the carriage. Then he went to speak to the driver. The man nodded, responded, and whatever he said seemed to satisfy the duke because he returned to stand in front of Rhona, removed his hat, and nodded to her.
His hair was dark brown, soon dusted with snow, but he didn’t look as if the weather concerned him at all. His companion was not so impervious, having turned up his collar before glaring up at the sky.
Nor did Mr. Glassey, having exited the second coach, appear fond of the weather. He greeted the duchess, said something to both of the Americans before turning and offering Rhona his arm, evidently intent on entering Bealadair.
The new duke, along with his companion, followed, then the rest of them. Elsbeth fell back, gave instructions to the maids she’d separated out for the task, telling them to begin serving the heated refreshments. No one had known what time the carriage would arrive or even if the duke and his party would make it through the storm. But she’d planned for either a dinner repast, a midnight supper, or a breakfast.
Would more people be arriving? That, too, had been a mystery. She would have to pull Mr. Glassey aside and ask him. Was the duke married? Did he have a family?
It would be so much better for them if he didn’t have a wife or children. He wouldn’t be in such a hurry to banish Rhona and her daughters.
As for her, Elsbeth knew her time at Bealadair was nearly over.
The previous duke had been such a gentle soul, the first genuinely kind person Elsbeth met after her parents’ deaths. The day she arrived at Bealadair, he’d tried to reassure her that she’d always have a home there. He and her father had been best of friends, he’d said.
“This house is full of daughters,” he’d added. “You’ll just be one more. Besides, your father would have done the same for my girls if the situation were reversed.”
Had Gavin given any thought to what would happen when he died? Or had he, like so many people, considered that he might live forever?
Had her own parents felt that way?
They’d been in her mind often recently and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was because of the uncertainty she felt about her future. On their deaths they’d left her a small bequest, which the 13th Duke had supplemented. She’d never be a pauper. If she wished, she could buy a small cottage somewhere and live a demure, if lackluster, life.
The duke had gifted the rest of his family with bequests as well, but she doubted if they would ever live as magnificently anywhere else as they did at Bealadair.
Their way of life might only be days away from ending. None of the family, however, considered that they might be sent packing. The one and only time she’d brought up the subject, the duchess had excoriated her with a few words.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Graham is my dear husband’s brother. Of course he won’t turn us out. Don’t be foolish.”
But it wasn’t Graham who was to be the new duke. As Elsbeth made her way to the Laird’s Hall, she couldn’t help but wonder if the duchess was reconsidering her comment about familial feelings.
Graham’s son had been born in America. He had no ties to Scotland. She doubted if he spoke Gaelic. What did he know of Bealadair? Or of the family, for that matter? What would keep him from pitching them from the estate? Or dismissing all of the servants and installing his own staff? Would he bring Americans here to serve him? Were there more people to follow?
A dozen questions crowded into her mind as she slowly pushed open the doors.
Chapter 3
It was night by the time they got to their destination. Their safe arrival was due only to the skill of the carriage driver and the fact that there were no inns between their last train station and Bealadair. If there had been, Connor would have made the decision to stop, rest the horses, and get warm.
When the carriage slowed, he peered out the window, but all he could see was white. Snow pelted the window, slid down to pile in mini drifts on the frame.
A few minutes later they lurched to a stop. The carriage rocked a moment. Connor opened the door to be greeted by a faceful of snow blown at him by an angry wind.
A voice sang out. “Welcome to Bealadair, Your Grace.”
The woman who greeted him was attired in a dark green dress festooned with snow. She wore no coat or cloak, had nothing to protect her from the elements. Her smile was fixed—he suspected it was frozen—and her eyes, a deep brown, were narrowed against the wind.
A torch behind her sputtered and he suspected the warmth from it was the only thing keeping her from freezing where she stood.
He left the carriage, the words forming on his lips to urge her inside when he saw the rest of the coterie to welcome him. At least he thought that was the reason why about fifty people were standing in the snow.
“I’m the Duchess of Lothian,” she said, her voice beginning to tremble. “Welcome to Bealadair,” she repeated.
“Madam, may we go inside?”
He was willing to concede that the Scots were hardier than he was. He already knew they were dumber. Who stood outside in this weather without a coat or hat?
He wanted a warm room, a roof over his head, and something hot to drink. First, though, he thanked the driver and urged him to find shelter as soon as possible.
Glassey emerged from the second carriage, greeted the duchess, and escorted her up the steps to iron-studded double doors. He and Sam followed her like motherless calves.
He didn’t suppose that the Duchess of Lothian would appreciate being compared to a Longhorn. But she had a commanding presence and she gave him a look like several of his cows did. As if she were measuring him, considering what he might do in a certain situation.
He probably should have said something conciliatory. Or maybe she was waiting for him to congratulate her for the stupidity she’d just demonstrated. Granted the receiving line lit by torches was impressive, but didn’t they have the sense God gave a goat? Why in hell would they stand out in the cold like a turkey in the rain?
The duchess glanced at him several times as they passed through a foyer that was probably bigger than the front parlor at home. However, she didn’t speak and neither did he. He was getting the feeling that he needed to treat her like a new cow in an established herd.
Longhorns that had been reared around humans were friendly and malleable. They didn’t give you any trouble and they were docile to a degree. But if you were unlucky enough to get one that had been left alone and without much human interaction, they got it in their minds that they were boss.
He wanted to make sure that the duchess knew who, exactly, he was.
Thank God for Sam. The man had an uncanny knack for smelling trouble, even before it made an appearance. It was like he could tell who was going to start throwing fists first.
The duchess turned left, nodding to a footman standing beside double doors.
“The Laird’s Hall, Your Grace.”
The doors opened as Sam stepped forward, did a pretty little bow in front of the duchess and reached for her hand, holding the tips of her fingers like he was some sort of Spanish grandee.
“Your Grace,” he said, his voice strangely unaccented, “I am Sam Kirby. Thank you for welcoming me to your home.”
Sam could—and had—sounded like a New Yorker, someone from Alabama, and a native Texan. It all depended on what suited him at the moment.
Evidently, it suited him to sound like he was from nowhere now.
Sam had lived in Washington DC once upon a time, which is probably where he’d learned to handle people. He didn’t talk about those days any more than Connor talked about the Civil War.
“Are you a relative, Mr. Kirby?”
The duchess, like the other Scots he’d met, sounded odd, as if the words she was speaking were all crunched together or slid off into nothingness. He could only understand about half of what she was saying. Maybe Sam was faring better.
Connor hadn’t thought he’d need an interpreter in Scotland.
He took the opportunity of Sam’s glad-handing to look around.
In Texas he was used to open spaces, grand prairies that stretched as far as the eye could see. Their houses were modest, places to rest and recuperate from a day of good work.
It seemed to him that the Scots had it backward. They were all for trapping the outside in. A good-sized herd could winter here in the room the duchess called the Laird’s Hall. He guessed this was the place where the leader of the clan called together all the able-bodied men, where elections were held and disputes adjudicated.
He’d learned clan behavior from his father. He just wished Graham had told him about Bealadair.
From what he’d seen of the exterior, it was more than just a castle and definitely more than any other private house he’d ever seen.
The XIV had four major divisions, the ranch split up into manageable areas. Each division had a center of operations with a bunkhouse, various buildings and stables, and a main house for the division manager. All of those houses, plus the one where his mother lived, as well as his own, could be put into Bealadair and probably have plenty of room left over.
Glassey had told him that there were only the five of them. Why would they live in such a huge house? It seemed to him that it would be a waste of effort trying to find somebody or even getting from the bedroom to the kitchen. And all the staff? He’d already seen dozens of women dressed in black dresses with white aprons and caps and men all gussied up in uniforms that looked like they were going to a parade.
“The duke was one of the wealthiest men in Scotland, Your Grace,” Mr. Glassey had said. “Of course, that might not be an important consideration for you, given the size of the XIV Ranch.”
He hadn’t responded to the solicitor’s almost question. He had no intention of telling the man anything about the financial health of the ranch. Nor was he about to mention that the size of his inheritance from his uncle made the future of the ranch more certain.
At least he wouldn’t have to worry about cattle prices. Or buying new stock. He could invest in the railcars he’d thought about, plus other advances throughout all four divisions. He could hire more men, buy more horses, and afford to send his sisters and mother to New York for shopping if that’s what they really wanted.
From his inspection of the Laird’s Hall, he was beginning to think that Glassey hadn’t exaggerated. The brass and crystal fixtures looked fancy enough to have come from France.
The walls were covered in crimson fabric, the same material as the floor-to-ceiling curtains covering the dozens of windows. All the females in his family would have loved the room and been impressed with the furniture groupings, settees, couches, chairs, and tables that looked as if they’d also been made in France. He could always tell from that kind of swooping leg that looked too delicate to support a man’s weight.
He liked leather. Give him
a comfortable chair, something he didn’t have to worry about ruining. A chair built to handle a little abuse. It didn’t have to have horns like the last chair his father had had made in Austin, a big, wide, comfortable chair adorned with about ten horns from their cattle mounted on the back. His mother had categorically refused to have it in the main parlor, so Graham had taken it to the house Sam had built on the property.
This Laird’s Hall could do with a few leather chairs and less fancy furniture.
It seemed to suit the duchess and his other relatives just fine, however. They all took their places either on the sofas or the chairs, looking at him expectantly. What was he supposed to do now?
Sam was still doing his diplomat thing, explaining about the train journey from London. The duchess—his aunt, although he had difficulty thinking of the woman in that way—smiled and began introducing him to his cousins.
“Lady Lara Gillespie, Your Grace,” she said. “My oldest daughter.”
He wondered if he should stop her now. He was tired of Glassey calling him Your Grace. Why did he have to have a relative do the same thing? And what was this Lady nonsense? These people sure liked titles.
Was the rest of Scotland like this? Or was it only his heretofore unknown family? Were they truly as odd as they appeared to be? After all, they’d been out in a blizzard—without coats—to welcome him, and other than standing in front of the fire for a few minutes, none of them looked the worse for wear.
He was still bone-deep cold. They’d gotten here by the skin of their teeth before the blizzard got them. Scotland was damned determined to freeze him to death. He removed his hat, because that was just polite, but he kept his coat on as he met his cousins.
Lady Lara was tall, with brown hair and brown eyes, similar to the other two cousins. She had a mole at the corner of her eye and the fastest smile he’d ever seen. If he’d blinked he would have missed it.
