by Karen Ranney
The room was filled with greenery and lush growing things, smelling of spring. The fireplace was small and to the left, barely warming the room. The duchess had compensated for the chill by wearing a thick-wool half jacket over her black dress.
Mr. Glassey sat in the second of the two chairs in the small room, not looking as warm or as comfortable. At her entrance, the solicitor stood, but the duchess waved him back into place.
“Is it true?” Rhona asked.
“Is what true, Your Grace?”
Rhona frowned at her.
“Mr. Glassey said that His Grace told you he was selling Bealadair. Is this true?”
Elsbeth’s gaze went to the solicitor. She wished the man had kept their conversation private.
She stood near the door, her gaze leaving the duchess and focusing on the white, frozen landscape beyond. From here, she could see the river undulating through the glen.
“Well?”
Elsbeth glanced at the duchess. “Yes,” she said. “He told me.”
“Leave us, Mr. Glassey,” the duchess said, her gaze never leaving Elsbeth.
The very last thing Elsbeth wanted was to be left alone with the duchess while she was in this mood. Mr. Glassey, however, looked relieved to be able to escape the room.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he said. “I am at your disposal.”
When he closed the door behind him, Rhona still didn’t speak. Her eyes however, were more than capable of expressing her emotions. Elsbeth had never seen them as cold and flat as they were right now.
“You knew his plans,” the duchess said. “Yet you didn’t come to me. Anyone else would have. How very odd that you did nothing, Elsbeth.”
Elsbeth clasped her hands tightly together.
“Did you want us taken unawares?”
“Why would I want that, Your Grace?”
“By not coming to me immediately, you’ve proven to be disloyal.”
“No,” Elsbeth said. “I haven’t. It wasn’t my place to tell you, Your Grace. He might change his mind.”
“He has no intention of changing his mind, Elsbeth. He’s already announced himself to Mr. Glassey.”
Then why was she being criticized for not saying something when the solicitor already knew?
For nearly two years she’d done her very best to ensure that Bealadair ran smoothly. She had taken on duties no one wished to do. She’d never refused to perform a task with the excuse that it wasn’t her place. Nor had she ever whined or complained.
Not once had anyone thanked her, and as time passed, she realized it was foolish to want some measure of gratitude.
The McCraights simply didn’t notice what was below their noses. As long as their food was delicious and hot, they didn’t care how it was made. As long as their laundry was done, their apartments clean, they were content. It never occurred to them to care how it was done or to thank the lowly servants who worked around them.
Muira was the only one who had ever said something nice to a maid, but one person’s voice hardly made up for the actions of an entire family.
Elsbeth had made that comment, or something similar, to Mrs. Ferguson only once, and the woman’s pitying glance had been a lesson of sorts.
“Servants are invisible to them, my dear girl. They’re our betters and we simply don’t matter. The key is to accept that and move on. We have our own life, our own friends among the staff. You mustn’t think that they will ever change. They won’t.”
In Mrs. Ferguson’s words she’d heard another message, one she’d finally understood. She might be the duke’s ward, but she had never truly been one of the family.
Her position was similar to the one Miss Smythe had occupied in the five years she’d been on staff. Strange, Elsbeth could barely remember the woman, yet she’d eagerly absorbed all the lessons the governess had taught.
Did the duchess expect her to apologize? No doubt she did, as well as grovel a little. That was hardly fair, especially since she didn’t think she’d done anything wrong.
“You may go, Elsbeth,” the duchess said, waving her hand toward the closed door. “I don’t want to hear anything else from you. What a blessing Gavin never had to witness your betrayal.”
That was too much.
“Your Grace, I wasn’t certain if Connor meant what he said. I didn’t even know if he could sell Bealadair.”
One of Rhona’s delicate arched eyebrows moved upward.
“Connor, is it?”
Elsbeth could feel her cheeks warm.
“He doesn’t like being called Your Grace. I think it’s because he’s an American.”
“He called you Elsbeth last night. Did you give him leave to do so?”
Elsbeth smoothed her hands down her skirt, wishing a few magical words would come to mind to explain. Nothing she said would make a difference. When the duchess decided to be angry, no one—not even Gavin—could alter her mood.
She opened the door, glancing back once at the duchess, seeing in that proud, immobile figure a woman she’d never understood. Elsbeth wanted to ask what it was about her that seemed to summon the woman’s antipathy. Had it been that Rhona was forced to take an eight-year-old child she hadn’t wanted into her home? Or was it the fact that she and Gavin had a bond that hadn’t existed between Gavin and his daughters?
She didn’t know, but for the first time she was glad she was going to have to find another place to live. A place that would be home, as Bealadair hadn’t been ever since Gavin’s death.
“Is it true?”
Felix appeared in the corridor as if by magic. It wasn’t magic; it was just that Bealadair was so big and Sam hadn’t gotten the lay of the land yet.
“Is what true?” he asked.
“That the fool is going to sell Bealadair.”
Sam bit back his first retort—that the only fool he saw was Felix—and said, “I take it you’re referring to Connor?”
Felix nodded.
He disliked being waylaid in a corridor, let alone by Felix. He’d formed an impression of the young man the night before at dinner that wasn’t flattering. Felix was a blowhard, a man who evidently disliked who he really was and therefore assumed talents he didn’t have.
Most of the time he could ignore men like Felix. Unfortunately, Felix was now making that impossible.
“I think it would be best if you ask Connor his plans,” he said.
“I’m asking you.”
He tried to be on his way, but Felix moved to stand in front of him. Short of bodily removing the man—and if Felix remained obtrusive he just might have to—he was forced to listen to him.
“He can’t sell Bealadair. Or the land.”
He really didn’t want to have to talk for Connor. The man was more than capable of explaining himself, but it looked like he was going to have to have this conversation whether he wanted to or not.
“I believe he can,” Sam said.
“So it’s true? What about the family? What does he expect us to do? Bealadair is the only thing the McCraights have in their favor.”
“That’s hardly the way to talk about your wife’s family.” And, if he had it right, the people who’d supported Felix since his marriage. “It’s my understanding that the previous duke was very generous in his bequests.”
“If he’d only given me an inkling of what he was planning, I would have been able to talk him out of it.”
“Talk him out of dying?” Sam said. “Now that’s a trick.”
“Out of signing away everything to a stranger from Texas.”
Words were powerful weapons, a fact Felix had evidently learned. Sam’s expression didn’t change, but he was beginning to actively dislike the younger man. He liked the man even less when he said Texas in that jeering way.
“The bequest is a pittance,” Felix said, “if we have to move away from Bealadair. We can’t subside in London on such an amount, not for more than a few years. Having to buy a property would deplete us of a large sum. The least t
he duke could have done was to turn over the London house to Lara.”
“Perhaps you can apply to Connor for relief,” Sam said, his words laced with sarcasm. Felix, however, didn’t pick up on that. The man was not only a braggart and a popinjay, but he was regrettably stupid.
He sidestepped Felix, more than willing to bodily remove the other man if he tried to waylay him again.
There wasn’t as much money in Connor’s inheritance as Felix evidently thought. Sam hadn’t lied. From what he knew, Gavin had been remarkably generous to his family.
That wasn’t enough for Felix, which meant that he possessed another trait: greed.
A greedy man, especially one who was as stupid as Felix, could be dangerous. A thought Sam tucked into the back of his mind.
Chapter 15
After dinner, Elsbeth disappeared again.
Instead of engaging in desultory conversation in the parlor or complimenting the McCraight sisters on their pianoforte skills, Connor opted to return to his room and try to sleep. Sam didn’t notice, trailing after the duchess like a bird dog on a scent.
The second night at Bealadair was more restful than the first. At least Connor had been able to sleep for a few hours. He awoke at dawn, his first thought that he would get to see Elsbeth again.
He liked how she behaved when she wasn’t around the family, a thought that irritated him somehow. At dinner she’d hardly said a word, and when she had, no one seemed to pay her any attention.
She wasn’t in the family dining room. Nor was she in the kitchen. According to the cook, whose name was Addy, and who giggled a great deal when he spoke to her, she was checking the cattle.
“She’s all for looking out after the poor, dear things,” Addy said. “Especially with all the snow we’ve been having.”
“Don’t you have a foreman to do that?”
Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “A foreman, Your Grace? Do you mean like Mr. Condrey? He’s the steward and does all the bills and orders the supplies, but he doesn’t actually go out and check on the cattle. Now, the ghillie, that’s Hamish Robertson, he makes sure there’s always game, and it’s looked after by him and his boys, but he always meets with Miss Elsbeth, too.”
Evidently, Glassey’s briefing had left out some details about the estate, namely that Elsbeth seemed to be managing it.
“How does she check on the cattle?”
“Why, she rides out to see them, Your Grace.”
“With all this snow?” he asked.
“Oh, her and that mare of hers, Your Grace, they go everywhere together, no matter what the weather. Why, it’s a common sight to see Miss Elsbeth and Marie racing over the hills.”
He’d gotten the impression from Elsbeth that she didn’t ride.
He thanked the cook and left the room without his breakfast or the faintly colored water they called coffee. Later, he was going to brew some on his own. No doubt he’d shock the servants. From what he was able to determine, being a duke meant sitting in the library all day and nothing more.
He grabbed his coat and hat, heading toward the stables. The building was as ornate and fancy as the rest of Bealadair and built of white stone like the main house.
He was all for treating his horses well. After all, a horse was a lifeline in Texas. He couldn’t go anywhere without one. But the stalls at Bealadair were adorned with plaster decorations, what looked like cupids riding horses and nameplates for horses that were long gone. He’d only stepped a few feet inside the building when a man introduced himself as Douglas McCraight, the stablemaster, no doubt another cousin somewhat removed.
He was about to introduce himself, but the man called him Your Grace, which was a dead giveaway that he knew who Connor was. Another man who was going to Your Grace him to death.
“We have your saddle, Your Grace, I put it in the tack room. It’s a beautiful example of Spanish workmanship.”
“Mexican,” Connor said, correcting him. “It was done by Pedro Florian, one of the finest saddle makers in Texas.”
The other man nodded. “A beautiful piece of work, Your Grace. I can see why you brought it with you.”
“Have you got a suitable mount?”
He must have just accidentally insulted the man, because Douglas got a prune face. “Of course we do, Your Grace. Bealadair’s stables are some of the finest in Scotland. I might even say the entire empire.”
He hadn’t considered that the stablemaster might be as pompous as his cousin’s husband, but maybe it was just pride that made the man look all puffed up.
It was most definitely pride, he decided, as he was led from one stall to another. He had the distinct impression that the stablemaster was introducing him to each of the horses and not the other way around.
He had to admit, though, that they were some of the most beautiful mounts he’d ever seen. But he doubted they could outmaneuver a good quarter horse or be as valuable as a horse that had learned to be around cattle, especially Longhorns.
He kept his opinions to himself, however, asking a few questions about bloodlines and breeding stock, enough that he didn’t look like an idiot to Douglas. The fact was, he didn’t care all that much for Bealadair’s stable. Unless, of course, the future owner wanted to keep everything intact. If not, Connor didn’t have an objection to selling the horses to the highest bidder. With the money he could buy some additional quarter horses, hopefully bred out of Shiloh, one of the great horses that helped define the breed.
A working horse was better than a show horse any day.
The stablemaster hadn’t lied. His saddle was mounted on a wooden block in the middle of the large tack room. The smell of leather thickened the air and vied with the odor of horse for dominance.
“Which of the horses would you like to ride, Your Grace? I’d recommend Samson, since he doesn’t have a problem with snow. Sir Guilliuame is a little less skilled, but I’d also recommend Nancy.”
He chose Samson, and when the stablemaster said that he’d have the horse saddled, Connor evidently shocked the man by insisting that he’d do it himself.
He picked up his saddle and walked back to Samson’s stall. Instead of entering right away, he stood at the door making sure the horse was acclimated to his smell.
Horses were a great deal smarter than most people gave them credit for. All you had to do was watch a cow pony work a herd of Longhorns and you figured that out pretty fast. They learned quickly, too. Plus, they had a sixth sense about people. Maybe they could smell fear or incompetence. They weren’t just dumb beasts of burden.
He knew the stablemaster was right behind him holding the tack and blanket. He was probably giving the man a tale to tell around the dinner table tonight, but he didn’t care.
He introduced himself to Samson again, told the horse a little about himself.
“I’ve been riding since I was about three,” he said. “At least that’s what I was told. My first horse was Charlie and he wasn’t anywhere near your size. I don’t think I’ve ever ridden anyone quite as magnificent as you, either.”
That wasn’t a lie. The stallion was black with a mane of hair so thick and rippling that it looked like a woman’s hair. The eyes that stared back at him were intelligent and measuring, almost as if Samson was saying, I’m not sure I trust you, but keep talking pretty to me.
He opened the stall door, approached the stallion, and stopped.
“How do you feel about a ride? There’s snow on the ground, but the sky is clear. It’s on the cold side, but we’ll soon get warm. What do you say?”
Samson turned his head, then gave a little shake. An agreement if he’d ever seen one.
Once he was mounted, he left the stable. An army of servants was already about, clearing the road at the rear of the house. Two were guiding plow horses along the lane, each dragging a set of boards behind them to smooth out the snow. He nodded to each man, was surprised and pleased when each of them met his eyes.
“They’re a rebellious bunch, the Scots,” h
is father had once said. “They’ll work for you for a decent wage, but never think they owe you loyalty or allegiance. That’s not for sale and can only be earned.”
Graham had earned the ranch hands’ loyalty and trust. A ranch the size of theirs needed a great number of loyal people to run it. Connor had known that all his life, and it was a lesson doubly reinforced after his father’s death.
They had a number of rules, some of which didn’t suit every man. There was no drinking alcohol unless it was an official celebration. No gambling was allowed at any time, including playing cards.
Yet for all the rules, men wanted to work at the XIV Ranch. The wages were good and the work, though hard, was equally shared. Every man worked as hard as the newest hired hand.
He couldn’t help but wonder how Joe was handling the problems that were sure to come up in his absence. His future brother-in-law was a competent manager and the experience would be good for him. Still, Connor wanted to be home more than he wanted to be here.
Samson was prancing along on the snow, sure-footed, his head tossing—a sign that he was enthused to be out and about. Connor felt the same; he’d rather be on horseback, even on an unfamiliar horse, than anywhere else.
He followed the directions the stablemaster had given him, wishing he’d felt comfortable enough to ask the man a few questions. He’d learned not to reveal himself too quickly to a stranger, even here at Bealadair. Perhaps especially here at Bealadair.
Except for Elsbeth. He’d never felt the same reserve with her that he experienced around other people. He’d told her things he’d never mentioned to anyone else, even Sam. He’d let her see how he felt, unable to hold back his emotions on first viewing the picture of Graham and Gavin.
She’d been as free with him, talking about his uncle with sadness in her eyes.
The air was crisp and clean, the sky a brilliant blue with not one cloud overhead. Evidently they were done with the snow for a while, a fact he welcomed.
The road he took, little wider than a lane, was lined on either side by trees boasting dripping icicles. The snow hadn’t been smoothed away from the lane here, and for a moment, he wondered about the advisability of going any farther. The tracks convinced him, and he followed a horse’s hoofprints, wondering if they were from the horse Elsbeth was riding.
