by Karen Ranney
Here, though, Stuyvesant had surrounded himself with things of beauty. A tapestry hung on a far wall, the scene one of a princess and a white unicorn kneeling at her side. Blue-and-white plates were aligned in a breakfront on another wall. Before it, sat a table with two chairs, with an assortment of dried flowers in a vase atop the table. A selection of pipes with elongated bowls or stems sat on a mantel above a large fireplace with a roaring fire.
A closed door in the opposite wall probably led to a sleeping alcove. All in all, it was a snug little home.
Two chairs sat in front of the fire, but Connor stood beside the mantel, refusing to sit when a man old enough to be his grandfather would be forced to stand.
Elsbeth removed her cloak and hung it on a peg near the door. He merely opened his coat but kept it on. He was still bone-deep cold. He did remove his hat, though, and held it with one hand.
The old man busied himself taking a kettle from the fire and pouring boiling water into a brown ceramic teapot.
Something hot to drink sounded good, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for what the Scots called tea. It was either as weak as water or strong enough to etch his teeth.
There were only two cups, and he was more than willing to decline, but Stuyvesant was adamant.
“Sit, sit,” he said to Connor, handing him a cup.
Elsbeth sent him a look, one of those that said, What are you going to do?
He took the cup and sat, thanking the man.
“You get cold, too?” Stuyvesant asked.
Connor nodded.
“I almost left the first five winters. If it hadn’t been for my Moira, I would have. But she loved her country and didn’t want to go back to Germany. So I stayed and told myself I would get used to it. I never did. But I never left, either.”
Stuyvesant sat on the brick hearth, propping his cane on his left side.
“Hans takes care of the cattle on the western side of Ben Ecshe,” Elsbeth said, sipping delicately from her cup. “He also has an uncanny knack for predicting the weather.”
“My left knee,” Stuyvesant said. “It hurts when snow is coming. My right elbow when it’s going to rain. It’s clearing, little one. No more snow for a week or so.”
“That’s good to know, Hans. I’m growing a little tired of it.”
They talked a while of weather and cattle stores. The windbreak in one section needed to be repaired. Elsbeth nodded, put down her teacup on the table between the chairs, and took out a notebook from her pocket to make a notation.
“Do you need anything, Hans?” she asked, her pencil poised above the page.
“A little flour,” he said. “Some honey if you have it. And some bacon.”
He added a few more items and Elsbeth wrote them down. He grinned at her, his eyes twinkling. “And if Addy has any more scones, you might pass them along as well. My baking is not as good.”
The tea was surprising, not as strong as what Connor had had before, but a good flavor. When he said as much to Stuyvesant, the man beamed.
“My Moira taught me how to make tea,” he said. “I think of her every morning. I add a little cinnamon to the tea. Not much, just enough to add to the flavor.” He glanced at Elsbeth. “If you could add cinnamon to your list, little one.”
She nodded.
He wanted to ask about Stuyvesant’s wife, but was reluctant to do so. He had a feeling that Moira might have been gone for some years, but Stuyvesant kept her alive in small daily ways, like the way he made his tea and the tidiness of the cottage.
At home, he’d done the same in his father’s office. He never entered the room without thinking of Graham. Every Monday, after he had gone through all of the bills and made the payments and instructions to his bank, he straightened the blotter, returned the pen to the place that Graham had always left it, making everything look the same as it had been the day he returned home.
Maybe in that way he kept his father alive.
He felt a curious affinity to the old man sitting on the hearth. Did he spend the winters alone, except for sporadic visits from Elsbeth and caring for the cattle? Was it a happy life or did he simply mark the hours until it was time for him to join his beloved Moira?
He sat silent as Elsbeth and Stuyvesant talked. Elsbeth asked the older man a dozen questions about the cattle, the weather, the upkeep of the cottage. As they conversed, he realized that she probably knew most of the answers or didn’t really need the information. But she was drawing the old man out, taking the time to listen to him. The simple kindness of her conversation made Connor like her even more.
He was sometimes impatient to be about his tasks, maybe more than he needed to be. Whatever he needed to accomplish could wait a few minutes, long enough for him to spare time to listen to others.
Would Elsbeth know that she’d served as an example and a lesson?
Finally, their tea was done, he was warmed, and the visit was over. He thanked Stuyvesant, stood aside while Elsbeth made her farewells. Once again, he helped her mount, but this time he asked, “You can do this on your own, can’t you?”
“I’ve never had anyone help me,” she said. “But it’s a nice change. I’m sure I look ungainly otherwise.”
“I doubt that,” he said.
She looked surprised at his comment, but didn’t say anything further.
As they rode away from the cottage, he glanced at her. “How long has his Moira been gone?”
“Ten years,” she said, confirming his earlier guess. “She’s buried in the chapel grounds at Bealadair.”
For several minutes they didn’t speak. To his surprise, they retraced their path, but at a fork in the road, she stopped and turned to him.
“Hans is only one of the crofters we have at Bealadair. He’s not one of the clan, exactly, but he’s considered part of the family. When you sell, is there a way to ensure that he’s protected? I think it would be terrible if he had to move at this stage of his life, don’t you?”
He nodded, wishing he could guarantee what she wanted. Perhaps there was a way that he could make provisions with the new owner to leave things as they were. Perhaps he could also ensure that Elsbeth always had a home at Bealadair.
Elsbeth’s future, he told himself, was none of his concern. How odd that it didn’t feel that way. Not at all.
Chapter 18
She really should limit her time with Connor. The American—the Texan—was proving to be entirely too charming.
When she’d turned to find him standing at the edge of the pasture watching, her stomach had leaped to her throat. He was such a sight with his hat and his strange coat. She’d nodded, continuing on with her inspection, but she’d paid as much attention to him as she did the cattle.
She’d seen handsome men before. More than a few of them had visited Bealadair over the years. None of them, however, had ever impressed her as much as Connor McCraight with his way of planting his feet in the earth, an almost-defiant stance. He wasn’t going to budge, she knew, in his determination to sell Bealadair. Just as she knew that the whole situation was rife with tragedy and angst.
She had to make him see that people depended on Bealadair for not only their sustenance but their reason for waking in the morning. The great house was more than a structure; it contained history and the story of a clan, tales of valor and heartbreak, as well as the dreams of so many more people than simply the Duke of Lothian.
Gavin had taught her that. He’d been so determined that his stewardship of Bealadair would be a wise one, that he’d leave a thriving estate for those who followed. In this case, Connor, who wanted nothing to do with it.
How did she change his mind?
She didn’t know. Perhaps if she just showed him how she felt, it might impact him in some way. She’d begin by taking him on her route.
If she hadn’t had to meet with the duchess she would have been farther along in her morning routine. She began at the stable. Mr. Condrey, the steward, would much rather occupy himself with the pa
perwork concerning the estate than deal with its people. Mr. Barton, the majordomo, considered it beneath him to have to deal with the stablemaster and his staff. The ghillie would much rather concern himself with the game on Bealadair land. He knew little about horses, but everything there was to know about a den of kits. That left her to ensure that Douglas had everything he needed.
After she left the stable, she began her Y-shaped path, visiting three pastures as she went. She veered to the right to visit Hans, who was located at the very top of the Y then back down and to the left side of the Y, where she normally visited two other crofters. Today she would do the same and introduce Connor to the people of Bealadair. It might be a good time to also take him to see Castle McCraight.
The fortress had been built, Gavin told her, in the seventh century. Overlooking Dornoch Firth, it commanded a perfect defensive position. No one had ever been able to conquer Castle McCraight.
The clan had given up the castle in the fourteenth century. The winds and the humidity along with age had reduced it to a few roofless walls and chunks of fallen stone. She often thought it had been allowed to erode because no one was left to care for it.
No doubt Bealadair would be the same if the new owner didn’t love it as much as all of the previous Dukes of Lothian.
Her heart felt heavy, almost as if she were filled with unshed tears. Everything Connor was doing, everything he planned, seemed like a betrayal of the man she’d come to think of as her second father. Gavin, however, would no doubt have been sanguine about the future. He had a pragmatic way of looking at the world. She could imagine his advice: Bealadair will survive and if it doesn’t, perhaps it was not meant to.
The sun’s warmth was beginning to melt the icicles hanging from the branches above them. From time to time a droplet would splash down on her, making her wish she’d taken the time to pull the hood over her head.
The day was not as cold as it had been the past week. If it continued to warm, the roads would be difficult in the next few days.
“Bealadair is a working estate,” she told Connor. “We cut from the forests on even-numbered years. In addition to the Highland cattle herds, we also have sheep. Plus acres and acres of farmland, most of it managed by crofters. We have grouse moors and herds of deer, but the ghillie handles those.”
“And, I would assume,” he said, “that you manage most everything.”
She smiled at him. “I don’t, actually. I do things when the steward doesn’t want to do them. Or when the ghillie refuses to do them. I am, if you like, an intermediary among all the factions at Bealadair—the house and the rest of the estate.”
“I told Glassey to give you a salary,” he said. “Now I’m thinking I need to double it.”
“You didn’t need to do that.”
“‘The workman is worthy of his hire.’”
“Gavin often quoted scripture to me,” she said. “I never expected you to do the same.”
He only smiled at her.
Connor was a comfortable companion. She thought he might ask more questions but he was content to ride in silence.
She liked the way he handled Samson, with a nonchalance that spoke of his ease around horses. He was a good rider, neither allowing the stallion too much head or sawing his mouth with the bit.
You could tell a great deal about a person from how he treated the animals in his care. She knew that only too well.
She’d given orders that Felix, for example, wasn’t allowed access to certain horses in the stable. If at all possible, the stablemaster was also to ensure that Felix was accompanied on his rides by a stableboy who could make note of his actions.
No one, so far, had countermanded her orders. Perhaps they knew that Felix was a cruel person at heart. Or maybe they simply didn’t want to visit the issue. Too, there was also the possibility that they didn’t want to irritate her, for fear that she would give up the duties that she performed around the house.
That was probably the least likely scenario.
Gavin had always treated people with honor, dignity, and respect. That was his initial attitude toward anyone he met. If they subsequently did something that caused him to lose trust in them, then he behaved accordingly.
Connor seemed similar to his uncle in that respect. When he met Tom and Mary McCraight, he was gracious and kind. Especially to Mary, who offered him a raisin scone. Elsbeth truly wanted to warn him, but there was no way to do so. Yet Connor managed to bite through the scone, then said something complimentary to his hostess. She doubted that anyone besides her saw him tuck the rest of the scone into his oversized pocket. He was as kind to Tom, a tall thin man who looked as if he were on the verge of starving. Given that his wife was such a terrible cook, that might be more truth than jest.
Their two little girls stood in the doorway to the kitchen staring at the new duke with wonder on their faces. It was very possible that they’d never seen such a large man in their three-room cottage. Or perhaps it was the fact that Connor was so different, dressed in his coat, hat, and boots that proclaimed him as a stranger to Scotland. Or it might’ve even been his voice, and the accent that was so unlike how the rest of them spoke.
When they left, she finally allowed her smile to burst free.
“I am sorry about that,” she said. “The birds might like that scone.”
He grinned at her. “I’ve had hardtack that was softer,” he admitted.
“Perhaps one of her daughters will end up being a better cook. I should check with their teacher to see if they have any inclination.”
He glanced at her, a question in his eyes.
“We provide school for all the children in the clan,” she said. “Even the girls. If they show an affinity for something early, then we concentrate on that. We’ve had several of our students go on to pursue an even broader education. It was one of Gavin’s projects.”
“What was he like?”
The wind was picking up and it seemed to have a bite to it, almost as if Gavin’s shade dared her to tell the truth.
“Determined,” she said. “I think he annoyed other people because he had a penchant for asking how things were done and why. Of all the things I remember about him, his curiosity was his greatest trait.”
Connor didn’t say anything in response.
“He loved this land.” Was there a way to explain that to Connor? “He felt tied to the land, to the history of it. That’s what he was working on when he died—an entire history of the McCraight Clan.”
When he didn’t speak, she said, “What about your father? What was he like?”
“You’ve just described him,” he said. “Except for the history of the clan. I should have considered that they would be alike in temperament.”
“They were twins, after all.”
He nodded.
She decided to change the subject.
“The next crofter we’re going to visit is Daniel McCraight. He, too, is a widower.”
“Is everyone named McCraight?”
“They’re members of your clan,” she said. “Around here, it’s not unusual to bear the name.”
At least he didn’t argue with her about it being his clan.
She had a surprise for him at Daniel’s cottage. Fiona, Daniel’s Scottish collie, had had a litter of puppies a few weeks earlier.
The cottage was one of the larger structures at Bealadair, Gavin having given Daniel permission to build onto the house. Altogether there were five rooms, four for humans and one for the dogs and their puppies when they came.
She always enjoyed her visits with Daniel and purposely made this the last stop of her circuit so she could spend more time with him and with Fiona.
A few times, she’d joined them on the slopes of the glen, watching as he demonstrated the dogs’ talent at interpreting his whistles and unspoken commands. With each new litter, Daniel kept a few puppies for up to a year, training them as well.
Connor dismounted first, came to her side, and reached up to h
elp her. She didn’t tell him she was more than capable of dismounting herself. When he gripped her waist, it seemed as if his hands lingered.
She’d never before wondered what a man’s hands would feel like on her bare skin. Oh, she’d imagined a wedding night, but the husband she’d envisioned hadn’t been real, just a filmy, indistinguishable, hazy figure. Not once had she paired her imagination with reality. Especially someone as real as Connor McCraight.
She thanked him just as the dogs began to bark. Not a welcome greeting as much as a warning one.
“Daniel has Scottish collies,” she said. “They don’t bark when they work,” she told Connor as they took the path to the door. “They don’t make a sound around sheep or cattle. Only an occasional yip when Daniel gives them the command. At home it’s different, however.”
“Scottish collies?” he asked.
She nodded. “McCraight collies,” she said. “Prized for their bloodline, intelligence, and their herding abilities. Daniel’s dogs are renowned throughout the Highlands and are very much in demand.”
The door opened suddenly and Daniel stood there, a tall, overpowering figure of a man. She’d always thought that he was the tallest person she knew, but to her surprise Connor topped him by an inch or two.
Connor was clean shaven; Daniel had a bushy beard hanging nearly to his chest, but in all other ways the two men were alike: tall, broad shouldered, with an air of command about them.
“I’m guessing you’ll be wanting to come in,” Daniel said, stepping back. “I’ll not be heating the outdoors for you.”
Connor grinned at him and she understood immediately why he was so pleased. Daniel wasn’t going to be obsequious. Nor did he seem overly impressed when she introduced Connor as the 14th Duke of Lothian. Daniel didn’t care. Daniel hadn’t even cared when Gavin came to visit him. He was a man who knew his own worth and wasn’t about to bow and scrape before anyone. Nor was he about to Your Grace Connor a hundred times.
The two men shook hands, seeming to take the measure of each other before they separately nodded.
She occupied herself by bending and picking up one of the puppies that had come rushing to the door. He was a fluffy ball of gray, brown, and white fur, all paws and nose, little triangle-shaped ears peeking up from his round furry face.
