by Lisa Berne
“Hush, child!” said the old lady severely.
“But it’s true, Granny. The monster warned them not to come, but they did, and it swallowed them.”
Cousin Isobel had woken, and now interposed in a quavery voice: “A monster? Oh, surely not! But still, one can’t be too cautious, can one? Fiona, my dear, pray don’t ever ride your horse anywhere near there! Your mother would never forgive me if you were to be swallowed up by a loch monster!”
“I’ve seen it,” boasted Sheila.
“That you have not,” the old lady said, “and it’s long past time for your bed, child! Forgive us, lady, for our intrusion! Come!”
With dragging steps the little girl went to her grandmother, pausing only once to twist about and say, “Please, lady, can Cook make me something nice for my birthday? The laird’s mother never did anything for the children of Tadgh. It was only and ever her things she cared about.”
“To be sure I’ll speak to Cook,” promised Fiona, and watched, bemused, as Dame Margery pulled her wayward little charge from the drawing-room. Her book was still open in her lap, but her mind was occupied in sorting through Sheila’s words, as if trying to separate wheat from chaff.
Of course there was no loch monster, but it did sound all too true that a disaster had befallen Alasdair’s family there. And what was that all about—the laird’s mother not doing anything for the castle’s children? How would Sheila even know that, or make the claim, given that Alasdair’s mother, Gormelia, had been dead some fifteen years? And … was Sheila referring to Gormelia’s own children as well?
Into Fiona’s head came an uncannily clear image of the portrait she’d viewed earlier that day, that of the two little boys, one with dark-red hair, the other with bright yellow-blond hair. Surely he was Alasdair’s older brother, lost to the loch along with their mother and father?
She remembered, then, that excursion to the Keep o’ the Mòr, and Alasdair recalling cheerfully, I spent many a night as a lad camping up here with friends. She had seen how, unexpectedly, the laughter had gone from his face, to be taken over by a look of haunting sadness—and just as quickly been replaced by a smile.
Now she wondered if Alasdair’s brother had been part of those enjoyable long-ago nights at the Keep, and if the memory had caused him pain—
Her musings were interrupted by Isobel saying, “Such an odd little creature! And those eyes! So unsettling! Still, her birthday—I could sew her a wee stuffed doll, do you think she would like that? I have just the right scrap of fabric for a little gown, and some narrow lace for the hem.”
“Yes, I think Sheila would love a doll, Cousin, how kind of you,” answered Fiona, a little absently, but touched by Isobel’s thoughtfulness.
“I’m so glad you agree! Oh, my dear, speaking of gowns, I had the strangest dream just now. I was sixteen, and I was wearing the white silk gown Papa allowed me to have for my debut, with the skirt draped à la polonaise, and the prettiest striped caraco in the world, with long sleeves and three rows of ruffles! It was the very one I wore when I met Captain Murdoch, you know.”
“Captain Murdoch? Do I know him?”
“Oh! No, you wouldn’t. I do try not to talk about him. It was just that silly dream of mine that reminded me.”
The quavery note had returned to Isobel’s voice, and Fiona looked at her curiously. Her cousin had long seemed to be an open book: someone whose rampant garrulousness could never conceal anything. And yet here was—as it were—a new paragraph revealed.
Not a happy one, clearly.
Fiona hesitated. She didn’t wish to pry. But then Isobel said suddenly:
“Dreams are so odd, aren’t they? In my dream I had the merest glimpse of Captain Murdoch, and then he was gone. Just like in real life. It was only for a while—for such a little while—that we were betrothed.”
“Betrothed? But only temporarily?”
“Yes. On the very eve of the wedding, Father discovered that Captain Murdoch had—well, he had a great many debts, which none of us knew about.” Isobel smoothed out her skirts with punctilious care, and Fiona watched as a single tear rolled slowly down her cousin’s soft white cheek. “I told Father it didn’t bother me, that thanks to a legacy from an aunt I had more than enough money for the both of us! But he told Jimmie—that is, Captain Murdoch—that although he would permit the marriage, he refused to settle the debts. He held all my money in trust, for I was not yet of age. And—the next morning Jimmie was gone. I never saw him again, nor heard from him.”
Fiona drew a deep breath, and said with a new softness: “I didn’t know, Cousin. I’m very sorry. Surely you—you had other offers?”
Isobel smiled faintly. “Oh yes, but somehow—I don’t know how it was, but somehow I could never like anyone quite as well as I liked my Jimmie. And so time passed, and my parents died, and I stayed on in our house. Of course I kept myself busy, but—well, how happy I was when you came to visit me, my dear! And you only eighteen! How much fun we had, didn’t we? And then there was Logan! So charming! That is—until he—oh dear—”
“Goodness!” Fiona interrupted with a brisk, bright, inauthentic affability. Softness fled, leaving in its wake a sudden raw feeling of desolation; into her heart had crept again that secret stony feeling. “Only look at the time! How late it is!” Quickly she stood. “I’m to bed, Cousin. If you’ll excuse me? I hope you sleep well. Good night.”
Without waiting for a reply, Fiona left the Great Drawing-room. Her steps were graceful and dignified, she told herself, not ignominious scuttling. No, she wasn’t running away. Not like some people did …
It wasn’t long before she was in bed, hopelessly wide awake.
Her thoughts turned to Isobel. Poor Isobel. How strange: never had she thought she’d feel for her the slightest pang of sympathy. Maybe she wouldn’t have, if Isobel had cried without abandon, as she had yesterday, but there was something about that one tear, slowly making its lonely way down that white, lightly powdered cheek.
She’d been so used to viewing Isobel as a nuisance. Almost an enemy.
This small, soft, vulnerable person—without a home, without money, without prospects—her enemy?
Was it possible she had been carrying her old grudge beyond what was reasonable, what was fair?
Was it possible that she had, over the years, become so hard, so cynical?
These were troubling ideas.
She had long prided herself on her good judgment.
A different perception of Isobel somehow altered her perception of herself. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that.
Fiona’s thoughts, inevitably it seemed, now turned to her husband.
There was still so much she didn’t know about Alasdair, but she had learned that his parents, his brother had died. How dreadful for him and how sad. She could only imagine what that might feel like, especially the loss of a sibling—but she didn’t want to, for dearly did she love her sisters, had adored and protected them all her life. Nonetheless, it was an unexpected glimpse of Alasdair. He would have been twenty years old at the time. Would he have looked very different then? Fiona wondered. At thirty-five, there wasn’t a trace of gray in his hair, and he moved with effortless vigor.
Really, the only thing she could think of were those lightly grooved lines that bracketed his mouth, but they didn’t suggest diminishment, but rather authority … laughter … sensuality.
In fact, they were the sort of lines over which one might want to run one’s finger, tracing them, teasingly.
If one were an idiot, Fiona told herself caustically.
If one were that soft, yielding, vulnerable, foolish Fiona.
She snatched at the covers and bundled herself tightly within them. Stubbornly she closed her eyes, made her breathing regular, relaxed her tense limbs.
A log collapsed within the fireplace.
A gust of wind rattled the panes of the windows.
Somewhere, a dog barked.
It occurred to
her, then, just how big the bed was. It was ridiculous, it was bizarre, but after only two nights of being married, after two nights of coldness and bristling hostility between them, she—well—she actually missed having him there with her.
Not if one were an idiot, she told herself.
She was an idiot.
Chapter 7
“Slow down, lad, slow down,” pitifully groaned Uncle Duff, “your footfalls are making my head pound.”
Alasdair adjusted his pace and with a listing Duff at his side went up the broad stone steps at the entrance to Castle Tadgh. The week in Crieff had been very productive—during the days, at least. The nights had been devoted to other pursuits. And now his uncle was paying the price. Glancing at his haggard face (even that immense beard looked wan), Alasdair was conscious of a twinge of impatience. He shook it off, though, and stepped warily into the Great Hall, wondering what bad things might have happened in his absence. And where was Cuilean, who usually bounded out to greet him?
Mellow early-afternoon sunlight illuminated the long tables which lay in the tidy geometrical lines of their new formation. Was it his imagination, or did the suits of armor flanking the great fireplace seem shinier? And were the colors of the enormous fifteenth-century tapestry hung on the wall behind the laird and lady’s chairs looking a little more vivid?
Over by one of the tables was Lister, a reassuring sight at least. He was talking with a middle-aged woman in an immaculately clean gown and ruffled cap, whom Alasdair didn’t know. They turned as he came forward, and advanced to meet him.
“Laird,” said Lister, “may I introduce to you our new housekeeper, Mrs. Allen of Aberfeldy. She is,” he added with his air of scrupulous correctness, “a cousin of mine.”
Mrs. Allen dipped a respectful curtsy, and Alasdair nodded. Of course she was a cousin, everyone in Scotland had a cornucopia of cousins, but—“I hadn’t realized,” he said carefully, “that we required the services of a housekeeper.”
“The mistress asked me, laird, if I might know of any suitable candidates, and at once I thought of Eliza Jane, whose elderly master had recently died.”
“Yes, I see,” answered Alasdair, and he really did see. The officious hand of his wife, yet again! “Where is the mistress?” he inquired grimly.
“When last I saw her, laird,” said Mrs. Allen, her expression now a little anxious, “she was in her morning-room.”
His mood rapidly souring, he couldn’t keep himself from saying: “Do you mean the Green Saloon?”
Mrs. Allen looked nervously to Lister, who answered for her. “Yes, laird. It’s what the mistress calls it, so we’ve fallen into the habit of it.”
A querulous moan issued from a nearby table. “Ale,” demanded Uncle Duff weakly, slumping low in a chair. “Hair of the dog! And some cold meat—scones also. Hot! With jam.”
“Right away, sir,” said Mrs. Allen, and hurried toward the archway that led to the kitchens.
Alasdair registered a flicker of irritation at Duff’s peremptory order—would it kill him to say “Please” or “Thank you”? —but said nothing, only turned and went on to Fiona’s morning-room—to the Green Saloon, damn it. He came to the threshold and stopped short.
On a long chintz-covered sofa lay his wife, on her side, fast asleep, with a big tartan shawl draped over her slender form. And curled up at her feet, in a familiar shaggy ball, was Cuilean, who opened his intelligent dark eyes and thumped his tail, but gently, as if not wanting to disturb his human companion.
Feeling an absurd sense of betrayal, Alasdair frowned at Cuilean, and then at Fiona. No wonder she was sleeping. She was exhausted from interfering where she ought not. He came into the room, exasperated to notice himself lightening his tread, but before he’d taken more than two or three steps Fiona started awake and abruptly sat up, blue eyes wide.
It was then that Cuilean jumped off the sofa and frisked toward him, tail wagging wildly.
“Oh!” Fiona said, reaching up to smooth hair tousled by sleep. “It’s you! Must you creep up on me like that?”
“Must you make off with my dog?”
She frowned back at him. “He’s been following me around since you went away.”
That, he realized, was unanswerable, so he chose another angle of attack. “What the devil do you mean by hiring a housekeeper?”
“Are you going to sit down? You quite tower over one. It’s very unpleasant.”
Reluctantly he did sit, in an attractively upholstered high-backed chair, somewhat mollified when Cuilean soulfully laid his big head on his knee. But he stuck to his guns, albeit with a slightly different tack.
“I don’t recognize this chair. Don’t tell me you’ve been buying new furniture the moment my back was turned.”
“It’s from the attics. I didn’t care for all those Rococo chairs that were in here before.”
“My mother,” he said heavily, stubbornly, “thought them very handsome.”
“It’s stupid to quarrel about taste. I prefer furnishings that are less ornate.” Fiona pulled away the tartan shawl that had remained tucked over her, revealing a simple day-dress made in a singularly beautiful shade of lavender that even in his peppery temper Alasdair had to acknowledge as strikingly flattering to his wife’s pale complexion, dark-lashed blue eyes, silvery-blonde hair, even her slim figure. Why, she almost looked—
She almost looked—
He blinked.
For a moment there, he had thought her lovely.
Attractive.
Desirable.
Don’t be daft, man, he told himself harshly.
Such sentimental thoughts were a trap, the chain around the ankle that jerked and tightened and dragged you down into the depths.
Cuilean lifted his head and fixed those intelligent eyes on him, ears pricked as if questioningly, and Alasdair said shortly to Fiona:
“Is that a new gown, madam?”
“No.”
There was a silence, during which Alasdair fought within himself. Why was he being so churlish? He ought to tell her how bonny a dress it was. But it felt like he would be giving away something he wanted—needed—to hang onto.
Finally he said, all too aware of how awkward he sounded, “I thought you’d been having new dresses made.”
Two bright spots of color burned on her cheeks. “Why would you care?”
“I don’t. But what’s this about hiring a new housekeeper?” Oh, God in heaven, he was only digging himself deeper. Was this really him talking? Needling her about domestic concerns? If he’d taken ten seconds to think about it, it was completely obvious they needed a housekeeper; no doubt Lister and Cook had been bearing the burden for too long. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? He should be thanking her for being astute enough to not only observe the problem, but to have dealt with it so swiftly.
But he just couldn’t force out the words.
He was, in truth, behaving like a complete and total ass.
What was happening to him?
Where was the blithe, light-hearted, easygoing Alasdair?
She was sitting very straight on the sofa, eyes sparkling with anger, and had just opened her mouth to speak when he said coldly, “Never mind!”
It was the best he could do.
“Very well. While we’re on the subject of household matters, laird, are you aware that in one of the cellars there are a hundred and fourteen cases of Veuve Clicquot?”
Alasdair felt his mouth dropping open. “What?”
“Yes, I went down there in search of some drying racks and there they were. It took me half an hour to count them all. Oh, and after questioning Lister, I’ve also learned that the staff hasn’t had their wages raised in five years.”
“But I—” He stopped. “But I told my uncle to—I distinctly remember—it was, in fact, five years ago—”
She said nothing.
Slowly he rose to his feet. It felt like his familiar world was crumbling all around him, and that nothing would ever be the sa
me again. If, in fact, he were prone to hyperbole, he might even have said that the sky was falling. But he did not give voice to such fancies. Instead, he gave a small, formal bow and said, “If you’ll excuse me, madam?”
“By all means,” she answered coolly. “I have a great deal to do this afternoon.”
Cuilean trotting happily at his side, Alasdair went in search of Duff, and found him in the Great Hall spreading a lavish dollop of strawberry jam on a tattie scone, which very generously he held out to Alasdair. Which Alasdair curtly refused.
The conversation that followed was difficult—for him. Duff cheerfully admitted his mistake, acknowledged he had forgotten to speak to Lister about the wages (for it was, he reminded Alasdair, the morning following their exceptionally convivial Lammas Day celebrations), and also confessed to purchasing all that pricey champagne. One never knew, he added helpfully, what with the tumultuous state of European relations, when the supply would be cut off.
Alasdair held onto his temper with an effort, then went off to find Lister, to whom he gave an order for wages to be immediately increased (and back wages tacked on), and after that he sought out the housekeeper Mrs. Allen and reassured her as to her welcome.
All in all, it was a less than delightful afternoon, and nor was dinner any better. Nobody talked much, although Dame Isobel kept clucking under her breath about aging roués and hoarding French champagne and feckless profligates, looking so much in her red gown like an angry little hen, wanting to peck out Duff’s eyes, that for once Alasdair felt himself to be entirely in charity with her. His uncle, however, oblivious to atmosphere, ate and drank with undiminished cheer.
And what was on his own mind, speaking of things more or less delightful? Progeny. Dynastic imperatives. Responsibility for his clan. All the while sitting next to a wife who was as warm as a block of ice, and about as cordial. He’d never done the deed under such circumstances and he hoped he was—so to speak—up for it. As soon as good manners allowed, Alasdair was up and away, and off to the stables where he surprised Begbie and the grooms by wanting to discuss new tack for the horses, at great length and in considerable detail, long into the evening.
