Destiny Of A Highlander: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Ferguson, Emilia

  “He'll be back tomorrow.”

  Sitting up in bed, she tried to make herself remember that. It had been hard, this time of absence. She felt cold inside, like a room when the windows have been left open.

  “But soon he'll be back.”

  She rolled over in the bed and stood, heading for the wardrobe.

  “The blue and white gown, please,” she said to Brenna, trying for a cheerful air. The blue gown was pretty, the bodice and skirt cleverly cut: a white skirt slashed to show the blue and white below, the front panel of the bodice blue. If she wore it, she would feel more cheerful.

  While she waited for her to return, Francine realized that even her strange, silent maidservant didn't seem so cold and distant anymore, not after the events of yesterday. She was getting to like her.

  “Here we are, mistress,” Brenna said diffidently. “By! But it's a bonny gown.”

  Francine smiled. “Thank you, Brenna. It is. I thought I'd dress more carefully today. Perhaps we might entertain, later.”

  Marguerite had mentioned it was a possibility. There were other noble families in the district, and the Gracewell family seemed to like to maintain ties to their English neighbors. That fact was one that bothered Francine slightly – the thought that her newly-acquired father-in-law was over-keen on maintaining English ties.

  I wonder sometimes just how much he dislikes me.

  “There we are, mistress,” Brenna said, tightening the laces of her stays. “And now the dress. Och, it's a fine one. Ye had it made in Edinburgh?”

  “Our seamstress made it,” Francine explained, wincing a little as she shifted in the tight laces. Brenna was somewhat less careful than her own maid had been. “She was trained by a French seamstress.”

  “Aye?” Brenna asked. “French ways are as they are,” she said decidedly.

  Francine wanted to laugh. The skepticism in her voice was clear.

  When Brenna finished and she sat down for the next stage of her toilette – the hair and ornaments – she couldn't help wondering, just a little, about Brenna's opinion of France.

  Was Brenna a Jacobite? Or did she disapprove of the cause? Certainly, not all Scots were supportive of it. In addition, if she was, she would have been more enthusiastic about France. The possibility that Brenna had heard of her own Jacobean leanings and disapproved of them was one she hadn't previously considered.

  “There we are,” Brenna said. “Simple and elegant, just as you like it.”

  Francine smiled. Her maid had done the same hairstyle she always did – the fontage. She'd loosened it slightly, curling the loose hair down the back of her neck, but in essence it was the same.

  “Thank you, Brenna.”

  Brenna went pink. “Very good, milady.”

  Francine, still musing about her maid's possible views on monarchy, headed down toward the breakfast room.

  In the doorway, she paused. Her father-in-law was in there, alone. The sun shone through the window, softening his gray hair, the pale linen of his shirt. She tensed, unsure of what to do next.

  I am not ready to see this man alone.

  She was about to leave the room, when he looked up and saw her.

  “Good morning,” he said. He looked at her mildly.

  Francine swallowed hard. “Good morning, sir.”

  He looked vaguely amused. “Come,” he said, pushing his chair back slightly, as if to give her room. “There's enough breakfast here for an army. I'd rather not face the prospect of eating it alone.”

  Francine felt her cheeks lift in a smile. She came in to join him. Settling herself in the chair opposite, she reached for a small roll of bread.

  “So, a pleasant morning,” her father-in-law said mildly, reaching for the teapot.

  Francine found herself feeling more at ease. “A very pleasant one. The clouds will clear, I think.”

  “They always do, it seems,” her father-in-law remarked, shifting to look out of the window. “There's some blue sky already there.”

  “There is indeed,” Francine nodded.

  She broke a piece off the roll, buttered it, and chewed. Her father-in-law stirred his tea and selected a slice of cheese from the central platter, eyeing it thoughtfully. It seemed he put thought into everything he did. Francine found herself starting to like him.

  “We thought to have some guests, later,” he said, looking up at her as he reached for a second piece of cheese.

  “I believe so,” Francine said carefully. Marguerite had mentioned it the day before.

  “Just some families from nearby,” he said. “The Standers and the Goswells. They are good people. You will like them.”

  Francine nodded, slowly. “Good,” she said.

  They ate in silence. While they did, Francine became acutely aware of his gaze upon her. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, wondering what he was thinking. Does he think me barbaric, unmannered? Different from his family? She didn't know how, or why, he would think such things. She did nothing in any way different to how they did them here! She fought the hurt and anger that grew inside her.

  When she thought she could bear his silence no more, she decided to leave, pushing back her chair.

  “I wanted to say that I approve of what my son has done, in joining with you.”

  Francine stared as he spoke. “What?” she said. “Sorry, my lord. I mean...you do? Oh...” She sank back into the chair again, unsure of what to say. She waited, and he dabbed his lips with a napkin, and then cleared his throat.

  “I like the fact that he has allied with a Scottish family,” he said. “We are allies, after all, in this great cause. It is meet that he has done what he has done.”

  Francine swallowed hard. Her mind reeled. “You think that? My lord. Thank you.”

  “It's nothing, daughter,” he said lightly. “Merely sensible. Why should we not all wed, Scots and English, in the great scheme of things. It's the cause that matters. I tell my son that daily.”

  “Oh. That's good, sir.”

  He chuckled. “Not sure if it's good, dear. But it's had results. That's what matters.”

  Francine stared at him. Results? Was he suggesting that Henry married her for political expedience? Was that how he understood his son's decision? “Well, I'm sure it has,” she said neutrally.

  He nodded. “Indeed, daughter, indeed. Well, I don't know why I'm sitting filling bright young heads with my musings...I should go and make myself useful. Excuse me, dear? I have a meeting with my steward. Accounts don't make themselves. Wish they did, mind...it would save a pack of worries for the rest of us, yes?”

  “Yes,” Francine nodded, looking down uncomfortably.

  When he had gone, she found herself thinking about what he'd said. Had Henry really wed her for political reasons?

  No. It was preposterous. How could it be that? He couldn't have conceived of how things had happened. It had been a series of coincidences that led to this.

  Or had it?

  Had Henry truly felt the need to wed her, after the calamity? On the other hand, had he merely seen a chance to consolidate his family's standing here in Scotland?

  “Henry wouldn't have done that.”

  She said it aloud, convincing herself. It sounded true. However, with him not here, she found it hard to remember the sincerity of his love.

  “Francine, you're being ridiculous,” she told herself. Setting aside her plate, she stood and, carefully neatening her gown, headed to the drawing-room.

  Harpsichord practice didn't distract her for long. When her fingers started playing a song that reminded her of Henry, she pushed the stool back, restless, and stood. At that moment, she heard footsteps in the hallway. “Marguerite?”

  “Francine! Sister! There you are. I was searching for you.”

  “I was just practicing.”

  “I see,” Marguerite smiled. “You’ve breakfasted?”

  “Earlier, yes.”

  “Fine,” Marguerite smiled approvingly. “Well. I thought perhap
s we could call for some tea and discuss this party we're having later? A small gathering – just a tea and some discussion. We'll have it in the parlor upstairs, I think. It's just two families. You'll like them.”

  “Oh,” Francine said. Her voice was hollow. The words reminded her of her father-in-law earlier.

  “And I thought mayhap we could...Oh!” Marguerite stopped, a hand covering her mouth in concern. “Have I said aught to upset you?”

  “No,” Francine shook her head slowly. “I'm fine.”

  “Good,” Marguerite nodded briskly. “Well, then. Come up to the gallery with me? I have a mind to have the walls papered, and I cannot decide on the design. Mayhap you can help me.”

  “Yes.” Francine nodded and followed her up the stairs.

  While Marguerite flitted from one wall to the other, talking with some enthusiasm about color and pattern, Francine found her mind distinctly elsewhere. She could not stop it from returning to those words earlier.

  I approve of his choice of allying with you.

  Was that really what Henry had done? Married her to consolidate his position?

  “No.”

  “Francine?” Marguerite looked at her with a questioning glance. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Francine said, suddenly aware again of where she was. “Sorry, Marguerite. I am distracted today.”

  “Well, then,” Marguerite said, laying aside the square of silk she'd been holding against the wall for Francine's opinion. “Let's stop, then. I say, you're not unwell, are you? There is a fever that comes out sometimes, this time of year...” she trailed off, frowning. “Ought we to call a physician?”

  “No, no,” Francine said lightly. “I'm not unwell, sister. Just some air...” She gestured to the windows.

  “Are you sure I shouldn't call someone?” Marguerite said, already hurrying to open the windows. “Mayhap you should lie down.”

  “I'm fine,” Francine said tightly. “I…I just need to go outside.”

  Marguerite shrugged. “As you wish.” She looked concerned.

  “I'm sorry,” Francine said, pained. She didn't want to talk more, explain more. She wished to be alone. She hurried from the room and down the stairs.

  Out in the garden, the wind was rising. Clouds had gathered again, as was their habit this time of year in this part of the country. The weather changed in an instant, going from sun to cloud and back again in hours. Francine shivered, wishing she'd thought to bring a coat or shawl.

  “I just need a walk. Or a ride.”

  She hurried down to the bottom of the garden, where she settled herself on a bench. She covered her face in her hands and tried not to cry. Oddly, it wasn't difficult. Beyond tears, all she felt was a strange, blank silence.

  What her father-in-law had said, she could not shake.

  It was preposterous, she knew. Nevertheless, in the back of her mind lurked the idea that this would, indeed, be the perfect way for Henry to consolidate his position. He had struggled with that for years: the exclusion from society, the discomfort with his Jacobite status as an Englishman. What if this was his answer? It would, in so many regards, have worked perfectly for him.

  “I cannot believe it of Henry.”

  However, the idea would not dislodge itself from her mind. There was only one thing for it – she would speak to Marguerite. As much as she hated to raise the topic with her, she couldn't think of a better way to soothe her troubled mind. Standing from the bench, she went inside.

  In the house, she found a flurry of activity. The servants were everywhere, busily cleaning. Somewhere at the top of the stairs, she could hear Marguerite's voice, directing the workers with some enthusiasm.

  “And there we are, Mr. Lennox. Put it over there, will you? Ah! Barra. The flowers need to go over there.”

  She frowned. Surely the party was a simple afternoon tea? Just two families? Why all the cleaning? “Marguerite?”

  “Not now! I'm busy...Oh! Francine!” Marguerite spun around, a pinafore apron over her printed day-dress, flowers in her hand. “Sister! What is amiss?”

  “You are busy?” she asked.

  “Terribly!” Marguerite said, with a satisfied smile on her face. “It's transpired that this will be a rather grander event than we'd thought. Father's business ventures with the Company have taken off, and, since his friend Melling – they're together in the venture – arrived at Queensferry and is here from England, we thought to make a day of it.”

  “Oh.” Francine frowned.

  “So we've extended the invitations for six families. Rather a lot, I know. But we'll make a supper party of it too. It'll be a fine time to show off the house to good advantage. Oh! What think you of that vase there? Too much, or good?” She frowned, gesturing to a tall Chinese vase of late-flowering dahlias.

  “No, that's good,” she nodded.

  “Fine!” Marguerite grinned. “If you want to join in, you can, of course…? But are you feeling ill, or...?” she trailed off as Francine shook her head.

  “I'm just tired, Marguerite. I think I will go and lie down.”

  “Of course. Of course.”

  The thought of facing more people this evening made Francine feel even more tired. She headed off to her bedchamber and lay down on the bed.

  “Henry?” she said under her breath. “Did you have to go away now?”

  She sighed. It wasn't his fault. She would just have to do her best to enjoy herself this evening.

  She dressed at half past four, changing the gown for one that would do for evening – a plain white one with soft, cascading skirts and ruffles. It was one Henry had particularly said he liked. She glanced at herself in the mirror, rather critically. She looked tense.

  I am tense.

  She would be the only Scot there that evening.

  Heading up to the drawing-room, she took a deep breath to steady herself. She could hear Marguerite, talking, low-voiced, to a maidservant.

  “There we are. Very good, Barra. If you can just arrange that so, I think it would be just right.”

  Francine came in, smelling at once the sweet scents of jam and scones and cooking. The drawing-room had been transformed – trestles with enticing tea-time treats laid out down one wall, the harpsichord pulled back to one side to allow maximum thoroughfare to the windows.

  “Francine! Isn't this nice?”

  “Very fine,” Francine murmured.

  “You look worried, sister.”

  “I'm fine,” Francine said and walked resolutely to the windows.

  “Is it because...ah! Mr. Lennox?”

  “The earl and countess of Andover,” the steward announced grandly.

  “Oh!” Marguerite stared. “The guests! Are they here already...? Quick!” She gestured to Barra, who hurried out. Marguerite turned to Francine, who felt suddenly ill. “That was unexpected!” she grinned.

  “Yes,” Francine said. Her voice seemed to come from far away.

  “Ah! Lady Hansford,” Marguerite greeted a tall, hollow-cheeked woman with elegantly-styled auburn hair. The woman smiled tightly at Marguerite.

  “Lady Marguerite. I say! What a becoming gown.”

  “Thank you,” Marguerite said, flushing. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Francine.”

  “Ah?” The woman's eyes went to Francine, and regarded her levelly. “You're the woman Henry wed?”

  Francine nodded. “Yes.” Her stomach churned. The woman's eyes went cold, and she gave Francine a sketched curtsey, which she returned.

  “You're Scottish, yes?”

  Francine swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  “Ah,” the woman said. “How different.”

  Francine stared at her. She wanted to ask more about what she meant by that, but the woman was turning away frostily, and more guests were arriving. A shorter, balding man with a cheery face stepped up, a woman with straight, plain-styled hair on his arm.

  “Captain Melling!” Marguerite greeted him warmly. “Welcome to our home.”

&nb
sp; “Thank you, Marge,” he smiled. “Where's your father?”

  “Here,” Lord Gracewell said, appearing from where Francine had barely noticed him, across the drawing-room. “Hubert! Be welcome. Sweet Matilda.”

  As Lord Gracewell greeted his guests, Francine wandered off to the refreshment table. She took a plate and selected some things – hard-boiled eggs, a carefully-sliced section of bread topped with a savory paste.

  “They say you're Scottish?” a man's voice said at her elbow.

  She frowned. “Yes. I am, Sir...?” she made the title a question. A young man, with a thin face and reddish hair, he had a strong English accent and a sort of earnest interest in his expression.

  “Fascinating!” he said. “Beg your pardon, milady. I am Alfred Penning – a friend of the family. I am very eager to meet a local and discuss the history of this place.”

  “Oh,” Francine said, her stomach crimping with the awkwardness of it. All the same, she smiled. There was no harm in Mr. Penning, she thought. “Well, I would be happy to discuss whatever needs clarifying.”

  “Splendid! Thank you. I say, what a marvelous coincidence, to meet you. Not too many Scots amongst Lord Gracewell's peers, I think.”

  “It seems not,” Francine said lightly.

  As she talked to Mr. Penning, she felt a sort of dull ache settle in her stomach. He was interested and amusing and she liked his company, but it was uncomfortable. It felt wrong to talk about her world to an outsider. She felt a little as she imagined some specimen might under Douglas' spyglass.

  “And so I find the tales about these hillsides rather fascinating...” he continued, oblivious.

  Francine listened with half an ear. In her heart, fresh worries had surfaced. It was another voice, telling her another warning that should have been considered more. You will think you make the right choice.

  Merrick, the kitchen, and the vision she’d had. All of that flashed, suddenly, back into her memory and it seemed, to her, as if it was yesterday that she sat in Duncliffe Hall at the fire, talking to Merrick. Why had she not listened?

  It was all about choice. More and more, Francine was starting to think she had made the wrong one. She could have run away, gone to Arabella. Then she would be safe with friends and family, not here in this room with her identity as a brand rendering her a curiosity, or worse.