by Tracy Fobes
She focused on his shirtfront. She understood very well that the duke would never condone a match between herself and Colin. What was she doing anyway, thinking about a husband? She planned on returning to her village and her animals. Didn’t she?
Confusion and a wrenching sense of loss replaced the warmth that Colin’s kiss had brought her.
Someone coughed. Colin moved away from her hastily. Sarah realized they’d dismounted behind a screen of trees that concealed them, if not their horses, and was thankful for it.
An old man hobbled out the byre house’s front door and down the steps. Squinting, the old man drew close to their horses.
Colin stepped from behind the trees.
“Mr. Colin? Is that ye?” the farmer asked.
“Yes, McKay. It’s me.”
“By God, I thought ye were dead.” McKay turned to Sarah with a questioning air.
“McKay,” Colin said, gesturing toward Sarah, “may I present Lady Sarah, the Duke of Argyll’s long-lost daughter?”
The old man’s eyebrows climbed high as he inspected her. When he’d finished, a smile brightened his face and he offered her an awkward bow. “Pleased tae meet ye, my lady.”
Sarah smiled. She knew McKay’s type very well. In fact, he reminded her very much of Mr. Porter, the farmer whose lamb she’d delivered the day the duke had come to Beannach.
One of the very old school, she guessed McKay lived frugally, cared for only a select few, and was fond of a few drops of whiskey — perhaps too many. Muscles that had once strengthened his thin frame had long ago gone to flab, and his hair had deserted him as well, leaving him with a gray-fringed pate. Veins crisscrossed his nose and cheeks, but his eyes were penetrating, despite their clouded and bloodshot condition. He was smart, but old, and weary of chasing sheep around the pasture.
Thinking of her accent, she dropped him a curtsy and greeted him as briefly as possible. “ ’Tis lovely tae meet ye.”
McKay looked at her with incomprehension in his eyes, and she realized he hadn’t heard her. Like many older farmers, he had probably become slightly deaf.
Still, she didn’t repeat her greeting; instead, she smiled and nodded.
“Where are ye from, my lady?” McKay asked.
“My lady prefers not to dwell on the past,” Colin answered for her. “Rather, she is touring the estate to learn about its present strengths and weaknesses.”
“Ye’ll find Inveraray more strong than weak,” McKay stoutly declared.
Colin smiled. “May we come in and sit for a while, McKay?”
“Of course ye may. The missus would sae enjoy seeing ye.” McKay led them across the farmyard, up the steps, and through his front door.
An elderly woman stood near an open-hearth fireplace, tending an iron pot that hung over the fire. She appeared so stout that Sarah suspected she had to go through the door sideways. As soon as the woman saw them, the kindest smile that Sarah had ever witnessed lightened her features, and she rushed over to Colin.
“Oh, Mr. Colin, how good of ye tae visit us. Lord, we wondered what had happened tae ye. Sit down here, and tell us where ye’ve been.” She patted a chair by the kitchen table, a roughhewn affair with many scratches to attest to its years of service.
“Mrs. McKay, it’s a pleasure to see both you and your husband are well,” Colin said, smiling. A slight flush had risen in his cheeks.
He’s embarrassed, Sarah thought.
“Oh, by heavens, I didna see the lady. Forgive me.” Mrs. McKay moved next to Sarah and put her arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “Good day tae ye, my lady.”
“And tae ye, Mrs. McKay,” Sarah said, striving to mimic the tempo and resonance of Colin’s speech. She knew she didn’t sound exactly like Colin, but nor did she sound like a so-called peasant.
Colin gave her an approving nod, clearly pleased with her effort. “May I present the duke’s newfound daughter, Lady Sarah.”
The ample woman threw herself into a full curtsy, and gushed, “Oh, my lady, what a pleasure. Mr. McKay and I have been hoping tae meet ye.”
Sarah smiled and nodded in response. She saw no sense in opening her mouth at every opportunity and pushing her luck.
“Sit down, and let me get ye something tae drink,” Mrs. McKay urged them.
Colin and Sarah followed Mr. McKay to the kitchen table, where they all sat themselves. At the same time, Mrs. McKay went back to the iron pot and lifted its lid. The delicious scent of hot apple cider filled the room. “I used the last of my fall apples today. Who would like some cider?”
They all asked for some. Mrs. McKay filled four pewter mugs with hot cider and handed one to each. Sarah took a sip and sighed in appreciation. This was what she missed most — simple fare and simple company.
As they drank, Colin asked McKay to catch him up on estate matters, and for the next ten minutes, the old man regaled Colin with stories about fields and plowing and tenants who resisted agricultural improvements. He praised Colin for his past efforts in Inveraray and told him how much they’d all missed his fine judgment.
Colin listened attentively to everything McKay said and suggested solutions to certain difficulties, displaying knowledge more suited to a farmer than an aristocrat. Once or twice, Colin said nothing, but simply appeared concerned.
Sarah could see that a bond existed between the two men, one that went deeper than usual. She remembered the duke telling her that Colin had once brought the estate back from the brink of bankruptcy, and realized she was seeing the old Colin now, the Colin that the duke wanted back.
Her sense of Colin’s dual nature deepened.
This, she mused, was a man to whom others looked to for strength. They trusted him. And based on the comments regarding Colin’s long absence, they probably felt betrayed by him, too.
“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen Mr. Colin,” Mrs. McKay said softly to her, drawing her into a conversation separate from the men’s. “How long ago did he arrive at Inveraray?”
A little nervous at the thought of having a full-blown conversation with Mrs. McKay, she knew she nevertheless had to try to talk to the older woman. This was her first real test as the duke’s daughter. She glanced around the kitchen, finding familiarity in the rough slate floor and the scratch-molded shelving. When she saw the tortoiseshell cat curled up on a tattered wool blanket, within arm’s reach, she petted the cat, knowing from the soft rumble in its throat that it appreciated her efforts. Gratitude toward Colin, for allowing her to practice being an aristocrat with an audience she felt comfortable with, filled her.
“Colin arrived just before me,” Sarah answered. She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Mrs. McKay, who is Chiswick?”
Eyes widening, the farmer’s wife pressed a hand to her ample bosom. “Did Mr. Colin mention Chiswick?” At Sarah’s confirming nod, she went on, “I didna think he would remember Chiswick. That old dog has been dead for over a decade now.”
“Chiswick was a dog?”
Mrs. McKay laughed. “A bonny little dog was Chiswick. He used tae chase our sheep around the pasture. For some reason, he took a liking tae young Mr. Colin.”
“Colin said he was still expecting tae see Chiswick on the porch when we rode up,” Sarah revealed.
“Aye, Mr. Colin took a liking tae Chiswick, too. I still remember the day that dog died. Chiswick got in the way of old man Rindley’s pony cart and got dragged half a mile down the road. There wasn’t much left to him when Rindley stopped. Rindley couldn’t see two feet in front of him, and I’m surprised he didn’t kill more than just Chiswick.”
Sarah made a sympathetic noise, guessing by the tone of Mrs. McKay’s voice that losing Chiswick had been hard.
The farmer’s wife sighed. “Mr. Colin found Chiswick’s mangled body and buried him on the spot, in a fine wool jacket right off his back. Would ye believe Rindley had the nerve tae complain about it when he discovered the grave on his land a week later? Said it would make his cows give bloody milk.
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sp; “So Mr. Colin dug Chiswick up and burned him on a bunch of logs he set aflame.” Mrs. McKay’s voice dropped a notch. “Superstition aside, I think the fact that Rindley didn’t want Chiswick buried on his land bothered Mr. Colin terribly. He seemed tae take it as a personal insult. You see, everyone knew how Mr. Colin loved that dog, and how the dog loved him, and for a while the two were inseparable. When Rindley refused to have Chiswick’s body on his land, it was as though he were telling Mr. Colin that Mr. Colin was a bad seed and anything that touched him was corrupt. After that, I never saw Mr. Colin take tae an animal again.”
Sarah shook her head. Again, Colin had opened his heart and been rejected and pushed aside. “How terrible for him.”
“Aye, it was.”
The two women fell into a comfortable silence, Sarah imagining how the courage to love had been squeezed out of him inch by inch. After a time, Mrs. McKay leaned close and murmured, “If I don’t interrupt them, they’ll go on all night.”
She tapped Colin on the arm. “I wish we’d ken yer visit, Mr. Colin. There are many who’d have liked tae say hello tae ye.”
“Tell them to come to me at Inveraray,” Colin offered. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small leather pouch. “I’d be happy to see them.”
“I didna mean we needed yer help,” she chided, her attention on the pouch.
“I know.” Colin took Mrs. McKay by the hand, pressed the pouch into her palm, and closed her fingers around it.
McKay took the pouch. When he opened it and peered inside, coins clinked against each other. Moisture filled his eyes. “Bless ye.”
“Ye’re a good man,” Mrs. McKay pronounced with another of her kind smiles. “We’ve missed ye sorely.”
“We have at that,” McKay added in gruff tones. “When I hear about the treatment some of my friends are receiving at the hands of their chieftains, it makes me verra angry, and sorry fer them, too. Many of them have been driven off their land tae make grazing lands fer sheep.”
“The clearances,” Sarah murmured, frowning.
“Aye, the clearances. I thank God every day that we have chieftains like yerself and the duke tae watch over us.”
Acknowledging the other man’s comment with a nod, Colin stood. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. McKay. My lady, we should be going.”
“Of course.” Sarah stood. “Thank you both.”
Colin took her arm just below the elbow. He led her out of the house and over to her horse, where he helped her mount. Then, he swung atop his own horse and they both waved as they rode away from the byre house.
As they headed back to the castle, Sarah spoke aloud what had been on her mind since the moment they’d left. “Does the duke ever intend tae clear his lands like the other chieftains?”
“The duke isn’t one to place profit over family,” Colin replied. “His tenants will always have homes on his land.”
“He’s better than most, then.” Sarah hesitated, her new position in society becoming even clearer to her. “I can see that being the duke’s daughter is more than going tae parties and speaking with a pretty accent.”
“It’s a great responsibility. When you become the Duchess of Argyll, you’ll have many people depending on you for their very lives. One decision on your part could affect an entire town.”
“It’s not a responsibility. It’s a burden.”
“It all depends on how you look at it. You once lived in a village and, from your account of it, you lived very poorly. You probably also knew families who had been evicted from their lands as part of their chieftain’s plan to turn homes into grazing lands.”
“I did,” she admitted.
“Well, then, think of your new position this way: the duke has offered you a great gift. As his daughter, you’ll be able to end the suffering of others like you — if, of course, you choose to do so.”
Sarah felt everything go still inside her. Such a thought had never even occurred to her. Helping sick animals had always brought her such satisfaction; how would she feel if she were able to help whole families as well? A tiny bud of excitement unfurled within her.
“I can see by your silence that I’ve given you something to mull over,” Colin said.
“Aye, ye have.”
They both grew quiet for a time, the silence between them a comfortable one. Thinking of the pouch he’d turned over to Mr. McKay, she eventually murmured, “It’s amazing tae think how easily a pouch of coins could save the lives of several families.”
“The duke keeps his tenants well-heeled. The sovereigns I gave the McKays will buy McKay a new pipe and his wife a lace apron. But there are other clans outside of the duke’s in dire need. I’ve seen such families all over England. The problem is so huge I doubt we’ll ever end it.”
Intuition told her that he was more generous than he allowed. “But you help where you can, regardless of the clan name.”
“Yes, I occasionally do. So I can sleep at night.” He shrugged. “Sometimes a good night’s sleep doesn’t come cheap. Sometimes it can be the most precious thing in the world. If a couple of gold sovereigns buy me a solid rest, then I consider it a fine bargain. And I haven’t been sleeping very well lately.”
“Why nae?”
He rubbed his chin with two long fingers. “I’m not certain. I think I’ve been away from Inveraray for too long.”
“Ye surprise me, Colin. I can’t understand how someone whose heart is sae generous can lead such an indulgent life.”
“You have a distorted idea of both my generosity and wickedness. I can see why you might think I’m Robin Hood in disguise, given McKay’s glowing accounts — which were a bit embroidered — but I wish I knew where you had learned of my wickedness. If only you would tell me who wrote you that letter —” He paused, clearly giving her a chance to unburden herself, which she chose to ignore. “But since you will not, let me confess my own beliefs in the origins of my debauchery. The simple truth, Sarah, is that I enjoy sensual things. Things that make me feel: fast horses, beautiful women, a rousing game of chance, anything physical. ’Tis a certain weakness of character which I frequently regret but cannot deny.”
Sarah noticed his horse twitching its tail in a peculiar manner. A glance up ahead confirmed that a branch hung low. Colin’s horse was heading straight for it. The horse was about to have his long-awaited revenge. “And yet you possess this generosity that is anything but weak.”
“It’s a generosity that I’ve ignored in favor of other pursuits,” he admitted. “Until now. I suspect its rekindling is due to a strong new influence in my life —”
At that moment, his horse plunged gleefully under the branch, catching him across the chest. Air left his lungs in a loud puff. The branch dragged him backward and swept him right off his horse’s back. Clearly stunned, he sat in a puddle of mud, holding his backside and staring at his horse, who had stopped to wait for him.
“You mangy, flea-bitten carcass,” he finally said, his voice low and threatening. He stood, revealing a pair of breeches stained brown in the seat, and approached the horse with lowered brows. “How would you like a trip to the knacker’s? One more stunt like that, my friend, and that’s where you’ll end up.”
The horse’s ears twitched in a disagreeable way.
Sarah couldn’t quite muffle a laugh. “Yer not just a man of the senses. I’d say yer also a man with dirt on his pants.”
10
T he rest of the week passed in a dreary fashion, with rain pounding at the windowsills nearly every day. Sarah spent little time with Colin during that week. He always had something else to do. She wondered if he were avoiding her. Had she committed a social blunder she wasn’t aware of?
Rather, she sat with Phineas in the dining room and went over etiquette, seating arrangements, and forms of address until she thought she would scream. Phineas also drilled her on her speech with all the aplomb of a sergeant major, until finally, at the end of the day, she broke down and called him every awful
name she could think of — behind his back, of course.
But her speech improved. Mainly because she wanted it to. She’d been thinking long and hard about what Colin had said. A large part of her was leaning toward fulfilling her role as the duke’s daughter. She could accomplish so many good things with the power of the Argyll name behind her. And she’d discovered over the weeks, after spending a great deal of time in the duke’s company talking and laughing, that there was much to love in the man who called himself her father.
And yet, despite all of this rationalization, the thought of giving up her croft, her animals, and her freedom and embracing this pampered world still made her uneasy.
Now she sat before the windows with Mrs. Fitzbottom, trying to capitalize on what little light the day offered. Heavy clouds raced overhead and sheets of rain spread across the lawn, adding to her gloomy state of mind. But the nonsensical task to which Mrs. Fitzbottom had set her really bothered her the most. Who in her right mind would sit for hours in front of a petticoat and embroider its hem with colorful thread? No one would ever see the petticoat. Surely her time could be put to better use.
“That’s right, lass,” Mrs. Fitzbottom encouraged her, a pair of spectacles sitting on the end of her housekeeper’s nose. She, too, had an embroidery hoop set up before her. She was putting some flowers on the ends of pillowcases destined for the guest bedrooms. “Your stitches should be close enough together that you do not see the linen beneath, but not bunched on top of each other. The embroidered area should look like satin.”
“Satin.” Sarah gritted her teeth. Her eyes felt near to crossing. “Mrs. Fitz, I cannot do any more of this today.”
The housekeeper sat back from her hoop and looked over the edge of her glasses at Sarah. “You know, my dear, I’ve just about had enough, too. Why don’t we take a short break before you begin your next lesson?”
“My next lesson? Please don’t tell me that Phineas plans to berate me over my sad poverty of language again.”
