“Oh, Claymore, you said to keep the guest list to four hundred, and I always do as you say.”
Claymore rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t in the mood to argue the point. It was too late anyway. “How big is the cake again, my darling…”
“Mother,” Gloria interrupted, “this is the third night. Are you not going to ask the Provost’s permission?”
“Gloria, we have already discussed this and the answer is still no. That silly little man can do nothing to stop the wedding, nothing at all.”
“But mother, suppose Ben refuses to marry me against the Clan’s wishes?”
“Hannish shall never let that happen, never in a thousand years. That old man might be an elder, but Hannish is the laird, whatever that means. You shall see, your wedding will go off just as planned.”
“But…”
Abigail’s voice started to rise. “Gloria, that is my final word on the matter. Do not ask me again.”
“Father, can you not reason with her?”
Claymore put his hand over his daughter’s. “I have tried, but she will not hear me either.”
Gloria dropped her gaze and ate another two bites of her dinner. When she finished, she whimsically said, “Too bad about my wedding dress.”
“What about your wedding dress?” Abigail asked.
“Well, we can hardly sell it, you know. There simply are not that many young ladies my size. I suppose it could be altered, but…”
“Whatever are you talking about?” Abigail demanded.
“Mother, I shall have no use for it if Ben is forced to take me to Denver so we may be married by a Justice of the Peace instead.”
Abigail slowly narrowed her eyes. “Oh no you don’t. You shall not force me to go to that despicable old goat simply to save the price of a wedding gown. I shall not do it!” She abruptly stood up and headed for the door. “I shall not…I shall not…I shall not!”
Claymore listened as his wife continued to repeat her vow all the way up the stairs. “I believe she has made up her mind.”
“Father, if we are forced to marry elsewhere, will you come?”
“Of course I shall. Who can give you away but me?”
“She is making quite a spectacle of herself all over town, you know. Ben says people come to Scot’s row and wait to see if mother will show up.”
“Oh dear, I had not heard that.”
“There must be something we can do?”
“Yes, something…but what? I have never seen your mother this determined.”
*
While Abigail went to her room in protest, Provost MacGreagor had just arrived at Marblestone. Butler Prescot let him in, and then showed their guest the way to the servant’s dining room. It was unusual to have visitors who came specifically to see the servants instead of the family, and Provost MacGreagor was well received. Cooks Jessie and Halen made peas, corn on the cob, roast beef, and of course, turnips. At one time or another, Provost MacGreagor had already met all the Marblestone servants, so introductions were not necessary. There didn’t seem to be much that slipped past the clan’s elder.
When Marblestone was first built, the small number of servants were able to gather at the head of the long table with plenty of room left over. Now, there were twenty-one, beginning with Butler Alistair and Butler Prescot, who took turns eating with their families instead of with the servants. Tonight was Alistair’s turn to be at home and Prescot’s turn to sit at the head of the table. The women, Harriet, Adrian, Ethel, Lillie Mae, Julia, Stella, Mable, Cheryl, Karen and Connie, normally sat on one side, while the men took seats on the other. They were Ronan, Dugan, Brookton, John, Knox, Geddes, Paul, and Tristin. The only exception was Nanny Beverly, who sat beside her husband on those rare occasions when the children were being watched by their parents.
“What news from home?” Jessie asked Provost MacGreagor after everyone was served and had begun to eat.
The Provost started to speak Gaelic and then corrected himself. “Well, let me see now. The castle does a good turn for the village, all burned out the way it is. Visitors come nearly every day to see it, and they buy food, drinks and souvenirs.”
“What sort of souvenirs?” Halen asked.
“There be that Highlander statue still, scorched though it be. Sad, ‘tis very sad. Lester MacGreagor makes small likenesses out of Plaster of Paris. I am told they are quite good. His sister paints them black and the people buy them.”
“Might I buy one?” Lillie Mae asked.
Provost MacGreagor’s eyes lit up. “Are you supposin’ there be a market for them in America?”
“There be a …” Lillie Mae giggled. “I mean there is a market for one here at Marblestone, and I bet you could make a fortune selling them to those who know the story.”
The Provost thoughtfully stroked the side of his face. “I shall see about ordering some.”
“I would like one too,” said Dugan. “‘Tis likely the last time I shall see it, now that we have little reason to go home again.”
Jessie bowed her head. “I miss it, I do.”
“Ye dinna like it here, Miss Jessie?” the Provost asked.
“I like it, but home is home.”
“Not like my home,” said Lillie Mae.
“Or mine,” said Tristin. “I am the youngest of six, all boys and all bigger than me.” He got a few smiles and added his.
“Do you wish to go home for a visit, Lillie Mae?” Butler Prescot asked. “We could spare you for a day or two.”
“No, thank you. I like it here much better.”
Brookton hurried to swallow his meat. “Lillie Mae knows of a place where the Indians get the sand to make their war paint?”
“How fascinatin’,” Provost MacGreagor said. “‘Tis far away, is it?”
“Not far,” Lillie Mae answered, but that’s all she would say. Home was the last place she wanted to see, even if it meant taking them to see the colorful hills nearby. Even so, that got everyone talking about places to see on the days they had off.
Lillie Mae kept her peace and listened, but she had a burning question, and as soon as they finished talking about lookout point in the mountains above Denver, she asked it. “Provost MacGreagor, is it true you are at war with Mrs. Whitfield?”
“War is it?” he asked. “I suppose you might call it that.” He took the bowl Jessie handed him and helped himself to more sliced and buttered turnips.
Said Lillie Mae, “She is not as bad as you think.”
“You favor her, do you?” the provost asked.
“I do,” Lillie Mae answered. “You should have seen the way she stood up to…” Just then, she remembered she wasn’t supposed to talk about the day the duchess came. Secrets were so hard for her to keep.
“Perhaps ye might tell me about that someday,” said the Provost as he ate the last bit of soft turnip and quickly swallowed. “Just now, I best go put me horse to bed.”
Saved from explaining, Lillie Mae beamed. She was beginning to like the clan elder, even if Abigail did not. When he stood up, she stood up too and walked him to the back door. “We had a horse once. It up and died one day. We saw wild horses all the time, and…”
The others listened as Lillie Mae’s voice faded in the distance.
“Well, that was pleasant,” said Halen.
Jessie frowned. “The way he took to his dinner, we’ll likely see him every night.”
Halen reached for the pot and poured herself another cup of coffee. “Perhaps Mr. Hannish is right. The poor man hasn’t enough to eat.”
“He’s plenty of restaurants in town,” Jessie said. She handed her plate to Karen and sighed. “Wait until Miss Abigail sees him here. Sooner or later, they are bound to have words and I for one, am not lookin’ forward to it.”
“Yet,” said Halen, “maybe they shall work out their differences if they are together more often.”
“I doubt it. Both are as persevering as any I have ever seen.”
Jessie needn’t h
ave worried, for the Provost did not return and no one thought anything of it. If he wanted a wife, he didn’t let anyone know, and fortunately, Hannish forgot all out his matchmaking – at least for now.
CHAPTER 4
Once more, the duchess was in prison, and it mattered not that it was a prison of her own making. Still using the name Rebecca Lyons, she had money, jewels, clothes, and all the decorations her two connected hotel rooms would accommodate. All that she had was compliments of Mr. Douglas Roth, who backed out of their marriage at the last moment. Breach of Promise laws worked once and they would work again, if need be. Yet, she had grown tired of the dreary hotel rooms, had no society, received no looks of adoration, and not one flirtation had delighted her in weeks.
Her nightmares continued to be harsh, alternating between getting shot and being put on trial for the murder of Lady Laura Bayington’s first husband. Terrified of leaving her room on most days for fear of imminent arrest, the duchess carefully considered every word Laura had to say during a visit that went by far too quickly. Alone and lonely, it stood to reason that eventually the duchess would begin to talk to herself. Why not? It was not as though anyone would care. On this day, she stood in front of her mirror and brushed the tangles out of hair that had turned from red to dark brown.
“How in Heaven’s name did Laura find me? I made no mistake, of that I am certain…and why have the Pinkerton men not come to arrest me?”
She finished brushing her hair, pinned it on top of her head, sat down at her table and toyed with her nearly empty teacup. “Pinkerton detectives are famous for getting their man…or woman. Laura is lying – she has to be.” Still, the duchess could not be one hundred percent certain it was a lie. At least she knew where Laura was – she was in Colorado with the MacGreagors and the Whitfields…laughing at her, no doubt. Indeed, she imagined herself the brunt of all sorts of jokes.
“Let them laugh. It is nothing more than falderal,” she muttered. It was her life and the duchess intended to live it anyway she pleased. Unfortunately, the life she was currently living was not what she had in mind at all.
To pass the time on most days, she considered all sorts of plans for her future, tossing out those that had little possibility of success and thinking up new ones. Always, she decided her first idea was the most promising – somehow, she had to convince Blair to go with her to London, and then find a way to have her daughter presented at court. A beautiful and sought after daughter was the only way the duchess could recover her coveted position in London Society.
Yet, as impatient as she was, convincing Blair to leave her MacGreagors and sail to London would take time and plenty of encouragement. Therefore, when the duchess ran across an article detailing a grand London ball, she clipped it and saved it. She fully intended to send all the articles she collected to Blair, if she could think of a way to get them past those two nosey butlers. Wasn’t it always the butlers who kept her from having her way? Indeed, it was.
The duchess ventured out of her hotel room but weekly to buy necessities, visit bookshops, pick up books she had not yet read, and peruse a newspaper stand near the hotel. However, slipping out of the hotel unnoticed was maddening at best. The lobby of her expensive accommodations was often crowded with people taking pictures of some celebrity or politician, and the last thing she needed was to have her picture in the paper. Therefore, she began to buy and wear wigs of different colors and hairstyles. When the hotel manager recognized her anyway, she took to wearing widow’s weeds, complete with a black hat and netting that covered her entire face. Naturally, the sleeves of her black dress had to be long enough to cover the scar on her arm, and wearing spectacles helped disguise her as well.
Her curiosity always took her first to the bookshops, where the book about her appeared to be selling out in no time at all. Nevertheless, and as diligently as she read every word in every newspaper, there was no mention of it anywhere. The duchess found that quite puzzling, for it must surely be the most talked about book on at least two continents. Was there no one who wished to comment on the brilliance of her escapades?
Her mood swiftly changed when she considered that any day now, if it had not happened already, the book would appear in Denver, and then in Colorado Springs. The duchess never tired of imagining it in the hands of every one of Hannish MacGreagor’s friends and acquaintances. How she longed to be there when it happened, but alas, it was too soon to return to Colorado Springs. Instead, she sent away for a subscription to the local newspaper.
If the hotel manager thought it odd that the duchess never once received anything in the mail of a personal nature, he said nothing. It took nearly two weeks, but finally her first copy of the Colorado Springs newspaper arrived and she was delighted. She hungrily scoured each page, but there was nothing about the book. What she found instead was Gloria Whitfield’s wedding announcement.
The mention of the reception being held at the Antler Hotel took her aback for a moment. That was the hotel she and Jedidiah Tanner stayed in on their last night together. How she loved that man, and how sad it was that she would never love that way again. Oh well, why dwell on it now? She was surprised to learn Gloria’s fiancé was not the factory owner in New York City, but a mere carpenter in Colorado Springs. The duchess only shrugged. What did she care? Yet, it gave her a grand idea, so she stood up, got dressed, reached for her black widow’s hat, and got ready to go out.
Instead of waiting for the book to become available in Hannish MacGreagor’s precious place of residence, she could anonymously mail a copy to the editor of the newspaper. The editor would surely write an article about the book, for it deliciously concerned two men of great fortune and prominence in that particular town’s society. Already she could imagine a paperboy on his horse, making the very important delivery to both the MacGreagors and the Whitfields. How she would adore seeing the look of horror on Hannish’s face.
While she was at it, she might as well send Gloria Whitfield a wedding present. Indeed, a copy of the book was the perfect gift. She hurried to the bookshop, bought two copies, had each wrapped suitable for mailing, and then headed back to her hotel. She took the elevator to her room, set the books on her table, removed her hat, and ordered more hot tea from room service.
The duchess sat down, tapped the books with her fingertip and grinned. “How very clever I am.”
She was certain Laura had given a copy to Hannish. Of course, she had, for Laura would like nothing better than to humiliate the duchess in any way she could. “My despicable Lady Laura Bayington,” she said aloud.
Never before had she truly loathed Laura, but now she did. How the subject of the murder of Laura’s first husband came up in the first place was a mystery to the duchess. She was so shocked to see Laura at her hotel room door, that all she could clearly remember was confessing, right in front of that silly Abigail Whitfield, that Laura was not there the night her husband was murdered – and that she was.
The duchess pushed that thought to the back of her mind, for it always riled her, and sometimes it took all day to rid herself of the anger. Instead, she concentrated on the new diamond ring she had on her finger, and tried to consider more enjoyable things, such as boldly taking a chance and simply calling Blair.
The duchess abruptly frowned. “The butlers would never allow it,” she sarcastically said.
Still, she could write letters, send them to a business in town, and ask that they be given to Blair personally. It was another brilliant idea and one she thought of weeks earlier. At first, the letters were filled with adoration for her daughter, and words of wisdom concerning how to attract a wealthy husband. Later, once she considered what Blair would think after she read the book, the duchess wrote denials, and added little footnotes that she hoped would entice her daughter to see London for herself. She had yet to mail any of her letters, however.
Then there was Hannish MacGreagor – husband number four…or was it five? She could not quite remember and what did it matter anyway? I
t was Hannish who had her locked away in a lunatic asylum, and for that, she owed him.
At a knock on the door, she let the waiter in, held the door while he set another pot of tea on her table, and took the old one away. As soon as she closed the door, she sat down at her table once more, and poured herself a fresh cup. One thing was certain – it was time to leave the boredom of Cleveland.
First, the duchess had a little errand to run. She addressed the copies of her book, got up and started to pack a few things in her traveling bag. She hadn’t been this excited about anything in a very long time. After everything they had done to her – it was well past time for her to get a large slice of revenge, and an article in the Colorado Springs newspaper about the book was just the ticket.
*
Matt and Dale Fifer were brothers and much to Dale’s chagrin, Matt was the oldest. He was bossy too, but Dale was used to that…sort of. They lived in a shack at the end of Babbling Brook Lane. It wasn’t much of a shack. In fact, it was little more than four weather-beaten wood walls and a roof that threatened to fall in at any moment. They had a stove, a table, and one chair, which they fought over. Their beds sagged in the middle, and their mattresses were unmercifully thin, but it was a place to eat and sleep.
Although there truly was a brook not far from the shack and a few trees that offered some relief from the hot son, Babbling Brook Lane wasn’t much of a lane either. It was more like a narrow, deeply rutted dirt road that most did not travel. Matt and Dale paid it no mind, for they had no cart, no carriage, no wagon, and no horse to pull one anyway.
They wore floppy felt hats, baggy pants and the tops of their long johns worked just as well as shirts. At least, that’s what Matt and Dale Fifer thought. They were dressed properly enough, seeing as how they always wore vests which they left unbuttoned, mostly because some of the buttons were missing. It didn’t bother them.
What they had was a strong aversion to work…any kind of work. Each morning, they argued over who had to put the coal in the stove and light the fire, and who had to make the flapjacks. Naturally, man cannot live on flapjacks alone, so the brothers took to helping themselves to an occasional neighbor’s vegetable garden. They didn’t take too much, they both agreed, and sometimes a generous farmer’s wife would have some already picked and set out for them to take. At least, that’s what they assumed, until the sheriff caught them and took them to jail. They soon discovered that the sheriff’s wife made wonderful meals, which she brought to the jail three whole times a day. Not only that, in jail they had soft beds they didn’t have to work for.
Marblestone Mansion, Book 9 Page 4
