by Karen Ranney
“Tell me, how did you find yourself back in Scotland?”
“It is a long and complicated story,” he began, his words interrupted by Abigail’s entrance into the room. Her knees were nearly buckling beneath the weight of the tray she carried. Bemused, Susanna stared at the array of dishes aligned there—slices of the cake Cook had made a few days ago, a selection of dried fruit, and an assortment of cheese and hard crackers. The larder had been emptied. Or, at the very least, severely depleted.
James stood, helping her lower the tray to the table. Abigail bobbed another curious curtsy, her legs bowing out. Taking pity on the girl, Susanna dismissed her with a smile and a fervent wish that Polly would send her upstairs to dust.
“May I serve you?” she asked, already preparing a selection of delicacies for him. “I would dearly love to hear the tale,” she said as he took the plate from her. “I must confess that I am somewhat lacking in news from time to time in this out-of-the-way place.”
Now, that was a blatant falsehood since the inhabitants of Ayleshire were remarkably informed as to events transpiring in the world. No doubt due to the trade for which the village was known, linen so finely woven that it attracted buyers from a dozen nations. After politics, talk of rebellion, and news of faraway wars were exhausted as topics, there was always gossip.
“My brother was heir to an earldom,” he said. “On the way to England to decline it, Alisdair found himself married. Consequently, he returned to Scotland with both a wife and a title, intent on rebuilding our ancestral home. I chose to remain at Gilmuir in order to help him build his shipyard.”
“And your other brothers?”
“Douglas is too young to be of much use to anyone,” he said, smiling. “But Hamish and Brendan command their own ships, as I did once.”
“My husband was a sailor,” she told him. “He would have been miserable on land.”
“I’ve merely traded my captain’s duties for those of a shipbuilder. At least for the moment.”
She took a slice of the jewel cake, thinking that Cook had outdone herself.
“Have you traveled far from Gilmuir?”
“A matter of a few days only,” he said.
And all for naught, she was afraid. She sighed, wishing again that she had thought to send word to Fergus. “Did Fergus tell you of our troubles?”
He shook his head. “Only that he regrets not being able to assist you himself.”
“He said nothing?” she asked carefully, sipping from her tumbler of cider. An inkling of an idea began, was ruthlessly smothered, yet was reborn just as quickly. Fate and Fergus had delivered James MacRae to her, the answer to a prayer she hadn’t dared to utter.
“It is not nearly as fascinating as your story, I’m afraid, James.” She smiled at him. “May I call you that? I am, after all, a longtime friend of your uncle’s.” How odd that her heart was racing and her palms felt damp. “Please, call me Susanna.”
Pouring herself another glass of cider, she feigned a relaxed pose. If he looked carefully, he might see that her fingers trembled as she lowered the pitcher. A point in her favor, that she did not lie easily or well. “You’ll stay a few days, I hope. Just to rest from your journey.”
“Perhaps overnight. I’m anxious to return to Gilmuir.”
“Yes, of course. You must not wish to be away from your wife.” She smiled gently, holding her breath.
“Alisdair is the only MacRae brother who is married,” he said, smiling.
She lowered her eyes and exhaled. “I was hoping…” she began, allowing her words to trail away into silence. “Never mind.” She looked up, smiled, then glanced away. “It would be too much an imposition.”
He didn’t look all that eager for her to continue. Another sigh didn’t elicit his curiosity, either, so she was forced to lower her head and look at him below her lashes. A rather pathetic pose. “You are, no doubt, a busy man. Far be it from me to inflict my problems on you.” Oh dear, Susanna, you are billowing up the sails, using a favored expression of the long-departed Mr. McKinsey.
“How may I be of service, Susanna?”
Finally.
She smiled brightly at him, this expression less one of deception than of burgeoning relief.
“I hope you do not think the task onerous, but I am in need of a man unknown to my workers.”
He said nothing, but the look in his eyes was calm and waiting. Not a man to fool.
“You see,” she said, rushing to finish her request before she lost her nerve, “someone is stealing from me. The losses have not been large, I confess. A few sheep here, a goat or so there, a bale of hay. But if it continues, I could be rendered penniless. I need help ascertaining who, exactly, is behind these heinous deeds.”
She seemed to have rendered him speechless. He blinked a few times, took a drink, but still said nothing. Finally, he spoke. “I am not a magistrate, Susanna.”
“Oh, but I would not wish one. You see,” she said, leaning forward, “Tyemorn Manor is actually a series of farms, James. We employ twenty people here. If one of them is stealing from me, I want to know why.”
“But you don’t want him punished?”
“Indeed not,” she said, gripping her hands tightly together. The falsehood was only minutes old, and already she was becoming ensnared in the details of it.
“A few days,” she urged. “It would take no more than that.”
He didn’t say a word for a few moments.
“I truly wouldn’t ask if you were not a friend. Dear Fergus.” She sighed again, looking toward the window as if in yearning.
“If you think I can be of service,” he finally said.
“One more thing.” She hesitated, wondering how, exactly, she might request such an odd thing of him. Just ask. “If you would, please, James. I’d prefer that you not divulge the reason for your being here. Let’s just keep it between the two of us.” She wished that he weren’t looking at her so strangely. As if he saw through her ruse.
“Doesn’t your steward know of the thefts?”
She felt cold. “Of course,” she said, smiling forcibly. “But only Old Ned.”
“Then I shall direct my inquiries only to him.”
Susanna stood, began to move toward the door before he could change his mind. “I’ll have Polly prepare a room for you and your companion. Today is too late to be about any investigation, but you could start in the morning. Until dinner, then,” she said, making her escape.
A short, profound oath escaped him after Susanna closed the door behind her, leaving him alone in the parlor.
For the first time in his life he felt the burden of family. Someone to stand for me. Fergus’s words were irritatingly loud in his conscience.
She’d been trembling, her hands clasped tightly together as if she were frightened, and she’d asked for his help almost timidly. How could he refuse?
He swore once more and resigned himself to a few days at Tyemorn Manor. He walked to the window, watching Rory talking to the young maid. He turned bright red as she spoke to him, then looked bemused as the girl curtsied.
Rory evidently wouldn’t mind remaining here for a few days.
As for himself? There was only one bright spot in this entire situation, and that was the woman he’d met. He didn’t doubt that she was one of Susanna McKinsey’s daughters. There had been a resemblance about the eyes and chin.
He smiled, conceding that investigating some missing livestock was the least he could do for Fergus’s old friend.
Susanna flattened her back against the closed parlor door, motioned to Abigail standing outside. “Go find Old Ned,” she whispered in desperation when the girl reached her. “Have him meet me in the kitchen.”
“The kitchen, ma’am?”
Susanna refrained from rolling her eyes. “Yes, the kitchen. And quickly!”
That errand done, she went in search of Polly to have her prepare a chamber for James MacRae and the young man who’d accompanied him.
The house was a warren of various-sized rooms connected by narrow hallways and a wide staircase. Susanna had never visited her great aunt; in fact, prior to her death she’d not known of the other woman’s existence. But she wondered from time to time, especially in walking from one section of the house to another, if Mary had found Tyemorn Manor as charmingly odd as she did.
A small octagonal tower had been constructed on the south side of the manor, adding two odd-shaped chambers to the house. Mrs. Parker was now installed on the second floor. She would have Polly prepare the third-floor chamber for James. The breeze from the two facing windows cooled the space, and the view of the farms was breathtaking.
“I hope he’s not as rude as Mrs. Parker,” Polly said, fluffing up a pillow.
“No one is like Mrs. Parker.” A lamentable truth. The woman greeted her every morning with a litany of complaints.
“How long will they be staying?” Polly asked, reaching into the press for another set of linen.
“As long as possible,” Susanna replied. “As long as possible.”
She left Polly looking after her with a quizzical expression. There was time enough to explain it all later. For now she needed to convince Ned to cooperate. When she entered the kitchen, he was sitting there at the table, his cap removed, his nose buried in a cup whose contents smelled suspiciously like whiskey.
The room wasn’t empty. Cook stood at the stove, stirring a stew for dinner. But instead of asking her to leave, Susanna realized that if this impromptu plan of hers was to succeed she would need the help of her entire household.
She sat beside Old Ned, waiting patiently for him to finish his whiskey. There wasn’t any point in fussing at him; Ned did what he wanted when he wanted, regardless of her wishes.
Cook, however, despite her appearance, was a much more congenial person. She was tall for a woman, with broad shoulders that could rival any man’s. Her form attested to her skill at her job, however, but since she was such a large woman she carried the extra weight well. Her cheeks, far from being plump, were marked by high bones, giving her an almost Slavic appearance. Her thin lips were almost always narrowed until her mouth was a mere gash in her face. Her nose was truly spectacular, pointed and narrow, as if God had taken two fingers to it and pulled with all His might. Her true name was Feona, and she was a widow Susanna had hired from the village, but she preferred to be called Cook.
The kitchen was larger than the house decreed, as if the builders had constructed this room first, foreseeing a much larger home. Two large tables stretched the width of the room, each equipped with benches. Along one wall was a huge fireplace, tall enough that a man might stand within its arch. But they did most of their cooking on a new iron stove nestled against one wall.
Finally, Old Ned finished his whiskey with a loud, satisfied sigh.
“I was getting ready to muck out the irrigation ditch when you summoned me,” he said. “I hope it’s for a good enough reason I’m here.”
He didn’t seem to understand that she employed him, but then neither did Mrs. Parker. Of the two of them, however, she much preferred Old Ned’s stubbornness. At least he had Tyemorn’s best interests at heart.
Although his brown hair was only lightly salted with gray, the pointed beard falling to his chest was white and matched in shade by a bushy mustache and eyebrows. His skin had been weathered by the elements into a leathery patchwork of lines, but his brown eyes appeared almost youthful at times.
“Ned,” she said conspiratorially, “I need your help. What I am about to tell you must not leave this room.” She caught Cook’s eye, and the other woman nodded. “Have I your word of that?”
He studied her over the rim of his cup, then nodded, albeit reluctantly.
Accepting that this was the best she was going to get, Susanna explained what she needed.
“There are no lambs missing.”
“I know that. But for now you must pretend that there are.”
Polly moved into the room, eyeing Susanna with a frown.
“Why would I be doing that?”
“It is the only way I can keep James McRae here,” she said, explaining about their guest.
“And why would you be wanting to keep a stranger at the manor?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
Perhaps it was better not to admit the truth, Susanna realized. Not at this precise moment. After all, she needed to see if there was a chance of success for her plan.
“I can’t tell you that right now. You will simply have to trust in me.”
The old man didn’t move a muscle. Nothing in his craggy face altered, as if he had passed the point of being surprised by anything he saw or heard. Polly, however, narrowed her eyes as if she’d divined Susanna’s intentions. Cook only shrugged and turned back to the pot.
“Well?”
“Women,” he finally said in disgust.
She sat up straighter, frowning at him, not having expected quite this response.
“Show a woman a straight line and she’ll make a circle of it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He glanced over at the door when Abigail entered, bearing the tray from the parlor. Evidently, the girl had taken the opportunity to ogle James MacRae again.
“Men are direct, women aren’t. You’ve got something on your mind, it’s better for it to be out in the open.”
She frowned at him. A quite quelling expression. How vexing that he simply ignored her.
He narrowed his eyes. “What else are we supposed to be missing?”
“A little of this and a little of that,” she said, wishing he wouldn’t frown at her so. “A few lambs, a few cows, perhaps some hay.”
“You’ll never fool Riona,” he said, and for the first time since the meeting began, his voice warmed. “She knows the stock like I do.”
“Then come up with a story for her,” Susanna said, irritated by his continued stubbornness.
“Who’ve you picked for the thief?”
“Since there isn’t really a theft,” she said, standing, “there’s hardly a necessity for a thief.”
She fluffed her skirt, smoothed down the fabric with both hands. “So you’ll help me?” she asked.
He nodded, not bothering to put his assent into speech. Standing, he left the house the way he came, through the side door. She could not have run Tyemorn Manor without him, but that didn’t negate the fact that Ned was sometimes cantankerous and difficult. He’d been with her great aunt for years, and most of the information she’d learned about him had come from Cook and Abigail.
A most valuable man, but a most annoying one.
She dismissed thoughts of Ned and concentrated, instead, on her plan.
Chapter 5
“S upper is to be held in the red dining room, Riona,” Polly announced, after knocking on her door and poking her head inside.
Riona turned, surprised. “The Red Room?” Her mother never used the cavernous room that seated thirty-five, preferring instead the more intimate family dining room. Susanna had named it the Red Room because of the predominant color of the massive tapestry in the room.
“What is the occasion?” she asked, even though she had her suspicions.
“We’ve a visitor,” Polly said. “Fergus’s nephew.” Polly’s smile seemed younger than her years. She’d been with them for a decade now, and on their arrival at Tyemorn Manor had been promoted to housekeeper. Although not exceptionally skilled at all her tasks, she made up for any lack of expertise with a boundless enthusiasm for her new position. Now she consulted the brooch watch pinned to her bodice. “Your mother’s invited the parson and his wife, too.”
“And Mrs. Parker will be present, no doubt,” Riona said. The hope that the older woman was somehow indisposed was dashed the moment Polly nodded.
“You’re to wear one of your Edinburgh gowns and to mind the time.” All her instructions delivered, Polly left the room.
They were keeping town hours in honor of Mrs. Parker. N
ormally, at Tyemorn, they ate but two meals a day, a large breakfast midmorning and then a second meal late in the afternoon. As long as Mrs. Parker was in residence, however, they kept to Edinburgh hours, which meant that three meals needed to be served, since dinner was not eaten until much later in the evening.
Now they were hosting a visitor. An attractive man with a smile that was too charming, and blue eyes that seemed to see into her very thoughts. She really should have planned for such an eventuality. Her mother was famous for her hospitality.
Fergus’s nephew? Strange, she’d not seen any resemblance, but then she’d not been looking for any. No, Riona, you were too occupied in making an idiot of yourself.
She had fond memories of Fergus and had missed him greatly this past year. But he had left Cormech before they had, heading back to his childhood home.
“I’m for changing the way I’ve lived my life all these years, lass,” he’d said the night before his departure.
“In what way?” she asked, sitting beside him and carefully ignoring his wooden leg as she always did. He wore the appendage casually, even though it was, to her way of thinking, a badge of honor. The wound that had eventually led to the loss of his leg had been inflicted thirty years earlier. Culloden and all the battles before it were not subjects he spoke about, however. Still, there were times when she wanted to ask, to know what it had been like to be truly Scots on that one fateful morning.
“I’ve lived more cowardly than I should have. Fixed in myself and not thinking of others.”
She’d glanced down at his leg, understanding what he didn’t say. After Culloden, he’d refused to return to his home because of what the war had done to him. For the same reason, he’d lost his sweetheart, preferring to let her think he was dead rather than maimed. She’d married another, and he’d grieved for her all these years.
“Don’t you live your life the same way, lass,” he’d said earnestly, and she, just as sincere, had agreed with a smile.
What would Fergus say now to see her cowering in her chamber, almost afraid to meet his nephew again?
