by Karen Ranney
“I see,” he said, and moved down the line.
He’d have to watch out for her. The girl was a tart.
The ghost hunter’s stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard. He turned back to Mrs. MacDonald, her bitten lips an indication that she’d heard as well.
“Have you not yet fed her, Mrs. MacDonald?”
“There wasn’t time, Your Lordship.”
The wren stared back at him, frowning.
“Feed her,” he said, moving back to greet the last of his staff.
He could feel the wren’s glare between his shoulders.
Jean wanted to hit the Earl of Denbleigh. Slap him, perhaps. Or pummel him in his stomach. Not that he’d feel it.
The man looked fit, as if he ate bricks for breakfast and boxed for the love of it. He was probably here because no one could tolerate him in London. Or the whole of England, perhaps, for all he sounded like an Englishman.
Begone, you arrogant Scot. Traipse northward to your roots. Let Scotland deal with you for a while.
Had his wife said those very words to him?
“Where’s the Countess of Denbleigh?” she whispered to Catriona.
The earl stopped.
Everything else stopped as well. Jean’s heart seemed to skip a few beats.
His shoulders were squared, his back rigid. The man’s entire demeanor was that of a statue. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought him made of bronze.
Except bronze didn’t move, turn, and face her. A statue would not look at her as he did now, with nothingness on his face. No, even a statue had an expression.
Her curtsy was so clumsily done she was off balance. Rather than land on her derriere, she pitched forward, her palms coming to rest on the gravel of the courtyard.
Look up, Jean.
She didn’t want to look up. She wanted to claw at the surface beneath her fingernails and dive into the hole she created.
A year later—because that’s how long it seemed—she forced herself to meet the earl’s eyes.
He wasn’t looking at her at all. In fact, he’d turned again, finishing up his inspection. Instead, his friend was there, his face wreathed in laughter.
She was happy he found her humiliation amusing.
“Get up, you silly girl,” her aunt said, before scurrying to follow the departing earl.
Catriona was laughing as well, a hand pressed over her mouth to stifle her merriment. Her own sister wasn’t helping matters. When Jean attempted to stand, the heel of her shoe got caught in her skirt hem and she tripped again.
She finally stood, brushing her skirts back into shape, annoyed that her pristine white apron had dust on its hem.
Her stomach rumbled once more, a sound that made Catriona giggle again.
She sent an annoyed look toward her sister, but Catriona was smiling at the blond man, the two of them exchanging a look of glee.
The wren had been the only one courageous enough to say what the rest of them were thinking.
But he hadn’t answered her. What the hell could he say? Nothing that would bring honor to his name. He was the laird, the earl, the one to carry his family’s banner forward. As the Earl of Denbleigh, it was incumbent on him to marry, sire a child, and form a dynasty.
All he’d done was blacken the reputation of the MacCraigs again.
He winna rive his faither’s bunnet.
His nurse’s voice, speaking from his childhood. He will never fill his father’s shoes.
He carved a smile onto his face and went about his task of greeting the rest of the staff of Ballindair.
Chapter 4
RULES FOR STAFF: In the presence of your betters, never speak to another servant unless it is a necessity, then as quickly and quietly as possible.
After the inspection, Jean retreated to the kitchen and grabbed a bridie from the oven to quiet her rumbling stomach.
Catriona was laughing, the sound carrying through the crowded kitchen. No one paid any attention to Jean, a normal occurrence, and one for which she was grateful now. The less anyone said about the inspection, the better.
Her aunt, however, noticed her immediately, and headed in her direction. For a moment Jean debated escaping from the kitchen, but she was going to have to answer for her behavior sooner or later.
Being Mrs. MacDonald’s niece meant no preferential treatment. If anything, she was under more pressure to perform. She wasn’t Catriona. She didn’t have the ability to smile and charm everyone. She was just plain Jean, mostly invisible to the rest of the staff, unless she made a mistake.
As her aunt approached, Jean bobbed a little curtsy of respect. A little groveling would go a very long way in this situation.
“How could you, Jean?” Aunt Mary said, keeping her voice low. “I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire life.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt.”
“Have you no idea what could happen if the earl takes a disliking to you? I couldn’t save you then, Jean. And for the sake of your poor mother, I’ve done all I could.”
Jean nodded, left with no other recourse than to stare at the floor, feeling shame wash over her. It was true, her aunt had saved them when they’d had nowhere else to turn. Aunt Mary had ensured that she and Catriona had a roof over their heads and food to eat. Granted, the position of maid was not one to which she’d aspired, but it was decent, honorable work.
If she felt too much a prisoner at times, that was a defect of her character, and not her aunt’s fault.
“Did you finish the earl’s suite?”
“There was no time,” she said. “We were called to the Laird’s Greeting. But I was on my way back now.”
Worry fled from her aunt’s face to be replaced by irritation.
“Then be off with you. Go and finish. Who else do you need?”
Most of Ballindair’s staff was now milling about the kitchen, the subject of their conversation the abrupt arrival of the Earl of Denbleigh, and how his presence might affect them. Despite the fact that the future was uncertain, she still heard words of approval about the earl’s bearing, appearance, and smile.
Had they nothing better to do?
Jean’s gaze slid over Catriona. No, her sister would go on and on about all the earl’s attributes to the exclusion of anything else, including working. She chose two older women: Betty and Nell.
“We should be able to get the work done with the three of us,” she said.
“Be as fast as you can, Jean,” her aunt said. “I’ve no wish to be dressed down by the earl again today.”
Instead of asking her why she had been at the end of the earl’s temper, Jean kept her mouth shut, bobbed a curtsy, grabbed another bridie, and waited as the housekeeper spoke to the two women she’d chosen.
Where was the odious earl now? As long as he hadn’t yet retreated to his suite. And if he was there? She would simply have to ignore him. People never noticed servants anyway. They were invisible little creatures like ghosts, moving things around, dusting, making life amenable for those who could afford to pay them.
Evidently, the Earl of Denbleigh was wealthy. Too bad he was a pauper when it came to manners or decency.
She stepped into the storage room, grabbed another bucket, a stack of rags, a jar of ashes and one of dried tea leaves, and a small metal pot of French polish. Since she couldn’t remember if the maid’s closet in the Laird’s Tower contained any brushes, she took a few of those as well.
Betty and Nell followed her down the back hall, silent as she turned right toward the Laird’s Tower.
“We have the sitting room to finish,” she said. “As well as the bath chamber.”
The other two merely nodded. If they had any curiosity about their tasks, they didn’t question her. They spoke softly between themselves, not including her in the conversation. She was often treated that way. Those who didn’t know of her relationship to Mrs. MacDonald merely considered her an alien, an import from Inverness. Those who did know that she was the housekeepe
r’s niece rarely shared any information with her for fear she’d tattle.
Catriona, however, was treated differently. Her sister was so lovely the younger maids sought her advice on hair and skin care. The footmen, as well as the stable boys, eyed Catriona in a way that was supposed to be surreptitious and was, instead, only cow-eyed and silly.
She knew she shouldn’t begrudge Catriona her appearance. Instead, she should concentrate on the task ahead.
This area of the castle was airy and lovely. The corridor was wide and well lit from the windows spaced at intervals between the main part of the structure and the tower.
The carpet beneath her feet was an emerald so deep it appeared black in the shadows. She felt as if she were walking atop an enchanted moor, one sprinkled from time to time with golden curlicues and the MacCraig crest and eagle.
Occasionally, a nook broke up the long line of wall, displaying some beautiful work of art. Being a maid had spoiled her. Once, she might have been able to pass the small statue of a Greek athlete with an appreciative glance. Now, she noted the dust collecting on the shoulders of the figure, and reminded herself to clean it on her way back to the kitchen.
Although Ballindair was several centuries old, there was no musty scent of cold stone or lingering dust about it. Instead, the rooms were freshened by her aunt’s potpourri. Even here, in this long corridor, she could smell the scent of roses.
The ceilings were painted in little tin squares, scenes depicting the greatness of the MacCraigs over the generations.
They’d been known as the Murderous MacCraigs, that much she’d learned from the steward, a man who reminded her of her father in earlier times. Not one of the paintings depicted a murder. However, most of them were of war, and a few were of court scenes, no doubt in Edinburgh, or perhaps London.
Had the Earl of Denbleigh left his wife in London?
No one had answered her question.
Or had the earl been guilty of even more heinous acts than desertion? Had he killed the poor woman?
Could she be working for a murderer? But if he’d murdered his wife, surely everyone would know. That kind of secret was not easily kept. She knew that all too well.
On the landing outside the Laird’s Suite, she waited for Betty and Nell.
In the last hour the earl’s trunks had been moved inside the sitting room. Was she supposed to put away his things? Surely, he had servants to care for him? Of course he did. The Earl of Denbleigh wouldn’t know how to function on his own. No doubt someone had to dress him.
“I’ll finish the sitting room,” she said, “if you’ll take the bathing chamber.”
“It’s a small space, isn’t it?” Nell asked. “I’m thinking it’d be better for one person. You could do it just as well.” She reached into the bucket Jean carried and pulled out a few rags and the French polish. “We’ll be doing the polishing, I’m thinking.”
With that, the two women began to work, ignoring her.
Jean shrugged, took the bucket and made her way to the bathing chamber. They all knew cleaning the bathing chamber was harder work than polishing.
She pushed open the door, intent on getting this task done so she could return to the kitchen for a proper meal. What a shame the earl couldn’t have remained in London with his wife.
Where was his wife?
And wasn’t anyone else curious?
Chapter 5
RULES FOR STAFF: If asked a question, provide an answer in a low, respectful, voice.
Morgan hadn’t seen Andrew for hours.
He was only too aware he’d been an abysmal host, and hoped Mrs. MacDonald had seen to his friend’s comfort.
After a walk through Ballindair, he’d returned to his suite to find the air filled with the scent of polish and everything gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.
Dressing was more complicated than when his valet had been with him. He’d forgotten to give someone the key to unpack his trunks. Secondly, his garments were in woeful need of attention.
He finally found something presentable to wear, making a mental note to have someone take the rest of his garments to be ironed.
A few hours after his inspection of the servants, he was walking through the corridor leading from the tower to the main part of Ballindair. He could remember running through this exact corridor every Sunday morning, eager to reach his father. On Sundays, after church, they went fishing, or boating, or a dozen other occupations designed by his father to keep him happy. On Sundays the Earl of Denbleigh wasn’t bothered by his secretary or his correspondence.
On those days, no one chastised Morgan not to run. Or whispered to him to lower his voice. He was allowed to be ebullient and wild, the future laird with the spirit of the MacCraig clan in his laughter.
Now, his footsteps were measured, his temperament solemn. He didn’t want to be in this corridor, fighting memory. Perhaps because his companion was guilt. He’d not acquitted himself well in his adult life. Had his father realized it? Had his staff?
Where’s the Countess of Denbleigh? Even here, he heard the wren’s words.
“Good evening, Your Lordship,” a voice called.
He glanced up to find himself facing a maid, the one who’d interested Andrew so much. The wren’s sister—Catriona, wasn’t it?
“Yes?”
“May I assist you, Your Lordship?”
What a remarkably melodious voice she had.
“I’m not lost,” he said.
She smiled, revealing lovely white teeth, as well as a dimple to the left of her mouth.
“Of course not, Your Lordship.” Her curtsy was gracefully executed. “I merely wished to be of assistance.”
Even though her pose was perfectly demure, her eyes twinkled at him. She wore a spotless white apron over her blue uniform dress. Her shoes were polished, her blond hair had been artfully braided and peeked beneath her lace cap, and she smelled of rosewater and soap.
The top of her head barely came to his shoulder, unlike her sister, who was a tall, gangly thing. In terms of beauty, Catriona was easily the match of the women of London.
He was no longer the boy he’d been, or the naive young man off to London. Instead, he doubted everything, challenged all he heard and most of what he saw. If he’d been that boy, he would have seen her actions as innocent. He knew better, and a part of him grieved for the world-weary man he’d become.
No one else was in the corridor; there wasn’t a reason for anyone to be there, unless it was to ensure that the gaslights were lit. She’d been waiting for him, that was easy to see.
He disliked being waylaid, especially by women. Most especially by women who wanted more from him than a chance to be of service.
“No,” he said. “I don’t require anything.”
She allowed her face to fall into an expression of disappointment, just for a moment, before smiling brightly again.
“I’m Catriona,” she said.
“I haven’t forgotten your name,” he said.
Irritation danced across her face. Evidently, Catriona was used to affecting a man with her smile. Did she run the male staff in circles?
She was beautiful, charming, and no doubt filled with the knowledge of her own allure. He knew her type well. He’d been married to a woman similar to Catriona.
Did she realize her tactics were wasted on him?
Catriona folded her hands together in front of her and smirked. No doubt the gesture was meant to be a demure smile, but she didn’t look the innocent type.
When she showed no signs of giving way, he stepped to one side.
“Which guest room is Mr. Prender in?” he asked.
“I believe Mrs. MacDonald has put him in the Green Suite, Your Lordship,” she said, curtsying once more.
Was he supposed to note the trimness of her ankles, the swanlike grace of her neck, as well as the dancing light in her arresting blue eyes? Very well, he noted all three, and was so supremely unimpressed he didn’t even bother to thank her f
or the information.
He made his way to the second floor without encountering another maid. Some of the staff disappeared into the woodwork, since several closets were concealed along the wainscoting. More than once he saw the door softly close as he walked past.
His knock was answered immediately by a smiling Andrew, who looked disappointed at the sight of him.
“Were you expecting someone else?” Morgan asked. “A certain blond maid?”
Andrew only laughed.
The last thing he wanted was a domestic crisis. Andrew was more than capable of planting his seed in any available garden, witness the number of children in London with his distinctive nose. Not to mention his own brood safely ensconced in the country with his wife of ten years.
Yet anything he might say to Andrew would be answered with a smile and some jest. Andrew was an unrepentant hedonist, with the wealth to do exactly as he wished.
On the way to the dining room, Morgan pointed out several items of interest—the sword used by the first Earl of Denbleigh, the carpet loomed and installed before the Queen’s visit, and the plaster relief in the entranceway.
Andrew nodded, said all the obligatory guest remarks, but his attention was halfhearted.
Dinner was a desultory affair. Granted, the food was superb, equal to anything he had tasted in Edinburgh or Inverness. His cook, thank God, was Scottish and not English. He could only salute the difference. The salmon, alone, was worth returning to Ballindair.
He and Andrew didn’t speak often, and he noted his friend was drinking more of his dinner than he was eating it.
“You should pace yourself on the MacCraig whiskey,” he said. “That single malt will put you under the table.”
Andrew only nodded, took another sip from the etched crystal, then set the glass down. He waved at the footman stationed at the door, and a moment later the man had taken his plate and replenished his glass.
“What is it?” Morgan asked. “You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet. I can always count on your cutting wit. Unless, of course, you’ve found everything to your satisfaction. I doubt that’s the case.”
