by Karen Ranney
For two weeks Morgan lived an almost idyllic life. At night his every libidinous desire was fulfilled by a woman who was as passionate as she was charming. Jean constantly surprised him, made him smile, and occupied a great many of his thoughts.
He’d given her the MacCraig clan brooch after retrieving it from the strongbox, but she’d only put it in a little casket on top of the bureau. He’d met with the seamstress, who confessed that her time was being spent on Catriona’s garments. She would be more than happy to inform his sister-in-law that Jean’s clothing came first. He also gave her instructions to order whatever fabric she needed; expense was not a concern. If Jean had agreed to fittings, he didn’t know of it.
Twice, he’d brought up the subject of an allowance. The first time, she appeared surprised when he explained that she needed her own money. The second time, he merely informed her that Mr. Seath would provide whatever she needed. She only raised one eyebrow, but didn’t ask any further questions.
Once he had her possessions moved into the Laird’s Tower, he expected her to be underfoot all the time. He steeled himself to be annoyed or at the very least irritated by another person’s constant presence. Jean, however, was proving to be elusive during the day. Nor was she often to be found in the Laird’s Tower.
Twice, he’d found her in the garden, industriously scribbling. When he questioned her, she looked embarrassed and he let the subject drop. When she wasn’t in the garden, she was to be found flitting about Ballindair like a frantic moth. Once, he asked about her and was told she’d gone to the stables. When he arrived there, he was informed that she’d left for the home farms.
He visited those childhood haunts he’d avoided up until now, read a great deal, and went through his father’s papers, a chore he found surprisingly compelling. His father had recorded his daily activities in a series of journals, and he was going through them one by one.
The only disruption to his life came when he received another letter from his solicitor in London. Lillian was once again petitioning for the house in Paris. Once again he wrote the man and told him that she could badger him all she wanted, he was done with her demands.
One unexpected benefit of his marriage was that he was no longer disturbed by the repudiation of his peers. In fact, he barely recalled London.
He found himself anticipating night, knowing Jean would return to the Laird’s Tower from her mysterious occupations during the day.
More often than not she begged off from dinner, claiming fatigue, a headache, a lack of interest in food—a bevy of reasons he finally understood after encountering Catriona and Andrew at dinner. They purred and clawed at each other like two cats in heat, a demonstration of lust that might have been amusing if it hadn’t been so inappropriate.
Andrew was married, and his behavior distasteful. Catriona might have once been an innocent, but it was all too obvious she was Andrew’s enthusiastic and unrepentant mistress.
Jean’s antipathy for the evening meal was suddenly understandable.
A solution occurred to him, one that would ensure that his wife would at least eat dinner. He’d had dinner brought to their sitting room, and Jean was both surprised and pleased.
This morning she managed to rise, wash, and dress without waking him, a feat he found remarkable given that he’d always been a light sleeper. When he walked into the library, he was surprised to find her seated at his father’s desk, earnestly writing in a brown leather journal. She didn’t look up when he entered, or even glance in his direction when he stood in front of the desk, waiting. She merely waved to the corner of the desk.
“Put it there, please,” she said, adding a soft, “Thank you.”
“I’ve not brought you a cup of tea,” he said.
Her head jerked up.
Strangely enough, she looked embarrassed.
When she closed the ledger, he was only more curious. “What are you doing?”
Her face flamed but she didn’t answer.
“Chronicling your encounters with Ballindair’s ghosts?” He sat on the edge of the desk, amused. “Is that it?”
“It would be a worthwhile endeavor.”
Left unsaid were the words he nevertheless heard: an endeavor more worthy than any of yours. Perhaps he was being unfair. Jean didn’t criticize.
He wished, sometimes, that she would be more vocal about certain things. Her sister’s behavior, for example. Catriona needed female guidance before she ruined her life. As it was, she was acting in a manner guaranteed to bring about censure.
Jean didn’t correct her sister. Nor did she complain about her. Where another woman might castigate, she observed. He had the strangest feeling she was doing the same with him.
“Do you think me without purpose?” he asked.
She surprised him by putting the ledger down, sitting back in his father’s chair and regarding him seriously.
“You spend a great many hours simply inspecting Ballindair, Morgan. Saying hello to the staff. Enjoying the day. But there’s so much more you could be doing.”
Suddenly, he felt much as he had as a boy, in this very room, the sting of criticism as painful now as it was then.
Standing, he looked down at her. “What would that be?”
Her eyes softened, and for a moment he thought that expression was directed at him. “You could seek out Mr. Seath,” she said. “He needs assistance. You could hire someone to help him.”
She’d suggested that before, and he hadn’t acted on it.
“I doubt he’d be pleased at my interference,” he said.
She let out a sigh, and this time he had no difficulty interpreting he was the recipient of it.
“The man is ill, or haven’t you noticed?”
He nodded. At least a nod was civil, unlike the words that sprang to his lips. He took a deep breath, then managed to maintain his composure.
“I’ve been involved in Ballindair since my father’s death, madam. I’m aware of all that needs to be done.”
“Are you?”
Was she questioning him?
It seems she was, because she continued. “Or has Mr. Seath merely kept you informed of what he’s already done?”
“Isn’t that the nature of a steward’s job?”
She took another breath, put down her pen and stood.
He thrust a hand through his hair, eyeing her with some caution. With her pink cheeks and flashing eyes, Jean looked to be in a temper.
She stepped closer, poking him in the chest with an ink-stained finger.
“That’s just it, Morgan, can he perform his job?”
“Then it’s time he was replaced.” Even as he said the words, Morgan knew he’d never strip the man of his post. William Seath had served Ballindair and his father admirably.
When he said as much to her, she only nodded.
“He’s been loyal to Ballindair, Morgan. It’s time you were as loyal to him.”
A dozen remarks flew to his lips, silenced by only one thing—surprise. What other woman would have championed the steward with such fervency? None of his acquaintance.
“What would you have me do?”
“Do what he’s done all these years. Tally the daily figures, inspect the crops, horses, and cattle. Meet with the stable master and the overseer of the home farms. Give the weekly allocation to the housekeeper, approve the quarterly bonus, inspect the buildings, approve the uniform allowance, order cloth and supplies.”
“How the hell do you know so much about what he does?” he asked, amazed at her knowledge.
At first she looked as if she wasn’t going to tell him, then she sat down at the desk once again, staring at the leather-tooled blotter.
“I’ve been bringing him his ledgers and reading the reports for the last week,” she said. “He’s been too ill to leave his bed.”
He hadn’t known. Worse, he hadn’t made it his business to know.
He sat on the corner of the desk once again.
“That isn’t a c
ompilation of your encounters with Ballindair’s ghosts, is it?”
She shook her head. “I was always good at sums,” she said. “I thought I would tally the month’s figures for Mr. Seath.”
Her words embarrassed him, an emotion with which he thought himself familiar, especially over the last year. This, however, was different, as if he’d failed in some elemental duty, or failed her.
His wife had as much as accused him of being a dilettante, and perhaps he had been. He hadn’t understood the situation. Nor had he visited his steward, a man who’d faithfully carried out the duties of his office with more diligence than the Earl of Denbleigh.
This library had seen some of his earliest failures, revealed to his father. Now, it seemed, to his wife. He didn’t like to fail. He didn’t like the heat at the back of his neck or the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. Nor was he enamored of the thought that he was being shamed in a way no one had managed in either London or Edinburgh.
His wife had done what he hadn’t. Without a word, without a complaint, silently and cheerfully, she’d taken on the responsibility he’d blithely ignored.
He extended his hand, and she looked at him, confused.
“The ledger, Jean,” he said. “I’ll take it to Seath. While I’m there, I’ll see if he could tolerate an assistant.”
“You’ll hire someone, then?”
He shook his head. “I’ll help him for as long as it’s needed.”
They exchanged a long look. She handed him the ledger, and he stood, tucking it under one arm.
At the door, he turned back to look at her.
He’d entered into this marriage for a variety of reasons, and had been prepared to be a proper husband. He hadn’t known then that Jean was no ordinary woman.
“You were a very good maid, weren’t you?” he asked.
Her blush deepened. Did the question embarrass her?
“I tried to be,” she said. “Why do anything without it being your best?”
“Thank you,” he said, and wasn’t certain why he was thanking her. Perhaps it was because she’d called him to task. Or perhaps because she’d expected more from him, and in doing so, demonstrated her trust in him. She believed in him, although she’d never uttered the words. By her actions, by her look right at this moment, she conveyed her certainty that he would act in a decent and honorable way.
No one else had ever given him that unconditional acceptance.
Jean watched as Morgan left the library. Once the door closed behind him, she folded her arms on the desk and lay her head down.
This was misery.
She couldn’t do it.
She had to do it.
How, though? How did she go one day to the next knowing the life she was living was a lie? She was no more married to Morgan than Catriona was married to Andrew. The only difference was the world didn’t know it.
She’d never considered she would fall in love with the very surprising Earl of Denbleigh.
He’d been pleasant and personable to everyone at Ballindair. The maids sighed after him. The footmen, stable lads, and farm boys used him as an example of how to act. He allowed her the freedom to say whatever she wished, witness her comments a few moments ago.
She’d expected him to dismiss her words, to be angry. Instead, he’d looked thoughtful for a moment, then simply nodded and asked for the ledger.
Not an autocrat at all, but a man capable of learning, and being kind, witness the night he’d fed her, warmed her, then loved her, the joy of that coupling still causing her to sigh. And all the nights since, when she’d lost herself to their lovemaking.
She moved until her cheek rested on the back of a cooler hand. Perhaps it would be just as well if she didn’t think of the last fortnight right now.
She was too close to tears, and for once her sorrow had nothing to do with the past.
Standing at the doorway of Seath’s sitting room and looking at the man propped up in bed, Morgan felt the bite of shame.
He should have known about Seath’s decline.
He’d never seen anyone’s appearance change so drastically in two weeks. Seath was now cadaverlike, the spark of life within him blazing defiantly through his bright eyes.
Because of his length of service to the MacCraigs, and due to his elevated stature as the steward of Ballindair, Seath’s accommodations were large, the suite equal to one occupied by important guests.
Morgan crossed the room, moving to sit on a straight chair beside Seath’s bed.
Jean had seen, had known, and had cared. How much of the steward’s duties had she taken on while he acted like a self-indulgent ass?
Perhaps she was right, and he was more like Catriona than he was comfortable acknowledging.
Mr. Seath struggled to sit upright, but Morgan placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder, easing him back against the pillow.
Had someone been assigned to care for the man? Why wasn’t anyone at the door? Or in his suite, to fetch what he wanted? He knew he could at least ensure that someone was at Seath’s side at all times.
“Your Lordship,” the steward said, in a voice so frail Morgan had to lean forward to hear it. “Forgive me. I fear you see me at my worst. Could we meet tomorrow, instead?”
Even now Seath’s pride prevented him from acknowledging the truth of his illness. Or perhaps it wasn’t pride, but fear. He might have felt the same if he stared Death in the face.
“No,” Morgan said, placing the ledger on the side of the bed. “I want nothing from you but for you to rest.”
Seath glanced down at the ledger. A faint smile wreathed his grayish lips.
“She told you.”
Morgan nodded.
“She’s an exceedingly stubborn woman, Your Lordship,” Seath said. “She would assist me no matter what I said.”
“I have experienced a little of that obstinacy.” The two men shared a smile. “Have you the strength to teach me what I need to know?” he asked, clasping the man’s trembling hand in his own.
The older man closed his eyes and lay like that for a moment. Death was too close, waiting at the threshold or perched on the windowsill.
“I can think of no one better suited to care for Ballindair,” Seath said, opening his eyes.
The steward smiled again, an expression piercing Morgan with regret.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, feeling inept and powerless. “I’ll summon a physician.”
Seath raised his hand off the bed. For a moment it hovered in the air, trembling, before it fell back to the sheet.
“Her ladyship has already arranged for a physician, sir,” he said in a faltering voice. “There is little he can do, however.”
“You’ll outlive us all,” Morgan said.
Seath’s glance was filled with gentle chiding, enough that Morgan didn’t say another word.
The awkward silence was broken by Mrs. MacDonald’s strident voice.
“Mr. Seath, we have a situation.”
Morgan looked up at the ceiling, a mirror of Jean’s expression, caught himself and sent Seath a rueful smile.
Mrs. MacDonald was upon them before he could stand, hide behind the armoire, or do something equally furtive to escape her.
Chapter 29
RULES FOR STAFF: Your person and your appearance shall, at all times, mirror the high standards of Ballindair.
How the hell had he been talked into mitigating a dispute between his housekeeper and his best friend?
Morgan stood at the doorway of Andrew’s room, Mrs. MacDonald beside him. Next to her was a sobbing maid and two of her friends.
“Your watch is missing,” Morgan said.
“Not exactly,” Andrew said. “I believe my watch was stolen.”
Morgan pushed back his irritation. Andrew wouldn’t have offended him so greatly without good measure. Even so, he wished his friend had come to him rather than make a public pronouncement, involve Mrs. MacDonald, and accuse one of the maids.
The staff at Ballindair was known for its honesty. He would tolerate no less. Besides, being a thief guaranteed dismissal, and work was not that plentiful in the Highlands that anyone would willingly turn their back on employment.
“Are you certain it’s been stolen?” Morgan asked. “Could you not have simply misplaced it?”
“We’ve looked everywhere, Your Lordship,” Mrs. MacDonald said. “The watch is not to be found within Mr. Prender’s suite.”
“Then there’s nothing more to be done,” Morgan said. “You’ll need to search the servants’ quarters.”
She nodded once, looking as unhappy as he felt about that pronouncement. If Andrew’s watch hadn’t been stolen, and the search revealed no sign of it, they’d all have to deal with an irritated staff.
A Highland servant and one from London were a great deal alike. They had a sense of their own worth coupled with a certain arrogance. The employer who offended his servants could guarantee himself boiler problems, inedible food, and clothing with too much starch.
Not to mention all the glowering and grumbling could get on one’s nerves.
He’d once attended a country weekend at the Duchess of Marsham’s home. Her majordomo, a man imported from London, had gotten his nose out of joint. Undoubtedly for some imagined infraction, since the duchess was known for her cordial nature. All weekend the man could be heard sniffing and grumbling at the maids, directing the footmen hither and yon, and generally making life miserable for the guests, all with perfect decorum.
Morgan could only imagine what the staff at Ballindair would do.
Mrs. MacDonald turned, and with the three upstairs maids in tow, headed for the servants’ stairs.
“I hope to God there’s no truth to your accusation,” he said, turning to Andrew.
Andrew’s face, normally amused even in repose, reflected a gravity Morgan had rarely seen.
“What will happen to the thief?”
“Shouldn’t you have thought of that before you made your accusations so public?”
“It was my father’s watch, Morgan,” Andrew said.
He nodded, remembering it well.
