by Ann Stephens
Barclay stared at her abstractedly before giving an impatient shake of his head. “Unnecessary. My cousin will send for them if they are required.” With that, he returned to his cold chicken.
His snapped reply nettled her, but she reminded herself that the loss of the fishermen would hit him harder than it had her. Before leaving the dining room, he apologized in his usual quiet manner.
Diantha regarded him sympathetically. “I beg you, not to dwell on it. We must all feel for those poor men and their families.”
He stood looking down at her as though he wanted to say something. With the air of a man making up his mind, he took a deep breath. “I fear Kieran’s involvement in the village is far more personal than mine.”
She cocked her head, confused. “I’m sure it is; he cares greatly for Duncarie and its people.”
With a harsh cry, he gripped her shoulders. “You don’t understand! Kieran has near relatives in Cariford.” He looked at her meaningfully. “Young relatives.”
Feeling faint, she pushed back from him slightly. He released her shoulders at once and helped her to the nearest chair. Pulling another out, he faced her, taking her hands in his.
He closed his eyes, a pained expression on his face. “My dear Diantha, forgive me. To have given you such a shock on top of this disaster is unconscionable.”
Her entire face seemed to have coalesced into stone. Removing her hands from his grasp, she straightened her back. “Tell me.”
Barclay spoke gently. “My cousin takes after his father, not only in how he manages his estate, but in his fondness for women of a certain class.”
Her heart beating painfully, she nodded. “I see.”
He sat back with an expression on his face that she would have described as ludicrous at any other time. “You do?”
Almost violently, he pushed himself to his feet and paced away from her, knuckles pressed against his mouth. “My God, that swine.” Whirling, he faced her again. “I have felt a certain amount of sympathy for you ever since he brought you here. The man has some appetites that hardly bear thinking of, and that a lady should be subjected to his rutting—it is unconscionable.”
Remembering the lovemaking she and her husband had shared yesterday by the loch, she kept her gaze fixed on her clasped hands. “In other words, it may be for the best that he goes to common women to relieve his more base wants.”
His footsteps halted, and he cleared his throat. “I suppose. I had not thought of it from that perspective.”
Composing her face into a serene mask, Diantha lifted her gaze to him. “Suppose you tell me about his illegitimate children.”
Barclay’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, they aren’t even recognized as that; he’s far too clever. But the resemblance is undeniable! Forgive me for speaking of something so distasteful, but I’ve had the misfortune to come across them more than once. It is why I so seldom visit Cariford.”
It occurred to her that her husband’s cousin rarely visited any of the tenants. “I see. I am sure your sentiments on all that are correct.” She stood up, smoothing her dress. “I gather part of my dowry is going to the support of these unfortunates?”
He flinched. “Your tranquility in the face of such sordid disclosures is a credit to you, madam.”
A humorless laugh escaped her as she walked to the door. “It rather is, isn’t it? Until later, Cousin.”
Crossing the entrance hall, she mounted the main staircase and went to her room. Tugging the bellpull, she waited until a chambermaid appeared and sent for a pot of tea.
She had a great deal of thinking to do.
An hour later, she tapped on her mother-in-law’s door. When Poole opened it, she asked if the dowager felt well enough to see her again.
Poole’s plain face broke into a smile. “That would be grand. The news about the boats has flattened her and you were a great comfort to her this morning.” She led the way into Lady Rossburn’s bedroom.
Her mother-in-law opened her eyes and tried to move up on the pillows. “My dear, thank you for coming to see a decrepit old woman twice in one day.”
Diantha and Poole flew to her assistance. “I beg you, let us help, dear ma’am.” The two of them carefully moved her ladyship into as comfortable a position as she could find. Although sweat broke out on the wrinkled forehead, the dowager thanked them when they had finished.
Reaching for the pitcher of lavender water that habitually sat on her bedside table, Diantha dampened a lawn handkerchief and blotted the droplets from her mother-in-law’s skin. Poole handed her a glass of water and salicin, which she held to the older woman’s lips. In the face of her mother-in-law’s pain, she decided she could not add to her discomfort.
However, after she drank her medicine, the dowager looked at her with sharp eyes. “Something has upset you.”
Diantha brushed the remark aside, but the other woman pressed her until she gave in. “Ma’am, may I ask you some questions about your son? I had a very disturbing conversation with Barclay over lunch.”
The withered lips pursed and she signaled Poole to leave. After the maid departed, she spoke, choosing her words carefully. “My sister-in-law has always had a strong attachment to her childhood home. I often think she wishes she could have been a male so that she could have inherited instead of her younger brother.”
Diantha frowned. “Kieran’s father?” The older woman smiled grimly. “Exactly so. She often criticized his management of the estate when he was alive, and I would not be surprised if she has passed her attitude on to her son.”
Diantha played with her wedding ring, turning the golden circle around on her finger. “I’m afraid this conversation revolved around more personal subjects.”
Lady Rossburn’s misshapen hand covered hers. “Please tell me what that horrid boy said about my son. And don’t waste my time by wrapping it up in clean linen.”
She looked into the dowager’s concerned face. “He tried to tell me Kieran has had liaisons with a female in the fishing village, and fathered a child who lives there.”
“Oh no!” Tears rose to the old woman’s eyes. Diantha cursed herself for her insensitivity. She should have known this would be too much for her mother-in-law to bear. “Indeed, ma’am, I do not believe it! Kieran is attracted to—”
She stopped awkwardly, but the older woman finished her sentence. “—To a more sophisticated level of female company.”
She looked at the dowager nervously. “Precisely. But how do you know?”
The other woman raised her eyebrows and looked pointedly at the door that Poole had closed behind her a short while ago. “I do pity the woman without servants. How else does one know what is happening under one’s roof?” Her hands moved restlessly on the satin counterpane. “But I digress.”
She sighed. “There was an illegitimate Rossburn in that village. But not my son’s.”
The woman’s candor robbed Diantha of speech for several seconds. Finally, she collected herself. “Then whose?”
The dowager stared at her bedpost. “My husband’s.”
Diantha did not know what to say. “Ma’am, I am so sorry. Forgive me for bringing up a painful episode.”
“Just listen, I pray you.” Her mother-in-law spoke sharply and she subsided. “My husband loved me. Always. But he was a man of great physical appetites, and eventually my pain became so intense that I could not bear the marital embrace.” She could not seem to meet Diantha’s eyes. “I am sorry to shock you, but I told him I would understand if he needed to seek physical comfort elsewhere.”
She took a shuddering breath. “I wanted to satisfy him as much as I had in my younger days, but he, dear man, could not bear to cause me pain.”
Diantha reached for a clawlike hand. “How terrible for both of you.”
The dowager waved her pity away. “He still spent most nights at home with me. For the rare occasions when he needed something else, he came to an arrangement with a widow in Cariford. Unfortunately, a child was born
of one of his trysts with her. Kieran and I didn’t know about the boy until my husband died and left him a small inheritance.”
Grim pride filled her voice. “The young fellow is enough of his father’s son to have rejected any help from Kieran or me, save for a generous sum on his marriage last year. Or he was,” she finished sadly.
“He was a fisherman.” Diantha closed her eyes at the other woman’s nod. They sat in silence for several minutes before she stirred. “But none of this explains why Barclay wants to drive a wedge between Kieran and me.”
Her mother-in-law pondered her statement. “No, it does not. That boy always has had a sly streak.”
Diantha stood. “Just now I need to go to Cariford.”
The older woman arched an eyebrow. “I understand Kieran told you to stay away.”
Diantha paused before she opened the door. “The best way to keep Barclay from coming between us is to stay close to my husband.”
Lady Rossburn’s eyes twinkled. “Wear warm clothes.”
Diantha sent for Florette first and asked her to pack a valise with her plainest, heaviest garments. Then, remembering the dowager’s comments about servants, she asked the maid if she could quietly locate Archie Green and send him to the library.
The Frenchwoman’s face did not so much as twitch. “But of course, milady.”
Diantha went to the library to wait. Knowing the ghillie had more to attend to than usual, she did not expect him soon. She opened a thin drawer and pulled out the architect’s original plans for Duncarie House. She could pore over the sheets for hours, fascinated by the measurements and notations.
Today she needed something to occupy her mind fully, though. Tucked into the aged vellum were several new sheets of paper. She removed these and carried them to the massive desk facing the door to the gallery. Pulling out a ruler, pencils, and a piece of India rubber, she continued working on plans of improved cottages for the estate.
As a woman, her knowledge of architecture came only from what books she could find on the subject. She had not dared to show her drafts to Kieran or anyone else, hoping only that someday she might at least use them as a basis for suggestions.
When the door opened, she automatically turned over the sheet she was working on. To her relief, Archie Green stood in the doorway, his usual irascible expression subdued by the unfamiliar surroundings.
She beckoned to him. “Come in, and please shut the door behind you.”
He tramped forward as she gathered her papers into a neat pile. “And wha’ can I do for your ladyship?”
Replacing the papers among the plans for Duncarie, she closed the narrow drawer and turned to the burly Scot. “I’d like to go to Cariford, as discretely as possible. Can you help me?”
He nodded in approval. “A fine idea. Dinna fash yourself, my lady. My brother Billy is settin’ out with a cartload of food for the poor souls in just a bit. How long before you’re ready?”
Ignoring his last question, she crossed to him. “His lordship sent word from the village? Is he well? How bad is the damage?”
The ghillie held up a hand. “Wheesht! I canna answer everything at once. Of course, his lordship sent for supplies, and they’re ready no thanks to Master Barclay.”
He made a disgusted sound. “Luckily Mr. Mac-Adam ain’t one to sit and wait when he knows what needs to be done. His lordship is as good as we can expect, and there’s but a bit of damage to the village.” His face stiffened. “At least to the buildings. Near every man in Cariford between twelve and fifty was on those boats.”
“My God. I had no idea it was that bad.” Diantha shook her head.
Archie, his eyes brighter than usual, patted her arm. “No reason you should. You’re still new to Duncarie.” Pulling a handkerchief out, he blew his nose. “If you still want to go, don’t expect a lot of bowin’ and scrapin’.”
Diantha tried to grasp the magnitude of such a loss all during her ride to the seacoast. She sat beside Billy Green on the seat of a wagon as it bumped through small Norpen Glen between the manor house and the cove.
As soon as they passed through the north end of the glen, the tang of the sea scented the air. Cariford lay only a few miles down the road by then.
From a distance, she found it difficult to consider it devastated by tragedy. Puffy white clouds filled the sky and the sun shone. But no boats floated beyond the rocky waterfront, only pieces of debris. Planks, crates, and a few bundles lay on the shingle beach and narrow walkway nearest the water. Only a few figures stirred to pick them up.
A group of men labored on a collapsed wooden building at the end of town, led by a lean darkhaired man with windblown curls. Only when they approached near enough to hear the work crew’s voices did she recognize her husband’s cultured pronunciation. Unadulterated pride filled her as she watched him join another man to pull a heavy pallet of wood to one side.
Billy cleared his throat. “D’ye want to go see him, your ladyship?”
She shook her head. “He’s busy. I should make myself useful.”
He guided the cart onto a muddy path leading to a scattering of houses above the harbor. “I’m taking you to Doctor Andrews.”
They found the medical man inside the church. In his shirtsleeves, he and the rector moved the pews against the walls. Billy murmured in her ear that any bodies washed up on the shore would be brought here.
Dr. Andrews did not look particularly happy to see her. “Your ladyship, I’m not sure but that your presence here is a hindrance rather than a help. You’re very good to show up, but what can you do to assist?” He spoke without rancor, but his bluntness took her aback.
The rector spoke up. “My wife is in the Herring House trying to comfort the bereaved. Perhaps you could be of assistance there.”
Diantha mentally cursed her sheltered upbringing for not giving her more practical skills. “Of course. I just need someone to show me where it is.”
Billy told her about the Herring House, a two-story stone building not far from the church, as he drove his wagon load of food, blankets, and clothing to its single door.
Built to shelter the young women who migrated from town to town along the Scottish coast following the herring runs, it was a dormitory built by a previous Lady Rossburn. At the moment it stood waiting for this summer’s crew of girls who gutted and filleted the catches.
Diantha regarded it with interest. “That was kind of her.”
Billy snorted. “No’ likely. She didna want immoral creatures from outside the estate to corrupt Duncarie folks.”
She ordered Billy to start unloading the cart and stepped through the low door. Finding herself in a low-ceilinged, shuttered room, she located the rector’s wife, who sat reading from the Book of Job to a few silent women and children.
A few looked in her direction, but most of the occupants stared straight ahead. Some cried, most did not.
Diantha took a deep breath and introduced herself. A stir of interest awoke on some faces, almost immediately extinguished by grief.
She wasted no time. As Billy brought in the first load, she conferred with the rector’s wife. The good woman explained that times like this provided excellent opportunities to remind sinners of their own mortality and hopefully save souls.
Diantha looked at her for a long minute. “Indeed?”
Turning her back on the woman, she saw a boy of about ten huddled next to his mother on a hard wooden bench. He stared at her with vacant brown eyes, but she approached him anyway. She stooped to his level and spoke softly. “Good afternoon. I am Lady Rossburn.”
He blinked, but gave no other response. Very gently she asked, “Was your papa on one of the boats?” The boy’s lips moved and tears filled his eyes, but did not overflow. Her own vision blurred at the sight, but her tears would not help any of these people.
Reaching out, she took hold of a grubby hand already tough with calluses. “I am so terribly sorry for your loss. When did you last eat?” One thin shoulder shrugged. �
��Do you think your Mama would like something to eat?”
Finally focusing on her, he nodded. A few minutes later, she had coaxed him into helping Billy. His mother leaned against the wall, wrapped in her own silent world, but when Diantha touched her hand in sympathy, she felt a twitch from the cold fingers.
The boy acted as the first crack in an ice dam. An old man got up to help unload as well, and when Diantha apologetically asked if someone could start cooking fires on the hearths at each end of the room, a few women stirred.
An hour later, porridge cooked over one fireplace while mutton stew bubbled at the other. Bread from the Duncarie ovens sat on clean towels next to piles of plates and bowls provided by the villagers. MacAdam had sent along more than enough supplies; fewer than sixty souls called Cariford home.
The room had warmed from the fires, and Diantha ordered the shutters opened to let in as much light as possible, both upstairs and down. The sound of forks and spoons scraping tin filled the room, interspersed with occasional soft conversation or sobs.
She and a few other women made up pallets for those men who had come in from other parts of the estate to remove the debris and help repair those buildings that needed it.
She returned to the ground floor as the first of the visiting men entered. The younger women and children had returned to their homes after eating. Only a few older ones remained to help serve and wash up.
One old woman sat by the porridge pot, and Diantha picked up the ladle for the mutton stew. Most of the visitors knew her by sight and murmured amazed thanks at being handed their supper by a peeress. After working all day without hot food, they wolfed down seconds and thirds. She filled bowl after bowl, scarcely noticing the faces above them.
One bowl stayed in front of her after she put in not one, but two ladlefuls of stew. “What the devil are you doing here?”
Startled at the furious whisper, she looked up to see Kieran’s scowl. After witnessing the devastating grief of the people around her, she welcomed even his anger. “I’m serving mutton stew. And you’re slowing everyone down.” She smiled for the first time since arriving at Cariford as he looked guiltily over his shoulder, then back at her.
