Furrowing his brows, he tilted his head. “Nae ye too?”
Searón shook her head, her lanky hair dragging across her shoulders. Tugging the soft blue counterpane higher, she sighed. “Nae. She be a poor woman, and nae me kin, after all. Besides, I be grown, and she had nae wish to take on me bairn too.”
“So ye were forced to sell yerself?”
She gave a short shake of her head. “Nae at first. I found work as a cook in an inn, but when me condition became obvious, the mistress sacked me. Called me a whore. I almost starved, tryin’ to find work after that, me big belly givin’ me condition away.”
Another blast of guilt pummeled him.
“A madame, Mollie O’Kearne, saw me beggin’ at a brothel’s backdoor and took pity on me.”
He’d bet she had.
Searón curled her lip. “That be what I stupidly thought anyway. She gave me food, said she had a proposal fer me. She’d let me stay, clean and cook, feed me, and after me bairn be born and I’d healed, I could have me pick of customers. Only the cleanest and most refined gentleman, she promised. And only if I be agreeable to the arrangement.”
Searón’s high-pitched laugh rang out, bitter and hopeless, ending in a rasping sob.
“I take it she didna keep her word.” Once ensnared, women seldom escaped prostitution.
“Aye, she did until Al be born a month later.” She turned her face to the wall.
“She had a clients’ waitin’ list, and began pressurin’ me to entertain them within a fortnight, claimin’ I owed her fer me room and board, and the bairn’s too. I resisted as long as I could, but she threatened to sell Al. If I complied, I could keep him with me. Two of the other girls had bairns too, and all of the women took turns carin’ fer the wee ones.”
Exhaustion engulfed him, and he leaned back in the chair’s padding. “So ye were trapped.”
“Aye, as surely as a blind rabbit in a snare.”
Alasdair couldn’t sit still a moment longer.
Searón’s vile revelations put everything in an entirely different light. Hands clasped behind him, he paced at the foot of her bed.
“Why didna ye write me? Ye be my wife, and ye birthed my son. I would’ve come fer ye.”
She flicked him a glance, part cynicism and part despair, her lips twitching upward at the corners. “I be too ashamed, afraid ye’d not want me after I’d lied to ye. And I canna write. After three years, I met a man. He be older and married, but he offered to take Al and me to Inverness, to put us up in a cottage.”
From harlot to mistress.
For certain a step up in the industry, and Alasdair could hardly fault her for seizing the opportunity. Service one hoary old goat or dozens of rakes and degenerates?
“He be the man that hurt ye?”
She flashed him a startled glance. “Aye, but he only hit me when in his cups—”
Which was probably every time he called.
“—And never in front of Al. I made him go to the outbuildin’ and stay there until Perkins left.”
What that unfortunate child had seen and heard in his short life.
Her lashes fluttered shut. This short exchange had exhausted her. “Perkins tossed me aside after his wife died, and he wanted to find a young bride. I be sick by then, though I swear to ye, I didna know I had the pox. I had been ill me first year at the brothel, but I thought it be the stress and me unhappiness.”
Removing the stopper from a pale blue laudanum bottle she bit her lip, obviously in pain. She poured several drops into a half full water glass, and after recorking the bottle, stirred the contents.
“I went to see yer father three times, tryin’ to find ye.” It had taken Alasdair two years to put aside his bruised pride and go the first time.
“I nae have seen or spoken to me Da since the day I left.” Her hand shaking, she took a long sip of the mixture, grimacing before swallowing the bitter tonic.
So, Neal had lied each time Alasdair visited, gleefully filling Alasdair’s ears with disgusting tales of Searón’s activities.
All fabricated.
What a warped piece of shite.
Neal could expect a visit, if he still yet breathed. And afterward, he might not have the luxury, so enraged was Alasdair.
“What of yer sisters?” What was he to do now? Set Searón and the boy up in a cottage in Craigcutty? Wouldn’t it be better for Al to be surrounded by his family?
Damn, what a calamity.
“Maeve found me late last year. Or rather her husband did at her biddin’.” Pink tinged Searón’s ashen cheeks. “That be humiliatin’, worse than the thin’s I be forced to do as a strumpet. Openin’ the door and him introducin’ himself. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die from the shame.”
Alasdair touched the back of her hand. “I be more sorry than words can say.”
Wearily shoving her hair off her forehead, she lifted a shoulder. “She and Peg be married. Their aunt died, and on her deathbed, she confessed she ken I’d become a whore and guilt had eaten at her fer nae helpin’ me. Though we weren’t kin, she kindly left me a small sum, and I’ve saved every cent fer Alasdair. It be all I have fer him to remember me by.”
Weariness etching her face, aged beyond her years from hardship and deprivation, she finished her draught in a single gulp. Eyeing the empty glass longingly, she sighed and set it on the nightstand with a soft, awkward clunk. “When I ken I be dyin’, I told him about ye.”
Alasdair sat on the bed and took her hand in his. “I’m glad ye did. I promise, I shall love him, and he’ll never want fer anythin’ else again.”
Except his mother’s love.
Her eyes welled with tears, and beneath her hardened and ravaged features, he caught a glimpse of the girl he’d fallen in love with.
“He sold his shoes to brin’ me here, Alasdair.” She swallowed, swiping at her damp face. “and I almost told him about the money. But he be so proud of himself fer findin’ a way to buy the pony. He needed that accomplishment, somethin’ to make him feel worthy and strong.”
Clanking and banging, followed by whispering outside the door announced the tray’s arrival. A moment later, one sharp rap resounded.
Somewhat surprised, Alasdair glanced to the partially parted royal blue velvet drapes. The sun had risen while they talked, and a new day’s fresh, bright sky winked back at him through the opening. The bedside clock’s hands pointed to seven.
A second knock echoed.
He looked to Searón.
This was her chamber, and he’d not usurp her right to bid or deny entry, as trivial as that might seem. To a woman who’d never held any power, even the smallest gestures meant much.
She laid her handkerchief on the night table, and after smoothing the counterpane across her middle, folded her hands primly on her lap. “Come in.”
“There are several of us, Mrs. McTavish,” Fairchild spoke respectfully through the still closed door. “Master Al has a surprise for you, if you’re feeling quite up to it.”
Alasdair jerked, startled at Fairchild addressing Searón as Mrs. McTavish. She was, after all. Nonetheless hearing it for the first time somehow made it more concrete.
Unchangeable.
“Yes, please.” A glint of excitement lit Searón’s faded eyes. She adored their son, had sacrificed much for him.
The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, and Al, Fairchild, and Ewan filed in.
His tongue’s tip caught between his teeth, Al slowly walked forward, a tray clutched in his white-knuckled hands. Tentatively placing one foot in front of the other, his forehead scrunched in concentration, he slowly crept toward his mother’s bed.
A cup of hot chocolate, cream creeping over the brim in white rivulets, two Scotch eggs, toast and marmalade sat upon
the tray.
Fairchild followed, bearing a coffee and tea service, and Ewan brought up the rear, carrying a small bouquet of cherry blossoms, complete with an ornate vase far too grand for the humble blooms.
“I brought ye breakfast, Mum.” Al placed the tray on a side table then carefully lifted the cup and saucer, his expression woebegone. “I spilt a little of the chocolate, I’m afraid.”
“Darlin’, isnae that meant fer ye?” Searón beamed with pride.
“Aye, but I ken how much ye enjoy chocolate, and it be a rare treat fer ye. I thought we could maybe share?” Hungrily eyeing the treat, he passed her the cup for the first sip.
Alasdair grinned, relishing the unfamiliar puff of pride his son’s thoughtfulness inspired.
Searón had raised one fine boy, and under the harshest, most difficult of circumstances.
Gratitude tightened his throat.
If only he’d known.
Fairchild deposited his tray. “Young master. Cook sent up a full pitcher of hot chocolate for you, and I do believe—” He lifted a lid from a crockery jar and winked.
Fairchild never winked. Ever.
“Ah, yes, Devonshire cream.” He replaced the cover. “You may have as much as you please, and should you require more, or additional Scotch eggs, or perhaps oatcakes, I would be honored to hurry to the kitchen to fetch them straightaway.”
Nor did he fetch hot chocolate. Or Scotch eggs. Or oatcakes.
And most especially, not in a hurry or straightaway. Ever!
Footmen or maids had the privilege of scurrying up and down the three flights of stairs for that sort of thing.
It seemed Al had already wiggled himself into everyone’s good graces.
Excellent.
The sooner he felt at home at Craiglocky, the better.
Unless Alasdair dragged him off to Tornbury or stashed him and his ailing mother in an out-of-the-way cottage.
Ill-begotten knave.
Even Alasdair’s conscience mocked him at the uncharitable thought.
“Perhaps you’d care to have a seat at the table, young sir?” Fairchild stood at the ready, pitcher in hand. A drop of warm, brown sweetness dripped from the curved spout.
Al nodded and scurried to do the butler’s bidding.
“Thank ye, Fairchild.” His eyes grew round as Fairchild extended the dainty teacup to him. He cautiously took it in his grubby hands.
A good scrubbing might be in order.
Al clawed at his nape with his free hand, a creamy mustache balanced on his upper lip.
And perhaps a thorough delousing too.
Pushing the laudanum bottle aside, Ewan placed the frilly, pink blossom-filled vase on the ever more crowded night table. “Al had me climbing the cherry tree after these blossoms for you. He said they’re a favorite of yours.”
Another blush, surely this one of pleasure, tinged Searón’s face. “Indeed, they be. I cudna afford flowers, but tree blossoms be free.”
“You’re up early today, Ewan.” Alasdair eagerly accepted the coffee Fairchild poured him. He took a quick, grateful sip, burning his tongue on the scalding broth.
Served him right for his carelessness.
“As are you.” Ewan looked pointedly between Searón and Alasdair.
Alasdair skewed his mouth to the side before taking another, more cautious sip. “Truth to tell I haven’t seen my pillow as yet.”
Al stopped licking the side of his cup. “Ye didna go to bed yet, ah, sir? Aren’t ye sleepy?”
“Ye may call me Da or Father or Papa if ye wish, Al. Or even Alasdair or Dair.” He winked. “I usually only get called the last when I’m in trouble.”
Al’s features slammed closed, as securely as shutters across windows.
Perhaps a mite too soon for that suggestion. “But nae, I haven’t slept yet, and aye, I be tired.”
“And you won’t be seeking your bed either,” Ewan said. “I received an urgent missive, which is why I’m up so early on myself.”
Alasdair stifled a yawn.
Not the first time he’d gone without sleep, but he didn’t favor the wooly head or muddled senses.
“We can discuss it below.” His mien guarded, Ewan canted his head toward the door.
“Oh? Somethin’ of import, I gather.” Something he didn’t want to discuss in front of Searón, and which thickened his normally slight brogue.
Hadn’t she been entirely truthful?
Was there more to her pitiful story?
Unless . . .
Every muscle taut with dread and anticipation, Alasdair whipped his attention to Ewan. “Who be the letter from?”
Anybody but Lydia. A letter from her could only mean one thing.
Ewan’s sliced a subtle glance toward Searón.
Dinna say it.
“Lydia Farnsworth.”
Chapter 27
Lydia let fly an arrow, squinting through the moisture blurring her vision as the steel tip hit home. She grasped another from her quiver and soon sent it hurtling through the air to join the others impaling the embankment, their bright crimson and gold feathers the only color marring the bleak horizon.
Low pewter clouds blanketed the drizzly, dismal morning, matching her equally dreary and peevish mood.
Far better to take her crossness and anguish out on the crag than rail her grief in the manor’s drawing room where even now, Da lay in internal repose.
As her brothers and Mum had not so very long ago.
After his funeral, she intended to close the room up for good. Three times in less than a year the once cheerful chamber had housed her family’s bodies. Never again would its walls resound with their laughter. Death’s presence lingered there, and she couldn’t abide to set foot in the room ever again.
Even now a pair of devoted clansmen stood at attention, one at Da’s head, the other his feet. Honoring their laird one last time as they’d taken shifts ’round the clock the past three days and would continue to do so until his funeral on Saturday, four days hence.
A continuous stream of solemn-faced mourners had passed through the staid room, paying their respects to their beloved chief. For three days, Lydia had somehow dredged composure from some invisible source and answered the anxious questions put to her.
“When will the new laird be announced?”
“Who be the new chief?”
“Are ye the new laird?”
“Do ye ken who the laird named his successor?”
To each, though her cheeks ached and her lips had become stiff from artificial smiles, she’d repeated the same phrase. “Please, have patience. An announcement will be made soon.”
Until this morning.
And then suddenly, she couldn’t sit beside her father’s corpse and feign self-possession any longer.
Nor could she answer serenely when she wanted to shout, “Bloody, bloody, bloody God damned unfair!”
All of it was unfair.
Four nights ago, sitting beside Da, clutching his crepey hand while tears flooded her face, she’d listened, stupefied to his dying wish.
His chest rising in shallow, rattling breaths, he’d labored to get the words out, to tell her his brilliant plan. What his will said, so she’d not be shocked or hurt at its reading. How he’d provided for her.
Lydia had thought she’d guessed his intent, his plan, but he’d fooled her.
Duped them all, truth be told.
Not unkindly or calculatedly cruel, she was certain. As anticipated, he’d named Ewan McTavish laird. A mite less expected, he’d decreed Alasdair war chief—if he’d have the position. But Da’s decision to leave her Tornbury Fortress completely flummoxed Lydia.
The chieftain position brought power, prestige
, and authority, but not a single pence, sheep, or speck of gold.
Nothing.
Da had bequeathed Lydia everything else, right down to the hens’ eggs and cow manure for fertilizer.
What a monstrous, shortsighted jest even if well-intended.
A laird without an estate, and an estate owner without any power.
Why had Da done it?
Hadn’t he considered how his decision would affect the clan? For surely he knew the confusion his actions would cause.
Better to have left all to McTavish. That, she’d foreseen and accepted. However, now she wasn’t free to leave.
Unless she sold Tornbury.
She snorted and aimed the arrow.
Bless the sly old fox.
He’d known she count herself a disloyal traitor if she did so, because she loved Da so desperately and wouldn’t deny him his final wish.
He’d neatly out-maneuvered her, and she couldn’t quite decide if his cunningness impressed or infuriated her.
She quirked her mouth wryly.
He wasn’t the only Farnsworth capable of cleverness. She might lease the entire estate and retain the rights to the gold-mining.
Or turn it into a school.
She grinned wickedly.
Or a house of ill-repute.
She’d not make any decisions now when her emotions were scraped raw, but neither could she affect subservience or compliance.
And so, Lydia had left the vigilance to the clan, unable to pretend a moment longer that she didn’t know who the chieftain was, or that all would be well.
How could it be?
Arching her back, she stretched her stiff spine then rotated her shoulders a couple of times. She’d slept little, and with the house bursting with guests, she craved time alone. Rather than play the hostess, she’d snuck from the manor before breakfast to take out her frustration on an unprotesting spot of ground.
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