by Amanda Scott
“Och, aye, and I’ll be there again afore too long,” Dow said. “Ye ken fine that I take work where I find it, so I ken Annandale as well as Nithsdale or Galloway. I did hear that ye’d visited Dunwythie Mains and other estates whilst ye was there.”
“I did,” Rob said. “What can you tell me about Lord Dunwythie?”
“A gey good man,” Dow said. “Treats his people well, and he’s a fair man, too, highly respected and peaceable. More so than most o’ that Annandale lot, I’d say. Lord Johnstone o’ Johnstone, now he be a fierce one. And I’m thinking ye ken Old Jardine and his lot for yourself, sir.”
“I do. What do you know of Dunwythie’s family?” Rob inquired mildly as he leaned forward to add more whisky to Dow’s goblet from the jug.
“His lordship’s ancestors were in Annandale afore the Bruce, and—”
“I don’t care about his ancestors,” Rob said testily. “I want to know about his immediate family. He has at least two daughters, for I saw them.”
“Aye, he does, and nary a son,” the knacker said. “His lady be frequently wi’ child, but…” He spread his hands.
“I saw Lady Dunwythie when I was at Dunwythie Mains,” Rob said. “She does not look much older than her daughters.”
“She do still be young enough to bear babes,” Dow said, doubt visible in his slight frown. “But aside from her daughter—”
“Daughters,” Rob reminded him gently.
“Aye, sure, I expect she does look upon both o’ them as hers.”
“Are they not?”
“Nay, only the younger one, the lady Fiona.”
“I see. Then his elder daughter…”
“Men say the lady Mairi would be his lordship’s declared heir but for his lady wife’s insisting she will give him a son. Meantime, nae one can be sure the lass will succeed to aught save her own mam’s portion. If ye were a-thinking—”
“Nay, nay,” Rob said hastily, although his thoughts were definitely busy. At least Dow had confirmed what the Jardines had told him about the lass. He added, “You must know as well as I do what the reaction from my clan would be—aye, and that of the Dunwythies—were I fool enough to consider such a marriage.”
“I ken that fine, aye. But she be a gey handsome lass, withal.”
“She is that,” Rob agreed. “I expect her father thinks most highly of her.”
“He does, aye, he does,” Dow said, nodding. “I’m told, despite his lady wife’s belief that she’ll ha’ a son, he has been teaching the lady Mairi all she’ll need know to manage the estates should the worst befall him.”
“A wise man,” Rob said. “But I expect he cares much for the lass. She is not only beautiful but also seemed well spoken and sensible—surely a daughter in whom a father would take pride and for whom he would risk much to protect.”
“More than for her sister,” Dow said, grinning. “Nobbut what the lady Fiona be a beauty, too. But that mettlesome lass would lead any man a dance. Pert, she be, and from what I ha’ seen, she likes nowt more than stirring mischief. Has a mind of her own, that lass does. The lady Mairi be the dependable one. I’ve nae doubt that, left to himself, his lordship would name her his heiress and call it good.”
“One cannot doubt that he protects them both vigilantly,” Rob said.
“Aye, sure. He’s a practical man, is Dunwythie. I did hear that he has returned to Annan House—leastways, the family is there. I’ve nae doots ye frightened them back there yourself, did ye threaten to seize their estates.”
“‘Twas not my threat, just a warning of the sheriff’s power.”
“Aye, sure, that would be it.”
Having no desire to discuss that matter, Rob said, “Annan House lies near the mouth of the river Annan, does it not? And therefore near the Firth?”
“It does,” Dow agreed. “It sits atop Annan Hill, south of Annan town.”
Seeds of the daring idea that had half formed in Rob’s mind earlier began to take root, nourished by details that could help them grow into a feasible plan.
When they had finished their whisky, he told Dow to talk to his chief herd about butchering two lambs and an older ram past its prime. “When you’ve attended to them, seek out Fin Walters,” Rob said. “He will have other tasks for you that require more skill than most of our lads have shown. I’d take it kindly if you could impart some of your knowledge to a few of them,” he added.
“Ye’d ha’ me train them that would do me out o’ good labor, would ye?”
“Other than Fin and my stablemaster, the men here are sadly untaught in aught but horses and weaponry,” Rob explained. “Also, I want to provide the tower’s upper chamber for my grandmother’s use when she visits, as she has threatened to do soon. She left a number of her things here, but I warrant she would prefer to see that chamber refurbished. If you come across aught in your travels that you think might suit or amuse her, prithee get word of it to me. And if you hear aught else about a clan war threatening, send word of that to me as well.”
Dow agreed, and after he had gone about his business, Rob stared into the hall fire for a long time. He decided his grandmother and Alex were right in saying that he owed his greatest duty to his clan. But Alex had been wrong to declare him incapable of persuading Dunwythie to submit. Rob was nearly certain now that with a little exploration and careful development of his idea, he just might succeed.
Normally, when he saw a problem, he attacked it, trusting his instincts to guide him aright. He thought of himself as a man of action rather than a schemer or plotter. Trying to manipulate people, as Alex did, never sat well with him.
Arguing, making his point, that was all fair and good. He could listen, too, and he could accept ideas that he recognized were better than his own. But it had gone right against the grain with him to think he must persuade a proud man like Dunwythie to submit to Alex’s command and control.
Rob smiled grimly at that last thought, realizing that what might really have disturbed him about that was that he did not like submitting to Alex.
But he did believe in duty, and regardless of what Alex had said, he was loyal to their clan and he did understand that loyalty carried obligation as well.
It had become undeniably clear to Mairi that her life at Annan House was not going to change a whit, despite the many things her father had taught her before and during their recent visit to Dunwythie Mains. She was still trying to imagine how to alter that situation when Phaeline summoned her to her solar Monday afternoon.
Phaeline reclined against cushions on a settle by the small cheerful fire, her feet on a cushioned, embroidered stool. Her face was paler than usual, but she looked every inch the fashionable noblewoman that she was.
Her white silk veil draped perfectly at her shoulders and revealed just the right amount of the beaded caul covering her hair and her ears but for the tiny bit of lobe beneath which her pearl eardrops dangled. Matching pearls encircled her still smooth throat and dipped low enough for the long end to slide into her deep cleavage as she straightened a little at Mairi’s approach.
Stopping in front of the footstool, Mairi made a brief curtsy and said, “What may I do for you, madam?”
Phaeline looked at her for a long moment without speaking. But Mairi was accustomed to such moments and waited. At last, Phaeline said, “Fiona tells me you are finding less of interest to do here after your visit to Dunwythie Mains.”
Mentally condemning her sister for a telltale, and a false one if she had not said that she, too, was frustrated, Mairi said only, “In troth, madam, I had only begun to grow acquainted with the things my lord father was teaching us. I do think I might benefit by watching them finish preparing and planting the fields here.”
“My dearling, you are a fool even to think of such things. No man looks for a wife who can properly plant barley. He looks for one who can give him sons, a woman who is decorative and kind to others. More, he wants an obedient, loving wife who will also be a good mother to his sons. As
for learning more about fields, it is naught but fact that no woman can manage estates as well as a man can.”
“My cousin Jenny knows as much as any man does about such things, madam,” Mairi said. “I do not believe that your brother, Sir Hugh, thinks Jenny a poor wife for him.”
“Mercy, you do say the oddest things, Mairi! I never said our Jenny makes Hugh a bad wife. But her father raised her to manage his estates. Moreover, as her rank matches Hugh’s and he is satisfied that she knows what she is doing, he is willing to let her make her own decisions.”
“But, don’t you see, madam? I would have such knowledge, too, and in the unfortunate event that—”
“Pish tush, Mairi, do not be pretending to me that you would look upon my failure to give your father a son as an unfortunate event! You would be twice the fool I sometimes think you are if you did not covet the estates for yourself. However, your father has faith that we will have a son. He teaches you only because Hugh reminded him that he could die at any time from a fall or other mishap, and that you should understand what your responsibilities would be. I have no doubt, though, that your father expects Hugh to guide you if such a tragic event should occur.”
“Indeed, madam, I have no wish for aught to happen to my father, or to you. I would gladly welcome a brother, for that matter.”
“I am glad to hear that, because if you have not already guessed as much, I will own that I am with child now. I have hitherto told only your father, because he cossets me enough without the entire household feeling obliged to do so.”
Although Mairi was sure the rest of the household had recognized Phaeline’s behavior and suspected its cause as quickly as she and Fiona had, she did not say so. She said, “I will do all I can to help you, madam. I do think that learning new things is good for anyone, though. And since Father has begun to teach me—”
“Bless me, Mairi, but you put me out,” Phaeline said. “I know well how it is with you. Since you were small, if you got your teeth into an idea, naught would do but that you must carry it out. Very well, then, if you are restless and want to learn about management, manage your sister. Where is she? I do not believe I have laid eyes on her since we broke our fast this morning.”
“I don’t know, madam. I thought she was going to sit with you. I have been in the kitchen, assessing what we have of barley water, ale, and other such items.”
“Well, find your sister. But here, take my keys,” she added. “You may take over more of my duties, and welcome. But mind you do naught without consulting me first. Meantime, I would count it a boon if you can contrive to keep your sister out of mischief. And do, my dearling, at least try to think of ways to make yourself more pleasing to a suitable husband, or I do truly fear you may never attract one.”
Mairi’s sense of the ridiculous stirred, nearly drawing a smile at this echo of her own words to Fiona only days before. However, she accepted the keys, curtsied again, and went obediently to find her sister.
A long search of the house proving fruitless, she walked to the gate and asked the guard there if the lady Fiona had perchance left the premises.
“Aye, m’lady,” he said. “She did take one o’ the maidservants with her, so I thought there could be nowt amiss in her taking a short walk to the river.”
“Is that where she went?”
“I think so, aye,” the young man said. “She started out that way, any road.”
Thanking him, and seeing no need to take a maidservant or anyone else with her in this time of peace, Mairi set out across the hilltop toward the Firth-side slope, where a path wound down around the tree-protected field there, to the riverbank.
As she began the downhill trek, however, she heard Fiona calling her name, and turning toward the sound, saw her sister and Flory, the maidservant who waited on them both, hurrying across the hill and waving as they came.
Thinking it was fortunate for her sister that she had shouted when she had, saving her a hike down and back again, and at the same time feeling bereft of the freedom that a lovely brisk walk would provide, Mairi went to meet them.
“Where did you go?” she asked when she was sure Fiona would hear.
“Oh, just here and there, wandering where the fancy took us,” Fiona said glibly. “In troth, Mairi, I was feeling so pent up inside the wall that I just wanted to be outside, if only to watch the tide go out. Do you not feel the same these days?”
“Aye, I do, Fee, but I’ll thank you not to be telling your mother how I feel,” Mairi said bluntly. “‘Twas you who complained as we were leaving the Hall that we would have naught but our usual duties and pastimes to occupy us here and you who complained again after we returned.”
“But you agreed with me! You know you did.”
“’Tis true, I did. I’ve been feeling as if I’d returned to my childhood. I expected our father to provide me some duties relating to managing the house and the fields here. Instead, I do only the usual things. However, your mother did just give me her keys to the pantry and buttery,” she added with a smile.
“You are welcome to them and to any duties Father might provide, but do not think I shall be sharing them, because I won’t,” Fiona said. “Heaven knows when he will return in any event. He left only a few days ago on this trip and said he means to stop at Dunwythie Mains after visiting lairds at the north end of the dale.”
“He is concerned about conflict erupting here,” Mairi said. “It has occurred to me, in fact, that we do not know what one does at Annan House to prepare against trouble. I mean to ask Jopson, and I think he will tell me. Do not you?”
“Sakes, I don’t care what you ask or what he says. What do you expect you will have to do with it, even if he tells you? Do you imagine the men here will take orders from a woman? In troth, I think Mam must be right about leaving all such things to men. I think it would be very hard to take charge of a large estate.”
“Hard, aye,” Mairi said. “But if one knows what to do and tells other people what they must do, they will do it. Our people are accustomed to taking orders, Fee, and to trusting us Dunwythies to know what we are doing. If they believe the person issuing the order has the right to do so, they will obey.”
“Aye, sure, but only if they think you are right,” Fiona said sardonically.
“I mean to ask Jopson, anyway,” Mairi said. “He may refuse to tell me, but I hope he will not.”
Accordingly, the following morning, directly after Mairi had broken her fast, she sought out her father’s steward, finding him in the forecourt, where he was talking with Gerrard, the captain of the Annan House guard.
“Good morning, Jopson, and to you, too, Gerrard,” Mairi said as the two men made their bows to her. “I know that his lordship has been concerned about possible trouble arising hereabouts. He must have spoken to you about it.”
“Ye need ha’ nae worries about such, me lady,” Jopson said with an air of bluff reassurance, exchanging a quick glance with the guard captain. “‘Tis nowt to concern ye or Lady Dunwythie.”
“I am confident that you two have all in hand to protect us,” Mairi said, undaunted. “As you may know, though, his lordship has been teaching me things I may need to know in the event that he should suffer an untimely death.”
“I did hear that, aye,” Jopson said. “We ken fine how it would be then, me lady. But that sad event has no happened yet.”
“And, God willing, it will not for many years. However, I want to learn all I can, because the more I know, the wiser I will be if it should happen.”
“Aye, aye, but all in good time, me lady.”
Drawing herself up, Mairi said quietly, “I want to know just how we will protect Annan House and our people here, Jopson, if trouble should break out.”
“Aye, sure,” the steward said hastily. “But ’tis nowt. Ye’d just tell me to see to everything, and I would speak to Gerrard here. He would set it all in train.”
The captain of the guard, younger and larger than the steward, nodded and s
aid earnestly, “To be sure, m’lady. We ken fine what to do. I’d double the guard and set men to watch on nearby hills where we ha’ signal fires set and ready to light at the first sign o’ trouble.”
“Already set?” she said, surprised. “I know that people here use fires to signal English attacks when they occur. But I did not think that anyone built such fires unless attack was imminent. As we have been at peace for so long…”
“Bless ye, no, mistress,” the captain said when she paused, elevating her in status with that form of address. “We ha’ fires ready always and keep them covered as best we can, in winter and spring especially. We could light such a fire here, and the warning would spread up the dale quicker than a man could ride his fastest horse. See you, me lady, time be gey important. So we try always to keep ready.”
Jopson added, “We’d likewise ha’ warning afore any such attack, aye, and plenty o’ time to prepare against it.”
“’Tis true,” Gerrard agreed. “Annan House be well placed to see what comes. And there be signal fires ready to light the length and breadth o’ Annandale. Yonder ridge o’ hills to the west, as separates us from Nithsdale, would come alight wi’ flames did threat come from Dumfries and yon carnaptious sheriff.”
“We take good care o’ the wall, too, m’lady,” Jopson said. “And we’d ha’ reinforcements from the town and from neighboring estates gey quick. Ye ladies would all be as safe as wee mice in a mill, I promise ye.”
“Thank you,” Mairi said. “Now, if you would just answer a few questions I have about the plantings here, Jopson, I would be grateful.”
To his credit, the steward expressed his willingness so sincerely that she almost believed him. And he answered her questions with admirable patience.
When she had run out of things to ask, she went in search of Fiona and found her sitting with Phaeline in the solar. Each of them had a tambour frame before her and was setting stitches in what were to be new cushion covers.
