Autumn in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  “Damn him,” she said, uncaring whether or not she shocked her maid.

  What if he intended to claim his place at Balfurin? Become the long-lost laird? Dear God, he could even close the school.

  Charlotte forced a smile to her lips and a bit of patience to her mind. Now was not the time to panic.

  “Go find him, Maisie, and make sure he’s settled in the Laird’s Chamber.”

  “Your ladyship?”

  “I can’t have him leaving again. Not now. I couldn’t divorce him because he’d disappeared. I want to know exactly where that man is at all times.”

  Maisie nodded.

  “Send him a tray,” Charlotte added as an afterthought. “As much as I want to, I can’t starve my own husband. Damn him.”

  She had simply turned and walked away, leaving Dixon standing there, an object of intense scrutiny. People were staring at him, and although he was used to the sensation in Penang, he found it disconcerting in the middle of Scotland, in his ancestral home.

  He turned and walked out of the ballroom, heading for the stairs.

  “Shall you correct her, master?” Matthew said in a low voice. “She labors under the mistaken notion that you are who you are not. You are not this George.”

  “No, I’m not George,” Dixon said.

  “How could a wife not know her husband?”

  “We were close enough in appearance as boys,” Dixon said. “People mistook us for brothers more than once. Sometimes, even twins. But I’m taller than George.” A sore point with George. “And my eyes are darker as well.”

  “A wife should know such things.” Matthew made a clucking sound, one of his habits when distressed.

  Dixon halted halfway down the steps.

  “We are to be leaving this place, correct, master? There is no cousin here, and no welcome from your family.”

  “Which is exactly why we’re not going anywhere,” Dixon said.

  “Should we not return to Edinburgh, master? Our ship will be waiting for us.” Matthew looked hopeful.

  Dixon’s answer was interrupted by a small voice. “Sir? Your lordship?” The sound of footsteps on the stairs behind him made him look up.

  A girl stood there, attired in a dark blue dress with white collar and cuffs. Her black hair was arranged in a bun, but riotous curls escaped the back and the sides. Her face was pale, but two dots of color appeared on her cheeks as if she were embarrassed.

  “Your lordship.” She did a credible job of curtseying on the steps, one hand carefully holding onto the banister as she did so. “Her ladyship has asked me to show you to the Laird’s Chamber.”

  He would have bet that her ladyship couldn’t wait to see the last of him. “Why?”

  The young girl blinked at him. “Why, sir?”

  He moved to the side of the stairs as another couple ascended, leaned against the banister and surveyed the girl. He’d learned patience in his years in the Orient, and it served him well now as he waited for her to answer him.

  “I’m to show you to the Laird’s Chamber, your lordship, and then fetch you a tray if you’re hungry. Do you not wish me to?”

  He didn’t know what he wanted at this moment. Yes, he did. He wanted to be acknowledged for who he was. He wanted someone to recognize him, to welcome him home, to greet him the way he’d expected to be greeted. He wanted to be called by his name, and asked about the last decade of his life. Above all, he wanted this sense of discordance to fade, and he wanted Balfurin back the way he remembered it, ramshackle and worn, and familiar.

  She turned to face Matthew, and then halted in the middle of her curtsey. The young girl looked dumbfounded as she stared.

  The Scots were traditionally a welcoming people, less quick to judge than the English, less xenophobic than the French. But here at Balfurin, just like Edinburgh and Inverness, he doubted that many people had seen an Oriental man, let alone someone dressed like Matthew.

  Matthew chose to wear floor-length robes of embroidered silk over a sarong or skirtlike garment. Asking Matthew to look differently—just like asking him to behave differently—would be taking away his identity. Years with a missionary family had almost done that, and Dixon would not add to the sins of his fellow countrymen. In Edinburgh, Matthew had been a source of amazement. In Inverness, people had actually stopped him on the street, asking him questions fueled by curiosity.

  Dixon had witnessed prejudice, had experienced it himself as one of the first Europeans in Penang. But Maisie’s reaction to Matthew was not so much aversion as it was amazement. Whereas her gaze had been fixed on the floor just a moment ago, now she studied Matthew’s face intently as if fascinated by the almond shape of his eyes and the flat bridge of his nose.

  “Matthew is a native of Penang,” he said.

  “Pulau Pinang,” Matthew corrected, using the historical name for the island.

  Finally, she smiled and turned to Dixon. “Will you come with me, sir? Your lordship?”

  “Lead on,” he said, ignoring Matthew’s look.

  She led them back up the stairs, glancing at Dixon periodically as if to make sure he followed.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, accompanying the young maid to the wing where the family quarters were located. At last, something that hadn’t changed.

  A gate-legged table sat at the end of the corridor. Atop it was a small brass lamp, its light barely enough to illuminate the walls with their raised dark mahogany panels and the crimson patterned carpet running down the center of the polished floorboards.

  “Maisie, sir. Your lordship. I’m named after my mother’s sister. Her name was Maisie Abigail Lawrence, but of course my mother didn’t choose the whole name. She liked the Maisie part, though.”

  She glanced at him, looking as if she’d like to bob another curtsey.

  “I’m sorry to take you away from the festivities, Maisie.”

  “Oh, it’s no bother, sir. I was looking for an excuse to leave anyway. I can’t dance, you see, even if someone was foolish enough to ask me.”

  Maisie hesitated beside a wide brass-handled door. She looked down at the floor and then back at him. “It’s silly to pretend that I’ll ever be able to. I’m lame, you see.”

  “Lame?”

  She faced the door and stared steadily at it. “There was a problem when I was born. My foot is not right.”

  He glanced down at her feet and only then did he realize that one shoe was elevated more than the other. The sole of her left shoe was twice the depth of her right.

  “I wouldn’t consider you lame, Maisie. In fact, if you hadn’t said something, I wouldn’t have known.”

  She smiled, the expression so filled with joy that he was startled at how much it transformed her face from plain to pretty.

  “Thank you, your lordship.”

  “It’s only the truth, Maisie,” he said, oddly embarrassed.

  “Even a fallen flower can have beauty,” Matthew said, the first time he’d spoken since they’d begun to follow Maisie.

  She looked down at the floor again as she opened the door to the chamber and stepped aside. “You’ve been given the Laird’s Chamber, your lordship, as you’re the earl and all.”

  Dixon didn’t comment, and pointedly ignored Matthew’s sidelong glance as he stepped across the threshold.

  He’d been in this room exactly twice in his life, as a young child on the night his grandfather had died and ten years ago when his uncle had succumbed to influenza. The heavily carved mahogany four-poster bed looked the same, positioned as it was between two floor-to-ceiling windows.

  The ceiling was decorated with plaster saints, dating back to a time when the family was Catholic. As a child, he’d thought one of the statues was the likeness of his grandfather. Only later had he learned that they were effigies of the saints, and had been brought from the old castle before it was abandoned.

  The armoire was in the same position, as were the crimson armchairs in front of the fire. Everything looked in readin
ess for another inhabitant.

  “It’s been vacant for five years, sir, but we’ve kept it up all the same. The maids dust and sweep in here every month or so. I don’t think we have mice anymore, but it’s always wise to be prepared.”

  “What about snakes?” he asked. But Maisie was too intent upon her duties to realize he was jesting.

  “Oh no, no snakes, sir. None that I’ve ever seen.”

  He took pity on her and refrained from teasing her further.

  “If you’re sure you need nothing else, sir, your lordship,” she said, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor, “I’ll show your manservant to his room.”

  “Matthew isn’t my manservant,” he said. “He’s my secretary.”

  She looked at Matthew and then at Dixon. “Would you like another room, then, your lordship? The third floor’s where most of the servants sleep.”

  “That room will be acceptable, miss,” Matthew said, stepping forward, tucking his hands in the commodious bell sleeves of his jacket and bowing from the waist. “I would not like to trouble anyone.”

  “You’re not, Matthew,” Dixon said firmly. “Balfurin is my home, and you are its honored guest.”

  Maisie looked startled by his words. Matthew only looked at him cautiously, as if he knew the veneer of Dixon’s politeness was whisper thin.

  “The third floor will be fine, master. If that is acceptable to you.”

  After a moment, Dixon nodded, and watched as the two of them left the room.

  They called her Old Nan, or Mother, as if she had given birth to every creature who lived at Balfurin. In fact, she’d never given birth at all. Her only claim to everyone’s good fortune and well wishes was her advanced age.

  She had been born in the year of our Lord 1746, which made her exactly ninety-two years old. While it was true that she’d never heard of anyone living to her great age, the maid assigned to bring her meals had told her once about a woman in Edinburgh who was ninety-six when she died.

  If she could believe that silly girl.

  Her knees hurt, but it had been the day for that—the sky had been overcast and the wind brought with it a touch of chill. It was autumn in Scotland, after all. Tomorrow, her hands would pain her as well as her back. Or even her hips, although she didn’t walk as much as she once did. How many times had she strode across the moors, intent on meeting Robbie? All other men were forgotten the first day she’d seen him, with his bright blue eyes and his smile.

  Sometimes, a good memory was a torment.

  She grabbed one of the straight-back chairs sitting at the little table along the wall and scooted it across the wooden floor. She’d done the same thing so many times that there was a rut in the wood planking where the chair legs dragged. Strange, that no one had ever seen fit to comment on her habit of watching the inhabitants of Balfurin from her tower room. Perhaps they all knew, and they simply respected her age too much to say. Either that, or they thought her eccentric and wandering in her wits. She’d done that too much lately.

  Or perhaps they never noticed her at all.

  For years Nan felt as if she was the protector of Balfurin when its own laird could not be present. When she couldn’t manage the stairs any longer, she sat at her window and guarded the castle with her will, protecting it from strangers.

  Sometimes, her eyesight wasn’t very good and her mind wandered, so that she could almost envision a male figure standing on the broad stone steps in front of the castle just like the long-ago laird she’d loved so fiercely. He lay in his grave now, dust and bones, his spirit no doubt out hunting instead of being in heaven where it should be. Or perhaps he was laughing, an arm extended, his hand gripping a tankard of ale, bidding all those companion ghosts with him to drink up in eternal merriment.

  Her heart ached for the touch of him.

  Earlier, before her nap, when the torches had been lit and those silly little girls in their flimsy dresses had all congregated on the steps, she’d thought she’d seen him again, standing there looking up at the tower room.

  That was one thing that surprised her about age. The body might wither and eventually die, but the heart never lost its capacity for yearning, or its ability to feel pain.

  She’d not seen him, of course; it had only been the darkness or a wish or a dream she’d had during one of her frequent naps. She slept often these days, and she thought it was God’s way of leading her into forever sleep, a way of acquainting her with what was to come.

  She wouldn’t mind death if it meant being with Robbie for all time. What a way to spend eternity: with laughter on her lips and a taste of his kisses there. She’d be young again, as would he.

  Nan clenched her hands tight and then released them when the pain in her joints made her realize what she was doing. A tear fell down a lined cheek, but she didn’t bother to brush it away. There was no one to see her weep. No one but ghosts.

  She sat ramrod straight in her chair, years of practice causing her to ignore the discomfort of her posture. Instead, she concentrated on the torches still lit at the front steps. Perhaps if she wished him there she would see the coach arrive, and him emerge again, along with his strange and unusual companion.

  Had he come for her?

  A knock on the door followed that thought so perfectly that she jumped, startled. She didn’t bother to call out. If it were a ghost, it would not need her summons; and if it was the maid assigned to her, the silly girl ignored all of her wishes anyway.

  Once, she’d been the housekeeper for Balfurin. If the girl had been under her thumb, she’d have dismissed her, but not without whipping her first.

  “I’ve brought you some refreshments, Mother,” the girl said, entering the room. “Her ladyship thought you would like some punch and maybe some of the food that’s being offered tonight. There’s meat and cheese and apple and peach tarts.”

  The girl held out the full tray like an offering. Nan could have lived on its contents for a week. During the lean times, she would have wept with joy to see such bounty. But she didn’t bother to lecture the girl on frugality. The silly thing wouldn’t care. She’d not a thought in her head, spending all her time dreaming of the young footman with the yellow hair. An English lad. In her day, such a pairing would never have been allowed. But then, the English had not been welcomed at Balfurin.

  And now an Englishwoman was the laird’s wife.

  Nan reached up for one of the pastries with a trembling hand. Using her other hand to steady her wrist, she brought it to her mouth. Age brought about several changes that she could no longer fight. Better to simply ignore them. She took an appreciative bite, grateful that she still had most of her teeth. More than she could say for some of the English she’d seen.

  The pastry was flaky and sweet. A delicious confection, but she wouldn’t tell the girl. Instead, she only nodded when she was done.

  “Would you like some of the punch? It has a bit of a spike to it. I took the punch from the man’s bowl, knowing how you like good whisky.”

  Oh, so now the silly girl was remembering she was Scot, was she?

  She said nothing as the girl put the tray on the small table beside the window and then handed her a cup.

  The girl would spend another few minutes readying her bed, as if Nan didn’t know where to sleep. She’d fluff her pillow and smooth the blanket and generally make herself as annoying as possible.

  Nan ignored her, sipping at the punch as she stared out at the dark night, far beyond her reflection. The window was fogging, a sign that the air was growing colder.

  The wind was bringing more than winter. Changes were coming to Balfurin. What was the poem? For a second she couldn’t remember it, and that frightened her more than death. She’d promised, after all. Then, it came to her, and she relaxed, sinking back against the chair.

  She didn’t want to think of the rest of the poem. Wasn’t it a bad omen that it came to her mind so quickly and easily these days?

  Who needed treasure? As long as the body w
as warm, had food, shelter, and a measure of love, however fleeting that might be—that was all a body needed to make a life, a good life.

  Asking for more was foolishness, but then the world was populated with fools.

  Chapter 3

  D ixon sat on the end of the bed watching as Matthew unpacked his trunk.

  “I can help, you know,” he said.

  Matthew looked offended by the suggestion.

  “Do you not think I can do the job correctly, master?”

  “You are not my manservant, Matthew.”

  Matthew only smiled and shook his head. A moment later, he spoke. “A man is born to what he must be. Trouble follows when he tries to be more than he is.”

  “Or less,” Dixon said. “I know only too well about the layers of society, thank you. I’m an earl’s cousin, and not privy to the accompaniments of his rank or position.”

  “I would think, master, that there are not that many accompaniments to being an earl,” Matthew said, glancing around at the dimensions of the room. “This castle is smaller than your home in Penang.”

  Dixon nodded. He’d spent three years building a house in the hills, a magnificent structure overlooking the lowlands and surrounded by lush gardens. At the time people thought it was a gift to his bride. In reality, the house was a way of demonstrating—without a word spoken—just how powerful and rich he’d become.

  “You are much wealthier than the earl, I think. You have fifty servants, and numerous concubines.”

  “No concubines,” Dixon said, his smile fading. “Surely the women of my household do not think they’re employed for that purpose?”

  “Every day there are one or two more who ask to labor for you, master. The whole island would be at your feet if you wished. They know of your loneliness.”

  “It’s been a year, Matthew.”

  “Master, the heart does not know the meaning of time.”

  One day, he would have to tell Matthew the truth. Then, perhaps, he’d stop making Dixon into a figure of sorrow, a grieving husband who dreaded the coming of every day.