Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123)

by Coulter, Catherine

  Mary Rose nodded.

  “I suppose you would have written to your mother for the name of the solicitor.”

  She nodded again, not a word out of her mouth.

  “And then you would have been up bright and early, ready to camp on the solicitor’s doorstep? Then once you had all your wealth, you would have brought your mother to Edinburgh?”

  Another nod.

  He walked toward the staircase, paused a moment, and called out over his shoulder—actually, over Mary Rose’s bottom—“You’re not fired, Miles, at least not for another two weeks.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I’ll see to the coachman. I’ll take Mary Rose’s valise back to Meggie’s bedchamber.”

  “I don’t want your candlesticks,” Tysen said, “just swear to me you’ll keep them hidden from Mary Rose.”

  “Yes, I swear, my lord,” Miles said. “I can see now that this is for the best. I won’t listen to her again.”

  Mary Rose called out, raising her head from Tysen’s back, “At least you listened to me once, sir.”

  Tysen was again picturing Meggie yanking and jerking on that ridiculous valise. Actually, he thought as he walked into the drawing room, he knew what he wanted to do was to simply ease his arms up and splay his hands over Mary Rose’s bottom.

  It didn’t occur to him that he was committing sins of lust in his brain, that he was actually compounding sins by the moment. All he was aware of was the closeness of Mary Rose’s bottom. It wasn’t until some time later, after he’d given her over to Sinjun with instructions to sit on her if she tried anything else stupid, that his sins started coming home to roost.

  Even while he was contemplating those sins, the list compounding itself by the hour, Pouder informed him of their newly-arrived guests.

  When he saw Sir Lyon, he decided he would rather spend eternity cataloguing his sins than be in this man’s company again. However, this time Mary Rose’s mother was with him. It was mid-afternoon, and there were more delicious smells sweeping through the castle. The freshly baked bread had everyone sniffing the air.

  Tysen just stood there watching Sir Lyon sniff the baked bread, then escort Gweneth Fordyce into the drawing room. Why had she refused to come into the castle before? Why was she coming in now?

  Mary Rose, thankfully, was upstairs, now in Meggie’s bedchamber, being entertained by his daughter, who, at his instruction, was keeping a very close eye on her. Sinjun, he’d been told, was visiting ever so often, just to make sure that Mary Rose hadn’t climbed out a window. As for Colin, he was in the stables determining what stock was needed to purchase.

  “Sir Lyon, Mary Rose’s mother,” Tysen said, not knowing what to call her. “Thank you, Pouder.”

  “I will adjourn to your bedchamber, my lord, and see to the freshening of your clothes.”

  “An excellent notion, Pouder. I wanted to thank you for the fine ironing of my cravats.” He turned to his guests.

  “Would you like to be seated? I can have Mrs. Golden prepare some tea.”

  “Mrs. Golden shouldn’t be here,” Sir Lyon said, then seemed to realize that this approach wasn’t at all conciliating, and added, chin out, “Mrs. MacFardle, for all her abilities, is a bitch. You’re better off without her. That bread smells delicious.”

  “I shall have her bring some bread with the tea,” Tysen said and gave orders to Pouder, who hadn’t yet left his chair by the front door to freshen Tysen’s clothes upstairs.

  When he returned to the drawing room, Gweneth Fordyce spoke. “I have many times wanted to poke a knife through her middle. Over the years, she was very unpleasant to my daughter. She wasn’t to me, because she was afraid of me, the madwoman.”

  “I don’t doubt that she will find a suitable position,” Tysen said. Once everyone was seated, he stood by the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, and simply nodded.

  Sir Lyon cleared his throat and cleared it yet again. He shot a sideways look at Mary Rose’s mother, then said, “My lord, I understand that a very few minor difficulties arose here last night.”

  “No, nothing that we couldn’t handle,” Tysen said, nothing more, and just waited.

  Sir Lyon girded his loins and said, “As Mary Rose’s uncle and her guardian, I am willing to give Mary Rose my permission to wed you, if she is willing to provide me with payment from the dowry provided by her father, for all the money I have spent on her and her dear mother over the years, over a very lot of years. Nearly twenty-five to be exact.”

  “I see,” Tysen said. “Knowing that you were charitable and kind to your sister-in-law and her child aren’t sufficient?”

  “No, they are not. Tell him, Gweneth.”

  Mary Rose’s mother rose very slowly. She looked down at Sir Lyon, and there was no liking at all on her still-lovely face. “Ah, so that’s it. Tell him what, Lyon? That I have always thought you a pompous bully? That now I think you are merely pathetic? You are, you know, trying to extort money from Lord Barthwick.”

  Sir Lyon’s face turned so red, Tysen feared that he might fall over with apoplexy. Sir Lyon jumped to his feet and shouted, “You are ungrateful, Gweneth! Damnation, woman, I opened my home to you and your bastard. I have never begrudged you anything. You have been part of my family.” He paused a moment, and if anything, his heavy face grew even redder. Tysen tensed his muscles, preparing to catch him when he collapsed. “Damn you, Gwennie, I am beginning to believe that you are not mad at all, that you were never even remotely mad, that you have merely pretended to madness so you wouldn’t have to do anything yourself for your poor daughter.”

  “No, I am not mad,” Gweneth said. “Actually, the madness kept you away from me—at least for the most part—until recently. I was a fool to tell you about Mary Rose’s trust from her father. I never considered that you would go to Erickson and bribe him to marry my daughter so you could get even more money. You are a pathetic human being, Lyon.”

  Sir Lyon shouted, “That is a lie! You will be quiet! Dammit, I need the money!” He pinned Tysen again, and he was panting from his anger. “Attend me, my lord, if I do not receive the money to which I am entitled, I will wed Mary Rose to Erickson MacPhail.”

  Tysen regarded the man with his red face, his fists bunched atop his knees. He waited until Sir Lyon’s face began to recover its natural color. He then motioned for the man to be seated. Once he was, Tysen said, “Ten thousand pounds, wasn’t it? I believe this is the amount you and Erickson MacPhail agreed upon?”

  Gweneth Fordyce, who had sat down again, now leapt to her feet. She stared down at Sir Lyon, so much anger getting ready to erupt that Tysen said quickly, “No, ma’am, please be seated again. I have something to say to both of you that perhaps you do not know. I have already been in contact with Donald MacCray, Tyronne Barthwick’s solicitor in Edinburgh. He tells me that Mary Rose Fordyce has no legal guardian, that you never applied for such a position. Therefore, Sir Lyon, you are here to extort money from me or from Mary Rose, and you have no leverage at all. I would suggest that you consider praying to God for forgiveness for this elaborate deception.” He didn’t add that he would be doing quite a lot of praying himself, for that quick and clean lie about the guardianship. He realized he was right, of course, just looking at Sir Lyon’s face. He’d been caught out. It was there for all to see.

  Sir Lyon didn’t jump up this time, just shouted at the top of his lungs, “So I am not her legal guardian. It wasn’t necessary. I am the bloody girl’s uncle! Gweneth, you will set this aright, you will see to it that I get the ten thousand pounds, or you will never again be welcome at Vallance Manor. Damnation, it’s probably a very small part of what her father left her.”

  Gweneth looked down at her brother-in-law for a very long time. Then she smiled at Tysen. “My lord, he forced me to come with him today, hoping I would help him. I did not know what he intended, but I knew it was likely something dishonorable. As to the amount of money her father left her in trust, I do not know the exact amount. Her fat
her simply assured me that it was very substantial. Now, would you mind if I had all my belongings and Mary Rose’s sent here to Kildrummy?”

  Tysen bowed to her. “I would be delighted, ma’am.”

  Gweneth Fordyce looked down at her brother-in-law and said, “I assume that you will allow me to have our things taken from your precious manor? You will provide me a carriage to come back to Kildrummy?”

  He had no choice at all, Sir Lyon realized, or before nightfall he would be known as not only a bloody fool, but also a bounder. “Of course,” he said, and wanted to strangle her. He knew he had to think. Nothing was going the way it should. He hadn’t managed this well. He never should have trusted Gwennie to come with him today and plead his case. He should have known she’d turn on him. Damnation, he still wanted Gwennie in his bed, but faced with the economies he would be forced to make, even that desire was fast fading into the woodwork. With outward calm, he bade Lord Barthwick—the damned vicar who should have been easy to outwit and intimidate—good-bye and escorted Mary Rose’s mother back to the carriage.

  He drew in another whiff of that delicious freshly baked bread as he walked out the front door of Kildrummy and realized he hadn’t even gotten to taste a bite of it.

  That evening Gweneth Fordyce, along with three Vallance Manor footmen, arrived at Kildrummy Castle with a mountain of luggage.

  20

  THE NEXT MORNING Tysen was seated in the library, writing a letter to Donald MacCray to find out the truth of things. He looked up when Mary Rose said from the doorway, “My lord?”

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “So formal?”

  “Well, I still feel that you are angry at me for trying to leave yesterday, even though I know it is still the best thing to do, the proper thing. You did not wish to speak to me last night. Indeed, you avoided me, so I came to you.”

  “You don’t know anything,” he said, and eased his quill back into its onyx stand. He sat back in his chair and leaned his head back against his arms. “What is happening now that I must needs know? More outpouring of guilt on your part? You will shoot yourself now to spare me from sacrificing myself? Or is it that you disapprove of something else I have done for your benefit?”

  “No,” she said, then sighed and fiddled with the lace at her wrist. She was wearing one of her own gowns that her mother had brought with her. “Thank you for inviting my mother here. She is very happy. Meggie likes her very well, and naturally, my mother believes Meggie to be the brightest child in all of Scotland. Meggie has a new grandmother, and thank the Lord she isn’t mad. I believe my mother is going to teach Meggie how to draw. She is excellent with watercolors.” She paused a moment, then added, “It’s true, isn’t it? My mother really has been pretending to madness all these years? It was all a ruse?”

  He nodded.

  “I suppose I understand it. She was pregnant, unwed, and what was she to do? But why madness, particularly when she was at Vallance Manor with her own sister and brother-in-law?”

  Tysen sighed. “Evidently your uncle wanted her in his bed and he wasn’t above using blackmail. Your mother was quick-witted. She chose madness as her defense against him. I suppose it became a habit with her.”

  Mary Rose thought about that a moment. “It would seem to me,” she said finally, “that there are very few honorable gentlemen on this earth.”

  “Bosh,” Tysen said. “When we are home, I will surround you with honorable gentlemen. They abound. My brothers are honorable. You will like them and their wives and children. I will admit, however, that your uncle and Erickson MacPhail could strongly influence one’s opin-ions.”

  “I do not understand why my father did not help my mother.”

  “Your father was undoubtedly married.”

  “Yes, of course, but still. I was thinking, Tysen.”

  “The good Lord spare me. Another plan to escape me?”

  “I was thinking that when I am twenty-five, just next month, I can repay you for taking care of me and my mother. You’ve even allowed her to move in with you. It is very generous. Oh, goodness.” Mary Rose actually felt her jaw quiver, she just couldn’t stop it, and it was hard to swallow.

  Tysen said with no sympathy at all, “If you cry, Mary Rose, I will haul you over my shoulder again, ride to that stream, and toss you in. We can see just how long it takes you to climb out this time. Now, you have caused me no end of trouble simply because I am doing the right thing. If only you would finally recognize me as the end to all your misery, and your mother’s as well. You still have tears in your eyes. Stop it now.”

  She sniffed.

  “That’s something. Now, I’m writing a letter to see if, just perchance, the lie I so smoothly told your uncle yesterday happens to be the truth. I believe it is. Your uncle didn’t gainsay me, but it’s best to have it in writing.”

  She stared at him. “You lied? You actually knew you were going to do it, and knowing, you still lied? Oh, Tysen, it is all my fault, that is a sin and you committed it and you are a man of God and—”

  “Be quiet and listen.” And he told her the very believable tale he had concocted for her uncle’s benefit.

  She said slowly when he had finished, “I have never before been told that Sir Lyon was my guardian. Indeed, I can’t imagine that my uncle would ever have willingly wanted to be my guardian. He was embarrassed that a bastard was living under his roof. It was difficult for him to feel magnanimous, his shame was so great. You know, I wonder if Ian discovered this?”

  “I have no idea. I will ask Mr. MacCray, if you wish. Regardless, you and I are going to be married on Sunday, by special license. I spoke this morning to Reverend MacMillan, a very nice old gentleman who says he has known you all your life and thinks you will make a fine wife for a vicar, even though the vicar is foreign. He is, however, concerned that in my nobleness, I am rushing you into this. He is concerned that you might wish to change your mind. I told him that your fondest wish was to wed a vicar, namely me, and move to southern England where you wouldn’t know a soul, present yourself to a gaggle of new relatives entirely unknown to you, and become a mother to three children not your own. I believe he wanted to laugh at that, but he choked so badly trying to hold it back that I had to thump him soundly on the back.”

  She was standing there, pale, her face still bruised, her light blue gown a bit loose on her, for she’d lost flesh during the past week—no wonder. She didn’t laugh, didn’t crack even a little smile.

  He said very gently as he rose from his chair, “Give over, Mary Rose, give over. Marry me. It is the right thing to do. We will do well together.”

  He didn’t look away from her.

  Finally, she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “All right, Tysen. I will marry you this Sunday.”

  And so it was that the following Sunday morning, in the drawing room of Kildrummy Castle, the Honorable Tysen Edward Townsend Sherbrooke, Reverend Sherbrooke of Glenclose-on-Rowan, brother to the earl of Northcliffe, took his second wife, Mary Rose Fordyce, spinster, of Vallance Manor. Gweneth cried delicately into a lovely lace handkerchief, and Colin Kinross stood beside Tysen as he calmly spoke his vows. As for Sinjun Kinross, she stood beside Mary Rose and lightly squeezed her shoulder upon occasion, perhaps to encourage her to speak up, but no matter.

  Neither Mary Rose’s uncle, aunt, nor cousin was present, having sent their regrets, and that was no surprise at all, rather a relief. Also there had been no word at all from the MacPhails, neither mother nor son.

  Mrs. Golden prepared a delicious wedding luncheon, and Miles had managed to secure half a dozen bottles of rather decent champagne. She had hired an additional six girls from the village. Two would remain to help her at Kildrummy—a good thing, Tysen thought, for he had very few clean shirts left.

  As for the new Reverend and Mrs. Tysen Sherbrooke, they would remain at Kildrummy Castle until the middle of September, exactly two weeks away.

  There was one additional guest at the wedding besides Miles M
acNeily, and that was Donald MacCray, the Barthwick solicitor, from Edinburgh. Given, however, that this was Reverend Tysen’s wedding day and Mr. MacCray had no wish to intrude, he merely said to Tysen, “There is no reason for you to worry. As it turns out, Sir Lyon was never your wife’s guardian. He lied to you. As for your, er, deception, it proved to be a sound deduction.” Whenever Tysen happened to look at Mr. MacCray, he was drinking champagne and staring at Gweneth Fordyce. Meggie whispered to her father that she’d wager their solicitor had drunk at least one whole bottle by himself.

  Late that evening, Meggie happily followed her father and Mary Rose into his huge bedchamber, chattering, never taking a breath, laughing very gaily.

  “Your aunt Sinjun gave you a bit of champagne, didn’t she, Meggie?”

  “Well, yes, Papa, just a bit, yes. It’s nasty stuff and I can’t seem to stop talking.” She beamed at him, then hugged Mary Rose tightly. “We will all do very well together. You are not to worry, Mary Rose. Max and Leo will believe I did well to bring you home. Now, shall we talk about your new duties as Papa’s wife?”

  And Meggie sat down in the middle of the great bed, her legs crossed, beaming at her father and her new mother.

  He didn’t know what to say. Neither did Mary Rose. Tysen finally was preparing to open his mouth when there came a knock on the bedchamber door.

  “Yes?”

  Gweneth Fordyce peered around the door. “Ah, Meggie, dearest, there you are. I am very much in need of your assistance. I have this wretched headache, brought on, I daresay, from excessive attention from Mr. MacCray. Would you bathe my forehead for me?”

  Meggie was torn. She looked from her father to Mary Rose’s mother, then sighed. “Papa? Mary Rose? Do you mind if I see to your mother? She’s now my grandmother, you know. I shouldn’t wish her to suffer if there is something I can do.”