“Whose idea was this?” he asked her.
“My mother’s, and then my uncle decided that we should have our own vessel, so he had one built,” Elizabeth said.
“How long have the duties of Friarsgate been yours?” he wondered.
“Since I was fourteen. I will be twenty-two at the end of May,” Elizabeth said.
“My dearest girl, a lady never reveals her age,” Thomas Bolton said, coming into the hall. “I was told the Scot was back.” His amber eyes swept over Baen MacColl, and he sighed most audibly.
“You have broken your fast, of course,” Elizabeth said. “If you have not there is no jam left, I fear. It has all been eaten up.”
“Will and I have been up for at least two hours, dear girl,” he told her. “We have been discussing your hair and the state of your hands, Elizabeth.”
“What is wrong with my hair?” she wanted to know.
“It hangs,” he told her. “We need to decide upon an elegant style for you, and then Nancy must learn how to do it. And from now on you must sleep every night with your hands wrapped in cotton cloth after they have been properly creamed.”
“Why?” Elizabeth demanded of him.
“Dear girl, only yesterday Will noted that you have hands like a milkmaid. A lady should have smooth and soft hands. The cream and the wrapping will accomplish just that effect. And you must cease all manner of manual labor, my pet,” he told her.
“Uncle, I am what I am,” Elizabeth said, exasperated.
“She can be so difficult,” Thomas Bolton said, turning to Baen MacColl. “She is going to court in a few weeks. Her sisters were delighted at the prospect and looked forward to it, but alas, my darling Elizabeth does not.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “And you must practice walking, dear girl.”
“I have been walking since I was a year old, Uncle,” she said. “What is wrong with the way I walk?”
“You clump, dear girl. Ladies do not clump; they glide like swans on the surface of the water,” Lord Cambridge said.
“Uncle!” Elizabeth’s tone was exasperated.
“Well, we must at least rid you of the clump,” Tom Bolton said, undeterred.
Baen MacColl snickered, and Elizabeth shot him a black look.
“Those gowns of yours will not take to clumping, dear girl,” Lord Cambridge said. “And you look so beautiful in those fine feathers, my pet.” He turned again to Baen MacColl. “She is the fairest of Rosamund’s daughters, dear boy. Now tell me what brings you back to Friarsgate. I thought you bound for Claven’s Carn.”
Baen explained, and then Elizabeth told her uncle what was in the missive from the master of Grayhaven.
“You are his son?” Thomas Bolton asked.
“Aye, the eldest, but I am the bastard,” Baen said candidly. “I have lived in my father’s house for almost twenty years. I was raised with my legitimate half brothers and my half sister, Margaret, who is now a nun,” Baen said candidly.
“I have always considered that as long as a man is responsible for his appetites there is no harm done,” Lord Cambridge replied. “Two of the Bolton sons belonging to Friarsgate were born on the wrong side of the blanket: Edmund, the manor’s steward, and Richard, who is the prior of St. Cuthbert’s. Guy was the heir, and Henry the youngest. Both the legitimate sons are now dead and buried.”
“And where do you fit in the family tree?” Baen inquired boldly.
“There were twin sons several generations back. The second-born twin was sent to London to wed a merchant’s daughter and make his fortune there. His wife, however, lay with King Edward, and then in a fit of remorse killed herself. The king felt guilty, as her family were most generous supporters of his in the war. So he gifted my grandfather with a peerage,” Thomas Bolton explained.
“Yet you live nearby, if I am to understand Mistress Elizabeth,” Baen said.
“Aye, I sold my estates in the south but for two houses, and returned to the north so I might be near my family. It is a decision I have never regretted. Every few years I go to court for a few months, and then eagerly return home.”
“Vowing to never go again”—Elizabeth laughed—“but he always does.”
“Only to get the latest gossip and procure a new wardrobe,” Thomas Bolton assured his companions. “My Otterly folk would be most disappointed if I did not continue to appear at my most fashionable best.”
“And you never disappoint, Uncle,” Elizabeth assured him mischievously.
“Wretched girl!” he said. “And do not think I have forgotten your lessons in proper court etiquette, for I have not. Come out from behind the board now, and walk across the hall for me.”
Elizabeth groaned, but she complied with his request. Outside, the snow was falling heavily, and there was no escape for her, she knew. She stepped down from the high board and stamped across the chamber. The pained look on Lord Cambridge’s visage caused Baen MacColl’s handsome face to break into a grin, but he kept silent. He was rather enjoying this quite unexpected entertainment, and it was about to get even better, he discovered.
Thomas Bolton sighed deeply. “No, no, dear girl!” the older man said. “What are you wearing on your feet? Perhaps that is the difficulty.”
Elizabeth stuck out a foot from beneath her skirts. She was wearing a very well worn square-toed boot of brown leather.
“Hmmmm. That may be it,” Lord Cambridge said. “One can hardly glide in such footwear, dear girl, can one? Albert!” he called to the manservant. “Go to Mistress Elizabeth’s chamber and have Nancy bring a pair of court slippers to the hall.”
The manservant ran off to do Lord Cambridge’s bidding.
“At court, dear girl, you will not wear your boots, although they will do nicely for the days that we travel,” Thomas Bolton explained. “You cannot be expected to walk properly unless you wear the shoes you will wear at court.”
“They hurt my feet,” Elizabeth said.
“A lady bears such torment for the sake of fashion,” he told her gently.
“I wonder if swans’ feet hurt,” Elizabeth muttered darkly.
Thomas Bolton chuckled. “Your mother left this endeavor too long, I fear,” he said. “But go to court you will, darling girl, and you will be a sensation if it is the last thing I ever do for this family!”
The shoes were brought, and Nancy fitted them onto her mistress’s feet.
Elizabeth stood up. “They are too small, and much too tight,” she said.
“Show me!” her uncle barked, and she held out her foot. Thomas Bolton looked up at Nancy. “Fetch your mistress a pair of silk stockings at once, girl! No wonder these shoes do not fit. She is wearing her heavy wool boot stockings. Such elegant footwear is not made for wool stockings.” He sighed. “I must speak with Maybel.”
Nancy ran off again, and returned quickly with a pair of silk stockings and garters to hold them up. She rolled her mistress’s wool leg coverings off and replaced them with the fine silk stockings. Then she fitted Elizabeth’s feet into her slippers. Elizabeth stood up, swayed just slightly, and looked to her uncle.
“Try walking across the room again,” he said.
Elizabeth complied, but this time she moved more carefully, slowly, and seemingly without any purpose other than to get from one side of the hall to the other. The shoes were not as comfortable as her boots, but neither were they as uncomfortable as they had previously been. She turned and looked to Lord Cambridge again.
“That was better, my angel girl, but we still have a lot of hard work ahead of us,” he told her.
And for the next hour Elizabeth walked her hall in her silk stockings and court shoes until at last Thomas Bolton was satisfied with what he saw and allowed her to sit down. She collapsed into a chair by the fire, kicking off the shoes. “I don’t want to go to court, Uncle,” she said. “I don’t care if I ever marry!”
And what a pity that would be, Baen MacColl thought. No one as lovely as Elizabeth Meredith should die a virgin. Why was it this be
autiful girl was not yet married, and a mother? Was there something wrong with her that he did not know about?
Why had her family not seen properly to her future?
Elizabeth called to Nancy. “Give me my boots and wool stockings, and take these others back to my chamber. I have work to do.”
“Today? In the midst of a blizzard?” Lord Cambridge said.
“It is the day of the month I set aside for going over the accounts. There have been many lambs born, and I must enter them in my ledger, Uncle. I collected the numbers as I was out yesterday seeing to my flock’s safety,” she said, standing up, her feet reshod. She turned to Baen MacColl. “I am sorry there is naught for you to do, sir, but sit by my fire. As you can see the storm outside these walls is only just beginning to roar.” Then she was gone from the hall.
“Do you play chess, dear boy?” Lord Cambridge asked hopefully.
“I do, my lord. My father taught me when I first came to live with him,” the Scotsman replied. “Tell me where the board is, and I will set it up for us.”
When William Smythe entered the hall shortly afterwards, he found his master and Baen MacColl engaged in a very lively game. He watched, and then he smiled. His master was beginning to become alive with his court personality once more. It was a side of Thomas Bolton he did not see often any longer. He came and stood by his side, saying, “He is beating you, my lord. I am quite surprised.”
“We have only been playing for a short while, Will. Like most young men this one is in a hurry, and when one is in a hurry one makes mistakes.” He took Baen’s knight in a smooth motion, and set it on the side of the board with a small grin.
The Scot laughed. “Well played, my lord,” he said with a bow of his head.
Why, the clever young fellow, William Smythe thought as he continued to view the game. He is going to let my lord win this contest when he is really the better player. How diplomatic of him, considering he is little more than a rough Highlander. He moved off. He had his duties to complete despite the bad weather, and he would complete them far more quickly if his lordship was being amused.
In the little chamber she used for estate business, Elizabeth read the missive sent her by Colin Hay, the master of Grayhaven. He had, he wrote, two nice-size flocks of black-faced Highlands, but while the wool sheared from his sheep was good, it was ordinary, and hardly worth the bother of shipping to the Netherlands. His friend, Adam Leslie, had said Friarsgate raised several kinds of sheep, and the wool sheared was excellent. The master of Grayhaven wanted to improve his flocks. Would the lady of Friarsgate be interested in selling him some of her sheep?
Elizabeth sat back in her chair and considered his request. Her Shropshires, Hampshires, and cheviots all produced an excellent and high grade of wool. But there were two secrets to the Friarsgate blue wool: the secret of how its color was obtained, and the fact that the wool came from merino sheep. Her mother had learned of this breed from Queen Katherine, and with the queen’s aid had imported several ewes and a young ram. The flock had grown over the years, and now a quarter of the Friarsgate sheep were merinos. Their fleece was heavy and snow white. They were self-lubricating, so that their inner wool was incredibly soft.
There are enough lambs being born now, Elizabeth thought, that I could sell some of my sheep off and be none the poorer for it. Shropshires, Hampshires, or cheviots, but not the merinos. There are few estates in England with sheep like mine. I cannot be certain the Scots won’t eat them anyway, and use their lungs to make that disgusting dish they call haggis. So they shall not have my merinos.
She laid the parchment aside. It would be weeks before any sheep could be taken north. Certainly not until they were well into spring. And she would want her own shepherds and dogs to escort them. There was nothing for it but that Baen MacColl would have to remain at Friarsgate until he could return with his sheep. She would discuss it with him this evening in the hall. Damnation! She did not want to go to court. How was Friarsgate to manage without her? Edmund was over seventy now, and she had chosen no one to follow him. Not that he would allowed it anyway. But when she came home they were going to have to discuss it.
It snowed for almost three days. And then the sun came out, and Baen MacColl insisted on helping the men shovel paths from the house to the barns and the sheepfolds. He could not, it seemed, remain idle, and he was certainly not afraid of hard work. He had listened to Elizabeth’s suggestion that he remain at Friarsgate until he could return north with the sheep she would sell him.
“Your father can send the price of the sheep back with my shepherds,” she told him, and he agreed.
“You’re not afraid we’ll steal the sheep and slay your men?” he teased her.
“The Leslies have sent you to me,” Elizabeth said seriously. “I trust them. Besides, my stepfather is the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn. If you attempted to cheat me Logan would gather his clansmen up and go north to seek you out, sir.”
He chuckled, the corners of his gray eyes crinkling. “I suspect you would ride with them, Mistress Elizabeth,” he said.
“Aye.” She nodded. “I would. Friarsgate is my responsibility, sir.”
“Do you think you might call me Baen?” he asked her.
“I could,” she agreed. “ ’Tis an odd name. Doesn’t bane meet woe or ruin?”
“Baen means fair in the Scots tongue,” he told her. “MacColl is son of Colin.”
“Was your mother in love with your father?” Elizabeth asked him, curious.
“They met but once,” he replied.
“Once?” Elizabeth blushed, shocked by his revelation. If they had met but once, then his mother had lain with the master of Grayhaven without even knowing him. It was difficult enough for her to contemplate a man in her bed.
“Once,” he repeated, the gray eyes twinkling. “I never knew who my father was until my mother was on her deathbed. She told me then, and said I was to go to him as soon as she was gone. My stepfather was not the kindest man.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve,” he answered her.
“Since you’re here,” Elizabeth said, “I assume your father took you in and cared for you.” Twelve. He had been so young. She thought of herself at twelve: all legs and arms, and constantly baiting Philippa when she was home. She hadn’t had a care in the world at twelve, while he was almost an orphan. How odd life was.
“The master of Grayhaven is a good father,” Baen answered her.
“And you have siblings? Did they mind when you came to live with them?”
“Nay. Within a few days it was as if we had always been together. I am ten years older than Jamie, and Gilbert is even younger. My stepmother was kept very busy with the three of us. Meg, of course, was a good lass. She was our father’s only daughter, born to his first wife. Ellen, our stepmother, was his third, and my brothers were her lads.”
“What happened to the second wife?” Elizabeth asked, curious.
“He strangled her when he caught her with another man,” Baen said matter-of-factly.
“He was jealous,” Elizabeth said.
“Nay, but he was dishonored. Killing her restored that honor,” Baen replied.
“Gracious!” Lord Cambridge, who had been listening, exclaimed. “How deliciously savage, dear boy! Are you much like your sire?” His eyes were twinkling.
“I am his image but for the eyes. His are green. Mine the gray of my dam’s. But I too possess a strong sense of honor, my lord.”
“You must keep your wife close,” Elizabeth noted.
“I have no wife, mistress. I owe my father my allegiance for his kindness and care of me since that day I arrived so unexpectedly upon his doorstep. How can I ever repay him? He did not have to take me in, and yet he did. And when he did, I gained a family. But for my mother, God assoil her good soul, I have almost forgotten those early years when I was so sadly mistreated.”
“Why does your father want more sheep?” Elizabeth asked him.
“I
t was my suggestion that we improve our flocks,” Baen explained to her. “I thought a better grade of wool would bring in a decent profit. The more prosperous Grayhaven is, the better matches my younger brothers can make. Jamie, of course, will inherit one day, but Gilly needs a bit more of an advantage.”
Elizabeth nodded. She understood, of course, but she had never before considered the obtaining of a match from a man’s point of view. It was interesting to think that men had a similar problem to women. “Tomorrow,” she said, “we will visit some of the folds, and you can see the sheep. Mine are very different from your black-faced Highland breed. Their wool is finer. You would do well with any of the three.”
“I want to know as much about how you manage your sheep as you can teach me,” Baen said earnestly.
“Very well,” she agreed. “I will put you with some of my best shepherds. And you must have your own dog, who will answer to your calls alone. There are some half-grown pups from one of my shelties in one of the barns. I doubt they’re all spoken for yet. When the weather gets better you will work with the dog and the sheep that will be yours,” Elizabeth told him.
“I am grateful, lady,” he thanked her.
“If you are Baen, then I am Elizabeth,” she said.
“Have you always been called so formally?” he asked.
Elizabeth smiled. “As a child I was called Bessie, but it is not a name for the lady of Friarsgate.”
“Nay,” he agreed, “I can see you are no longer a Bessie.” And then he smiled at her, and for a brief moment Elizabeth felt dazzled. “Your name suits you,” he told her.
“Aye, I think it does,” she agreed, and then she gave him a small smile in return.
Thomas Bolton watched this exchange silently. Too bad Baen MacColl was a bastard. A landless young man with not even his sire’s name to distinguish him. It was a pity, but there it was. Despite the fact that Elizabeth seemed to like him, and he her; despite the fact that they had much in common; he was not the man for her. Surely at court there would be one young man for whom Friarsgate was a golden opportunity, as it had been for Elizabeth’s late father, Sir Owein Meredith. The times were different, it was true, Lord Cambridge thought. Tradesmen’s sons were now serving within the hallowed precincts of the court. But did that not make the chance of finding a husband for Elizabeth even better?
The Last Heiress Page 5
