The Last Heiress

by Bertrice Small

  Lord Cambridge popped his head into Elizabeth’s library. “Where is the Scot, dear girl? I thought you would not let him out of your sight,” he teased her.

  “He’s learning about the shearing,” she replied.

  “Do you think it will help him when he decides to shear you?” Tom Bolton chuckled wickedly.

  “I think it far more likely I will shear him first,” Elizabeth told her delighted relative. “He is a man of strong loyalties, and I will have to seduce him before he will see reason, Uncle. I am certain to shock him, as he does not think virgins should resort to such tactics. But I have a mother who brought her lover into this house, and I have two older sisters who are wed. I have gained enough knowledge to know something of what I am doing, Uncle.”

  “Indeed,” Thomas Bolton murmured. “And would you like to share your plans with me, dear Elizabeth? Or am I and the rest of your family to be surprised?”

  “Do you not enjoy surprises, Uncle?” she teased him mischievously. “I know for a fact that you do, and so I shall keep my strategies to myself.”

  “God’s blood, I believe the poor man has no idea of what a scheming wench you are, dear girl.” Lord Cambridge chuckled. “But do not be overconfident. He is a clever fellow, and could outmaneuver you if you are not careful.”

  “Nay,” Elizabeth said softly. “His heart is too pure, Uncle.”

  Thomas Bolton smiled knowingly. “Why, Elizabeth, dear girl, I believe you have fallen in love with that big, bonny Scot.”

  “Perhaps I have,” she replied. “Now leave me be, Uncle. I have a page of sums to enter into my ledgers before I am free to come into the hall. How Edmund did it all I will never know. I thought myself hard-working, but he has done so much more than I could have imagined, and made it look easy.”

  Lord Cambridge nodded, and, blowing her a kiss, left her.

  When Elizabeth finished, her fingers were stained with the black ink. She left the little library and hurried upstairs to her chamber. Entering it, she was surprised to discover that Nancy had a bath waiting for her. “Bless you!” she said.

  “Don’t touch your garments with those ink-stained paws of yours,” Nancy cautioned. She helped her mistress from her clothing. “I’ll need to pour just a bit more hot water from the kettle, and then you get right in,” she instructed.

  Elizabeth nodded and waited as her serving woman made certain the bath temperature was just right. Then, stepping into the oak tub, she sank down into the water. “Ahhh,” she said, and a smile lit up her features.

  “You have little time to dally,” Nancy told her. “It will soon be time for the meal, but I somehow thought you would like your bath now instead of later.”

  “Aye, entering numbers, line after line of them, is tiring. I should rather be out riding across my fields. When Edmund is well enough . . .” She stopped in midsentence, sighing. “I must stop thinking nothing has changed, Nancy. Edmund is an old man. When he is well he and Maybel must retire to their cottage. He has stewarded Friarsgate for over fifty years now.” She soaped her fingers and rubbed them with her cloth.

  Nancy nodded and, taking up a brush, scrubbed Elizabeth’s long back. “Aye, he’s an old man now, and I know he’s been having dizzy spells for the last year, but he would not tell Maybel or you, mistress. He feared you could not do without him, as you had no husband to take over for him.”

  “I have been so selfish,” Elizabeth said. “I have thought only of what I wanted, and not of the good of those who serve me and in doing so serve Friarsgate. I have been a poor chatelaine, Nancy, but I did not realize it. This is going to change. It has to!”

  “You’ve always done right by us,” Nancy soothed. “None here would call you a bad mistress. There!” she said, handing a washing cloth to Elizabeth. “Do the private bits, and you’re finished. The sun is low on the horizon, and soon those in the hall will be ready for their food, and you must be there to say the blessing.”

  Elizabeth did as she had been bidden. Then, arising, she stepped from the tub and began to dry herself off. As Nancy bustled about the chamber gathering fresh garments, the lady of Friarsgate glanced at herself critically. Would Baen MacColl find her body attractive? Would it be as tempting to him as any woman’s was? She hoped so.

  Nancy handed Elizabeth a clean chemise. She put it on. Two petticoats followed, then a black linen skirt and white blouse. She fitted a wide leather belt about her narrow waist. Sitting, she let Nancy brush out her long hair and rebraid it. Then she slipped her bare feet into a pair of black leather slippers and hurried from her chamber. She stopped first to see how Edmund was doing. He had been returned to his chamber and was now sleeping.

  Maybel arose and hurried forward when Elizabeth entered. “He is weary, I fear, but a bit better. He can move his left hand again. Only the right remains useless.”

  “When he is well enough,” Elizabeth said, “you are going home to your own cottage, Maybel. Edmund has served Friarsgate well and long. It is time for him to rest, and you too. I know my mother would agree with me. I sent a messenger to her this morning telling her of Edmund’s illness, but I also told her it was not necessary for her to return. You and I will care for Edmund.”

  Maybel nodded slowly. “Who will manage the house for you?” she asked.

  “You will pick your successor, but I do favor Albert,” Elizabeth replied.

  Maybel nodded again. “The cottage will need cleaning,” she said as if to herself.

  “Then we will send someone to clean it,” Elizabeth told her with a smile. “Come now, and let us go down to the meal. We will send a serving wench up to watch over Edmund while you are gone.” Elizabeth slipped her arm through Maybel’s.

  The hall was full with Friarsgate folk, the men-at-arms who guarded the manor, servants, and a peddler who had asked shelter for the night. Elizabeth took her place of authority at the high board. “Give the blessing tonight, Father Mata,” she said.

  “The eyes of all wait upon thee, o Lord,” the priest began.

  “And thou givest them their meat in due season,” came the hall’s reply.

  The priest continued, ending the blessing with, “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.”

  “As it was in the beginning, it is now and ever shall be, world without end, Amen!” came the chorus from those in the hall. Then came the scraping of the benches as they all sat.

  Baen found himself seated on Elizabeth’s direct right, in the place that had been Edmund’s. He was just vaguely uncomfortable, but no one seemed to object.

  “What did you learn watching the shearing today?” Elizabeth asked him.

  “That sheep are quick, and they can be very ornery when parting them from their fleece,” he answered with a grin. “But you were right. The fleeces are wonderful.”

  She nodded, helping herself to the fish and tearing a piece off of the warm cottage loaf. “I don’t know whose idea it was to shear just after midsummer, but we’ve always done it that way here at Friarsgate.” She began to eat, and he did too.

  Wine was poured into their goblets. A fat capon stuffed with bread, onions, and sage was served to them. Elizabeth tore the bird in half and placed half on his wooden plate, along with several slices of ham. He said nothing, but he was surprised, for she was treating him like an equal. But glancing surreptitiously about him he could see no one was surprised by her actions. Mumbling his thanks, he began to eat. She added several spoonfuls of new peas, and more bread. He ate and he drank, and, looking about the hall, he imagined for the briefest moment what it would be like to be master of all this. It would be wonderful, he thought, to be the lord of Friarsgate with Elizabeth, the lady—his lady—by his side. Then he pulled himself back to reality, banishing the warm glow that had temporarily bathed him. “You must not serve me,” he said to Elizabeth as she put several chunks of cheddar cheese on his plate.

  “Why not?” she asked him.

  “I am not worthy of this place, or of you,” he t
old her.

  “Is not that my decision to make, Baen? After all, I am the lady of Friarsgate,” Elizabeth told him. “You must put aside this unassuming and quite frankly irritating humility with me. It does not suit you, and I will wager your father would agree with me. I have told you that I mean to have you for my mate.”

  “Your speech is too bold,” he said low.

  “Because you will not say what is in your heart I must be bold,” she replied.

  “How do you know what is in my heart?” he asked her. “I have not spoken out of turn to you, lady.”

  “Your stormy gray eyes tell me what I need to know, Baen,” Elizabeth told him softly. “When I was at court I learned to read the expression in eyes even as lips said something entirely different. I might have fallen in love with Flynn Stewart, King James’s half brother, but for what I saw in his eyes. Now I see in your eyes that you want me, that you love me, but you will not speak. So I must. I want you for my husband.”

  “I cannot!” he groaned low. “You know I cannot! My first loyalty must be to my sire. You have been surrounded by love your entire life, Elizabeth. You do not know what it was like for me in the house of my mother’s husband. He hated me even before my birth. Had my mother not protected me from that same hour he would surely have left me out on a hillside to die. And had I been devoured by wolves I believe it would have pleased my mother’s husband quite well. But as she lay dying she told me of my father, and how I came to be conceived. And in the hours after her burial I forever left the cottage where she had lived in such misery, and went to Colin Hay. It is true I am his image but for my mother’s eyes. There was no doubt I was his son. He might have refused to acknowledge me, and I would have understood. He might have, out of a sense of guilt, given me a place in his stables, and I would have been grateful. But he embraced me and took me into his house. My stepmother chided him for a randy lad, and laughed. She tipped my face up, looked into it, shook her head, and said that she had always wanted many laddies, and I was surely the easiest come into her world. I owe the Hays of Grayhaven my loyalty, Elizabeth, and I give it to them gladly. Jamie will one day inherit. But Gilly and I have only what our father gives us. The sheep are for me, and I must make them profitable for him. There can be no love for me. No wife.”

  “Eat your supper,” she advised him quietly. “You have distressed yourself, Baen. In each match made there is one stronger than the other. I see I am to be the stronger, as my sister Banon is in her marriage.” She smiled sweetly at him.

  “You will break my heart if I let myself love you,” he told her.

  “Nay, you will break mine if you leave me for your family,” Elizabeth said. “Nonetheless I must love you. There has been none before you, nor will there be any man after you, Baen MacColl. It is our fate to love each other.”

  He turned away and began to eat again. But his food had grown cold and his appetite had disappeared. She was offering him paradise, and he could not take it. If he were wise he would leave Friarsgate tomorrow, but he could not. His father had sent him to learn, and he still had much to learn from Friarsgate about their weaving industry, and how they sold their cloth to their best advantage. He did not believe that Grayhaven was big enough or had enough sheep or grazing land to do what the Friarsgate folk did. But possibly he could adapt what was done here to fit a smaller holding. And perhaps they might even ship their wool through Friarsgate. He had to remain. He could not disappoint the father who had given him this opportunity.

  “You have not finished your supper,” Elizabeth said.

  “I am no longer hungry,” he replied.

  “You are too big a man to miss a meal,” she responded. Then she buttered a piece of cottage bread, put a piece of cheese on it, and handed it to him. “Eat it,” Elizabeth commanded him, “or I will feed you myself.” She poured more wine into his goblet.

  Her caring touched him. “You will make a good mother one day,” he told her.

  “I know,” Elizabeth Meredith said. “And we are going to have the most beautiful bairns, Baen MacColl.” Then she smiled brilliantly at him.

  “How can I love you, and then leave you?” he asked her low.

  “You will do what you must,” she told him quietly. “I do not think you should have to choose between your father and me, but if it should come to that, then whatever you decide I will accept, for I will have no choice.” But she didn’t believe her words.

  “Nay, you will not,” he responded seriously. He was going to love her despite the futility of it. He knew it. And she was encouraging him onward to their eventual doom. He knew that too. But the attraction between them was too strong now for either of them to deny it. “How can I not love you, Elizabeth?” he asked her.

  Chapter 11

  It was madness. They both knew it. What had encouraged her to speak so openly to him this evening? But she knew. Baen MacColl was a man of honor. He would love her to his death, but he would have never said a word to her, so she had no choice but to speak her own heart. She wondered about his father, this man known as the master of Grayhaven. Did he really demand such fealty from his bastard son? Or was Baen’s sense of duty to his sire overstrong? She had to learn the truth. Of course, she had already made up her mind about their situation. And she had a plan.

  Thomas Bolton had teased her about seducing the Scot, but that was exactly what Elizabeth had in mind. She would entice him into her web. They would become lovers, and then he would never leave her. She felt not the slightest modicum of guilt over her design. The master of Grayhaven did not really need Baen MacColl. But Elizabeth Meredith did. And when the die had been cast, she would cajole him into a handfast union, which was good for a year and a day but no more. But at the end of that year, or even sooner, she would have convinced him that she, and not his father, was the fate for which he was destined. They would then wed under the auspices of the church. Elizabeth smiled to herself, well pleased. Her scheme was flawless.

  They remained in the hall that evening. She played a game of chess with Will, and then declared herself fatigued. “I must see to Maybel and Edmund before I sleep.”

  Baen watched her leave the hall. His head was filled with confusing thoughts. She was not nobility, but she was the heiress to much land. His father was minor nobility, but his mother had been nothing more than a cotter’s daughter. Her father had been a knight. Yet her mother was a country woman, even as Elizabeth was. Perhaps in blood they were evenly matched. Perhaps? Her mother seemed to like him. Lord Cambridge had not opposed the friendship Elizabeth Meredith had for Baen MacColl. Indeed, all at Friarsgate appeared welcoming of him. Did he dare to hope he might gain her as a wife? Become of man of means?

  But what would Colin Hay say to such a match? Would he even consider allowing his eldest son to marry Elizabeth Meredith? His father was not overly fond of the English. Yet Baen could see little difference between his family and Elizabeth’s. Both were people of the land, with a love of country and a respect of Holy Mother Church. But if this miracle were to happen he should have to relinquish his loyalties to his homeland, to his family. He would no longer be a Scot. But could he be English? It was a difficult conundrum, and he was probably better off the way he was. Baen MacColl, the master of Grayhaven’s bastard. Brother to Jamie and Gilly.

  Friar came and pushed a wet nose into his hand, whining. Baen looked down at the animal and smiled. Friar wagged all over in his enthusiasm to communicate. “I know. I know,” Baen told the dog. “You want to have a run before we bed down for the night, eh, boy?” He stood up. “Don’t let Elizabeth bar the door on me,” he said to William Smythe. “I’m just taking the dog out, but I will be back.”

  “Aye,” Will answered him, nodding.

  When the Scot had disappeared from the hall, Thomas Bolton, who had appeared to be napping in his chair, said, “She has begun her campaign to woo him.” He did not open his eyes. “I believe he loves her.”

  “But his loyalties would be divided if they wed,” Will re
plied.

  “She will require only fealty to Friarsgate, and to herself,” came the response.

  “But what if England and Scotland go to war again? You know there is always that possibility,” Will said. “Not so long ago King James was killed, and his infant put on the throne. It is bound to happen again.”

  “Aye,” Lord Cambridge agreed, and now he opened his eyes. “But wars between England and Scotland rarely reach our small corner of England. They go south from the east side of Scotland, or north from the east side of England. We are far to the west.”

  William Smythe smiled. “You are determined to have her marry this Scot, aren’t you, my lord?”

  “Would you not agree they are a perfect match, dear boy?” was his answer. “He would never have done for Philippa or for Banon, but for Elizabeth? Aye! How odd,” Thomas Bolton considered, “that my darling Rosamund’s girls should all be so different. Philippa was enamored of the court from the moment she arrived there. She is a noblewoman to her delicate fingertips. And my adorable Banon is a shining example of country gentry with her Neville husband. But as for Elizabeth, she is a farmer, with her estates and her sheep. She needs a strong man of the land for her mate, and Baen MacColl is that man.” He chuckled. “It was not so long ago, dear Will, that the Boltons of Friarsgate were nothing more than a wealthy farm family. It was my darling Rosamund who took them from the obscurity of Cumbria into the court. But of her three daughters only Elizabeth wanted Friarsgate and its responsibilities. And Elizabeth is a plainspoken country woman. Friarsgate is in good hands with her, but we all know she must have a husband, and children to carry on after she is gone one day. If Baen MacColl is her choice, then by God, dear boy, she shall have him no matter what we must do to make it happen! Now pour me some wine. I am exhausted with this difficult line of thought.” He sat back in his chair, a languid hand reaching out for the goblet that William Smythe poured. He sipped at it. “Ahh, yes! That is much better,” Lord Cambridge declared.