by Anne Greene
Already they had woven their way into Cailin’s heart. She felt a special fondness for Baby Fiona, who liked to climb up into her lap when she took a minute or two to rest in one of the white rockers Mums had the servants bring to the bairns’ rooms from the nursery.
Cailin scarcely recognized the energetic, warm, smiling woman who supervised the servants, telling them where to place the clean sheets, comfortable chairs, desks, toys, and throw pillows. Mums had never seemed happier.
She and Mums no longer had any emotional barriers distancing them. She’d never before felt so completely comfortable around Mums. And Mums obviously felt the same way. The looks, hand clasping, and smiles they shared drew them into a new closeness.
Cailin painted the plaster in the two rooms by grinding color pigments in oil until it became a stiff paste. She used bright yellow for the walls and royal blue for the trim. Some of the servants brushed the paste on the wall. The exuberant bairns helped as well. Baby Fiona came for a cuddle with yellow paint dotting her face.
Cailin laughed for the first time that week. She distributed cushions and tacked up oil paintings to accent and add warmth and welcome to the rooms. For Baby Fiona’s new bed she used all sweetly girlish, bright and pastel pinks.
When they viewed the finished rooms, the boys clapped and grinned.
Baby Fiona, cleaned of her paint and resembling a fairy in her long peach gown, her almost iridescent blonde hair floating to her waist, danced around the room like a will-o-wisp.
Liam, the oldest by six months, appeared to be looked upon by the other bairns as leader and spokesman. So after they calmed, Cailin turned to the sturdy blond whose face seemed covered with light freckles. “Is there something more I can bring to make this room home for you?”
Liam shuffled a foot on the polished granite. He tucked his hands behind his back and raised his chin to look her in the eyes with his brilliant blue gaze. “Aye, ma’am.” He swallowed. He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. “We’d verra much like to have some books.”
Cailin grinned. Delight spiraled from the roots of her hair to her toes. “I’m so pleased to hear that!” She reached a tentative hand to weave her fingers through his springy, red hair. She wanted to hug him, but, though he was only about seven, he stood almost to her shoulder and she was not at all certain how he would react to being hugged. “We shall take a carriage to the book store in Kirkmichael and you shall each select some books that appeal to you.”
Oh, how she missed Megan. Her sister would so have loved the upcoming outing. But, as days passed and the castle received no word of Megan and Brody’s capture, her worried heart lightened for them. Though she prayed for them often during the days since they’d escaped, her prayers became more and more optimistic. But her sister would have loved spending time with these bairns. Cailin could only pray to one day receive a letter.
“And,” Cailin turned to the task at hand, “Mums and I shall see that a suitable tutor is brought to begin you on your studies.”
The lads clapped.
Baby Fiona wrinkled her nose. “What is too-too?”
Cailin knelt beside the lass and explained. Then she turned to the boys. “But Liam, Dougal, Gavin, and Tevish, you four brothers and Ewan, Angus, Kameron, and Baby Fiona must all begin calling me Aunty Cailin. And we shall begin today teaching you to speak in the English manner. Though you live here in the castle under Lord Avondale’s protection, there might come a time when you are away and redcoats might question you. You cannot let your Scottish brogue betray you.” She looked long at each one of the eight serious faces turned up to her. “Will you do that for me?”
“Aye, Aunty Cailin.” Liam grinned. Already his sturdy body had begun to fill out, so different from the skinny, dirty, lad with the large, frightened eyes whom she’d brought to the broch.
She snatched a moment during the bairns’ rest time to take her quill in hand and pen a note to Pastor Fergus.
Dear Pastor,
I plan to start an orphanage for the bairns of deceased Culloden warriors. Do you know of any proper and sizable facility I can purchase to renovate for the yet-to-be-rescued orphans? I know of one qualified couple who will live full-time with the little ones. Do you know of any others? Thank you for any advice you can offer.
Yours sincerely,
Cailin Mountebank, Duchess of Avondale
Her heart sang. The future orphanage shone as a bright guiding light in her tense, worrisome days. She had a new mission. The Highlands as they had been before Culloden no longer existed. But she could save the bairns.
Though she remained excited about her planned orphanage and her newfound joy in Mums’s company, still time crept by. One slow minute ticked away after another slow minute. She played with the bairns, prayed, fretted, paced, and watched the sun slowly descend in the sky.
Her heart stuttered. After yet another day with no word from Avondale, she must make another foray and rescue more of the motherless, homeless, bairns wandering still in the Highlands. She must return to where the hillside homes were burned to ashes. Where little more than prickly thistles and fields of broom had been left for the people to live on.
She would not leave the needy bairns to die. As long as Mikey would drive for her and Elspeth would cook for the homeless ones, she would search out all she could find. She glanced at Fiona, who sat on the floor surrounded by her nephews and niece.
Fiona’s eyes met hers and she nodded, agreeing to Cailin’s silent question.
Having settled that, she sank into one of the comfortable, upholstered chairs scattered in the big sitting room between the bairns’s rooms and leaned back to enjoy the youthful laughter and roughhousing. So, she spent much of the long, slow days and lazy evenings with the bairns inside the castle, learning about each one.
Yet her mind spiraled from one dark worry to another. The days slipped past, and she received no sign or word from Avondale. Where was he? Had he experienced another dark episode and been unable to break free? She gazed out the window at his banner flying proudly in the breeze, unfurling his protection over the castle.
Had he been injured? Thrown from his spirited stallion? Did he lie in need in some forsaken place? Had Bloody Billy caught up with him and thrown him into the Tower?
She shivered.
Surely, he would have gotten word to her somehow.
Or was he dead?
30
“Rafe, you and Hennings, please go out again and search the countryside. We must find Avondale.” Cailin could barely keep from breaking down in front of the two newly knighted bodyguards. “Please find him. Take a good riding horse from the stable.” She bit her lip. “You might start in Kirkmichael. See if anyone has news of him.”
“Yes, Milady. We shall do our best.” Hennings bowed.
“Thank you, Hennings. Please be on your way.” She turned to the tall, muscular Scotsman standing with his head bowed, his massive fists doubled behind his back. “Rafe, please stay. I need a word with you in private.”
“Aye, Milady.”
Both stood at the drawing room door until the valet, his massive muscles partially hidden by his tailored swallow-tailed black suit, turned and left.
She faced Rafe. “Regardless of the kind of mess you find Avondale involved in, you are not, under any circumstances, to arrange a hunting accident. I want my husband back alive.” She stood on tiptoes and stared the rugged Scot straight into his gray eyes. “You understand?” She shook a finger in his face. “He is not to be harmed.”
“But, Milady, he—”
“Under no circumstances!”
****
Someone knocked at her chamber door. Fully dressed, though the night was half passed, she opened the door.
Dust covered and gaunt, Rafe bowed.
Heart beating fast, she asked, “You’ve news?”
“Nay, Milady. I’ve ridden two days in every direction, and I know not where His Grace is. I’ve had no news of him.” His hands were fis
ted.
Her hand flew to her throat and she dropped her gaze.
Rafe went down one knee. “Please forgive me for letting the duke out of my sight. Regardless of how God decides the future, I will serve milady with all my heart until the day I die.”
“Thank you, Rafe. I appreciate your loyalty.” She sighed. “I trust you will be more vigilant in the future.”
“I pray my suggestion might not be forgotten, should you have need of it.”
“I shall never have need of that. We shall never speak of it again.”
“If the duke’s behavior puts anyone else in danger—”
“Not another word of that!”
“Yes, Milady.” He bowed his head. “I shall lay down my life for you. And, I vow I shall never be taken unawares by the duke again.”
“Thank you, Rafe. You are a good man. Now, please get some rest, then go out and search for the duke on the morrow.”
Rafe rose from his knees, his face grim. “I shall do as you bid.”
She closed the door and listened as his footsteps echoed down the hall.
****
“Milady.” Molly, Megan’s personal maid, stuck her head through the dressing room door. “There be a huddle of people wants to see ye at the back door.”
Cailin stirred, raised herself from the pillow on the settee, and wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.
She had taken the dispirited Irish girl as her own personal maid after Megan fled, and she still needed to handle the woman with kid gloves. Any little thing could set the plain-faced Irish girl off into an assault of crying. And Cailin had had her own fill of crying today.
“People?”
“Yes, Milady. Men, women, and even bairns.”
“For what purpose?”
The pale, russet brows raised and her blue eyes rounded. “They have gifts.”
“What on earth?” Cailin stood and smoothed her brown summer weight day gown. She took a step towards the dressing room door. “Who are the gifts for?”
“You, Milady. They be asking for the duchess.”
“Are there any soldiers about?”
“No, Milady. I haven’t seen nary a hide nor hair of them soldiers about for a couple of days now.”
“Well, come with me, then. We shall see what our visitors want.”
Cailin hurried down the grand staircase and through the castle to the back entrance.
Why would visitors appear at the rear door?
A group of her servants had gathered just inside the hall in front of the door. They were smiling and chatting like a gaggle of song birds.
Cailin’s heart lifted.
So the visitors must be pleasant, not harbingers of bad news.
As she reached the open door the servants parted to let her pass through. Why had they not invited the visitors inside? Who could they be?
Afternoon shadows lay softly over a much larger gathering than Cailin had expected. Why, there must be twenty-five or thirty people standing on the stone porch. Whatever could they want?
At her appearance they swept low in bows. The group consisted of mostly men, sprinkled with a few women, and several bairns. They were plainly dressed in clean, peasant apparel, the men in trews and linen shirts with belled sleeves, and the women in simple arisads.
And several carried bouquets of flowers with the bulbs still embedded with rich dirt. A few carried sacks, which, from the earthy odor she figured contained seeds. Others held armfuls of dressed pelts. The women held beautifully worked wicker baskets filled with sweet-smelling baked goods.
She held out an inviting hand. “Do come inside.”
“Oh nay, Yer Grace.” The woman speaking was comely, and her cheeks blazed. “We dropped by to give ye our thanks.” She gazed at the crowd around her for support. “We donna have much, but we’re beholden to ye. As long as ye live, ye have our devotion and our hearts.”
The men bowed onto one knee. “You have our faithful fealty.”
Cailin raised her brows. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
“We shall never forget what ye’ve done for us.” The woman gave a deep curtsy and held out the basket crammed with mouth-watering baked goods.
“But…but I don’t understand.”
“‘Tis the Duke of Avondale we owe, Milady. He saved my son.”
Another woman stepped forward, a wide grin on her slightly wrinkled face. “And my husband.”
“He saved me and my cottage, and my livestock.” A stout man stood from his kneeling position, shifted a huge bag of grain from his wide shoulders, and set it carefully at her feet.
A dozen other cries rose up together so mingled that Cailin could not make out a single sentence.
A merchant, by the cut of his clothes, stepped forward. “He saved my family, my shop, and myself. I can never repay the debt I owe him.”
“I…I thank you all.” She could barely catch a breath. Avondale had done all this?
“Is he here, Milady? We’d like to thank him in person.” The merchant gazed at her with twinkling eyes and a broad smile.
“Uh…no. He has not yet returned. Do come inside. We’ll share a beverage, and you can tell me how my husband helped you.” Her thoughts whirled. Her head spun. She held a hand against the doorpost to steady herself.
All these days had Avondale been out riding the countryside saving these people? Had he stood up to the redcoats all by himself? Had he opposed the Duke of Cumberland’s explicit orders? Was he in danger?
31
Avondale guided his tired steed towards London. He had one more duty before he returned home to Cailin.
He shrugged, flipped the reins to the right of the horse’s neck to turn back to the castle. He’d done as much as could humanly be expected of him. He couldn’t handle the confrontation in London.
A bright sunset to his right already touched the tip of the far off grassy glen. He would soon be swallowed by night. Magic gloaming, Cailin called the time of day. How he missed her loving presence.
In three days’ time he could be back inside her castle. He could hold her in his arms and breathe in her sweet fragrance and kiss her luscious lips. And—
The horse had trotted but one hundred yards. He tugged gently on the reins, pulling the stallion to a stop. “Whoa.”
No, he could not gaze into those lovely eyes until he’d finished his mission. Once he walked back into her warm, sweet presence, he’d never have the strength to leave her again. She was his anchor, his talisman, his mentor, his…oh-so-obviously better half.
God had given him Eve before the temptation, perfect without blemish, walking with God.
It was so extremely difficult to face her perfection in broad daylight, his own flaws so obvious. His own failures so blatant. His own future so insecure.
His stallion pawed the dirt road, anxious for home and food and rest.
Still he sat rigid in the saddle, reins tight. His shoulders ached, his head ached, his stomach rumbled. Saddle weariness snaked along every limb of his body. Everything urged him home to Cailin. But something inside his soul insisted no.
His work was not yet done. He knew it, but would give almost anything to avoid what he had to do. Bile rose up into his throat. Yet, he would not return to her half a man.
He turned his horse’s head back in the direction of London.
****
Avondale’s horse’s shoes clopped sharply off the London cobblestones just as the sun crested the horizon. First he must rest and have a fresh change of clothes. So, he turned his horse towards Avondale House.
His royal mother was away taking refreshment at Bath, so she could not impede his mission.
Piccadilly was quiet this time of morning. No carriages, no vendors, no people on foot. His steed’s hoofs clicked on the wide cobblestone street. The rising sun painted the white statuary of Cupid, Venus, and the Graces pink as he passed by.
His stomach flip-flopped as his horse trotted past Devonshire House and headed to H
yde Park corner.
He’d suffered his first spells while reaching the age of accountability at Avondale House. He’d plummeted from being the most sought-after bachelor in London to the least, after only one of his more devastating blackouts. He shook his head. He would not revisit that time. He needed all his courage to tackle today’s objective.
A single carriage rumbled along the cobblestones, drowning out the chirp of birds. Soon he directed his horse to the left. Avondale House. His steed’s nose all but touched the gilded entrance gates, their cornerstones topped with seated sphinxes.
The gates were closed and locked. Of course they would be. He shrugged his tired shoulders to ease some of the tension and steered his horse down the broad street. The gates enclosed three acres of garden and the monstrous mansion. Around his neck Avondale wore the key to the small, hidden gate at the northeast corner.
The house, like so many in London, was modeled after their country estates to show wealth and power rather than being comfortable homes. He’d never liked the square, plain Palladian style flanked by service wings that hid the sumptuous interior. But that was today’s fashionable design.
He opened the side gate and trotted through. The grounds were a bit overgrown, showing his absence, but the place had never welcomed him like Castle Drummond.
Still his royal mother loved the London house with its proximity to court and the whole London social scene.
He’d always preferred any one of the country estates.
The horse’s hooves dislodged bits of dirt as he trotted slowly up the winding road which ended at the back door. He preferred the back entrance rather than the exterior front stairs that led to the two-story entrance hall.
A stable boy ran out and gazed up at him. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” He dismounted and handed the reins to the lad.
Avondale entered the house and took the inconspicuous stairs tucked behind the library two at a time. He strode to the central hall that led to a suite of connecting receptions rooms circling the top-lit stair hall. He’d never liked the design that allowed a large gathering of guests to circulate through the reception rooms, library, and ballroom.
