The Laird Takes a Bride(36)

“Yes, Mother had mentioned something about your house.” Fiona fiddled with a dry quill, running her fingers along the feathers. “I meant you would go home to Wick Bay, and bear Mother company. I know she’d be glad to have you.”

Isobel lifted a red, wet face. “Oh! Your mother is the dearest, kindest person in the world, and I love her most sincerely, but—oh, my dear Fiona, I am—well, I’m ashamed to confess that I’m rather afraid of your father! I—I do try my best to conceal it, but when he is in a bad mood, which he so often is, my very bones seem to melt with terror. Not that he would hurt me—at least I do not think so—but he is so tall! And so fierce! The knife he always carries at his belt, positively murderous! And the way he frowns at one! Please allow me to stay here with you! I’ll do anything you like, and endeavor diligently to not be an added expense! In fact, you may move me to a smaller room at once. Anything will do! I’m sure I don’t need a fireplace, or a window!”

Now here, Fiona realized, was a difficulty. If she did what she wanted, and sent Isobel back to Wick Bay, she would feel like a monster. Her heart already felt like a lifeless stone within her. She didn’t need more weight hanging upon it. Oh well, she told herself, the castle was enormous. Isobel could potter around from dawn till dusk, dusting figurines, and (with luck) keeping out of Fiona’s way.

“Very well,” she said, trying to keep the grudging reluctance out of her voice, and hoping she wouldn’t regret her change of mind. “You may stay, Cousin.” The sudden radiance on Isobel’s face brought no answering smile from her; she added, as pleasantly as she could, “If you’ll excuse me? I have so much to do this morning.”

Isobel jumped to her feet, cramming her sopping little handkerchief back into her reticule. “Of course! Oh, thank you, Fiona dear! I will make myself very useful to you—I promise!”

As Fiona once again turned her attention to the household accounts, she had no idea, no prescient little prickle, that one day, Cousin Isobel’s words would come back to haunt her.



It was late in the afternoon when Alasdair and Duff returned from the village, where they had enjoyed a hearty repast at the Gilded Osprey. They strolled into the Great Hall, and came upon a veritable army of servants busily rearranging the long tables within it. His steward Lister, whom he had left not three hours ago happily totting up columns of numbers in his small office off the Hall, now stood supervising.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

Lister turned to him at once. “Mistress’s orders, laird,” he explained in his quiet, calm way.

“Orders for what? To throw my household into chaos?”

“The mistress felt the tables had been poorly placed, laird, causing great inconvenience to the serving folk as well as slowing the delivery of hot dishes to the high table.”

Alasdair scanned the Hall. It was immediately apparent that the tables had not, in fact, previously been arranged in the best configuration, but even as he tried to stop himself the fatal words came out:

“This is how it’s always been done.”

“Women!” commented Uncle Duff, and that single word was like spark to tinder. Alasdair felt his temper rising sharply and he demanded of Lister:

“Where is the mistress?”

“In her morning-room, laird. The room that was—” Lister hesitated, as if wondering if there were a better way to say it. But, of course, there wasn’t. “It was your mother’s, laird. The Green Saloon.”

“I see.” Scowling, Alasdair at once proceeded there, walking with long strides along the spacious corridor that led toward the back of the castle. It was exactly as he’d feared. His officious new wife was already changing things, and without so much as a by-your-leave. He stalked into the Green Saloon, and stopped abruptly three or four paces past the threshold.

His mother’s precious figurines—gone. The heavy damask drapes—gone. Half the furniture—gone. The desk moved from its usual spot and now set perpendicular to the tall windows overlooking the gardens. And sitting at the desk, several neat stacks of papers arrayed upon it as well as a large vase filled with pink and white dahlias, was his wife, herself neat as wax in a simple day-dress of palest blue and a delicate cashmere shawl draped over her shoulders.

He said:

“Just what do you think you’re doing, madam?”

Her eyes were also blue today, blue and pensive as she looked up at him.

“Your head gardener—Monty—says the beehives aren’t doing well. He showed me a loose brood pattern, which is a problem, and also some sunken cappings. I was wondering what could be done about that.”