The Border Trilogy (14 page)

She glared at him then, but when he only returned look for look, she realized that the time was not right for battle. Sighing in resignation, she said, “Very well, sir, you have my word. But only whilst you are in Edinburgh.”

Chuckling, he moved to hug her again. “Good enough. I know you’ve got better sense than to defy me when I’m here.” With that, he kissed her again and was gone.

From a nearby window she watched him mount a big black gelding and take his place at the head of his men, and something acutely like pride stirred in her breast at seeing him so. Then he turned in his saddle and waved. How impudent, she thought, just to assume that she would be watching, but she watched until the last man had ridden out of sight.

Determined not to miss him, Mary Kate tried to keep busy. The rest of her belongings arrived two days later, accompanied by a groom leading Valiant and bearing messages from home. She read Duncan’s scrawled note quickly, blinking away tears of homesickness, and then proceeded to bestow her things.

She had rooms of her own adjoining her husband’s, and her first project was to put them in order. One was a bedchamber nearly as luxurious as his, and the other a small corner sitting room overlooking both the Teviot and the courtyard. She moved an armchair near the arched window looking onto the courtyard, placed her workbox beside it, and the sitting room quickly became a favorite retreat.

Several days were spent exploring the castle from cellars to turrets. She discovered that the second kitchen Douglas had mentioned, in the west tower, provided for the needs of the servants, while the first, in the basement beneath the primary rooms, provided for the family. Mary Kate looked into every garret bedchamber and examined each of the principal rooms carefully, finding more to admire with every step she took.

Standing at the top of the main staircase, with its flying arch, its paneled stone ceiling, and the wide stone steps that swept from the great hall up to the stone gallery, made her feel like a grand lady, while she found a childish delight in the festive murals depicting scenes from Scottish history that decked the outside timber gallery at the top of a wide, projecting, turnpike stair that led from the courtyard into the west wing.

Her inspection of the linen press and pantries showed that Mrs. Jardine, Douglas’s housekeeper, was adept at her duties, so Mary Kate gladly left the woman to her own devices, giving only cursory looks at menus and laundry lists when they were presented to her. She was not expected to deal with the household accounts, that being the business of Douglas’s secretary when he was at home and his bailiff when he was not. And just as well, too, she told herself wryly, for although, thanks to Parson MacDole, she could read and write and do simple sums, long columns of numbers left her dizzy.

Learning from the housekeeper that Douglas took all his meals in the large and drafty hall, she decided to appropriate a room nearer the kitchens for use as a dining parlor similar to the one at Speyside House. The chamber she had in mind was currently used for storage purposes and was rather barren, but she enlisted Mrs. Jardine’s aid and advice, and the two of them ransacked other little-used rooms for window hangings, carpets, and tapestries. Mary Kate ordered a small trestle table moved in. Two small, carved-back stools would provide seating, while a side table would be utilized as a dresser from which food could be served. Next, she began work on embroidered cushions to make the stools more comfortable, and when the room was completed, she expressed her satisfaction to the housekeeper.

“Aye, m’lady,” replied that genial dame, “’twas a fine notion, that. Ye’ll ha’ the morning sun, and the vittles will come warmer tae the table.”

Occasionally she rode Sesi, but it irked her to be burdened with outriders, and though she wouldn’t admit it even to herself, she missed her husband’s companionship. Indeed, if the truth were told, she missed Douglas a good deal, especially at night. That she had responded so quickly and with such passionate abandon to his lovemaking still astounded her, but her early shyness and embarrassment had passed away altogether, and she had rapidly come to enjoy their sexual encounters as much as he had promised she would. That he was often as peremptory in other matters as she had expected him to be could not be denied, but she recognized his expertise in bed and reveled in it. Being able to sleep with her window open during his absence was no compensation at all.

The fortnight lengthened into three weeks, and still Douglas did not return. Likewise, he sent no message to explain the delay, so it was not long before Mary Kate’s fertile imagination began to provide her with assorted visions of how he might be occupying his time, the least of which was that he might be involved in more secret meetings. The cushions for the dining room were long finished, and she had no desire to begin a new project. Her temper grew daily more uncertain as loneliness and boredom threatened to overwhelm her. She began to snap at the servants, and finally Mrs. Jardine, in a fit of compassion, suggested that she might like to add some of the MacPhersons’ favorite recipes to the Douglas collection.

The notion appealed to her, for thanks to Morag she knew a good many MacPherson recipes by heart. Proceeding at once to the large pantry near the family kitchen, she soon found the great recipe book left by Lady Strachan for use by the castle’s future generations. Mary Kate was amused to discover that mixed in with recipes for fruitcakes and white puddings were others for perfumes and restorative nostrums. Immediately following one for roast goose with herb stuffing was another marked “Particularly Fine Horse Liniment.” Laughing, she turned to a blank page and reached for the quill and bottle of ink that stood ready nearby. The book would provide prime entertainment for another day.

Sometime later, while she painstakingly printed out the recipe for Morag’s lamb stew, she thought she heard a cry from the kitchens. Laying her quill aside, she listened carefully. The second cry was much louder, nearly a scream. Her curiosity aroused, for she was certain they had been cries of pain, she arose from her chair and hurried to investigate.

As she approached the family kitchen, there were further screams, agonized now, accompanied by the sound of strident scolding. Pushing the door open, she was greeted by the mixed aroma of curing hams and roasting meats, and the sight of her cook, a stout and querulous dame, standing near the enormous canopied fireplace, gripping a young kitchenmaid by the hair while she belabored the girl’s back and shoulders with a yard-long wooden stirring spoon. A crockery platter lay smashed upon the stone floor with bits of meat and vegetables strewn among the shards. Mary Kate took in the scene at one glance and stepped forward unhesitatingly to interfere.

“Here, stop that at once!” she commanded.

The cook, visibly astonished to see her mistress in the kitchens, dropped the wooden spoon with a clatter and released the sobbing maid. However, when the girl cowered away from her and began with trembling fingers to clear the mess from the floor, Cook quickly regained her composure. Drawing herself up majestically, she folded plump hands across her rounded stomach and declared, “’Tisna your affair tae mix wi’ mistress. This whiskin’ wagtail’s ruint your dinner and smashed a valuable platter besides. A swingeing’s nae more than what she deserves.”

Angered by the impertinence, Mary Kate snapped, You forget yourself, dame. Hold your tongue, stepping forward, she touched the weeping maid on the shoulder. “Come you now with me, lass. Your duties here are done for the day.”

“What’s this, then?” demanded the cook in high dudgeon, fists upon her ample hips. “The parlous callet’s no done her work. There be more vegetables tae cut and yon pots tae scrub. She isna going nowhere!”

“By heaven’s grace, do you dare to defy me?” Mary Kate’s eyes flashed. “I will thank you to remember who is mistress here, Cook. There are other maids aplenty, or you may do the work yourself, but let me have no more of your insolence or the master shall be the next to hear of it.”

“Aye, gin he returns,” retorted the cook, uncowed. Tilting her head back and looking down her nose, she added with a contemptuous air, “Mayhap ye’ve a fancy tae comport yourself wi’ laced mutton, which is nae concern o’ mine, tae be sure, but by rights yon malkin should be standing barefoot at the kirk door and not running free in m’ master’s house.” Pointedly turning her back upon her bewildered but nonetheless furious mistress, Cook shrieked for another maidservant to clear away the mess.

With a silent vow that Douglas would hear about the cook’s behavior at the first opportunity, Mary Kate urged her sobbing charge through the great door, shut it firmly behind her, and turned the maid to face her. “There, there,” she soothed when the sobs continued, “you must not allow her to upset you so. Especially in your condition,” she added, taking in the girl’s ballooning figure. “What is your name?”

Controlling her sobs with visible effort, the maid replied, “Susan Kennedy, gin it please ye, mistress.”

“Kennedy,” Mary Kate mused, frowning as she mentally reviewed the menservants she had met. I remember no Kennedys, Susan. Does your husband not work here, too?”

Susan regarded her feet. “I—I havna wed, mistress,” she mumbled, her face suddenly scarlet.

“Not married? Then who—?” The imploring look in the vivid blue eyes suddenly upraised to her own robbed Mary Kate of the rest of her question as understanding swept over her in a wave of shock. She drew a deep breath to steady her agitation and said carefully through gritted teeth, “Never mind, Susan, I can guess who the father of the child must be.”

Mary Kate’s cheeks were burning with rage and mortification, and experiencing a sudden, strong urge to move, she signed to the wary maid to follow and led the way rapidly upstairs to her sitting room. Scarcely giving Susan time to whisk her skirts through the door, she slammed it and turned on her, eyes blazing, only to check her wrath instantly at the sight and sound of the maid’s heaving breasts and gasping sobs. Susan’s lips were white, and she looked as though she would swoon at any moment. Hurriedly, Mary Kate placed a strong arm about her waist and supported her to the chair by the window. “Sit here and calm yourself. I shan’t murder you, whatever I may look like.”

Still breathing heavily, Susan subsided gratefully into the chair but kept her eyes lowered. “Thank ’e, mistress. I didna think tae come over sae weak.”

“Not to be wondered at, I am sure. How old are you?”

“G-going on for seventeen.” She looked up then, her eyes damp and dark with fear. “Please, ye’ll no be sending me home, mistress. There’s many agrees wi’ Cook that I mun be punished by the kirk, and me father would…he would…She lapsed into hiccoughing whimpers.

Mary Kate was still struggling with the shock of her discovery, but she responded automatically to the note of anguish. “No one will send you away. I know well enough ’twas none of your doing. My husband is a difficult man to resist—impossible, no doubt, for one in your position. How long before your time?”

“A month, maybe two.” Susan stared at her with wide eyes. “B-being from the highlands, as ye are, I didna think ye would understand, mistress.”

“Well, I do, and you don’t belong at any kirk door or in the kitchens with that horrid termagant. I think it will be best for you to care for my rooms instead. Would you like that?”

Susan gaped. “Aye, mistress.” She blinked back new tears. “But the master—”

“A pox on the master. Dry your eyes and tell Mrs. Jardine that I have assigned you to new duties. She can tell the cook. Then you must rest. I doubt I will have more need of you today.”

Susan rose heavily from the chair and managed an awkward curtsy, still eyeing her mistress warily. “I thank ’e kindly, mistress. Ye’ll no be sorry. Please, dinna be angry wi’ me. Had he been married then—”

“I know.” Mary Kate sighed wearily, wondering if the mere fact of Douglas’s marriage would have any effect upon such habits. “I am not angry, Susan. Not with you.”

After the maid had gone, however, she snatched up a fur-covered cushion and flung it across the room. “Curse him! He deserves to be flayed!” Pacing back and forth, she kicked at furniture and ground her teeth. Was this sort of thing, she asked herself fiercely, not precisely what she had expected of him? Did it not prove she had been right about the borderers’ attitude toward women? Well, Douglas would soon learn his error. She would teach him, at the very least, to cultivate a proper respect for her anger.

Half an hour later, when a housemaid entered to announce that her dinner was ready, she waved her away, disclaiming all interest in food. Then she thought about the cook’s probable reaction to the news that her ladyship wanted no dinner, and an unexpected chuckle bubbled to the surface as she realized how lucky it was for Susan Kennedy that she was safely out of Cook’s reach. Mary Kate’s laughter ceased abruptly, however, when the sound of shouting and hoofbeats from the stable yard penetrated to her sitting room. Delight vying with wrath in her breast, she jumped from her chair to look out the window. The first person she beheld was Douglas himself.

He flung himself from his horse and greeted those members of the household who ran out to meet him. His men were dismounting, laughing and shouting to their friends, and she heard Douglas call out for food and drink. When Geordie Elliot emerged from the stable to take charge of the grooms, his master clapped him on the shoulder. They spoke briefly before Douglas turned abruptly toward the postern door.

Waiting no longer, Mary Kate flew to her mirror to smooth her hair and straighten her gown. When the sitting-room door was thrust open, she was seated, demurely plying her needle.

Grinning, still booted and spurred, Douglas strode swiftly across the floor. “Here, wife,” he bellowed, “what manner of greeting is this for a poor, tired husband who has been long from his home fires?”

“Aye, too long,” she replied steadily as he pulled her to her feet and enfolded her in a crushing hug.

Startled by her tone, he held her away again. “Art angry with me, lassie? I have been to Jedburgh and back on the king’s business. Jamie craves a meeting with the border lords in early September. Aye, and you’ll be a countess by then, or as near as makes no difference.” She remained silent, and his next words were coaxing. “I’ve brought you a present, honey lass.”