The Scottish Bride (9 page)

“That old bat,” Tysen said, finally feeling a bit of irritation bubbling inside his belly. He rose to pace beside his daughter's bed, to calm himself. The room was chilly now, and he closed the window, latching it securely. He'd come to Scotland to become the Barthwick laird, a
my lord,
for heaven's sake, and now here he was, a debacle. It was time to beard the lioness, he thought, not the lion. The lion had no teeth. He was only a cipher. He said to his daughter, “I believe I will myself get to know our guests,” gave her a nod, and left the room. “Strange how the both of them refused to come to dinner.”

Meggie slipped on her wrapper, pulled on a pair of Max's socks that came to her knees, and slipped out after her father. Unfortunately, she came face-to-face with Mrs. MacFardle at the base of the grand central staircase.

“I wanted some milk,” Meggie said without hesitation. She could always lie better than either of her brothers.
She'd tried to teach them the trick—always look the person straight in the eye when you lied. Otherwise you looked shifty and it was all over.

“Harrumph,” said Mrs. MacFardle and led the way to the kitchen. Meggie looked back over her shoulder toward the closed drawing room door. Evidently her papa had found the Griffins.

The door was partially open, and she heard him say in his calm, deep voice, “I trust you are recovered from the malady that kept you from the dinner table?”

“If that is your roundabout way of asking if I am feeling fit now, the answer is yes. I am here in the drawing room, aren't I? I have allowed you to enter. I am even speaking to you, although it is difficult—”

Tysen cut her off. His irritation was building. “And has Mr. Griffin also regained his good health?”

“Mr. Griffin, I believe, is determining how long it will take you to destroy all the Kildrummy property. I, naturally, have asked him to do this.”

He ignored that and forged ahead. “I would appreciate it, ma'am, if you would ask questions of me rather than of my daughter. If you wish to know about my family, ask me, and I will decide what you need to know.”

“Why? She's a smart little gel,” said Mrs. Griffin, dressed in the same stiff pervasive black, spread over nearly the entire sofa. She was holding that black cane, waving it just a bit. It looked like a weapon in her large hand. “She told me everything I wanted to know, whereas you would likely have perseverated. Besides, you went off with Donnatella and were not available to me. Now, to be blunt about all this—I quite despair of Kildrummy ever recovering.”

“I don't,” Tysen said. “However, ma'am, I think despair would be an excellent trait for you to cultivate.”

“I have no idea what you mean by that, and thus it is
very likely irrelevant. Now, isn't Donnatella a lovely little chit? And you were with her for a very long time, weren't you? Alone.” She gave him an arch, leering look that made him want to throw an old leather hassock at her.

“Aye,” she continued, her leer even more pronounced as she looked him up and down, “if you weren't a vicar, I would believe that you had yourself a very fine time indeed. On the other hand,” she added, the thin black mustache over her upper lip mesmerizing him, “it's possible that since you're an
English
vicar, you have no notion of what real sin is or isn't.”

And even-tempered Tysen Sherbrooke, a man of cool detachment and sound judgment, leapt off the edge. He said, his voice utterly clipped and cold in his fury, “You are a malicious old woman. I do not wish you to remain here any longer, ma'am. You and Mr. Griffin will leave in the morning. Have I made myself clear?”

The black mustache quivered in outrage. Mrs. Griffin roared to her feet in a welter of black skirts and a great deal of energy. She swung up her black cane and aimed it at him, as if it were a blunderbuss. “You are a vicar, sir. You have insulted me, you have insulted my dear Mr. Griffin in absentia. You will beg our pardon.”

And Tysen, still furious to his toes, said in a voice as rigid as his father's was whenever he'd been angry with his mother—not an unusual occurrence at all, “I apologize, ma'am. You and Mr. Griffin will still leave in the morning. I bid you good night and a pleasant journey back to Edinburgh.”

“We'll just see what Donald MacCray has to say about this, my lord,” she shouted after him. “He is the Barthwick solicitor, a man of singular and impressive standing, and he will pin back your wretched little English ears for your horrid behavior to me! Vicar—ha, I say! A plague on you, sir.”

It was a fine parting shot, but he didn't turn back to the miserable old besom. He just walked out of the drawing room, nearly knocking over his daughter, who had obviously been plastered against the door. He saw a glass of milk on the floor beside her.

“If I could send you away as well, Meggie, I would,” said Tysen and took the stairs two at a time, not looking back.

Two hours later, Reverend Sherbrooke was praying to God to forgive him for his illogical and highly odd anger, his unusual and passionately felt display of temper, his unquestioned rudeness in the face of rudeness that had, for whatever reason, driven him right over the brink. He'd landed facedown in an emotional quagmire. He'd wallowed in it, shamed his calling, riddled holes in his name. But, surely, what had come out of that dreadful woman's mouth still was of sufficient weight to justify what he had said to the old bat.

He realized in that moment that he was trying to justify himself to God. It appalled him that he had sunk so low, had let himself fall off a righteous path so easily. God was an integral part of his life, His presence and strength filled Tysen's very being. He was graced by God's love and it gave him endless joy. And yet he had left Him in a ditch somewhere in this wretched country and continued on alone. Look what had happened to him.

He finally said, his soul stripped of false pride, of pretense, “God, the fact is, I have sinned royally. I lost my temper, and there is no defense that is at all worthy. I was an ass. I brayed, loudly. I will try very hard not to do it again.” There, he could think of nothing else to say. He was no longer angry at Mrs. Griffin, no longer wanted to swat Meggie's bottom. Well, maybe a bit.

No. He had to exercise better control of himself. He realized then that he was out of his element, far away from
what he knew and understood, from everything familiar to him, all of it lying many miles to the south. He'd been tossed into an utterly different pocket of the world, where, to this moment, nothing was what it seemed. He felt like a blind man on a narrow path.

He finally opened his eyes, blinked, and saw that darkness had fallen in this land so very far north that it had to be nearly ten o'clock at night before the light finally faded away and the land was blanketed in blackness.

He felt at peace. He still had no intention of asking Mr. Griffin or Mrs. Griffin to remain. He wasn't a coward, though. He would show himself to them when they left. He would keep his mouth closed, no matter the provocation.

Mary Rose Fordyce was another matter entirely. She was a bastard. But that wasn't relevant. Saying that marrying Erickson would be a triumph for her made his belly twist and cramp with the unfairness of it. Evidently, though, it was of primary importance to everyone else hereabouts. No, he would not allow Erickson MacPhail to force himself on her.

He had come to a decision, and he meant it. He also realized, just before he fell asleep that night, that he would be pleased to have the old bat and her silent, disapproving husband gone from Kildrummy. Actually, he wondered what she would say to him when he stood there, perhaps giving a farewell nod and a little smile as their carriage passed out of the inner courtyard. He would, perhaps, even wave both of them happily on their way.

He smiled into the darkness. When the scream came, jerking him out of a deep sleep, he nearly fell out of his bed.

 

Tutene? Atque cuius exercitus?

You? And whose army?

 
 

T
YSEN DIDN
'
T EVEN
think of his dressing gown. He ran out of his huge bedchamber into the long corridor, his nightshirt flapping against his ankles. It was near dawn, the light dim and gray.

Another scream.

It wasn't coming from Meggie's bedchamber. It was coming from the guest chamber at the far end of the corridor. It was Mrs. Griffin, and she was yelling her head off.

Maybe Mr. Griffin, pushed beyond reason, was strangling the old witch.

Not a proper thought, he told himself as he ran down that corridor, wincing with each footfall since the floor was very cold. Not even a remotely acceptable thought for a vicar.

He threw open the door and dashed into a very dark room, with all the draperies closed, and he stubbed his
toe. He drew up short, gritting his teeth at the shock of the pain, when he suddenly saw a candle flickering in the darkness, just a small circle of light, and in the center of that small circle of light was Mrs. Griffin's face. White as new snow; the mustache that topped her upper lip as black as a man's funeral armband. Her hair was tied in rags. It was a terrifying sight.

His toe still hurt. He called out, “What is wrong, Mrs. Griffin? I heard you scream. What is the matter? Where is Mr. Griffin?”

“Oh, it's you, Vicar,” she said, gasping for breath. “I saw her. For the first time since I have been in this accursed castle, I finally saw her. Just last year I wanted to see her, I actually spoke into the empty room, asking her to show herself, but she did not come. She had to wait until I was furious and under great duress because I wanted to smack you in the head for ordering me to leave. I did not want to see her. I was not prepared to see her. Yes, she waited until I would be terrified into the grave with my fear. Mr. Griffin is right here, beside me, probably still asleep.”

“Who came, Mrs. Griffin?”

“Why, the bloody Kildrummy ghost, of course,” she yelled at him, her harsh, churning breath making her candle flicker. “She is right over there, in the corner, sitting there on top of the bloody commode.” She shone the candle toward the corner. There was nothing there. “No, don't tell me that I am quite mad, sir. You know nothing at all. She was there, sitting right on the edge of the bowl, swinging her leg back and forth, just looking at me. I think she was whistling. I heard her whistling, surely a strange sound in the middle of the night, and so I lit the candle. And there she was. She kept whistling and now she's gone.”

“I say, Mrs. Griffin, what is going on here? Why is the
vicar standing in our bedchamber in his nightshirt? By all the bloody saints, man, I will not let you seduce my wife! How dare you, sir! And you call yourself a vicar? You have gall, sir! I will kill you with my bare hands!”

Mrs. Griffin never turned to look at her husband, just raised her hand and hit him in the head. “Calm yourself, Mr. Griffin. In this case the man isn't trying to gain my corporal affections. He's too far away from me to succeed in any case.”

Mr. Griffin said, “You told me he was a paltry fellow. Are you quite sure there is no attempted seduction on his part, Mrs. Griffin?”

“Yes, Mr. Griffin. You will see that he is keeping his distance. He has stepped only one foot inside our bedchamber. I believe he must have hurt himself—he was holding his foot for a while.”

“My foot is fine now, Mrs. Griffin. Actually, it is my toe that hurts.” Tysen shook his head at himself. He wasn't making any sense of this.

Seduce Mrs. Griffin?

He nearly fell to his knees with that blow. He cleared his throat, but didn't go any closer to Mrs. Griffin's bed. Mr. Griffin's face was now vaguely illuminated just beside his wife's. Tysen said slowly, “You believe you saw the Kildrummy ghost, ma'am? Who is this ghost?”

But Mrs. Griffin was now staring over at the commode with its large, flowered ceramic basin set on top, a water pitcher next to it. He followed her line of vision, but there was still nothing there, nothing at all.

“She is gone,” Mrs. Griffin said, furious now that she was no longer afraid. She threw back the bedcovers and jumped out of the bed. She was wearing a dark wool nightgown that covered her from chin to heels. She seemed suddenly to remember that he was there, a man wearing naught but his own nightshirt, a man her husband feared was there
to seduce her, and she yelled, “Begone, sir, begone! It is not proper for you to stare at a lady in dishabille. It is enough to raise the beast in any man, vicar or no.”

And she flapped her hand at him. She needed but her griffin-headed cane.

“You heard her, sir,” Mr. Griffin yelled, “begone before I rise out of my bed and thrash you within an inch of your life! Staring at my wife when she is wearing naught but her nightgown. You are not a gentleman, sir.”

“But—”

Mrs. Griffin was looking again toward the commode. “She is no longer here. Ah, but her presence—I can still feel it. It is a moldy essence, and far too old. Can you not smell it? Mr. Griffin, do you not feel the mold crawling on your limbs? She doubtless came because the Englishman has taken over. She is upset, and she found her way into the wrong bedchamber. Do you hear that, ghost? If you want him to leave Kildrummy, you must secure proper directions to his bedchamber.

“Ah, but it is cold in here, like the grave she must spend some time in when she is not here, scaring me. Mr. Griffin and I are leaving this wretched place, right this minute. We will not remain in this room with this long-dead Lady Barthwick watching me from the commode.”

It sounded like a fine idea to Tysen.

And so at dawn, not even an hour later, Tysen, now dressed and shaved, his toe no longer hurting inside his boot, stood on the steps of Kildrummy Castle to watch Mr. and Mrs. Griffin's carriage drive through the outer gate. He did manage a smile and a little wave. He could hear the driver muttering curses as he pulled the collar up to his ears. He saw Mr. Griffin's pale face glaring at him from the window. It was a chill morning with fog lying heavy just above the ground.

He walked back into the huge entry hall, shaking his
head. Life since his arrival at Kildrummy Castle had not been boring.

“Are they gone, Papa?”

“Assuredly they are, Meggie. I don't understand it. I don't believe in ghosts, never did, despite what everyone says about the Virgin Bride at Northcliffe Hall. I never saw her.”

“Uncle Douglas did, several times. He just won't admit it. He thinks he will be called weak in the head if he does say that he saw her. He says only the ladies claim to see her, and that's because they thrive on the supernatural, that they gain attention from their claims, that they are, in short, weak in the head.”

“Be that as it may,” Tysen said, his voice testy, “I have never believed in the Virgin Bride or in any other ghost, not even when I was sleeping in that room once and—no, forget that. Whatever, Mrs. Griffin believed she saw a ghost in her bedchamber, and it quite terrified her. She informed Mr. Griffin that they were going back to Edinburgh.”

Now that he thought about that strange sequence of events, he saw the humor in it and smiled, shaking his head.
Seduce Mrs. Griffin?

Suddenly, with no assistance whatever from a spirit, Tysen realized quite clearly what had happened. He turned to carefully study his daughter's face. It did not require a great intelligence to understand what she had done. She was smirking, her eyes brimming with her triumph. He saw it before she could wipe it away.

“Meggie,” he said slowly, “you have grown up with tales about the Virgin Bride at Northcliffe Hall and Pearlin' Jane at Vere Castle, who supposedly appears with great regularity to watch over your aunt Sinjun.” He stroked his chin, never looking away from his daughter. “I will ask you only one time, Meggie. Were you the
ghost in the Griffins' bedchamber? Were you sitting atop the commode? Whistling, perhaps? Swinging your leg?”

“Papa, it is time for breakfast. Would you like to have some porridge?”

“Meggie?” His voice was very, very quiet. Meggie gulped, then stared down at her feet.

She gulped again and said in a paper-thin voice, “Yes, Papa. I'm sorry, but I had to do it. I was afraid they wouldn't leave. She is so very dreadful, and he just stands behind her and nods and looks like he's not even there, and then last night I overheard Mrs. MacFardle tell Agnes that Mrs. Griffin always did exactly as she pleased, that Mr. Griffin never gainsaid her, and there was simply no way she would allow an English vicar who just happens now to be the laird of Kildrummy Castle to dictate to her. Why, this was as much her home as her other home where she lived whenever she wasn't visiting here. Mrs. MacFardle went on and on, Papa, about Mrs. Griffin's philosophy of life—she believes she deserves to govern. I was worried she would go head-to-head with you. I didn't want you to have to lose your temper. I didn't want you to feel guilty over losing your temper. I was protecting you, Papa.”

Meggie came to a halt, out of breath.

“Ah,” Tysen said in an awful voice, one he reserved for members of his flock who had grievously sinned and weren't repentant, “so Mrs. Griffin is one of those bad people I am too stupid to deal with, perhaps too dull-witted to recognize even when I'm looking them right in the eye?”

“You're not stupid, Papa, or really unaware, it's just that you're too good.”

“Meggie, I myself ordered them to leave. I recognized Mrs. Griffin for what she was. She was leaving this
morning, her spouse with her. Your performance only advanced their departure by an hour or two.”

Meggie didn't say a single thing.

He became very still, then said slowly, “You believe I am weak? You believe that she could have succeeded in staying even though I ordered her to leave?”

“You are so very good, Papa,” she said, barely above a whisper.

She had no faith in him at all. Tysen felt the blow hard and deep. Did she see him as good or as simply ineffectual? As a man who dealt in the spiritual realm and had little understanding of the real world?

Meggie said, her chin going up now, “Aunt Sinjun said a female always has to be prepared to act. She said that gentlemen many times don't have the fortitude to do what is necessary. She told me about the time she was willing to kill one of Uncle Colin's enemies. She didn't kill him, as it turned out, and that was good since the man hadn't been guilty after all, but she said to act, Papa. She said that a lady should never dither.”

Tysen thought he would surely choke at the strange combination of irritation, bemusement, and despair mingling in his throat. He hiccuped, cleared his throat. “I am going back to bed.” He began to walk back up the stairs, paused, then turned to see Meggie standing exactly where'd he left her, staring after him. “Did you really swing your leg at her?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Dear heavens,” he said. “You must have whistled loudly to wake her up. What did you whistle?”

“A song Aunt Alex taught me about how women will one day rule the world and all men will become butlers.”

Tysen could only shake his head. It was laughter rather than self-doubt that got the better of him just before he fell asleep again.

 

Vallance Manor

 

Mary Rose brushed her mother's thick dark-red hair that was still untouched by gray. It was long and smooth, perfectly straight, unlike her own hair, which curled and twisted, dancing about her head to some unknown but merry tune.

“It will be a beautiful day, Mama. No rain in the sky.”

“Tell me about the new laird.”

Mary Rose started at the sound of her mother's soft voice. As a rule, Gweneth Fordyce didn't speak all that much, but when she did, it sounded like lilting music. “He is very nice, Mama. He is an Englishman, a vicar, and he is also very handsome. Perhaps too handsome, but nevertheless, he is very kind. An honest man, to be admired.”

Her mother said nothing more, just nodded, her eyes focused on the beech trees outside her bedchamber windows.