Chapter 5
Chapter Five
A iden decided ’twas best to be firm but kind when he met with his wife. They now stood in the center of their chamber, looking at one another, whilst Aiden did his best to explain things to Margaret.
“I am sorry, lass. We simply dinnae have the funds to pay for two maids.”
Unaware just yet that none of her requests were going to come to fruition, Margaret was trying to negotiate with him. “I suppose I can live with one.”
Slowly, Aiden shook his head. “Nay, lass. Ye cannae have even one. We simply dinnae have enough coins in our coffers for such an extravagance.”
“Extravagance?” she exclaimed. “Maids are nae an extravagance! They are a necessity.”
“A roof over yer head and food in yer belly, those are necessities,” he kindly pointed out.
She wasn’t going to back down. “Am I or am I nae the chatelaine of this keep?”
“Well, about that?—”
She didn’t allow him to finish his statement. “Are ye mad? I have married ye. The laird and chief of this clan. That makes me the chatelaine!”
“I would like ye to work with Lizabet on that.”
She closed her eyes and balled her hands into fists.
“Lizabet has been chatelaine ever since Marjory died. That was nine years ago. Ye can learn much from her, lass.”
He watched as her knuckles turned white, her face turning an angry shade of red. This was not going nearly as easy as he had hoped.
“Ye will eat yer meals below stairs like the rest of the family. And there will be no private baths brought to ye each day, nor will ye be gettin’ yer own seamstress.”
He saw nothing but hatred and fury when she opened her eyes. It damn near shook him to his core. The last time he saw such hatred in a person’s eyes, he’d been on the field of battle during a wee skirmish with the English.
“I dinnae believe ye are the least bit aware of how a proper keep is run. Neither are ye aware of what a chatelaine requires.”
Aiden took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That is where ye are wrong, lass. I am well aware. And if I were able to, I would give ye all of those things. But I cannae do it.”
“Why not?” she demanded bitterly.
“I told ye, we dinnae have the coin.”
There was no denying the fact that she didn’t believe him. Margaret crossed her arms over her breast and tilted her head to one side. “Ye lie.”
Now, were it a grown man calling him a liar, Aiden would have knocked him on his are. But this was a woman. His new wife. He had never hit a woman in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now. However, he was angry. Damned angry. Her insolence, her arrogance, was wearing on him.
“I dinnae lie.” His words were clipped and angry. “Never call me a liar again.”
Stunned, either by his tone or his countenance, she took a small step backwards. Then another.
Gone was the hatred and fury, replaced by that same look of fear he’d witnessed only a few hours ago. It made his stomach tighten with disappointment in his own self. However, he refused to apologize. She needed to know that he wasn’t a weak man who would give in at every turn. Aiden was an honorable, faithful, strong man who would take care of her and keep her safe. Nothing else mattered.
“Margaret, ye need to understand that we all work together here. Each of us have important roles to ensure that the keep runs smoothly and that each of us feels safe and protected.”
He couldn’t tell if she was still bitterly angry or if she was giving consideration to his words.
“Ye will nae be treated like a queen, lass. Ye will participate, pitch in, and help, just like everyone else does. I will nae expect any more or any less from ye than I do from the rest of my family.”
When her silence continued, he decided it might be best for him to leave, to give her time alone to think over what he had said.
Without a word, he quit the room and headed below stairs.
Margaret was furious. Not just with Aiden, but with the cook, Flossie. She imagined the old woman had run straight to Aiden and complained about her demands. Pacing around her bedchamber did nothing to ease her temper. Finally, she could take no more. She was going to find Mrs. Flossie MacHume and give her a piece of her mind.
She flung the door open and stomped down the hallway, mumbling curses under breath the entire way. With her hands still balled into fists, she thundered down the stairs and into the gathering room. ’Twas filled with Aiden’s family.
“Where is Mrs. MacHume?”
The older women at the table exchanged confused glances.
“I believe she is in the kitchens,” Lizabet said, her brows drawn inward with a good measure of confusion.
“Where are the kitchens?” Margaret bit out angrily.
Lizabet gave a nod over her shoulder. “Through that doorway.”
Margaret didn’t wait for any further directions. She stomped furiously through the doorway.
“I should help her,” Faith said as she stood up from the table.
Lizabet looked at Grace and Hope, their curiosity appearing as intense as her own. As quickly as she could, she managed to get up. To Danial, David, and Kieth, she said, “Ye watch the children. We shall return shortly.”
By sheer will and seething determination, Margaret was able to find her way to the kitchens. ’Twas a small, stone building not far from the back of the keep. A covered stone pathway connected the keep to the kitchens, which would make traversing betwixt the two buildings much easier in inclement weather.
It may have been bitterly cold out of doors, but Margaret was warm enough from the blood boiling inside her veins.
She thrust the door open and let it slam against the interior wall. All eyes turned from whatever they were doing. Stunned and bewildered, they hadn’t a clue what was happening. But they’d find out soon enough.
Margaret glanced around the room until she found the object of her ire.
Flossie was standing at a center table, her brown-gray hair piled on top of her head. She’d been having a conversation with a young scullery maid when Margaret flung open the door.
The younger women in the room looked fearful. But not Flossie. When she looked to see who had flung the door open, she stood a bit taller and pulled her shoulders back.
“Good day, my lady. How might I help ye?”
Margaret glowered, her breathing rapid from her anger. “Everyone out.”
No one needed to be told twice. Everyone quickly left the kitchens as if the little building was on fire.
The Randall women, however, remained behind, standing just near the entrance.
Flossie picked up a drying cloth and wiped her hands. “Well, now,” she said with a smile. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Ye just could nae wait to go runnin’ to Aiden, could ye?”
“I dinnae run, lass.”
“Oh, ye just could nae wait to complain to him about my directions and orders, could ye?”
Flossie tossed the towel down on the table in front of her. “Well, I would have much preferred tellin’ Aiden that ye were a kind, sweet lass.”
Margaret’s eyes were naught but slits now. Her nails were digging into her palms, and if she didn’t calm down, she would draw blood.
“Chatelaines are neither kind nor sweet.”
Flossie leaned over the table. “Who put such a ridiculous idea into yer mind, lass? Was the chatelaine of the MacCallen clan nae kind?”
‘Twasn’t the question that surprised Margaret so much as the truth of the answer. Lady MacCallen—Audra, as her people had called her—had been a fine, caring woman, loved by all.
All, save for her mother.
Helen had despised Audra deeply and with a terrifying passion.
The realization felt like a kick in her stomach.
Flossie nodded her head as if she now understood. “’Tis what I thought.” She left Margaret standing there as she walked toward one of the massive hearths. “Would ye like some cider, lass?” she asked as she grabbed two mugs from a shelf next to the fireplace.
“Nay. We need to discuss yer betrayal.”
Flossie stopped and turned to look at her. “Betrayal?” she asked before turning back to her task of pouring steaming cider into two mugs.
“Yes, yer betrayal.” Margaret wasn’t quite ready yet to give up the fight or let go of her anger. Admittedly, however, the fire inside her was ebbing.
Flossie placed the mugs onto a small table in the corner of the kitchens and took a seat. “Now, how could I betray ye? We dinnae even ken one another.”
“Ye went straight to Aiden.”
“Aye, I did. Because he is my laird, and I have known him since the day he came screamin’ into the world.”
Margaret scrunched her brow, perplexed and uncertain as to what the cook meant.
“Have a seat, lass, and I shall explain it to ye.”
“I swear, there is no one in this keep who has the first idea about rules or propriety!” Her anger was returning rapidly. She began listing what she considered infractions of rules or outright disrespectful behavior. “Ye call yer laird by his Christian name. Ye all believe ’tis perfectly acceptable to refer to me as lass. Or to call me by my Christian name.” The more she talked, the angrier she became. “No maids, no seamstress, no private baths. I cannae even have my own private chamber!”
When she stopped her tirade to draw a breath, Flossie asked, “Are ye done?”
Taken aback by what she considered insolence, Margaret was about to give the woman a good tongue lashing.
Flossie shook her head in disgust. “Och! Just sit down!”
“Ye dare order me?—”
Rolling her eyes, she said, “Aye, I do order ye to sit! To sit and speak with me, with a bit more respect than ye have been showin’.”
“Respect?” Margaret was stunned. “Ye sit without permission in front of your chatelaine, and ye want to talk about respect? Ye are naught but a servant.”
Flossie slammed a fist on the top of the table. The mugs and other contents rattled. “Ye either sit down now or I shall send someone for Aiden, and he will make ye sit down.”
Astounded by the woman’s threat, Margaret couldn’t speak. She was standing on the precipice between fury and a murderous rage. Black dots began to form in front of her eyes, and she could feel her nails breaking through the tender skin of her palms. Never in her life had she been this close to strangling another person.
’Twas Lizabet’s voice that broke through the dark rage.
“Margaret, I think ye should sit down.”
Her tone was filled with such calmness that it caught Margaret off guard.
“The three of us should sit and talk,” Lizabet repeated with an encouraging smile.
There was a gentle pleading in the young woman’s tone, one a good mother might use to calm down an upset child. Margaret wasn’t sure what to make of the tone or of her, for that matter.
From fury and murderous rage to insult in the matter of a heartbeat. Margaret stared at Flossie for a long moment before turning her angry glower at her new sister-by-law.
The moment was a critical one. Margaret had an important decision to make: sit or walk away.
Sitting meant giving up and giving in. Her mother’s oft-repeated words echoed in her mind. Never back down to those who are beneath ye. Always show them who is in charge. Especially when it comes to servants.
For the second time in the past few days, she decided to defy her mother and ignore the lessons she had all but beaten into her.
She decided to sit.
If their expressions and countenance were any indicators, Lizabet and Flossie were relieved to see her sit down. The two women exchanged a quick, pleased glance.
Aye, Margaret was still mad enough to bite nails, but more than anything, she was afraid. ’Twas a deep-seated fear, born out of years of living under her mother’s heavy fist. Fear often guided her decisions more than anger.
“Margaret, I ken that ye are probably used to things runnin’ a different way,” Lizabet said with a warm, comforting smile. “Aye, we ken all about proprieties and rules and such.” She glanced at Flossie briefly before continuing. “But, here, we tend to treat each other as family.”
Family.
It seemed such a strange word to Margaret. She hadn’t truly had a family since her father’s and sister’s deaths. She had been so young when her sister died in child birth and not much older when her father passed away.
Da. Just thinking about him made her stomach tighten and that deep-seated fear increase tenfold.
“Family is verra important to us,” Lizabet said, breaking through Margaret’s troublesome memories. “Far more important than protocols and proprieties.”
Flossie nodded in agreement. “Trust me, lass,” she said with a reassuring smile. “When the time arises for us to receive or entertain guests, we can do it with the best of them.”
Margaret scoffed silently at the cook’s statement. As yet, she hadn’t seen any evidence that these people knew how to set a proper table, let alone entertain guests of any importance. Still, she had to admit that she had only been here for less than a day and supposed that only time would tell. However, from what she’d witnessed thus far, she didn’t hold much hope.
After a lengthy silence, with Flossie and Lizabet studying her closely, she began to grow uncomfortable. She shifted in her chair and tried to maintain an air of disinterest.
“Ye are nae used to people bein’ nice to ye, are ye lass?” Flossie asked.
Margaret raised an angry brow. “Nice?” she asked with a shake of her head. “I dinnae want people to be nice. I want them to respect me.”
“And how do ye plan on gettin’ that respect?” Flossie asked.
Margaret thought it a most ridiculous question. “I dinnae plan on anythin’,” she told her. “I demand it. My station as chatelaine is all that is required for me to be respected.”
Flossie laughed heartily until Lizabet placed a hand on her forearm and shushed her.
“Who on earth told ye that ?” Flossie asked as soon as she got her laughter under control.
Margaret’s anger was returning with great speed. As far as she was concerned, it was none of the cook’s business how are why she believed what she believed.
“Flossie,” Lizabet said in a most serious tone of voice, “stop.”
The cook’s smile disappeared.
“The lass simply does nae ken any better,” Lizabet told her.
Margaret was gritting her teeth to the point of pain. “Dinnae patronize me,” she scolded. “I am nae a child, nor am I inexperienced.”
Lizabet tried to speak, but Margaret refused to allow it. “And I am definitely nae a fool.”
“We are nae sayin’ any of that,” Lizabet replied sternly. “That is nae what I meant.”
With her frustration and anger continuing to roil deep in her stomach, Margaret had reached the ends of her patience. Bitterly, she pushed herself away from the table and stood. “I will nae be treated like this,” she said as she glowered at each woman. “I am the chatelaine of this keep, and I expect to be treated as such.”
Lizabet’s warm countenance disappeared as quickly as a sweet cake around a child. “Sit down.” she demanded. “Now.”
For the third time in the last hour, Margaret found herself having to make the choice to sit down or leave, to listen or to show them just who was in charge. Something was stabbing at her heart. A distant memory perhaps? A memory of who she had once been?
“If ye dinnae sit down now, I shall call for Aiden to make ye sit down.”
Not for a moment did Margaret doubt she meant what she said. Begrudgingly, she sat back down and made no attempt at hiding her anger or displeasure.
“Margaret, we are only here to help.”
“I dinnae remember askin’ for your help.”
Flossie interjected with a question. “What kind of chatelaine do ye wish to be?”
She was rather surprised by the question. “As far as I am aware, there is only one kind of chatelain: one who is in charge of all things, at all times. One who does nae suffer fools or insolence lightly. One who commands respect by expectin’ nothin’ less than absolute fealty and perfection at all times.”
Their expressions were an odd blend of disappointment and confusion. “Do ye nae wish for our people to love ye?”
Love? “What on earth does love have to do with anythin’?” she asked indignantly. “Chatelaines should be feared, nae loved.” Isn’t that what her mother had taught her these past years? Wasn’t this something everyone with any common sense understood?
“Lass, is that what ye were told?” Lizabet asked with a frown. “Or is that somethin’ ye observed?”
In truth, she had very little memory of Connor’s mother. The woman had died years ago. At that time, Helen had stepped in to assist the poor man in his time of mourning and need. And when Mairi died, Helen took up the role as chatelaine completely, even if she hadn’t truly been given the title or rights by Connor.
“Lass? Where did ye learn this?” Lizabet asked once again.
According to Helen, honesty was never the best policy. “ Give them only bits of the truth, daughter. Ye will be well served by doin ’ so.”
Margaret had never truly believed everything her mother had tried to instill in her. ’Twas more out of fear of another beating that she had pretended to understand or believe.
“My mother.”
Flossie and Margaret exchanged knowing glances with one another before turning back to Margaret.
“Was yer mother chatelaine of the McCallens?” Lizabet asked.
Margaret had a sneaking suspicion that she already knew the answer to that question. “Nae exactly,” she replied, sitting up a bit taller in her chair.
“Now, I am nae sayin’ anythin’ bad about yer mum,” Flossie began, holding up a palm to stave off any future arguments. “But is it possible, mayhap, that yer mum was wrong?”
Oh, the urge to laugh was nearly overwhelming. Aye, her mother had been wrong about so many things. But to argue or voice an opposing opinion meant a beating and hell to pay for days after. Swallowing back the urge to either laugh or cry, Margaret replied, “Ye have never met my mother.”
“Nay, ’tis true,. I have nae met her,” Flossie replied.
“I pray ye never do.”
Helen McAllen was not a woman to be trifled with.
The politest way to describe the woman was that she was strong-minded.
In truth, she was a cold, calculating, irredeemable woman. She possessed not an ounce of kindness or warmth. Neither did she feel regret for any mean, despicable thing she had ever done.
That was the cold, hard truth.
Margaret knew it. Deep down, she knew it.
Fear of her mother was nearly inescapable, even if her mother was locked away in a monastery on a quiet little island in the north. After years of abuse both physical and mental, Margaret doubted she would ever truly be free of her mother.
“My father was married three times,” Lizabet said, her voice once again calm and her tone rather soothing. “I cannae remember my own mother. She died when I was just a wean.”
For a brief moment, and not for the first time in her life, she wondered how differently her life could have been had her mother died when she was a wean. Undoubtedly, it would have been less harsh and terrifying.
“I remember yer mum,” Flossie said, patting Lizabet’s hand. “She was a fine, fine woman.”
Lizabet smiled warmly at the older woman. “I ken, Flossie. I ken.” Turning her attention back to Margaret, she continued. “I do remember my father’s second wife, Isobelle.”
“Och!” Flossie said with a flourish of her hands. “Now that was a time!”
Margaret listened, curious as to just where this conversation was headed.
“I never met a meaner woman,” Flossie admitted.
“’Tis nae good to speak ill of the dead,” Lizabet chastised. “She was nae always mean.”
“True, but her change in spirit came a wee bit too late if ye ask me.”
“And I say ’tis better late than never, Flossie.”
Flossie scoffed at the notion, but chose not to comment further.
Lizabet finally turned back to Margaret. “Ye see, Isobelle had lived a verra hard life before she met Magnus.”
“Magnus?” Margaret asked.
“My father. We all have the same father, but different mothers,” she explained. “Isobelle had been married to an awful, awful man. He died right before Thomas was born.”
“Who is Thomas?” Margaret asked, wondering if she shouldn’t begin writing down everyone’s names.
“Thomas is one of our brothers,” Lizabet smiled. “He may have a different father than we, but we love him just the same.”
Flossie nodded her agreement. “I remember when they came here,” she said. “That poor bairn. Near starved to death, he was. And only a few weeks old.” Her eyes grew misty at the memory. “Nae from neglect, mind ye. The poor lad could nae tolerate his own mamma’s milk.”
“But ye brought him back to health in just a few days, aye?” Lizabet said with much pride.
“Aye. That, I did.”
Lizabet giggled slightly. “Flossie refuses to let any of us die,” she told Margaret. Moving back to the topic of Isobelle, she said, “Isobelle had lost everythin’, ye see. Her husband?—”
“Cruel bastard that he was,” Flossie interjected.
Lizabet chose to ignore that comment. “Her husband, her clan, and her home. She sought refuge here, and my father gladly gave it.”
“And he ended up marryin’ her?” ’Twas a rhetorical question, of course.
“Aye, only months later,” Lizabet answered. She was quiet for a long moment, lost in thoughts and memories. “Havin’ led such a hard life, she dinnae ken how to be anything but hard and mean. Da kept tellin’ us to be patient. 'Show her how to love,' he would often say.”
There was that word again. Love hadn’t been plentiful to Margaret. Leastwise, not for many years. Love seemed naught more than a fantasy, something unreal and wholly unattainable.
“So, we loved her,” Lizabet said. “It took a while, ye ken, for her to see that she was loved. By all of us. Including our father.”
“Aye,” Flossie agreed. “It took time, but in the end, we all came to love her. Including our people.”
The point of this conversation suddenly became all too clear. Margaret believed that they meant well and had only good intentions. But what was that old adage? The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
She swallowed back a knot of regret, self-loathing, and tears before slowly pushing away from the table.
“I am glad for Isobelle,” she said solemnly. “But, ye see, I am unlovable.”
Margaret quit the kitchens without saying another word or looking back.