The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 1

1

JULY, 1811, EN ROUTE TO HUNTLY MANOR

A s soon as the sycamore-lined drive came into view, the wee lass sprang from her seat in a riot of red curls. She flapped her arms out the open window. “We’re here! I canna believe at last we’re here!”

“Modesty,” Lady Charity MacGalloway chided, tugging her twelve-year-old sister by the hem of her pelisse. “Young ladies do not dangle out the windows of carriages and shout at the top of their lungs.”

Huffing, the child resumed her seat on the bench she had occupied since setting out on the arduous journey from the northeastern tip of Scotland to southwestern England. “I wasna shouting. And you sound too much like Miss Hay. Must I remind you that I’m having a holiday from my governess and I fully intend to enjoy every moment?”

“It is awfully nice to have our travels come to an end,” said Georgette, Charity’s lady’s maid, sitting upon the opposing bench. “Och, I’m a wee bit inclined to celebrate myself.”

In truth, Charity was all but on the edge of her seat with excitement. After two weeks enduring the monotony of being cooped up inside one of the family’s smaller carriages, they had arrived at Huntly Manor at last. She could scarcely believe her fortune. This was her chance to be on her own for the first time in her life. At least for the next several months her brother, Martin MacGalloway, the Duke of Dunscaby, had agreed to allow Charity to run the household until the Season began. And on top of that, because of her sister-in-law Julia’s perseverance, the manor was to become a home for gentlewomen who had lost their means of support.

She pulled the curtain open wider, marveling at the enormous canopy of trees lining the very long and somewhat overgrown drive. “Perhaps we ought to have a glass of cordial and sandwiches on the patio whilst Tearlach brings our things inside.”

Modesty wriggled in her seat. “I want to go exploring. Ever since Julia told us about the castle ruins overlooking the cliff, I’ve been dying to find them.”

“Mayhap we can hunt for them together.” Charity flicked one of her sister’s red curls before waving her finger under the lassie’s nose. “But hear me now, if you dare venture out alone, I shall send you back to Mama faster than you can spit.”

With a cough of exasperation, the gel rolled her saucy eyes to the carriage ceiling. “But Julia used to play among the ruins when she was a lass.”

“That verra well may be, but you are not our brother’s wife. You are the sister of the Duke of Dunscaby, and though your governess may be away on holiday, for the time being you are my responsibility, and I insist you stay in sight of the manor at all times. Moreover, you will ask me before you set a foot out-of-doors.”

The brakes screeched as the carriage rolled to a stop.

“Am I understood?” Charity asked, trying to sound stern while her heart flittered with anticipation.

“Verra well, I shall check with you before I go anywhere.” Modesty said, giving another exaggerated roll of her eyes, an irritating expression she’d recently adopted from their fourteen-year-old sister Grace, who, fortunately, had opted to spend the duration of the summer in Scotland at Stack Castle with their mother.

“That is all I ask. And now, my dearest, we are about to embark upon the most sensational summer either of us have enjoyed in all our days!” Not waiting for the footman to open the door, Charity pulled down on the latch and drew in a reviving breath of fresh air.

Everywhere, verdant leaves rustled with the easy breeze, while the song of a willow warbler greeted them. The house appeared to be much the same as she remembered it. Though the shutters were askew on the lower windows, it was wonderful to see the old manor after their brief visit several weeks ago.

Tearlach hopped down from his perch at the rear of the carriage and offered his hand. “My lady.”

Charity placed her fingers in his palm. “Thank you.”

“Shall I give the knocker a rap?” the footman asked, as she allowed him to help her alight.

“Please do.” Glad to be standing on the sturdy ground, Charity brushed out her skirts while Tearlach assisted Modesty and Georgette. “I’m surprised Willaby isna waiting on the stoop. He ought to be expecting us.”

“He’s most likely in the garden enjoying a cordial,” said Modesty, following Tearlach up the three steps.

As the footman reached for the knocker, the door opened.

“My lady?” squawked Willaby. The old English butler gaped like an owl, his usually immaculate coiffeur mussed and his eyes as round as silver guineas. “Thank the stars you’ve arrived!”

Clutching her reticule against her midriff, Charity hastened up the steps. “Whatever has happened?”

Willaby stepped back and ushered the ladies inside. “What hasn’t happened is more apt. I give you my word if one more disaster befalls us this day, the manor’s bricks are likely to crumble about our feet.”

Though the house had been neglected for some years, Martin had recently seen to the most critical repairs. Nonetheless, it wasn’t like the butler to be at his wits’ end. For the most part, Willaby’s nature was stoic and staid, and he usually carried out his duties with a dour frown that made his jowls sag all the more.

“Is the masonry giving way?” she asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Then what, pray tell, has you in such a dither?”

Modesty sidled toward the open door. “It is with utmost urgency that I visit the barn to ensure my pony is housed in the best stall. He must have a proper serving of oats as well.”

Charity waved the lass off while Georgette made an escape for the stairs. “I’ll set to unpacking straightaway, m’lady.”

As Charity returned her attention to Willaby, the butler raked his fingers through his thinning hair, making unruly spikes stand on end. “I sacked the groundskeeper this morning.”

“Sacked?” Charity asked, somewhat aghast. True, Willaby was in charge of the male servants of the house, but the groundskeeper reported to the master of the manor, and at the moment, she was fulfilling that role. “Whatever for?”

“Imbibing in too much spirits. The man—” Willaby clapped a hand over his mouth and shook his head. “I cannot say it.”

“Nay, the duke has appointed me as the lady of this house. I may be a tad inexperienced, but His Grace felt I would benefit immensely by taking on this responsibility. I insist you relay the entire story.” She rolled her hand and offered an encouraging nod. “You mentioned he was inebriated?”

“More than once and—” The butler checked over his shoulder then leaned nearer. “This morning he was dancing on the lawn wearing…”

“Hmm?” Charity asked, wondering why, since they were alone, Willaby was whispering.

“Not a stitch of clothing.”

“Oh.” Quite certain she had turned the color of the scarlet ribbon securing her bonnet atop her head, she turned toward the wall, taking a sudden interest in the life-sized portrait of the former Earl of Brixham, her sister-in-law’s father. “Well, then,” she managed, doing her best to project an air of calm. “I should thank you for sparing me from such an unsavory task.”

“Yes, of course, my lady. But what am I to do with…” He gestured toward the closed doors of the front parlor with his thumb. “Them?”

“Them?”

“The ladies,” he whispered.

“Ladies?”

“Three of them.”

Charity blinked. Three ladies? Did this mean boarders had arrived already? She pulled Willaby as far away from the parlor doors as possible and lowered her voice. “But everyone agreed we wouldn’t open Huntly to ladies until I had a chance to settle in. To better come to know the manor and finish the task of hiring the necessary serving staff, and…and to ensure the bedchambers are properly prepared, et cetera, et cetera.”

“That was my understanding as well. We’ve yet to hire a housekeeper, not to mention Cook needs help in the kitchens. And I’m quite certain the larder is not well enough stocked to feed everyone today, let alone on the morrow.”

At the top of Charity’s list was to visit the town’s butcher to establish regular deliveries. However, before diving into her new role, she was in need of a bath, and was ever so looking forward to changing out of her traveling clothes.

But none of that was as important as making the guests feel welcome. They may have arrived a tad early, but if this was to be a home for forlorn ladies, there was no chance that she’d allow the poor dears to see her flustered or to sense in any way that she mightn’t be ecstatic to welcome them to Huntly Manor.

“Tell Cook to prepare a light evening meal and ready the kitchens for a substantial breakfast—the hens are still laying, are they not?”

“They are, but substantial?”

“Aye, surely there are oats in the larder.” Charity counted on her fingers. “There ought to be enough bread, and we’ll need sausages and bacon as well.”

“I don’t think?—”

“Go on, have a word with Cook. We shall make do until the butcher opens his shop in the morning. We do still have a lower house maid do we not?”

Willaby rocked back on his heels and looked to the cracked plaster ceiling above. “When last I checked.”

“Wonderful. Have her change the beds with fresh linens.”

“Fresh, as in new?”

Most likely all the linens in the house needed to be replaced, but there had been enough, albeit threadbare, linens when three carriages filled with Dunscaby family members and servants had visited not long ago. “Fresh as in clean . I’ll see to it new linens are ordered as well.” She headed for the parlor. “And please have someone bring in a tea service. The ladies must be parched.”

Taking in an enormous breath, Charity painted on her most affable smile and drew open the maple, slotted double doors. “Ladies, I canna tell you how delighted I am to welcome you to Huntly Manor.”

Perched upon a settee, a whisp of a lass smiled, her eyes brightening with hopefulness. Beside her, an older woman clutched her reticule and shifted her gaze as if she expected Charity to rob her of her last farthing. To their left, seated in a parlor chair, was the third, whose expression was rather guarded and skeptical, her arms crossed.

Opting to focus on the smiling face, Charity moved inside. “I must apologize for my tardiness. I’ve been in the north of Scotland at my eldest brother’s wedding, and have only arrived momentarily. I am Lady Charity MacGalloway.” She gave the bonny one an expectant curtsy.

“Sara Eloise Jacoby, my lady.”

“Welcome.” She shifted her gaze to the woman with the reticule. “And you are?”

“Miss Agnes Fletcher, daughter of the Baron of Wahope.” The woman had severe features, and her fingers clutched her reticule tighter as she sniffed and stretched her rather long neck. “I ran my father’s household for fifteen years, but when he passed, the new baron—my second cousin, mind you—gave me a measly fifty pounds and sent me on my way. You can count on me, my lady. I know how to run a house full of servants. Nothing escapes me. Nothing whatsoever.”

Charity expected to hear woeful tales from each woman, though she was rather surprised to hear Miss Fletcher have out with her lot in front of the others straightaway. “I’m glad to hear it. As you may have guessed, the manor has been neglected over the years, though now with the backing of the Duke of Dunscaby, I aim to see the rooms set to rights in short order.”

The woman sucked in her lips, making her face look like a prune. “It will be a monumental task, I’ll say.”

“Then, with your help we shall chip away at it one day at a time,” Charity replied, turning toward the last guest.

“Ester Satchwell.” The lassie’s crossed arms tightened. “I…ah…prefer horses to humans.”

“Lovely, then you shall get on well with my sister. She has just gone to the stables to?—”

As the words left her lips, the front door slammed, and Modesty clomped into the vestibule, completely forgetting her manners. “Chaaaarity! There’s been a cave-in!”

To the sound of Miss Jacoby’s gasp, Modesty continued into the parlor with straw sticking out of her red hair, arms flailing. “Had I taken two more steps, both Albert and I would have been flattened.”

“My word,” Charity said, doing her best not to fixate on Miss Fletcher’s dour frown. Perhaps Willaby had been right—the manor was about to crumble beneath their feet. “Was anyone injured? What about the horses?”

“May I go down to the harbor?” asked Kitty, sidling in through the rear door of the butcher’s shop. “The tide’s out. ’Tis the best time to collect shells.”

Harry sheathed his boning knife in the empty loop on the belt over his leather apron and regarded his little sister, thirteen years his junior. “Are your chores done?”

“Of course they are.”

He drummed his fingers on the thick, wooden cutting bench. “The kitchen’s mopped, the dishes washed and put away?”

Kitty gaped, throwing out her hands as if she were affronted. “Would I be asking for leave if they were not?”

Harry knew better than to succumb to his sister’s innocent expression. “Yes.”

The chit dropped her arms. “Well, they are. Moreover, I made five pennies selling my seashell wreaths. Soon I’ll earn enough coin to pay my own way.”

“I would worry more about caring for our mother and keeping the rooms tidy than selling trinkets and baubles.”

“May I go?”

“Yes, but I want you home by the time the church bell rings the noon hour.”

Before Kitty moved, the door of the butcher shop opened, making the bell tinkle. “Good morn.” In walked a woman, dressed as if she were planning a promenade through London’s Hyde Park rather than pay a visit to a butcher’s shop. She smiled, her oval face perfectly framed by a brand-new straw bonnet lined with ivory lace. “My name is Lady Charity MacGalloway, and this is my sister, Lady Modesty.”

“Cor,” blubbered Kitty from behind. “Would ye have a look at that.”

Harry flicked a dismissive hand at the imp before offering a respectful bow, unable to remember the last time a woman of quality had visited the shop, let alone anyone with a Scottish accent. “Good morn, my lady and my lady, Harry Mansfield at your service. How may I help you this fine day?”

Her Ladyship moved toward the counter, not making a sound, seeming to glide across the floorboards rather than walk. She smiled not only with her lips but with her deep blue eyes, giving him an uncanny sense of ease. “I would like to arrange an urgent order of breakfast meats as well as joints of lamb and pork to satisfy a household of nine—no, let us say ten—for the next three or four days, followed by regularly scheduled deliveries of?—”

“Would you like to go down to the harbor to hunt for shells with me?” Kitty interrupted, her question directed at Lady Modesty who appeared to be of a similar age. “The tide’s out. We ought to find plenty of treasure.”

“I beg your pardon?” Harry thrust his fists onto his hips and eyed his sister. “It is quite rude to speak over anyone, let alone a lady.”

The lovely woman held up her palm, but before she could utter a word, the redheaded lass beside her clasped her hands beneath her chin and hopped in place. “Och aye, I love combing the shore for shells. May I please, Sister?”

Lady Charity warily shifted her gaze from Lady Modesty to Kitty then out to the shiny black carriage just beyond the windows. “You may if Tearlach accompanies you. Please inform the driver he is to remain here. I’ve several more stops to make before we can return to the manor.”

To the sound of giggles, Kitty absconded with her new friend, leaving Her Ladyship biting her lip and looking a tad uncertain. “It is safe to hunt for shells along the harbor, is it not?”

“If it weren’t, I never would have allowed Kitty to go, let alone take your sister along.”

The woman’s smile returned and Harry’s heart skipped a beat or two. “Now where was I?”

“You mentioned scheduling regular deliveries,” he said, thinking he wouldn’t mind if she decided to spend half the morning in his shop discussing meat orders or the weather or anything else that might strike her fancy.

“Right. I fully intend for the household to grow. I not only have many servants to hire, we will be expecting regular… guests . How often would you suggest scheduling meat deliveries to feed a household of say, fifteen? Of course, I expect the number will increase to twenty or so, but not for some time.”

“You mentioned a manor. Were you referring to Huntly, the late Earl of Brixham’s residence?” he asked, wishing the discussion had indeed segued to the weather.

“Aye, that’s the one.”

Harry looped his thumbs into the straps of his apron. Bless it, this conversation would be far easier to have with a servant than a gentlewoman. It was no secret that the earl had been all but bankrupt. For the past several years, orders from Huntly Manor were paid in advance. “Please forgive any impertinence on my part, but bill whom, may I ask?”

“Oh dear.” The woman’s cheeks flooded with color as she gave him a darling cringe. Holy Moses, with a face like hers he might give her the breakfast meats at no charge, if she tried to barter. “I ought to have mentioned something sooner. The estate is now supported by the Duke of Dunscaby.”

Harry should have realized. The duke had been in residence at Huntly for a brief period upon the announcement of his engagement to Brixham’s daughter, Lady Julia. He tapped a finger to his chin while the puzzle pieces merged together in his mind.

Lady Charity MacGalloway?

“You’re the duke’s daughter, are you?”

“Aye, though to allay any confusion that may arise about Dunscaby siring a child at the tender age of six, I am the present duke’s sister. My father is at rest, bless his soul.”

“Ah, yes. Please forgive my error.” Harry picked up a pencil and busied himself with jotting a note on a slip of paper, though he never needed to write anything down, especially a standing order from the sister of a duke, who happened to have the prettiest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Not to mention a warm smile, and she wasn’t a whisp of a waif like so many of her ilk. Taller than average, she was delightfully full-figured, with curls the color of cinnamon peeking beneath the lace lining of her bonnet.

Her gaze followed his hand and traveled upward, stopping at his exposed forearm. Given the summer’s heat, he’d rolled up his sleeves during the morning’s work and hadn’t thought to push them back down. “I would think a delivery every three days would suffice, would it not?” she asked, her voice a tad airier than it had been before.

Harry’s heart nearly thudded to a stop as she licked her lips. “Yes, madam. I reckon that ought to suffice, or twice per week. I’ll coordinate with your cook, shall I?”

“Cook?” She asked, snapping her gaze away and placing her hand on the placard advertising his upcoming fight. “Yes, I suppose coordinating with the cook makes the most sense. Though I would…”

The lass looked up from the placard and met his gaze, all but taking his breath away. “Are you a boxer as well, Mr. Mansfield?”

“I am.”

“Astounding.” She tapped the paper most pointedly. “But this says Harry Mansfield is challenging the reigning champion, Dudley the Destroyer. Why does Mr. Destroyer have such a foreboding name, and they merely refer to you as if you were listed in a long line of ignoble contenders?”

Ignoble? The woman made it sound as if he were some scrapper from the gutter. Still, he leaned over and reread the verbiage, even though he could recite it by heart. It was quite respectable for a boxer to step into a ring with the Destroyer. “I hadn’t really thought of it that way.”

“Well, I believe it is of utmost importance to be on a par with one’s adversaries, would you not agree? What does Harry stand for anyway? Harold? Henry? Harrison?”

Goodness, were all highborn ladies as forward, or just Scottish ladies? “Harold, I’m afraid.”

“Och, wheesht.” She batted her hand through the air as if he’d uttered a blasphemous curse. “Mind you, Harold is a perfectly good name. But we must come up with something to put the fear of the Almighty into the hearts of your contenders. What about Harold the Harrier?”

He blinked. Had this woman just used the term “we”? What the devil did she know about boxing? “Harrier?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hatchet?”

Harry shook his head. “I think not.”

“I suppose Hedgehog is completely inappropriate, though I do love hedgehogs ever so much.” Lady Charity drummed her fingers on the counter. “What about Harry the Hard Hitter?”

Holy macaroons, Hard Hitter, Harrier, Hedgehog? Somehow, he needed to find a way to redirect the conversation toward meat. Perhaps if he agreed with something, she’d leave it be. “Now I suppose that has a bit of a ring.”

“Nay, nay, nay, Hard Hitter isn’t fierce enough.” Her Ladyship held up the placard and gave it an intense once-over before those beautiful blues again shifted his way, this time filled with zeal as though she’d found a gold coin. “I have it. Harry the Horrible!”

Lord save him, he could imagine headlines sounding off about his horrible form.

“Beastly Butcher?” she squeaked.

He thumbed the handle of the cleaver in his belt. “Mayhap keep it simple. What would you think of just The Butcher?” Had he just bought into her absurdity? Did he truly need an epithet? But then again, her bubbly enthusiasm was nearly impossible to resist.

Lady Charity tsked her tongue while her stunned gaze met his. “Brilliant! Och, I do like it. The Butcher it is.” As she clapped her hands, her shoulders shook with her laugh. Hers was no tittering laugh, as one would expect from a woman of quality. Her laugh was filled with unabashed joy, and made him chuckle along with her. This woman seemed so genuine, so agreeable, it was difficult to believe she was the sister of a duke, of all things.

“But do you not fear injury?” she asked, suddenly serious. “I would think a man with a profession such as yours could ill afford to be away from his shop for long.”

“You’re not wrong there, but the bit of coin I earn helps pay for me ma’s care. Brixham is merely a small seaside village surrounded by farms—many folk don’t require my services at all.”

“Heavens, I am sorry to hear your mother is in ill health. I do hope her condition is not serious.”

“Her pleurisy comes and goes, though of late it seems to come more than go.” Harry rested his palm on the handle of the butcher knife sheathed in his belt. “I do what I can to help, I suppose—take on odd jobs as well.”

Lady Charity moved away from the paper and regarded him with pointed interest. “What sort of odd jobs?”

Harry shrugged. “This and that. I built a new hen house for Mrs. Bixby, and hung a door at the church last week.”

“Is that so?” the lady asked, while a lovely smile spread across her face. “It just so happens the roof of our barn had a small cave-in yesterday. No one was hurt, thank heavens, but the damage must be fixed straightaway. Would roofing be among your repertoire of skills?”

“I reckon it is.”

“Truly, and it willna interrupt your training for…?” Her Ladyship’s attention returned to the placard. “Goodness, your bout at the harbor warehouse is only a fortnight away.”

“Believe me, pails of pitch and solid-oak beams are heavy enough to strengthen any man’s arms.” Harry clapped his meaty hands together and rubbed his palms. “How about I give you enough bacon and sausages for breakfast on the morrow, as well as three chickens for tonight’s meal? Then when I deliver your first order, I’ll have a look at the damages.”

“That sounds marvelous, and bring Kitty along if she’s so inclined. It might be nice for Modesty to entertain a friend her age.” Lady Charity leaned in and gave a saucy wink. “I imagine since the lassies have not yet returned, they’re already fast allies.”

Harry stood stunned. Had an aristocratic lady just winked at him? The Scottish nobility must be vastly more affable than the English.