Chapter 12 #2
Magnus had been a Scot, through and through, but he’d left the Highlands with bitterness under his tongue.
“The land couldn’t support us, Montgomery. Not with all those sheep. It’s why I’ll not have the devils on my land.” Magnus had ruffled his hair, then. “I’m raising a fine family of Scots here in America, boy. Men who are Highlanders in their hearts.”
His grandfather had died before the war, before seeing his family torn in two. He’d died and been buried in the churchyard down the road before knowing what had happened to Gleneagle.
Now, Magnus Fairfax was here, his ghost as companionable as those of Alisdair and James and Caroline. Gleneagle was here, sprung forth from the land to welcome him in Scotland.
Who was being fey now?
“The staff would like to greet you,” Edmund said. “They’re arranged in the Round Parlor, Your Lordship.”
The last thing he wanted to do was play Lord Fairfax, but he waved Edmund toward the other wing of the house. He glanced at Veronica. She’d not released his arm, and, as they turned, she squeezed it, a wordless gesture to indicate her support.
“Shall we go introduce ourselves?” he asked.
She nodded, and he couldn’t help wonder if she felt as dazed as he, albeit for different reasons. He decided to push his thoughts away until he could deal with them. Nothingness was easier.
They followed Edmund through double doors and into the River Wing, the side of the house facing the River Tairn. Although its dimensions were the same, the Round Drawing Room was different from its twin at Gleneagle, a fact Montgomery found to be a relief.
The room overlooked the sloping banks of the river and featured views of the rolling glens.
Was this room used like the one at Gleneagle: a place for visitors to be greeted and impressed by the view, or impressed by Gleneagle itself?
The power and the influence of the Fairfax family were evident once a visitor had been welcomed to their Virginia home.
Above him, the ceiling was festooned with ornate carvings, complete with plaster ribbons trailing from a center bouquet to each corner, where a dimpled cherub held one end.
He was grateful to note that the mania for fringe and crimson dominating the living spaces of London hadn’t reached Scotland.
Instead, the walls were covered in a pale green fabric, the gilt furniture arranged in such a way that guests could walk close to the windows, or perhaps utilize the door to the left to wander to the terrace outside.
A trio of sofas, accompanied by the requisite number of tables and lamps, were arranged in front of the massive white stone fireplace.
Arranged in a line from the windows to the door were the men and women who comprised the staff of Doncaster Hall.
An impressive number of people—short, tall, portly, slender—each attired in what were probably Fairfax colors, pale blue and white.
Each woman and man bore a singular expression, one of sincere welcome that would have been flattering had he not felt as if the last quarter hour was out of time and place.
He forced a smile to his face and greeted each person, nodding as Edmund introduced them.
Ralston was the majordomo, an older man with stiff, broad shoulders and boasting a thatch of white hair tamed in a leonine fashion.
Mrs. Brody, the housekeeper, in turn introduced the rest of the staff, from Cook to the gardeners.
He heard Veronica murmur greetings beside him, grateful she, at least, had been suitably trained in such details.
What the hell was a Virginian, schooled in the law, forced into war, and interested in an odd avocation, doing playing at being a lord of Scotland?
Veronica had never felt such blistering pain from anyone.
The sight of this place, this house, had opened a door in Montgomery, emotions she’d only fleetingly felt earlier.
Grief, mixed with despair and longing, rolled in waves from him.
Even without her Gift, she would have seen the anguish in his eyes.
She gripped his arm tighter, just to let him know he wasn’t alone. She was here, and she’d help in whatever way she could to banish that look in his eyes and the set, frozen expression on his face.
His responses were proper, if distant. His greetings were polite and a little cold.
The warm welcome on the faces of the staff faded to caution.
Here was a master who would not be as benevolent, their eyes said.
Here was someone who would not care for their welfare as much as the 10th Lord Fairfax of Doncaster.
She tried to add what warmth she could in her smile, in her comments, but she was more concerned with the stiffness in the arm she held, an iron control she suspected was hard-won.
When they were done, the staff still stood at attention, as if expecting a speech from Montgomery. The man of an hour ago could have done it, but she didn’t know if this man could push back the pain long enough to make the effort.
Montgomery surprised her, however, by striding to the windows, then turning and facing the group.
“Thank you for your welcome for me and my wife,” he said, glancing at her.
She smiled in response, the perfect expression for such a situation. Thankfully, she’d been privy to many of Aunt Lilly’s lectures on the decorum expected of the daughters of an earl. With any luck, the lessons would translate well to being the wife of a lord.
“I look forward to our continued cooperation in the months ahead,” he said.
The staff smiled and nodded, but she saw more than a few confused glances. Why had Montgomery said months and not years? Had he decided to return to America after all? She pushed back the thought, keeping her smile firmly moored in place as he strode ahead of her, Mr. Kerr at his side.
“Shall I see you to the family quarters, Lady Fairfax?” the housekeeper asked.
She slowed, allowing her pace to match that of the older woman. It was just as well, she’d lost sight of Montgomery.
Mrs. Brody was older, with the confidence of someone who knows she does her job well.
Her hair was closer to silver than white, arranged in a coronet at the top of her head.
An almost militaristic arrangement, as if she cowed any stray tendrils into obeying.
Her face bore a few faint lines, especially around the corners of her eyes and mouth, giving her the impression that the woman smiled more than the role required.
“If you would, please, Mrs. Brody.”
“You’ve the voice of Scotland,” the housekeeper said in surprise.
She nodded. “My home was not far from here,” she said. “Lollybroch.”
The expression on the housekeeper’s face changed from polite interest to genuine delight. “I know the village well,” she said. “We’ve hired several girls from there over the years.”
For a few moments, they discussed people each might know. Veronica didn’t explain her father’s studious habits, or the fact her mother had followed his lead. As a family, they hadn’t socialized, but she did add she hadn’t been home in more than two years.
“Once a Scot, always a Scot,” Mrs. Brody said, reaching over and patting her arm in a gesture that would have garnered a remonstrance from Aunt Lilly. In Scotland, however, the lines between servant and master were often blurred.
“Your husband, though, he’s from America.”
She nodded. “He is. Virginia.”
“We’ve had a number of ours gone to America,” Mrs. Brody said. “It’s a sight for one to come back.”
She wasn’t certain Montgomery was here to stay, another comment she didn’t make to the housekeeper.
“Shall I tell you a little about the house, then?”
What she really wanted to know was why it had such an effect on Montgomery, but she nodded. Otherwise, the housekeeper would no doubt complain to the majordomo, and the tale would slowly filter down to all the staff that the mistress had no interest in the house itself.
The corridor in which they traveled was filled with portraits, all done in the same style. A three-quarters pose, painted in front of rows of bookshelves, the subject staring out at the River Tairn.
“A tradition,” Mrs. Brody said, noticing her glance. “Each of the lords has had his portrait painted in the Grand Library.”
The men arrayed in the gallery did not bear much resemblance to Montgomery.
No distinct familial traits were revealed in each successive portrait.
No large nose or widely placed eyes, or ears that stuck out too much.
No one had the distinctive blue eyes Montgomery possessed.
Nor were any of the prior lords as handsome as her husband.
They mounted a set of stairs nowhere near as ornamental or magnificent as the oval staircase. Still, the banister was polished mahogany, and the balusters were ornately carved and dusted with gilt.
At the second-floor landing, she halted.
She’d not expected as much rich detail in the family suite as she saw.
The emerald carpets were a perfect backdrop for the brass and crystal chandeliers.
The walls were covered in a pale green patterned damask, while white vases and urns were placed throughout the hallway and on two long mahogany tables.
Someone had filled the vases with spring flowers.
The effect was not only welcoming but warm.
“We have the Best Bedroom here,” Mrs. Brody was saying. “And the dressing room that goes with it. Then there’s the Lady’s Private Room next to that, and the Lady’s Bedroom.”
Mrs. Brody walked down the hall, gesturing with her hand toward the end of the hall. “That staircase leads to the nursery wing,” she said. “Shall we go there first?”
“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Brody, could you just show me the Lady’s Bedroom? I find I’m extraordinarily tired from our journey.”
A little lie, but surely one for which she’d be forgiven. She didn’t want to see the nursery wing just then, didn’t want to think of the future when it was so uncertain.
The housekeeper looked aghast. “Forgive me, my lady, of course you’re tired.”
She opened the third door in the hall, then stood aside for Veronica to precede her. “If you’ll note the poppy seed heads in the plasterwork detail, Your Ladyship. That dates from the time the house was first constructed.”
“It’s quite a lovely room,” she said, looking around her.
The bed was smaller than she’d expected, more space being given up to the two armoires and vanity.
The wallpaper, ivory with gold flowers, was lovely.
The floorboards were covered in an ivory carpet with the same flowers replicated at intervals. A room fit for a Scots princess.
She was, at least, a Scot.
Mrs. Brody opened the door to the Lady’s Private Room, which turned out to be three rooms: a bathing chamber and lavatory, a dressing room, and a small sitting room connected to the sitting room adjoining the Best Bedroom.
Evidently, if a wife wished to communicate with her husband, she needn’t leave her chamber and walk down the hall to do so.
“What an unusual arrangement,” she said.
Mrs. Brody nodded. “Doncaster Hall has many secret corridors as well, Your Ladyship,” Mrs. Brody said. “I would be more than happy to show you those as well. Shall we say tomorrow?”
She nodded her agreement. Doncaster Hall was like something out of one of her novels, complete with a handsome prince and hidden passages.
Clasping her hands together, she turned to face the housekeeper.
“It’s a lovely suite, Mrs. Brody,” she said.
“Perhaps you would like to join me in the attic tomorrow, Lady Fairfax. We’ve stored a lot of the furniture there.
If you’d prefer something more to your taste.
Of course, we employ carpenters as well.
Or you might wish to have something brought from Lollybroch.
Or even London. A great many of our furnishings have come from London, Edinburgh, and even Paris,” she added proudly.
“I wouldn’t change anything,” she said honestly. “Not one thing.”
After Mrs. Brody left her, she walked back into the sitting room. The wallpaper in the room was a blue-patterned silk, while the furnishings were overstuffed in a pale blue fabric, similar in hue to the shade the servants had been wearing. Was it called Doncaster Blue?
She stood at the window, gazing at the green sloping banks leading to the River Tairn. A gray horizon hinted at a coming storm. She’d missed a Highland storm.
She’d missed everything about her home, from the sound of the language, to the winds of the Highlands, to the feeling of belonging.
Her accent wasn’t unusual here; she shared a common ancestral history.
She felt about this land the same way her countrymen did, as if there was something magical in each hillock, in each gentle swell of glen.
In a few months, all the surrounding trees would drop their leaves and prepare for the long winter but not before a dazzling display of autumnal color.
The river would grow slower, then one morning it would boast a layer of ice.
There’d be frost on the hills first, followed by snow.
Spring would come gradually, creeping up on winter unawares.
The air would grow warmer, then the green shoots and leaves would appear.
This was Scotland, her home.
This house could be her home as well.
On their quarterly visits to Inverness with her family, she’d seen Doncaster Hall from the main road. She’d been intrigued by the sight of the great sprawling house and thought it had looked unbearably lonely.
Yet the moment she’d walked into Doncaster Hall, she’d felt welcomed, as if the house hadn’t been lonely at all, merely waiting for her. As if this place, in all of Scotland, was just where she should be.
Amazingly, she was the chatelaine of Doncaster Hall. She’d gone from being a poor relation to the wife of the man who owned this magical, wonderful house.
She was to live here, to share her life with a complicated, mysterious man who was beginning to fascinate her. She was invariably curious, but never more so than about Montgomery Fairfax.
Would any of her questions about him be answered? Was it even wise to want to know more?