Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The warm scents of bacon and coffee wafted through the Ealdwick Townhouse. The carriages were already drawn up outside, polished to a high sheen, and the crest of the family gleaming on the doors. A mountain of luggage waited in the entrance hall.
Benedict stood by the drawing-room fireplace, his back to the smoldering embers, consulting with his estate manager, Mr. Fredrickson. He wore a heavy, charcoal-gray traveling coat, ready for the journey.
“That will be all, Your Grace,” he said as he took the last of the papers.
“We will be sure the townhouse is kept in perfect order until Your Graces are ready to return. I also can confirm your other properties are doing well and are ready for the winter. Shall we provide the appropriate holiday bonuses to the usual staff?”
“Yes,” Benedict said as he put on his gloves. “With a five percent increase, and ten for yourself.”
“Your Grace, that is incredibly generous for this time of year. I cannot tell you how much Mrs. Frederickson will appreciate this. She is with child you know…”
“I did not know,” Benedict said as he clapped him on the shoulder. “Make it fifteen percent then.”
“Thank you! A most happy Christmas to you and your beautiful family, Your Grace,” the man said as he exited the room with his files.
Across the hall, in the morning room, Isla was supervising the packing of delicate personal effects she had procured while at the market the other day. A maid carefully tucked a set of porcelain trinkets into a padded box while Isla reviewed a list of items to be left behind for when they return.
“Where is Oliver?” Benedict asked as he walked into the morning room, tugging on his gloves in preparation for the cold journey.
“I believe he is just in the main hall, Your Grace,” a footman said with a bow, carrying one last parcel out to the coach.
“Aye, I believe so as well,” Isla said. “Shall I help ye find him?”
“You finish up here. I will go find him myself.”
Benedict found the boy standing quietly there, staring up at a large, framed portrait that had commanded the room for years. It was a beautiful, luminous painting of a woman with laughing eyes and hair the color of rich honey.
Cecilia, the late Duchess, and his mother.
Benedict approached slowly, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. The conversation he had avoided for so long felt suddenly necessary. Inevitable. And, somehow, easier after his confession to Isla.
He took a steady breath as he closed the distance between them.
“She was smiling a lot in that one,” Oliver observed softly, not turning around. “Her eyes look like they are full of stars.”
Benedict stood beside his son, following his gaze as he looked at the portrait he so often avoided.
“They were. She had a remarkable ability to find humor in everything, even my terrible moods. She was the light of the house, Oliver.”
He took a breath, the words forming with less strain than he expected.
“I… I know I have not spoken much about your mother. It was difficult for me, after she left us. But you should know she adored you. When she was pregnant with you, she told me she dreamed of you.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely and completely. You were in her belly when this was painted, so you are actually a part of that picture too.”
Oliver tilted his head. “Did she love flowers, Papa?”
“She did,” Benedict offered. “She could never pass a florist without buying a bouquet when we were in London, making sure the Ealdwick Gardens rivaled anyone. She thought life should be loud and colorful, full of flowers and laughter, too.”
He realized, with a small ache, how much Isla’s presence had started to fulfill that very need.
“I like these stories when you tell them.”
“I am glad, son.”
“Why did you wait so long to tell me, Papa?”
Benedict knelt, mirroring the position Isla always took when talking to Oliver, bringing them eye-to-eye.
“Because I was afraid I would upset you, or that I wouldn’t know how to comfort you. My father was not a very good one, and I am learning every day how to do this.”
Oliver reached out and placed a small, steady hand on his father’s sleeve.
“I miss her, but I am not sad all the time now, Papa. I have my books, and I have the stars.” He paused, then looked toward the doorway, where Isla was speaking with a footman about the last crate.
“And I have Isla now. She tells the best stories, and she always laughs at my jokes.”
Benedict looked over at Isla, watching her animated conversation, her cheeks flushed with the cold air from the open door.
She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen…
“She makes everything better, doesn’t she?” Oliver murmured earnestly as he glanced at Cecilia’s portrait. “I think she would have liked her, Papa. She makes you laugh, too.”
The observation struck Benedict with the force of truth as he looked back down at his son. Oliver had witnessed his father laugh fully only once, in the conservatory, and he had attributed the change entirely to Isla.
Benedict reached out and gently squeezed Oliver’s shoulder. “You are right, son. She would.” He hesitated for a moment, then spoke the words he had never thought he would say, letting the cold, heavy wall around his heart crumble. “And I am happy that Isla is with us, too.”
“Good. Because when you are happy, I’m happy too.”
The moment hung, pure and fragile, a silent promise between father and son.
Benedict rose, his gaze lingering on Oliver, who turned back to gaze at his mother’s portrait, now with a sense of peace.
The young boy was wise beyond his years, and Benedict smiled at the thought of all he would achieve in life.
“Now, about that carriage ride,” Benedict said, his voice regaining some of its usual tone. “I trust Isla is prepared to tell you the entire story of this farmer, because I still maintain it is all utter nonsense.”
Oliver giggled and hurried to fetch his mythology book in the foyer.
Benedict walked over to Isla, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close for a brief, fierce squeeze and not caring who saw.
“Ready to go home, Duchess?” he asked, his eyes conveying a wealth of feeling that transcended the simple question.
“Aye,” Isla replied, leaning into his strength, her heart full. “It is time to go home.”
They stepped out into the crisp, late-autumn air, the sunlight bright and thin. Their new coachman, a stout man named Angus Bailey who had been with another reputable family for decades, stood holding the door open to the large, comfortable traveling carriage.
“Ready when you are, Your Graces,” Angus said, his breath misting in the cold. “Gonna be a right chilly one!”
Benedict helped Isla up the steps, then followed her into the plush interior of their exquisite coach, recently reupholstered while in London.
Oliver, clutching a small book, scrambled in last, settling eagerly onto the seat opposite them. The door shut with a thud, and with a sharp crack of the whip and a jingle of harness, the carriage lurched forward, beginning its long haul to Ealdwick.
They had been on the road for some time when the movement of the coach made Benedict drowsy. Isla watched him lean against the back cushion, his eyes half-closed.
Oliver, however, was wide awake, his chin propped on the window ledge, watching the landscape fly by until the sun began to sink behind fluffy clouds and the interior of the coach grew dimmer.
“Isla?”
“Aye, Oliver. What is it, laddie?” she replied, turning from the window.
“The story,” he prompted. “Could you please tell it to me now?”
Isla smiled, reaching over to gently take the book from him. “Ah, yes! It is in this small book too, but I can embellish a bit for us because I ken it so well. The Tale of the Farmer and the Stars.”
She caught Benedict’s sleepy eyes opening, a challenge in her gaze as she looked at him. He simply lifted one dark brow, closed his eyes again, and settled deeper into his seat.
“Oh, tell me, Isla!” Oliver pleaded.
“Very well,” she began, her voice dropping into a low, musical cadence perfectly suited for storytelling.
“You must understand, Oliver, that deep in the Scottish Highlands, the nights are blacker than any ye have ever seen. No big buildings with lights, no smoke from a hundred chimneys. Just the earth, and the sky. And so, the people who live there, the true Highlanders, look up for true guidance.”
She paused for effect, then continued as she flipped through some pages. “Long ago, there was a farmer named Alistair MacDougal. Alistair was a strong lad, good with his hands, but he was terrible at telling time.”
“How terrible? Was he always late to church like me?”
“Oh, not like that. I think sometimes you dawdle to be late to church! But he could never get the timin’ right.
He would plant his barley too early or harvest his oats too late.
Every year, his crops failed again and again.
Aye, even his neighbors would shake their heads, saying, ‘His head is in the clouds.’”
“Then, one dark winter night, Alistair was sitting by his hearth and feelin’ quite sorry for himself.”
“Oh, that’s sad,” Oliver said as he leaned closer to Isla.
“But suddenly, a light filled his small cottage. It wasnae the moon, and it wasnae a candle. It was light, pure and silvery, like frost on a windowpane,” she said as she tapped the glass of the coach, causing Benedict to stir.
“And standin’ in the light was a beautiful woman, cloaked in midnight-blue velvet that seemed to hold a thousand tiny, shimmering jewels. ”
Oliver was rapt, his knees drawn up to his chest. Even Benedict had shifted his position, now openly watching Isla.
“She was a Starlight Seer, Oliver. A guide, ye see. She told Alistair, ‘Ye look only at the ground, Alistair MacLeod, and so ye miss the timin’ of the world. Look up, instead. For I have woven a celestial calendar just for you.’
“She pointed to the window. When he looked, he saw the sky was alive with brilliant patterns. ‘The Plowman’s Blade will tell ye when to turn the soil,’ she said, pointing to a familiar group of stars.”
“The constellation we call Orion!” Oliver yelled!
“Yes,” Isla said with a small clap as she set the book down.
“Very good deduction! Then she said, ‘When the Shepherd’s Crook hangs low, that will be the time for the shearin’ of the sheep.
’ And she taught him, season by season, to read his life in the vast, constant clock of the sky.
He had to learn the names of the stars, their shapes, and their movements.
He had to trust that the patterns above reflected the rhythms of the earth below. ”
“Did he get it right?” Oliver asked, his voice hushed. “Was he able to take care of the land with her help?”
“Oh, he did,” Isla affirmed. “The next year, his fields were the finest in all of Scotland. He became the wisest farmer in all the Highlands, sharin’ his knowledge with all the other farmers and writin’ this book.”
“Wow,” Oliver said with a smile. “That’s grand!”
“And he never looked at a man-made clock again. His crops flourished, his sheep were fatter than elephants, and his heart was fuller than the sea. Do ye ken why?
“Why Isla?” Benedict asked at that time.
“Because he learned that even the lowliest farmer is connected to the greatest, grandest things in the universe. He learned that the sky is not just a ceiling, but a map. It is also a story, and a promise.”
Isla closed the book. The twilight outside was now deep indigo, and the first few stars were piercing the velvet sky.
“What do you think he really learned, Papa?” Oliver asked, turning to his father.
Benedict’s hand found Isla’s, lacing their fingers together as she leaned her head on his shoulder. He squeezed, his eyes on her.
“He learned, son, that even the wisest man cannot do much without a good guide to show him where to look.”
“The Seer told him one more thing,” Isla murmured, leaning in to whisper in Oliver’s ear.
“She told him that if you ever feel lost or lonely, just look up. Because the stars that shine over the Highlands are the same ones that shine everywhere. A piece of home is always overhead, if ye ken how and where to look.”
Oliver’s eyes widened, his little mouth forming a perfect “O.”
“Truly?” he whispered, glancing up at the night sky as if testing the idea for himself. “The same stars?”
When Isla nodded, he gasped softly, delighted.
“Then the stars know where everyone is!” he said, pointing at one. “That one there, maybe it’s watching over the manor and Scotland at the same time!” He turned back to her, eyes shining. “I’ll look at them every night, so I never forget where we came from.”
Isla smiled, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “That sounds just right, me darling boy.”
The carriage slowed, and the sound of the horses’ hooves muffled as they turned onto the familiar drive. Isla peered out the window, the sky indigo and highlighting the impressive Ealdwick Manor.
“Well, we are here, Oliver,” Benedict said softly, looking from his son’s peaceful face to Isla’s radiant one. “Welcome home.”