Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
The vast dining hall, historically a mausoleum of decorum, was a different entity altogether that night.
The polished wood and stern portraits seemed to shrink under the weight of joyful, unadulterated laughter.
The heavy scents of roasted venison and mulled wine hung in the air, a warmth in the room’s ancient chill.
Callum loudly clapped Benedict on the shoulder as he took his seat near the head of the table next to him, causing Aunt Honoria to nearly drop her wine glass.
“Do not be so gruff,” Aunt Honoria clipped.
“Relax, Aunt,” Callum said with a laugh, grabbing his wine. “His Grace is as big as an ox. He can take it! In fact, ye should have seen him in the alley!”
“That is enough, brother,” Isla said with a smile, not wanting him to push the matter further. “I think some things are better left unsaid.”
“Well… ye have outdone yerself, sister,” Callum recovered, gesturing around the great room with a piece of crusty bread. “I havenae seen this much polished wood since I helped Uncle Donald with his coffin.”
Aunt Honoria gasped again, quickly dabbing her mouth with a napkin as she forced a polite smile. “Callum! A coffin is hardly appropriate dinner conversation at a ducal table! You will mind yourself as a guest in their graces’ home!”
“I think we are still gettin’ used to all this grandeur,” Eilidh said softly. Ye have a beautiful home, Yer Grace. Thank ye so much for havin’ us.”
“Thank you, Lady Eilidh,” Benedict said as he took a slow, deliberate sip of his wine. “The pleasure is mine, I can assure you.”
“Give us a week and we will be speakin’ in hushed English tones and discussin’ the merits of huntin’ hounds,” Callum joked again, taking another sip of his goblet.
“I suspect I would prefer the stories of coffins, Callum. It is certainly a livelier topic than the usual parliamentary gossip, which I abhor,” Benedict said as he looked at Isla, a quiet appreciation in his eyes.
“In fact, the entire atmosphere is quite a welcome change. I believe the room has breathed more tonight than it has in a decade, perhaps a century.”
Isla smiled back, reaching over her brother and across the massive table just to graze his sleeve. “It only needs a bit of life, Yer Grace. And some good food, of course.”
Eilidh, who was sitting beside Oliver, leaned down and whispered to the boy. “Yer faither is a hard man to please, Oliver. Did ye hear him? He prefers a coffin story to huntin’!”
Oliver, delighted, whispered back, “He knows how to read the stars now! Isla told him about Alistair MacDougal!”
Eilidh laughed, her voice as pleasant as a wind chime as the sound spread through the room. Her vivacious spirit was infectious. “Ah, the farmer! The only man to tell time by the rotation of the heavens for the quality of his cabbages.”
Kenneth leaned forward then, his eyes meeting Eildih’s.
“That sounds like a most interesting story, Lady Eilidh. Perhaps you could tell it to me over a digestif?”
“Watch yerself,” Callum said as he gave Lord Murkwood a look.
Kenneth turned to the Duke then, addressing Benedict with a serious expression. “On that note, Your Grace, I must know. Have you truly sworn off all London trips and society dinners after your last excursion? Have you discovered the merits of a quiet life?”
“I have discovered the merits of fact, my lord,” Benedict replied, setting his wine glass down. He looked pointedly at Isla. “London has its place for business matters that are required, but I care not for polite society.”
“Aye,” Isla said softly, much to Aunt Honoria’s chagrin.
“I spent many years believing that power, grandeur and duty were the only things that mattered in this world. It seems I was mistaken,” Benedict said softly.
The room grew so quiet that one could hear a pin drop.
“A country life is considerably more interesting when shared with the proper company,” he said as he raised his glass. “To present company.”
Isla felt a rush of warmth, and she watched as Aunt Honoria finally seemed to relax, patting Callum’s hand. Everyone raised their glasses and took a long sip as the footman arrived in perfect time to refresh their goblets.
“Well said, Your Grace,” Honoria declared, her voice regaining its firm clip. “A good wife is the only accessory a Duke truly needs. And a good cook, of course. My word, this venison is truly divine! I must have the recipe!”
Oliver watched them all, his small face alight with happiness, clutching a roast potato. “I doubt Mrs. Callahan will let the cook part with his secrets, but you can try, my lady!”
The group laughed as the soup course began then in relative quiet. The vichyssoise was so delicious, it was punctuated only by the clinking of silverware and Aunt Honoria’s sharp glances at Callum, who was in danger of using the wrong spoon.
“The drive was nae too brutal, then, Yer Grace?” Callum asked Benedict, his voice booming down the long table as he broke the silence.
Benedict paused, lifting his gaze from his vichyssoise. “The coach is excellent. It was a comfortable enough journey.”
“Good. Good,” Kenneth chimed in from the other side, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I will have to ride with you next time.”
“We took the faster road up. Ye should try it next time, but ye’d need to take a smaller rig, eh? Dinnae want to scratch yer ducal coach on those tight turns,” Callum said as he polished off his wine once more.
Aunt Honoria let out a choked gasp, quickly covering her mouth with her napkin. “Callum, must you advise His Grace on rigs? Honestly! You are a marquess, you must adhere to polite conversation even amongst family.”
“It is sound advice, Dowager Countess,” Benedict said, surprising everyone by not only defending Callum but offering a dry smile. “Though I doubt my coachman would ever consent to taking such paths.”
Isla caught Benedict’s eye, and they shared a moment of proud, affectionate amusement.
He is trying… and he fits in so well with me Scottish family.
As the main course, a magnificent roast pheasant, was brought to the table. Callum raised his glass of wine; his gaze was respectful but direct toward Benedict.
“To the Duke and Duchess of Ealdwick,” he toasted. “Welcome home, Yer Graces and for sharin’ it with us this holiday season.”
“Here, here!” Aunt Honoria said as she signaled to the footman for more wine.
“And thank ye for making our sister smile again,” Eilidh said softly.
“Thank you all,” Benedict responded, his voice deep and sincere. “I am… grateful to have you all here. Welcome to Ealdwick. Our home is your home.”
“I hope ye daenae regret sayin’ that later,” Callum joked once more.
As the last dregs of port were served and the group polished off their chocolate gateau, Oliver began to yawn, rubbing his eyes. Isla stood immediately.
“Time for bed, mo chridhe,” Isla said, taking his hand.
“I will have Mrs. Callahan fetch his governess,” Benedict said, rising to his feet.
“Nay,” Isla said with a smile. “Let me do it.”
“Very well,” Benedict replied with a smile, sitting back down.
As she led Oliver away, Aunt Honoria leaned toward Benedict.
“Your Grace,” she whispered. “She is doing well. I can see it. She is happy, and you have been a very good husband to her.”
Benedict watched Isla’s retreating figure, seeing the way she comforted his son with an effortless grace, pulling him tight to her side as they walked together.
He simply nodded, words unnecessary. He did not need to be told. The life and laughter that now echoed in Ealdwick was proof.
Isla returned an hour later and found Benedict standing by a tall window in the hall, staring out at the frosty grounds. He was tired, but the tension in his shoulders was gone, replaced by a quiet thoughtfulness.
“He is out like a light,” Isla murmured, approaching him. “A long day of travel and excitement is good for a wee lad.”
Benedict turned, offering her a faint, genuine smile. “You managed the chaos with grace, Isla.”
“I think that was ye work. Ye made even Aunt Honoria almost forget herself.”
“Perhaps,” he smiled as he brought her into his arms.
“Although, I think she only relaxed when she realized Callum had nae yet broken anythin’,” Isla chuckled. She shivered slightly. “It is a cold night, but the air is so clean here, is it nae?”
“Agreed, I care not for the smell of industry that has begun to sweep through London.”
“I have missed the smell of the winter air in the country. Let’s nae go up yet. Come out with me.”
“Out?” Benedict frowned, glancing at the freezing glass. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Aye. I cannae sleep after all that noise and I missed the after-dinner drinks with ye and me family. The sky is glorious. We can stand on the terrace and watch the stars.”
“It has been a long day—”
“Just for ten minutes.”
Benedict hesitated for only a second. “Very well. But only if you procure two of those heavy travelling rugs from the cloakroom. I refuse to freeze for a constellation.”
Isla’s face lit up. She quickly gathered two enormous, wool tartan rugs from a nearby chest.
Moments later, they slipped out onto the wide stone balcony overlooking the snow-dusted grounds. The air hit them—sharp, biting, and exhilarating. They wrapped the rugs tightly around their shoulders, huddling together against the cold.
Above them, the sky was a deep, velvet black, pricked by a million brilliant, icy stars.
“Look at them,” Isla breathed, leaning her head against his shoulder. The heavy wool rug kept them warm, but it was the solid, dependable weight of his presence that truly grounded her. “Oliver would be delighted.”
“They are impressive,” Benedict conceded, looking up, his voice low, subdued by the vastness above.
“It felt like home tonight, Yer Grace. Like a proper home.”
Benedict gently shifted the rug so it covered her neck more completely, his hand brushing her cheek.
They stood there for several minutes, wrapped in the wool and the quiet beneath the silent majesty of the night.