Chapter 3
“There’s a dog in the kitchen!”
Fiona squealed, as if their father’s dogs hadn’t followed him everywhere, including the privy.
“That’s Ivy. I shut her in because I don’t want her puppies born in the stables. There are too many rats out there.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if there were rats in this very room,”
Fiona said darkly, walking over to the hearth where Ivy was lying on an old blanket. “She’s an odd animal. Thin as a starved weasel, except around the belly, of course. What is she?”
“A snap-dog bred for rag-racing. The men were done with her, since bitches never race as well after giving birth. They were about to drown her when I happened by.”
Fiona crouched down and scratched Ivy’s head. “It’s a sweet dog you are, aren’t you? No good for anything but chasing rags, and what’s the point of that?”
Ivy nudged her hand. “You are a beauty, a weasel-like beauty,”
Fiona crooned, stroking her sleek neck. “At the very least, Caelan, you could put Ivy in a box. Don’t you remember when one of Father’s dogs ran around the Great Hall with puppies dropping out along the way?”
“Mother was wildly offended,”
Caelan said, grinning. Their mother had been strident at best, and though she was regularly aggrieved by the state of the world—and her marriage—she never gave up her attempts to civilize the household. She would have been appalled by the state of the castle these days.
“Don’t you dare give the Bean a useless puppy,”
Fiona tossed over her shoulder.
“I thought he was Alfie now.”
Fiona straightened up. “I actually feel sorry for Ivy, giving birth in this pigsty.”
Caelan looked around, and while he didn’t think there were any rats, he took her point. His late wife had fussed until he’d put in a Rumford stove, but it showed little sign of use. Shortly after she’d been hired, Mrs. Baldy had informed him that she held with the old ways, by which she meant an open fireplace.
“Caelan!”
his sister said sharply. “Do you see that pile of cabbage leaves in the corner? Not the one where Mrs. Baldy piled spare pans—because supposedly it was too much trouble to hang them back up.”
He walked over and kicked the large drift of withered leaves; an indignant squeak suggested he was disturbing a mouse. “I take your point,”
he conceded.
“You need a housekeeper. One who will stay in place.”
“As I told you, I hire them, but since Isla died, they never stay. Not until Mrs. Baldy.”
“That’s because they fall in love with you and wither from lack of attention.”
“Nonsense,”
Caelan said.
“Remember Mrs. Garnet last fall?”
He shrugged.
“She made up the name. She was one of the unmarried Mclean daughters, and she thought you’d see her flitting around with an apron and feather duster and fall in love with her delectable domesticity. When you paid her no attention, she had a breakdown and had to be sent to the Lowlands for a rest cure.”
“She wasn’t here more than a month or two!”
“She was too young to understand that you were still grieving Isla and had no interest in another woman. Here’s my point, Caelan: you can get anything in London. If we think creatively, we could even order a wife.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Think of getting a wife as a . . . transaction. We all know there isn’t another Isla out there. I could order you a perfectly sound wife from London, perhaps even one with a dowry. Who wouldn’t want to marry a fairly young, healthy laird? I hear they sell ladies there, two for a pound.”
“God, no.”
“All right, then, a housekeeper.”
“Why from London? Why not hire one here?”
“Because no decent Scotswoman will remain in this castle,”
Fiona cried, obviously exasperated. “That dog will be giving birth in the kitchen, won’t she, right there on the blanket? Any minute, from the looks of her.”
“Aye.”
“I need say no more.”
“Why would an Englishwoman stay longer than a Scotswoman? I haven’t met many, but my impression is that they are easily horrified.”
“An English housekeeper who agrees to come all the way to Scotland is desperate. Fleeing an abusive husband, maybe. From what I hear, Englishmen are quick with their fists. What’s more, she’ll stay in place because she won’t have a way to get back home. It wouldn’t be like the Mclean girl, who ran straight back to her mum.”
Caelan scowled. “I don’t want anyone trapped here.”
“I have a confession,”
Fiona said, grinning like a loon. “I posted the advertisement a few months ago, and I hired the best of the lot. The woman may be on her way to Scotland already and should arrive by the end of the month. But don’t worry: she won’t be able to say that she wasn’t warned. I described your situation in bald terms.”
Caelan clenched his teeth. He loved his sister. He just couldn’t remember why, since she was an interfering busybody.
“I also ordered you a bathtub from Glasgow,”
Fiona added.
“Why? I bathe in the loch.”
“Because you need a housekeeper and a bathtub before a woman would consider marrying you.”
Caelan dropped the dirty plates on the counter, leaned back against the sink, and folded his arms over his chest. “Your expression belongs to our father. No mistaking it.”
Fiona ignored the insult. “The privy off your bedchamber is big enough for a plumbed bath.”
“Plumbed bath? Where would the water come from?”
“Rory mounted a tank on our roof that collects rainwater. It sits atop a stove and heated water flows down to my bath when I turn a spigot.”
“Men are hauling wood up to the attic for your bath?”
“Coal,”
Fiona retorted. “The stove is a good, solid one, and a kettleful of coal keeps it warm for hours. Used water goes straight down to the moat through the sewer channel—and that helps clear the pit. It’s a brilliant design.”
“Who’s hauling all that coal?”
“Our footmen!”
Fiona cried. “You are living in the dark ages, Caelan. Mother had three footmen, don’t you remember? Isla had four.”
Four footmen? Hell, no. He picked up the dirty plates rather than answer. Mrs. Baldy had apparently been soaking dishes in a pail, so he stuck them in with the others.
“That water is as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat,”
Fiona said, promptly pulling them back out and setting them in a tub in the stone sink. “Get me a pail of clean water. I should order you a sink as well. This one must date to the birthday of Bonnie Prince Charles.”
Caelan shrugged, pumped some water, and brought it over, filling the tub.
“I’m getting you a bath and a housekeeper because someday you’ll see a lady coming toward you with dainty feet, shining eyes, golden hair, and a sweet expression—a cherub! You’ll fall in love and ask her to marry you on the spot,”
his sister said, grinning because she knew it would snow in hell before that happened.
“I’ve no interest in angels.”
“I know your heart aches,”
his sister said, bumping his shoulder with hers. “But it will get better, Caelan.”
He didn’t bother answering, just nudged her to the side and began washing the plates, adding those from the dirty pail as well. If Mrs. Baldy was gone, Fiona was right. He did need help.
Behind them, Ivy yelped. When Caelan turned his head, the dog was standing up and looking at him in confusion.
“Oh, bloody hell,”
Fiona muttered. “The puppies are coming.”
“Go fetch the Bean. He’ll enjoy it as much as we did, and it’ll teach him that not everything is born from an egg.”
“I will not!”
“He’d love a puppy,”
Caelan remarked, putting the last plate to the side.
“I already put up with that chicken roosting in his bedchamber at night. I’m not adding a dog to the mix.”
“Chickenshit in your son’s bedchamber,”
Caelan said musingly. “What would Mother think? Pot . . . meet kettle.”