Chapter Nine
Bright sunlight pierced the gaps between the curtains. Jeannie stretched sleepily, then woke with a jerk as the events of the previous day—and night—flooded her awareness.
She was married. To the laird.
It could have been a dream—it was mad enough to be one—but the warmth and the comfort of the big bed were real enough.
At Grandad's she'd slept on a thin straw pallet on the floor, the covers heavy and scratchy, but never quite warm enough. And she was up every day before dawn, or Grandad would want to know the reason why.
Here, she lay on a soft, deep mattress, between fine cotton sheets. The blankets were thick and warm, woven from the softest wool. And judging by the light, it was well after sunrise. Yet nobody had come to wake her.
She turned her head cautiously. She was alone in the bed. She didn't remember him leaving, but she did recall drifting off to sleep with his big, hard body curved around her, warm against her back.
It had felt so strange . . . yet oddly right. She'd refused him. And he'd listened. And then he'd held her through the night, as if she were precious to him.
Surely that couldn't be right? She was simply a means to an end. Marriage for the sake of his inheritance. Any woman would have done. She'd been the lucky one, that was all.
She didn't want to get up to face the day. She would give anything to just snuggle down in the warmth, and pretend it really was all a dream, a delicious, fantastical dream.
But if there was one thing that Jeannie had learned in life, it was that nothing came free. This comfort, this warmth, the very position she'd been given—it all had to be earned.
She hadn't had much luck in her life, and she was grateful for the opportunity. She wouldn't waste it. Her husband might not be best pleased with her at the moment, but she'd make him a good wife, she was determined on it.
She ought to have asked him what he expected her to do today, but Cameron was gone, presumably off to do . . . whatever a laird did.
What did a laird's wife do? She considered the question.
He'd told her she'd be the woman of the house. He must have been laughing up his sleeve at that understatement. Still, that's where she'd start. She'd said yesterday that she'd inspect the household with that housekeeper woman, Mrs . . . Mrs. Findlay, that was it.
What then? Cameron's uncle seemed to be the cause of this hasty marriage. It might be as well to pay him a visit and see what she could learn. She did not want to be mistress of a warring house.
She was about to slide out of bed to wash and dress and go in search of some breakfast, when a soft knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," Jeannie called.
Mairie, the maidservant, entered carrying a large jug of gently steaming water.
"Good morning, m'lady, I hope you slept well.
I've brought you hot water to wash in." She carefully set the jug on the washstand and turned with a self-conscious smile.
"The Laird said you'd be sleeping late the morn, and to bring you your breakfast in bed. So, what would you like to eat?"
"What is there?" For the last six years, she'd eaten nothing but porridge for breakfast—and sometimes for dinner as well.
Mairie looked surprised. "Anything you want, m'lady. There's porridge, of course. And if you're still hungry there's eggs, any way you want, and black pudding, ham, kippers, toast—or bannock, if you prefer—whatever you like. And a pot of tea. Or chocolate, if that's your preference."
The choices dazzled her. "A boiled egg would be perfect, and a slice of toast. And tea. Is there any honey?"
"Of course, m'lady. Roskirk honey is the finest you'll ever taste," Mairie said proudly. She turned to leave, then looked back doubtfully. "So, no porridge at all?"
"No porridge," Jeannie said firmly. "Just a soft boiled egg and toast with honey."
Mairie left, and Jeannie slipped out of bed and padded barefoot across the room to make her ablutions.
She slowed, frowning. The wooden floor felt slightly gritty underfoot.
She peered down at it. The floor needed sweeping.
And now she came to look more critically at her surroundings, she could see a faint layer of dust on the mantel.
And the dressing table. And there was a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling.
Jeannie frowned. The room needed a good cleaning.
If she'd been an unexpected guest placed hastily in a little used bedchamber, there might have been an excuse for such slapdash housekeeping—though she didn't think so—but this was the laird's bedchamber. It should be gleaming with care at all times.
She remembered what she'd said to the housekeeper the previous night. I can see for myself the castle is well run.
She'd said it to be polite, that was all. She'd been too nervous yesterday to notice anything. But now, in the clear light of day, and with her wedding night behind her, she realized she'd spoken too soon.
Cameron, manlike, would probably not have noticed the faint air of neglect that was so obvious to her now.
Last night the housekeeper had sent maids up to prepare the laird's bedchamber for his wedding night.
Those sheets had been fresh and sweet smelling—Jeannie might have been nervous, but she'd noticed that.
You could smell the sunshine in freshly washed and dried sheets.
So the maids had made up the bed with fresh sheets, but hadn't swept or mopped the floor or polished the furniture.
Jeannie couldn't imagine anyone neglecting such obvious tasks, especially when preparing the room for their laird on his wedding night. Cameron was obviously beloved by his people, so wouldn't they want his bedchamber to be perfect? Especially for such a night.
Could it be deliberate? An intentional slight? Or was it simply a matter of lazy or neglectful maids.
Thank God for Mam's experience as housekeeper in a great house.
She washed and dressed, pondering the day ahead of her.
She expected some kind of hostility from Cameron's uncle—oh, he'd been all smooth politeness in front of an audience last night, but that would no doubt change once they were alone.
She resolved to take tea with him this afternoon. Best to know from the start.
But first there was the house to inspect with the housekeeper, Mrs. Findlay. And the matter of a dusty bedchamber to be addressed.
She used Cameron's brush and arranged her hair in a loose knot. She stepped back and examined her reflection in the looking glass. And sighed. If only she had a different dress to wear, something smarter and a little bit more fashionable. Clothing was a kind of armor, and she was going into battle.
Legally she was the laird's wife—apart from the consummation—but she still had to earn her place.
* * *
"MAIRIE," JEANNIE SAID when the girl returned with her breakfast on a tray. "The maids who prepared this room yesterday."
"Yes m'lady?" Mairie said cautiously.
"Have them come up, please"—she glanced at the clock on the overmantel—"in fifteen minutes."
Mairie left, and Jeannie turned to her breakfast. She surveyed the tray with pleasure.
Her boiled egg sat in a blue flowered egg-cup, and beside it was a plate of golden toast, still warm, a small dish of butter and a pot of honey.
A blue teapot was covered with a knitted cosy, and beside it sat a dainty cup and saucer with a matching jug containing milk.
There was also a sprig of heather in a tiny vase.
The cook, at least, was taking pains to please the new mistress. The thought cheered her.
She cut the top off her egg and was pleased to see it was perfectly cooked: the white was firm and the yolk rich and runny. She dug in hungrily. It was the best breakfast she'd had in years. The only breakfast that wasn't porridge.
She was finishing her second cup of tea when Mairie returned with two worried-looking girls.
She introduced them; Kirsty and Aileen. Kirsty was wringing her apron between nervous hands.
The girls were close to Jeannie's own age, but their demeanor brought home to her how greatly her position had changed.
She hoped they couldn't tell how nervous she was.
"You prepared this room yesterday, I gather," she said.
"Yes'm, but—"
"Tell me, was it your decision not to sweep the floor or dust the furniture?"
The girls exchanged glances. "I told you we should've—" Kirsty began, then bit her lip.
Aileen lifted her chin and said with an edge of defiance, "It was a busy day yesterday. There were more important things to do than to sweep a floor that Himself wouldna notice. Men don't."
"Did Mrs. Findlay tell you that?"
Aileen shrugged. "She inspected the room herself."
"I see. So this is how the women of Roskirk honor their laird? Leaving him with a dirty bedchamber—on his wedding night?" She spoke quietly, but Kirsty burst into tears.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. We honor the laird, truly we do. We didn't mean—" She looked at Aileen and broke off, sobbing into her handkerchief.
Aileen said nothing. She didn't look particularly repentant.
"I'll be speaking with Mrs. Findlay shortly," Jeannie said. "And some time after that I'll be taking tea with my husband's uncle. While I'm gone, I want this room swept, scrubbed and polished until it shines. When I return, I don't want to see a speck of dust or a single cobweb."
"Yes, m'lady," Kirsty said.
"If you've no other duties for me, m'lady, I'll help, too," Mairie said, and Jeannie nodded.
"And what if Mrs. Findlay wants us for something else?" Aileen asked. It was a clear challenge to Jeannie's authority.
She gave the girl a cool look. "I'll explain to Mrs. Findlay why you've been detained." She turned to leave and seeing the tumbled bedclothes, added, "Oh, and put fresh sheets on the bed, please." She tried not to blush.
"But it's no' washing day—" Kirsty began.
"Whisht, Kirsty," Mairie hissed, pulling a face in silent explanation. Kirsty looked puzzled at first, then turned bright red. Jeannie's face felt quite as hot.
There was nothing wrong in the maids thinking she'd gone a virgin to her marriage bed—that had been the point of Cameron's gallant gesture, after all— but she still felt guilty. And embarrassed.
She swept from the room, her cheeks aflame. Marriage in a castle was so very . . . public.