Chapter Five #3
“First,” Mrs Featherstone said, “our steward, Mr Errol Hobbins.” From the side door came a man of lean build in a dark-green waistcoat, his cuffs crisp, though the boots bore a trace of spring dampness from the yards.
He paused just within the threshold, pulled off his hat to reveal dark hair shot with grey, and bowed deeply.
“Mistress Destiny,” he said, his voice calm and even. “I am your steward. Every ledger, contract, wage list, and farm report passes before me. Your will for the estate shall be my command.”
Destiny returned his steady bow with a hint of surprise. This man, a total stranger, would show to her the ledgers her own father would not. She studied the man more closely. The light from the hearth flickered against his face, giving it a faint halo of determination.
“I am glad to meet you, Mr Hobbins. I intend to learn the estate well and am pleased you will guide me.”
He inclined his head. “I await your pleasure, mistress.”
Mrs Featherstone next guided them towards the service wing, the scent of the kitchen growing richer as they walked.
Destiny smelled roasting meat and the faint, sweet steam of fruit stewing.
They passed through an arched doorway where the stone wall was warm from past fires and entered the bustle of the kitchen.
Here the light glowed golden from the hearth, gleaming on copper kettles and the rich polish of oak shelving.
“Here,” Mrs Featherstone announced, “is our cook, Mrs Baxter.” The cook emerged, apron dusted with flour, her cheeks flushed with warmth, a ladle in hand.
She gave a hearty smile. “Mistress Destiny, welcome to your home. I am Mrs Baxter, and if you will indulge me one small question?”
Destiny’s brows lifted in a polite arc. “Of course.”
“What is your favourite treat, Mistress?” Mrs Baxter asked, her voice bright. “Shortbread with a sprig of rosemary? Fresh rhubarb tart topped with thick cream? Or sweet sugared almonds?”
Destiny inhaled the aroma of the kitchen—the rich roast, the hint of apple and cinnamon in a simmering pan at the hearth’s edge. Her stomach fluttered at the welcome warmth.
“I would be delighted with shortbread,” she said, voice soft.
Mrs Baxter’s face lit with pleased surprise. “Excellent choice, mistress. We’ll see to it immediately.”
Destiny nodded, feeling a gentle thrill of belonging, even for a short moment or two.
Then Mrs Featherstone led her through a corridor where hunting trophies hung on the walls—stags’ antlers, the pelts of foxes, the heads of boars caught in a winter hunt.
From an open side door, the gardener stood outside, trimming a window-bed of heather and dwarf rhubarb; the garden wall was half hidden by climbing roses now draped in spring’s vibrant green.
“Mr Allan Muir,” Mrs Featherstone said. “Gardener of the grounds.”
Mr Muir removed his flat cap, the spring wind ruffling his hair. His gloves were worn, hands stained with soil.
“Mistress,” he said, voice low and respectful. “I keep the borders and herb beds, the rhubarb patch, and the walled garden. When ye wish, I can walk ye through the grounds.”
Destiny looked out at the garden at the deep purple of the heather, the soft green of the rhubarb leaves, the crisp air smelling of fresh greenery and damp earth. She felt the contrast of solidity within the castle and wildness just beyond.
“Thank you, Mr Muir. I look forward to that walk.”
He nodded, hands clasped behind his back.
Finally, they heard a faint echo of hoofbeats and the rustle of hide. At the stable door, the huntsman appeared, broad-shouldered, boots heavy, his coat supple from years of riding. He carried a falconer’s glove in one hand.
“Mistress,” he said, tipping his hat. “Callum Ross. The castle’s huntsman. The deer-park and game preserve lie under your oversight, and I stand ready to conduct the field whenever you please.”
Destiny met his clear blue eyes. “Thank you, Mr Ross. Perhaps in time I will join you.”
He nodded. “Whenever you wish.”
They returned to the great hall where the fire now crackled higher and the early candlelight glowed along the rafters.
Mrs Featherstone placed a gentle hand on Destiny’s shoulder.
“Mistress, you now know the key household. Each serves under you, not only as your domestic support but also as stewards of the estate’s life.
The kitchens, the grounds, the hunts, the accounts, they respond to your voice. ”
Destiny inhaled deeply.
She felt the weight of responsibility descend, yet beneath it, a surge of joyful possibility. “Thank you, Mrs Featherstone. I look forward to beginning tomorrow. Perhaps after supper, all of us might gather by the hearth and share some tea and shortbread?”
“Most gladly, mistress.” Mrs Featherstone gave a warm smile. “Shall we begin your tour now? I will show you your new private rooms and then the solar, library, and drawing room, so you may familiarise yourself.”
Destiny nodded, her heart steadying. “That would be lovely.” And as they set off, Destiny smiled. Her new life as mistress of Foulis Castle had begun.