Chapter 6
The library had not changed. That was the cruelty of it.
The same dark shelves held the same books.
The same principal glass looked coldly over the mantel, no longer dulled by crape.
The same long table stood beneath the windows, its black baize removed, its polished surface restored to a winter shine.
Julian’s portrait still hung above the bookpress.
The mourning ribbon had been taken down, yet the lighter marks remained at the corners of the frame, four pale ghosts where grief had once been tied.
Only the room’s obedience had altered.
Mr Armitage and Mr Ballantyne sat at a smaller table near the shelves, their papers arranged in careful stacks.
Dr Kerr occupied the chair nearest the door, one finger once again kept between the pages of his Bible.
Lady Isobel sat beside Marjorie, black-gloved hands folded upon her lap.
Her mourning had changed from the first severity to the settled black of a woman who had no intention of being comforted.
Alexander was in the nursery with Nurse Mackay.
That absence had been Hugh’s first arrangement.
“The child will not be required,” he had said when Marjorie entered.
He had said it without emphasis, which made refusal sound like household order.
Now Hugh Ashby sat at her father’s desk.
Not near it. Not beside it. At it.
The chair, which had always seemed too broad for any man but Alexander Ashby, held him without protest. One hand rested upon a stack of papers tied in red tape.
The other turned a memorandum half an inch towards the light before he spoke.
He had not raised his voice since Marjorie entered. He had not needed to.
“My lady,” he said, looking at Lady Isobel. “We shall begin with your settlement.”
Lady Isobel did not move. “As dowager, my lord.”
A pause followed. Not long enough for offence. Long enough for correction to take its place.
Hugh inclined his head. “As Dowager Countess.”
Marjorie watched him make the amendment without surrendering anything. Her father would have cursed. Julian would have smiled, begged pardon, and meant half of it. Hugh only set the title where it belonged and continued.
“Her ladyship’s jointure is secured under the terms of the marriage articles.
The south rooms remain at her disposal for as long as she desires them.
Her own maid, two women servants, and the footman named in the settlement remain attached to her household.
The carriage and pair are to be maintained.
Her quarterly allowance will be paid without delay. ”
Lady Isobel inclined her head. “I am obliged.”
“No obligation is necessary,” Hugh replied.
Not obligation. Accuracy. Marjorie looked down at her own hands. Accuracy, from him, had the sound of a door closing gently.
Mr Ballantyne’s pen moved once across the paper, and the sound seemed louder than speech.
Marjorie looked at Julian’s portrait. The painter’s blue coat still held its colour. The gold at his hairline still caught the winter light. He looked as if he might laugh at all of them for giving parchment so much ceremony.
“Lady Marjorie Kerr,” Hugh said.
Her name brought her eyes back to him.
“Your settlement from Drumcairn stands apart from Glenbride. Major Kerr’s provisions for you remain under the administration of his trustees. Your widow’s annuity is unaffected by my brother’s death or by my succession. Drumcairn House remains yours for residence should you choose to remove there.”
Should you choose.
Marjorie heard the phrase settle upon the desk among the other papers. It was not an order. That made it worse.
“And my son?” she asked.
Hugh turned one page. “Alexander Kerr’s paternal interests remain under the Kerr settlement. Mr Ballantyne has obtained a copy of the relevant abstract.”
Mr Ballantyne inclined his head. “I have, my lady.”
“It seemed proper to have all interests distinguished,” Hugh said.
Distinguished. Not protected. Not cherished. Distinguished.
Marjorie said nothing.
Hugh returned to the memorandum. “Lady Marjorie, no claim will be made upon your Drumcairn income while you remain at Glenbride. Your apartments here remain yours. Your servants will not be disturbed. Nurse Mackay will be paid from the household accounts while Lady Marjorie’s son resides under this roof. ”
Marjorie should have looked away. She did not. His eyes rested upon Lady Isobel, but not for long. They shifted to Marjorie, paused, and returned to the paper.
She had noticed it first when he spoke of residence. Again when he named Alexander. His looks neither lingered nor offended. They arrived and departed too cleanly to accuse.
Dr Kerr cleared his throat. “It is a mercy to see family order preserved after such losses.”
“We shall hope so,” Lady Isobel replied.
Dr Kerr accepted the answer as piety. Marjorie heard the iron beneath it.
Marjorie almost looked at her. Almost. But Hugh’s eyes had moved to her again.
“I hope, Lady Marjorie, you will not consider yourself pressed to leave Glenbride.”
She paused. “I am grateful for the assurance, my lord.”
He waited, as if gratitude were a paper requiring signature.
Lady Isobel’s hand worked her rosary. “Glenbride must have steadiness.”
“It shall.”
“For longer than one life, my lord.”
Mr Ballantyne’s spectacles shifted lower on his nose. Dr Kerr became very interested in the ribbon of his Bible.
Hugh did not colour, nor did he smile. He considered the words as if Lady Isobel had placed another memorandum before him.
“That will require marriage,” Lady Isobel said.
“Yes.”
“And a son.”
“God willing.”
The words sat easily in his mouth.
His eyes moved again.
Marjorie felt the glance before she met it. She sat very still. Her widow’s black covered her from throat to wrist. Her hands lay folded. No child rested in her arms this time.
“I shall pray for wisdom in the choice,” Lady Isobel said.
Hugh inclined his head. “As shall I.”
No one could object to prayer. That was its advantage.
Marjorie looked again at Julian’s portrait.
The painted sky above Glenbride remained absurdly kind.
No Scottish winter had ever held such blue.
No future worth fearing had ever entered that canvas.
Julian rested one idle hand upon his unread folio and remained beloved, useless, and safe from all further arrangements.
Hugh gathered the memoranda into a neater stack.
“There remains the matter of household accounts,” he said. “They do not require your ladyships’ attendance. Mr Ballantyne and I shall review them tomorrow.”
Lady Isobel rose. Marjorie followed.
Hugh stood at once. Not hurriedly. Perfectly.
“Before we close,” he said, “I wish to make one point plain.”
Lady Isobel waited.
“This house has suffered enough disorder. While I hold Glenbride, neither you nor Lady Marjorie shall be made to feel displaced.”
Lady Isobel inclined her head. “You relieve us.”
Marjorie heard no relief in it.
The door opened. Mr McNab stood upon the threshold, black coat immaculate, face as composed as the old panelling behind him.
“Dinner is served, my lord.”
My lord.
The words crossed the library with no more force than duty required, yet Marjorie felt them enter every corner. Her father had been three days in the vault. The house had already learnt its new grammar.
Hugh inclined his head. “Thank you, McNab.”
He moved from behind the desk and crossed to Lady Isobel.
“May I have the honour, ma’am?”
The offer was exact. Courtesy and possession held the same sleeve. No gentleman could have done less.
Lady Isobel looked at his arm.
Marjorie did not breathe.
Then the dowager Countess of Ashby placed her hand upon Hugh’s sleeve.
She did it without hesitation.
That was her courage.
Hugh led her towards the door with every mark of respect due to her rank. Dr Kerr rose. Mr Armitage and Mr Ballantyne stood aside. The passage beyond waited, lamplit and cold.
Marjorie followed alone.
As she passed the desk, she saw the papers Hugh had left upon it. Dowager Lady Ashby. Lady Marjorie Kerr. Alexander Kerr. Three neat headings. Three lives made legible by ink.
Behind her, McNab closed the library door.