Chapter 12
A fortnight later, Lady Isobel watched the expected carriage appear at the crown of the far hill and pass the old gatehouse. Years before, that same crest had come to Glenbride for Julian, promising alliance, continuance, and hope.
Now it came to cover what blood, law, and appetite had made.
Mrs Muir entered with the tea tray. Lady Isobel directed its placement and waited while Mrs Muir set the cups, plates, and folded napkins into exact order. When she withdrew, the room looked ready for any ordinary call.
A moment later, Mr McNab opened the door.
“Lady Catriona MacLeod, my lady.”
Lady Catriona entered without haste. The years had taken the softness from her face and left the structure beneath it.
She had been handsome at seventeen; she was formidable at three-and-twenty.
The same dark hair. The same clear Highland colouring.
The same steady eyes. But the girl who had once lowered them before Lady Isobel’s questions had learnt, somewhere between Dunrannoch and Glenbride, the value of looking first.
Lady Isobel rose.
“Lady Catriona.”
“Lady Isobel.”
Not my lady. Not ma’am.
Lady Isobel indicated the chair opposite her own. Lady Catriona sat, her gloves still on, her back unyielding without stiffness. She did not look about the room. That, too, was new. At seventeen, she had noticed everything and tried not to show it.
Lady Isobel resumed her seat.
“Tea?”
“Thank you.”
The silver pot stood between them, bright, polished, and innocent. Lady Isobel poured. The cup made no sound when she set it down. Lady Catriona accepted it, but did not drink.
Six years before, her hand had trembled once upon the saucer when Julian came into the room. Lady Isobel had seen it and thought the girl modest. Perhaps she had been.
Perhaps not.
“You remember Glenbride,” Lady Isobel said.
Lady Catriona’s eyes moved once to the window, where the winter light lay thin against the glass.
“I remember Lord Julian.”
Lady Isobel folded her hands in her lap. “Then you remember what was intended.”
“I remember what I lost.”
The answer altered the room. Lady Isobel did not reach for her cup.
Julian’s death upon the road had been called tragedy.
Highwaymen. Darkness. A foolish return from Cambridge.
Another young gentleman dead beside him, his name softened by distance until only “a university friend” remained.
That was the tale. It had stood long enough to become respectable.
Lies that endured did not become truth, but they learnt to wear its coat.
Lady Catriona looked back from the window.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I did not come to ornament grief.”
“No,” Lady Isobel said. “I do not think you did.”
“Then we may speak plainly.”
Lady Isobel watched the steam thin above the untouched tea. “Plain speech has not served this family well.”
“Nor has silence, I think.”
There was no insolence in it. That made it worse.
Lady Isobel inclined her head by the smallest degree. “You are changed.”
“I was seventeen.”
“You were obedient.”
“I had not yet learnt what obedience purchases.”
Lady Isobel’s fingers closed once upon the fold of her gown. “And what has it purchased you?”
Lady Catriona’s mouth did not soften. “Six years unmarried, three declined offers, and a father who now finds Lord Ashby’s renewed interest very acceptable.”
“And you?”
“I find it late.”
“Lord Ashby has been much occupied by the duties of his succession. A title may descend in a day; the obligations of it do not settle so quickly.”
Lady Catriona sipped her tea. “No. They wait upon a convenient hour.”
“In this matter, perhaps too long.”
“My father thinks otherwise.”
“Lord Dunrannoch thinks as fathers are apt to think when an earldom returns to the table.”
Lady Catriona set her tea aside. “And what do you think, my lady?”
Lady Isobel looked at her across the tea service. “That the present is a poor inheritance. An earl must secure his future.”
“By marriage.”
“By a son.”
“Lord Ashby has no son,” Lady Catriona said.
“Not yet.”
Outside, a rook crossed the pale window and was gone.
“Then he is to marry in haste.”
Lady Isobel held her gaze. “Yes.”
For the first time, Lady Catriona’s hand tightened upon the arm of her chair. The motion passed quickly, but it had occurred. Lady Isobel took no comfort from it. A woman might be startled and still bargain.
“You asked me here to tell me there is already a child.”
“No.”
Lady Catriona’s eyes did not leave hers.
Lady Isobel said, “I asked you here because there may be.”
A silence followed, too composed to be peace.
“And if there is?”
“Then its sex will decide whether you enter Glenbride as Lord Ashby’s wife only—or as mother to the heir Scotland is permitted to acknowledge.”
Lady Catriona looked at the untouched cake, the folded napkins, the cup Lady Isobel had poured with such care. “A daughter may be hidden.”
“Provided for.”
“Hidden,” Lady Catriona said.
Lady Isobel accepted the correction because it was deserved.
“And a son?”
Lady Isobel’s voice did not change. “A son cannot be hidden if Lord Ashby means Glenbride to remain in his line.”
Lady Catriona sat very still. “Whose child is it?”
Lady Isobel looked at her until the question lost the last of its innocence.
“The child Scotland will call yours,” Lady Isobel said, “if you desire to be the Countess of Ashby.”
* * *
Glenbride House, Edinburgh, September 1787
Lady Isobel read the notice again, though she knew every word of it.
Across from her, Alexander Kerr bent over a slice of bread and honey with the grave attention of a child determined not to soil his cuff. He had Marjorie’s mouth. No printed lie could alter that.
The paper lay open beside her plate.
The Caledonian Mercury
Edinburgh, Friday, 27 July 1787
Births
At Lausanne, upon the 14th instant, the Countess of Ashby was safely delivered of a son and heir.
Her ladyship and the infant are said to do well.
Lord Ashby, who has remained abroad these several months for the benefit of her ladyship’s health, is expected to return to Scotland in the autumn with his family.
His family.
Lady Isobel folded the paper along its crease.
“Grandmama?”
She looked up.
Alexander had honey upon one finger and a frown between his brows. “May I have more bread?”
“You may.”
Alexander watched her spread the honey thinly. “Nurse says too much makes me ill.”
“Nurse is generally right.”
“Then why do you give me more?”
“Because this is not too much.”
He accepted the bread.
“Will Mama come back from abroad?”
Lady Isobel paused. “Who spoke to you of abroad?”
He looked down. “Mrs Kerr said Mama had gone for her health.”
“Your mother was unwell.”
“Is she better?”
The paper lay between them.
“She is with God,” Lady Isobel said.
Alexander stopped chewing. “With Papa?”
“Yes.”
“And Uncle Julian?”
“Yes.”
His lower lip moved once. He pressed it still with his teeth.
Lady Isobel held out her hand. “Come here.”
He climbed down and went to her. She drew him against her gown. He held the edge of her sleeve and breathed too quickly.
After a time, he drew back. “May I tell Nurse?”
“I will tell her.”
“Why?”
Lady Isobel looked at the notice upon the table.
“Because grief must be carried carefully.”
The door opened. Mrs Muir entered with the morning post upon a salver. Her eyes touched the child, then the folded newspaper.
“My lady.”
“Set it there.”
“There is a letter from Lord Ashby’s Edinburgh agent.”
Lady Isobel held Alexander closer. “Leave it.”
Mrs Muir obeyed and withdrew.
Lady Isobel broke the wax.
My lady,
I am instructed by the Earl of Ashby to advise that, from Michaelmas next, the sum of four hundred pounds per annum shall be allowed for the maintenance, education, and proper advancement of Master Alexander Kerr, payable quarterly through this office, and to continue during the minority of Lord Ashby’s son and heir.
The arrangement is made without prejudice to any existing Kerr settlement and without admission of claim upon the entailed lands of Glenbride.
I remain, my lady,
Your obedient servant,
Andrew Fenton
Lady Isobel read the final words again.
Without admission of claim.
Alexander leant closer. “What does it say?”
She folded the letter once, very carefully. “It says Lord Ashby means to pay for your schooling.”
“Must I go away?”
“Not yet.”
“When?”
“When I say.”
Lady Isobel set the letter beside the newspaper.
Alexander reclaimed his seat.
She reached for the honey. “You may have another piece.”