Sleepless in Scotland (20 page)

She raced to the window, pushing back the curtains carefully so she wouldn’t attract his attention. She watched him walk down the path toward the stables until she could see him no more. Then she collapsed in the nearest chair, tingling all over at her own audacity.

Smiling to herself, she said aloud, “Just you wait, Hugh MacLean!” He might say he wanted her to stay out of his life, but he was wrong. She would win her position as wife both in his bed and out. She was a Hurst, by God, and Hursts never quit.

Yet Triona knew she needed help. And she knew exactly where to find it. She hopped up and swept out into the hallway to ask for pen and paper.

Chapter 12

“Och, ’tis kind o’ yer father to send ye here each Michaelmas. It does me old heart good to bask in the light of such bonny lassies!”

O
LD
W
OMAN
N
ORA TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ON A COLD WINTER’S NIGHT

I
thought Papa said she’d only be here a few days,” Devon said disgustedly. Dressed in her chemise, she threw herself on her bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Christina pulled off her riding boots. “He said a couple of months, and it’s only been one week.”

Devon rolled over onto her stomach, her brow lowered. “He was very quiet this afternoon during our ride.”

“He barely smiled,” Aggie agreed. “Until
she
came into the barn.”

She
was what they’d taken to calling Caitriona. “My lady” stuck in Christina’s throat and wouldn’t be uttered.

“He has a lot on his mind,” Devon said darkly. After a long moment, she added in a pugnacious voice, “I don’t like her.”

Christina shot Devon an annoyed glance. “Papa is the one who has to like her, not us.”

Aggie sat on a stool, dressed in a round gown of blue that set off her eyes, her sapphire blue riding habit on a chair waiting for the maid to take it to be cleaned. She held a handful of hairpins and a brush as she waited for Christina to fix her hair. “She’s been nice to us.”

She had indeed been nice to them, but distant. Christina had expected that, of course.
She
was only interested in Papa, and couldn’t care less about them.

Just like Mother.

Christina’s stomach tightened.

Aggie, blissfully unaware, added, “Papa likes her more than he says. She is rather pretty.”

Devon rolled to her side to stare at Aggie. “You can’t mean that!”

“She has a nice smile,” Aggie insisted.

“She wears
spectacles,
” Devon said with disgust.

“Yes, but her hair is very long and smooth.” Aggie touched her own curls and said in a wistful tone, “I wish my hair was smooth like that.”

“Well,
I
think she’s dreadfully plain,” Christina said. “I didn’t get a good feeling from her at all.”

“Me neither,” Devon said, planting her elbow on the bed and resting her chin in her palm. “I think she tricked Papa into marrying her.”

“I thought that was rather fishy myself.” Christina combed out Aggie’s hair. “I think Papa was taken advantage of.”

“So do I,” Aggie added, though it was obvious she was just trying to be included.

Christina looked across Aggie’s head to meet Devon’s gaze. “I wish there was something we could do to help Papa. She seems to be making herself at home.”

Devon’s expression darkened. “She’s won over Mrs. Wallis, Liam, and Angus, as well as Annie and Moira.”

“
Both
maids?” Christina asked.

Devon nodded. “This morning, Cook said she thought the ‘new missus’ was a right one.”

This was much worse than Christina had thought.

“She has made the house nicer,” Aggie said. “We’ve had better meals and the house is cleaner, and—”

“It was running fine when Devon and I were helping Mrs. Wallis,” Christina said hotly. Although, Mrs. Wallis hadn’t really allowed Christina and Devon to do more than select the menus. Still, it hurt a little that Mrs. Wallis and the servants seemed happy Caitriona was here. Christina was the oldest; shouldn’t she have been running the house the way Caitriona was doing it now?

But even worse than the servants’ defections, Papa was beginning to look at his new wife differently. The first few days, he’d been kind and pleasant. But lately there was a light in his eyes when he came home, which scared Christina very, very much. Mother used to get like that, too. She’d find a man and get that same look, and then she’d disappear. It would be days, sometimes weeks before she’d return. Christina had to breathe through her nose very slowly to keep the others from seeing how frightened she was.

Devon sat up, propped her elbow on her knee, and rested her chin in her hand. “That old witch tricked him.”

Aggie’s eyes widened. “She’s a
witch
?”

“The worst kind,” Devon said. “The kind who lures men away from their families—”

“Like us?” Aggie asked breathlessly.

“Like us,” Devon said firmly. “Witches like her trick hapless men into marrying them.”

Aggie’s lips trembled. “But we just
got
Papa. We can’t lose him now!”

Christina hugged her little sisters. “Don’t worry, Aggie. We’ll find a way to help Papa.”

“Yes, we will,” Devon said. “I just wish we could think of some way to—” She blinked. Then blinked again.

“What is it?” Christina asked. “You have an idea?”

“Oh, yes. A very good idea. One that will show Papa that
she
isn’t who he thinks she is.”

“Tell us!” Christina finished braiding Aggie’s long hair, then twisted it into a neat, low bun.

“Papa has promised us that nothing will change, so I think he’d be very mad if she changed more than he wants her to.”

Christina placed the final pin in Aggie’s hair and stepped back to look at her work. “There you are, dear. Now, find that pretty sapphire hairpin Aunt Sophia gave you, and we’ll pin it on.” As Aggie scooted off the bench, Christina came to sit beside Devon on the bed. “I don’t see how that will help us.”

“If he gets mad enough, don’t you think he might make her leave
early
?”

Which would give Papa less time to fall in love, as Christina feared he might. “I’d like that. Then we’d be back the way we were, just Papa and us.”

Aggie, digging through a small jewelry box, glanced at them. “I don’t understand, Devon. What’s your plan?”

“Easy. We’ll wait and see what she plans on doing to the house, and we just make it worse. Papa will grow tired of things always being wrong, and he’ll tell her to leave.”

Aggie grinned. “We can do that!”

“I don’t know,” Christina said, worry in her tone. “It doesn’t really seem…fair.”

“Was it fair that she trapped Papa into a marriage he didn’t want?” Devon demanded.

“No.”

“Then she is just getting what she deserves. Besides, the longer she stays, the more likely he will fall in love—and you know what
that
means.”

Christina knew exactly what that meant. Every time Mother had disappeared, she’d been “in love.” “I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Devon said. “We will just have to watch for our opportunity.”

“Here it is.” Aggie held out a beautiful sapphire hairpin.

Christina rose from the bed and fixed the pin at Aggie’s temple. “There you go!” She winked and affected a droll, high-society tone. “My dear Miss Agatha, you look divine! Like a princess!”

Aggie giggled and threw her arms around Christina’s neck. Christina hugged her sister fiercely. She remembered all too well the damp rooms and moldy bread of the old days, remembered hiding behind a locked door in a squalid boardinghouse while people screamed or fought or cursed or did worse. She remembered the hours she’d prayed for Mother to come home, hoping against hope that if she wasn’t sober, she’d stay gone.

Guilt clutched at Christina’s heart. She wasn’t a very good daughter to feel so about her own mother, and she knew it. Especially when Papa had explained that Mother was ill and had made so many bad choices because of it. A good daughter would love her mother no matter what. Christina bit her lip as she hugged Aggie tighter.

Devon was right; they needed to get rid of Papa’s new wife. It would be a betrayal of the worst kind if they allowed anyone to harm Papa after he’d made such a safe home for them. That was a debt that could never be repaid.

“Ow!” Aggie squirmed. “Stop hugging me; I can’t breathe!”

Christina released Aggie. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about something else.” She turned to Devon. “All right. How do you suggest we begin?”

The butler held a large silver tray with two letters in the center. “These arrived while you were out, madam.”

Nora Hurst scowled. “Och, McNair! Why do ye always use the silver tray fer two wee letters?” She tossed her sewing into the basket at her elbow. “’Tis pretentious!”

“Yes, madam.” McNair’s stoic expression nonetheless managed to convey a long-standing adherence to the proper manner, regardless of his mistress’s views on the subject.

Nora looked at the portrait over the mantel and her expression softened. “John dinna put up wi’ such nonsense, and neither will I.”

The butler’s gaze followed hers, and for an instant their expressions were remarkably similar, tender and sad. “No, madam. He wouldn’t.” McNair set the tray to one side and picked up the letters, then held them out to his mistress. “Is this better, madam?”

Her thin cheeks folded with deep wrinkles as she grinned. “Much better, ye scamp. Thank ye, McNair.” She plucked the letters from his hand with fingers gnarled with age. “Why, they’re from Triona and Caitlyn! Letters from me favorite granddaughters on th’ same day—’tis a good sign!”

McNair watched her fondly as she opened the first letter. Forty years ago, Mr. John Hurst, the wealthiest man in the entire county, and related to half of the earls and dukes in all of Scotland, had shocked the entire countryside by marrying a commoner. At twenty-five, the woman was a full score of years his junior and possessed no fortune, no beauty, and very little formal education. It was even rumored that when she came to live at Hurst Hall, Mr. Hurst spent the first six months of their marriage teaching his new lady how to read.

Even before her marriage to John Hurst, Nora Macdonald was known for two things: her healing abilities and her hypnotic charm over the opposite sex.

There was something about Nora that drew men to her like flies, which was why by the time she married her beloved John, Nora had been married and widowed three times. This led to rumors of poisonings, even though two of her previous husbands had died in mining accidents, and the last one had been thrown from his horse and had broken his neck in full view of the village.

Still, there was a collective murmur of disapproval when Mr. Hurst married his Nora and took her off to live on the hill that held the jewel that was Hurst Hall. Upper and lower classes alike were offended at his marrying one of the commonest of the common, but none more so than his staff.

It is an odd truth that servants who work within the upper echelon of society tend to be snobbier and more sensitive to social position than their masters. The seating order in servant dining rooms was often more hotly disputed than the succession to many a throne. So it had taken a while for their bluff and jovial new mistress to take with the servants. But over the years she had won their grudging respect, and finally their affection and undying loyalty.

Mr. Hurst called her his prized lass, and took great delight when Nora displayed not only an uncanny ability to heal the ill but a shrewd business sense as well. It was through her shrewd management that his lordship’s mills had prospered even during the difficult years after his lordship’s death.

One could say what one wished about her unfortunate beginnings and rough way of speaking, but though she brought neither wealth nor position to their marriage, no one could say that she didn’t make the man blissfully happy all their days together.

As expected, Mr. Hurst left his entire properties and fortune to her, and she was as careful with his fortune now as she had been when he was alive. To no one’s surprise, she continued to run the house so tightly that the servants were often reduced to counting candles and using leftover cuts of meat for soups. As she was fond of saying, there was nothing wrong “with a bit o’ thrift.” While the furnishings might grow a bit shabby over time, madam instantly replaced non-reparable items such as when the curtains in the front room finally grew too thin to darn. On that occasion, she’d chosen some very handsome red velvet drapes that had instantly polished the room and promised to wear well for at least a decade.

McNair just wished madam were a little more attuned to the dictates of fashion. She rarely wore anything other than plain gray gowns draped with a multitude of shawls, and the most sensible of boots. McNair and the other servants also missed the elegant dinners the master had once presided over, usually with madam ensconced at the foot of the table, genially holding court over the snobby and self-aggrandizing members of the local gentry. Those dinners had ended after Hurst’s death at the grand old age of seventy-eight.

Though her accent was common, madam’s manners were never poor. Never was her spirit less than bold, nor her understanding less than exceptional. Nothing got by those shrewd blue eyes.

“Och, dinna just stand there! Read it to me.” Madam waved one of the letters in McNair’s direction. “As soon as we’re done, I’m to go to the village and help Mrs. Bruce wit’ her sick bairn. She thinks ’tis an ague, but I’ve a mind it’s teethin’.”

Unfortunately, her skills didn’t extend to curing her own failing eyesight.

McNair unfolded the letter. “This is the one from Miss Caitlyn.”