Marblestone Mansion, Book 5 Page 11

  “Aye, they did,” Blanka answered.

  “And when they are finished with the horses here,” Abigail added, “we have a horse corral as well.”

  “And if they refuse?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Then they shall find themselves locked out again.” Abigail answered. “Forgive me, Mrs. MacGreagor, but perhaps your husband might consider a place of your own…before…”

  “Before we are asked to leave? Nothing would please me more.” Elizabeth stood up and tried to smile. “I best go see the rest of the place.”

  Once she was out of sight, both Abigail and Blanka took a deep breath, let it out and exchanged satisfied nods.

  CHAPTER 7

  After knocking several times and receiving no answer, Fletcher Garrott walked to the side of the house, and peeked through a dirty parlor window in the modest cottage Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair once shared with their children. He couldn’t see anything but an old sofa, yet it appeared someone still lived there.

  He walked back to the stone walkway, opened the small wooden gate, walked through, and then closed it behind him. In the window of the pub across the street, he spotted a man watching him and decided to make an inquiry. Garrott went across the street, chose a stool at the bar, placed his order and when he turned to look around, a redheaded Charles Whitfield was standing right beside him.

  “Mrs. Sinclair moved away last year,” Charles announced. Born and raised in Colorado, Charles was the duchess fifth husband, and none of her husbands regretted the mistake more than he. His parents were friends with Hannish MacGreagor, and in fact lived not far from Marblestone Mansion in Colorado Springs.

  Deserted by his wife in America, Charles came to England to find the woman he knew as Alexandra Sinclair, figured she would eventually come to see the second Mrs. Sinclair, and took a position as a waiter in the pub’s private room across the street. When she finally arrived, he confronted his wife, and had the pleasure of telling her exactly what was on his mind. It was truly a red-letter day for young Charles Whitfield, for he not only discovered he didn’t love her – she was much older than he thought.

  “Do you know where Mrs. Sinclair went?” Garrott asked.

  “Said she was going where the witch couldn’t find her.”

  “What witch?”

  “The one we all fear, I suspect.”

  The detective chuckled. “You are an American?”

  Charles smiled his crooked smile. “Proud to be, though I am growing fond of this country more and more each day.” He took a moment to grin at a young woman seated at a table.

  “Does Mrs. Sinclair have a daughter?”

  “Two, and a new husband just last winter.”

  “I see. You don’t know where I can find her, do you, or anyone who might know where she went?”

  “Mrs. Sinclair isn’t the friendly sort.”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “Why do you want to talk to her?” Charles asked.

  “I am a Private Investigator. I am looking for Alexandra Sinclair.”

  Charles might have guessed as much. “Never heard of her.” With that, he walked away. He waited until the Detective finished his drink and left, before he went to his room above the pub and placed a call.

  “This is Charles Whitfield. May I speak to the Duke of Glenartair? It is important.”

  “He is not in,” Alistair said. “May I have him call you?”

  “Please…on the other hand, I shall call back. What time do you expect him?”

  “Not before the evening meal.”

  Charles thanked the butler and hung up.

  *

  With little real time to themselves on other days, Butler Alistair and Sarah elected to stay home and enjoy a quiet lunch, while the rest of the household went off to their laird’s welcome home celebration in the village. As it was, it took two trips to get everyone there, and the duke, his wife, their daughter, the clan’s laird, his wife and their son, were the last to board Glenartair’s finest carriage and head out.

  The brothers and little Justin wore traditional green and blue tartan kilts, with fashionable white shirts and knee-high white stockings. Many of the clansmen wore jackets, but the brothers preferred to keep the MacGreagor tradition of wearing a length of matching tartan over one shoulder, tucked in their belts, front and back. Their wives and Addie wore the same cloth, only their skirts were floor-length.

  The weather was perfect and the onslaught of summer in the far north, meant the day would be long enough to fully enjoy all the village had to offer. Bagpipes and cheers from the crowd welcomed the MacGreagors, as their carriage entered the street that ran down the center of the village. Most were also wearing the clan colors, which made Hannish particularly proud.

  Steeped in ancient history, some of the stone buildings still had thatched roofs; yet, new shops also lined the road on both sides. Shopkeepers stood in doorways wearing aprons over their kilts, hoping shoppers would take advantage of their specially marked down prices for this special occasion. Booths offered treats such as Haggis, Scottish Bean & Jack Pepper Cheese Pie, Scottish meat pies, hot cross buns, Scottish Snowballs, and Raisin scones.

  Empty carts and carriages that brought farmers and their families to the village, also lined the main street. Dogs and cats, hoping to be fed, tried to stay out of the way, and children happily played tag running around one adult and then the next. A high welcome banner stretched clear across the road, and it appeared the whole clan was there to celebrate.

  It also appeared the town’s provost had already begun celebrating, and with a mug of the clan’s best beer in one hand, and a small white flag affixed to a stick in the other, he needed a little help getting up the platform steps. Two men gave him a little shove, which caused him to nearly go off the other side. Fortunately, they grabbed hold of his jacket and pulled him back – to the collective relief of the people.

  The Provost turned around, steadied himself, and discovered he had a bit of a dilemma. In order to get something out of his pocket, he had to figure out how to hold the mug and the flag in one hand. He studied one hand, then the other and at last, managed to put them together and transfer the flag. Proud of himself, he dug in his right pocket only to find it empty. He ignored the roar of laughter from the crowd, managed to move the mug and flag to his other hand, and dug in the opposite pocket. When he came up empty again, he scratched the side of his beard, and almost spilled his beer.

  “Had me a pretty speech all set out, me did.” The crowd burst out laughing again, and then cheered. It was more attention than he’d gotten in a year, so the provost decided to take a bow, and nearly dove into the crowd headfirst before he righted himself. That made the crowd laugh even harder. Before anyone could stop him, the Provost held up the white flag, waved it to someone in a field and yelled, “Fire the cannon, lads!”

  Hannish muttered, “Oh, no,” He laid his son’s head against his shoulder and covered the other ear.

  Leesil watched Cameron do the same with Addie, “‘Tis a real cannon?”

  The cannon let loose its deafening volley, and Leesil had her answer. The women screeched, some of the younger children started to cry and the men laughed. Justin clung tightly to his father’s neck and Hannish kissed his cheek in an attempt to reassure him. “There now, ‘tis fine. You are safe.”

  “Why does the clan have a cannon?” Leesil asked.

  “‘Tis in case the American’s attack,” a man in the crowd volunteered.

  Leesil thought he was serious, until she saw a smile slowly cross his face.

  “You awake now, Provost MacGreagor?” someone in the back shouted.

  “Aye, we all be awake now,” the Provost shouted back. Even so, he began to sway, so Cameron set Addie down and got ready to run up the steps and catch him.

  “Well, you already know we love havin’ you back, Laird MacGreagor. I hereby challenge you to a Callant's Ba'!” said the Provost.

  Again, the crowd cheered.

  “What
is a Callant’s Ba’?” Cathleen asked.

  “A ballgame, that gets a bit out of hand occasionally.”

  “I accept,” Hannish shouted. He helped the Provost step down and then took Leesil’s hand and led the way up the steps. “‘Tis good to be home. My wife and I…”

  “She looks a bit dangerous,” someone shouted. “Best reload the cannon, lads.”

  “I’d not turn me back on her, if I were you,” Hannish shot back. He waited for the crowd to stop laughing and then held Justin high in the air. “My son is named for Laird Justin MacGreagor of old.”

  “Tell us the story,” a woman shouted.

  “Very well,” Hannish answered, handing Justin down to Cameron. The keeper of the old stories, he hoped he remembered it well enough. “Laird Justin MacGreagor was son to Laird Neil, the lad who fought his own brother to save the clan. In those days, there was a private word between the MacGreagor laird and the King of England, and when Laird Justin received a message containin’ the word, he…”

  *

  Standing near the back of the crowd, Egan was more interested in watching cook Emily than he was in listening to Hannish. She stood with her unattractive daughter, and he again counted himself fortunate to have escaped that trap. Close to Emily, Rosslyn, one of the castle’s maids was trying to stay out of sight, but not well enough to fool him. While the rest of the crowd was happy and ready to celebrate, Rosslyn, Emily, and Emily’s daughter clearly were not. He might have expected it from Emily, but not from Rosslyn.

  Egan slowly made his way through the crowd until he reached Malveen, and was pleased when she greeted him with a smile. “I think I know who plays tricks on Cathleen,” he whispered, trying not to distract from Hannish’s storytelling.

  “Who?” Malveen whispered.

  “Rosslyn.”

  She waited while the crowd cheered the end of the story and Hannish took a bow. Someone in the crowd yelled, “Let’s eat!” Everyone applauded and began to drift away. “Rosslyn? I find that hard to believe.”

  “I saw her just now with…”

  “Why Egan MacGreagor,” Ann Landon interrupted, “I hardly recognized you without your footman uniform.”

  Surprised to see her, it took a moment for him to nod a greeting. “Miss Ann Sutherland, may I present Miss Malveen MacGreagor.”

  “Another MacGreagor in a village full of them. Shocking,” Ann said, extending her hand to Malveen. “A pleasure.”

  “‘Tis easier to remember names that way,” Malveen said, not leaving her hand in Ann’s any longer than was necessary.

  “Care for a little game of poker?” Ann asked, boldly linking her arm through Egan’s.

  “I fear you have taken all I have, and what little I managed to save, I wish to keep.”

  Ann laughed. “You are very wise. A drink perhaps…for old times’ sake? Your friend will surely forgive us for leaving her here.”

  “For old time’s sake, it is?” Malveen asked. “Just remember to put him back where you found him.”

  Egan was not only amazed by her remark, he beamed as he watched Malveen disappear into the crowd.

  “Oh, I do hope I did not interrupt.”

  “More likely, you hoped you would. Come, one drink and then you can put me back where you found me.” He started them walking through the crowd to the village’s only pub.

  “You fancy her?”

  He found that question far too personal and decided not to answer. “Her father is our parson.”

  “My, my, a parson’s daughter.”

  He opened the door to pub, let her go in first, found a table, and then seated her. “Two,” he told the barkeep, holding up two fingers. He sat down and was surprised when the barkeep brought him a beer and her a glass of Scotch whiskey. “Come here often?” he asked.

  “Well, not before noon, certainly.”

  “After a hard night of playin’…Miss Landon? Is the village not yet poor enough?” She didn’t look at all surprised that he knew the truth.

  “I do not force them, Egan. Besides, I have been thinking of giving it up.”

  “To do what?”

  “Well, I hope to marry and have children, the same as all women.”

  Just now, marriage didn’t sound very enticing to him, particularly when he felt as though she might be thinking of having him for a husband. “Of course, you mean to take a wealthy husband.”

  “Oh, my yes, father insists.”

  Egan didn’t bother to hide his relief. “Has he found one for you?”

  “Not one I care that much for, but love is love and money is money. You understand.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “When are you going back to America?” she asked.

  “When Laird MacGreagor chooses.”

  “Laird MacGreagor. On the train, he did not say he was a laird.”

  “America does not hold with titles.”

  “I have heard that.” She took a sip of her drink, all the while keeping her eyes glued to his. “Perhaps we might spend time together while you are here. I thought…”

  “I am a footman with many duties.” Egan took two swallows of his beer and stood up, “‘Tis your turn to pay.”

  She grinned and nodded, “Fair is fair.”

  *

  It took a while to spot Malveen, and when Egan did, she looked to be in the midst of a heated discussion with Emily so he decided not to interfere. Even so, he inched a little closer, hoping to hear what the disagreement was about.

  “Emily, I have never known you to be so spiteful,” said Malveen. “You did wrong, and you well know it. You got what was due you.”

  “I served mutton to an orphan who deserves no better. ‘Tis hardly a crime,” Emily argued. Her hands were on her hips and her eyes were narrowed.

  “‘Tis a crime because His Grace told you not to.”

  Nearly in tears, Emily knew she wouldn’t win the argument, let her hands drop and bowed her head. “But he had no call to send me away without references. I made but one mistake in all the years I cooked for the family. What do I do now; there is no work to be had for an elder like me.”

  Malveen felt a twinge of pity and softened her voice. “Ask my father, he will help you find something.” She turned, saw Egan watching her, made her excuses and walked away.

  “What did she want?”

  “‘Tis unfair, you know. The elders must work until they die, if they haven’t enough saved.”

  “True. Does Emily say she is without funds?”

  “Nay, but she is without references. Cookin’ is all she knows. I told her to talk to father, he will help her.”

  Egan noticed Emily’s daughter heading his way, took Malveen’s elbow, and turned to walk with her in the opposite direction. “It appears Emily’s daughter has seen me.”

  Malveen grinned. “What a favorite you have become. First Miss Landon, and now Emily’s husbandless daughter.”

  “A little less favored would suit me,” Egan said. He stopped in front of the hat shop where several hats were on display outside. He admired a simple white, woman’s hat with a brim that was not too wide and picked it up. “You would look splendid in this hat.”

  “Would I?” Malveen took it from him, put it on and tied the white ribbons under her chin. Then she turned this way and that for his approval.

  “How much?” Egan asked the shopkeeper.

  “I thought you lost all your funds at poker,” said Malveen, ignoring the quoted price.

  Egan reached in his pocket, pulled out several bills and paid the merchant. “You see, at Marblestone, Mr. Hannish supplies all we need, and therefore we have little to do but save our wages. Mine are in Mr. Gregory Goodwin’s very fine bank in Colorado Springs.”

  “Do not let Ann Landon hear that.”

  Egan put a finger to his lip, glanced around to make certain Ann was nowhere in sight, and then hurried a laughing Malveen on down the street.

  *

  Three hours later, it was clear Justin and A
ddie were getting tired, so when the nanny offered to take them back to the castle, Leesil and Cathleen quickly consented.

  “Come with me, sad little creature,” Leesil said, leading the way to the cobbler shop.

  “Sister, what are you up to?”

  Leesil looped her arm through her sister’s and pulled her aside. “While you were resting, I had a long talk with Malveen. She is such a dear lamb, and she said the way to their hearts is through their purses.”

  “Their purses?”

  “Come, I shall show you.” Leesil opened the door of the cobbler shop and began to look around. The smell of leather filled the air and she was immediately drawn to a hand tooled leather bag. “What magnificent workmanship. I’ve not seen anything like this, even in New York.” If she had looked, she might have noticed the shopkeeper’s chest swelling. “Abigail would love one of these.”

  “She truly would,” Cathleen agreed, quickly catching on, “but sister, you cannae give to one and not the others?”

  “You are right, sister. Have you anymore?” Leesil asked.

  The surprised shopkeeper shook his head, “Not been able to sell this one in a year.”

  “But you could make more, am I right?” Cathleen asked.

  “Aye, Your Grace, I can make as many as you like.”

  “Splendid,” said Leesil. She started to count on her fingers. “Let me see, there is Abigail and her daughter, naturally. Loretta, Pearl and we best not forget McKenna. Oh, dear, Mr. MacGreagor, can you not make a list?”

  He quickly reached behind his counter and produced pen and paper. He wrote down the names as Leesil said them and by the time she finished, they totaled ten.

  “That should do it,” said Leesil. “I shall send Laird MacGreagor round tomorrow to pay the bill and provide the shipping directions. And please send your telephone number in case I need more? Thank you, Mr. MacGreagor.”

  “You are kindly welcome, Mistress MacGreagor.” As they went out the door, he heard Cathleen say she would need one or two more come Christmas. Things were looking up in the village of Glenartair.

  Next, the sisters went to the hat shop, where Cathleen mentioned she wished they had a seamstress.