Marblestone Mansion, Book 7 Read online

  According to the Provost, even the bridge over the river burned.

  The duchess paused to look at the picture again. The castle, the one she lived in during her years of bliss as a real duchess, was a total loss. When she looked a little closer at the charred remains, she realized that what she was looking at was the despicable statue of a Scottish warrior that stood in the curve of the staircase. Oh, how she hated that statue. She was forever smacking her hand on it as she climbed the stairs. “I might have known it would survive,” she grumbled. She shrugged and read on:

  Thankfully, the villagers managed to keep the fire from spreading to the forest and everyone got out alive.

  Glenartair Castle was lately the residence of the Duke of Glenartair, Cameron MacGreagor, who took his family to live in Colorado, America just last month. Cameron MacGreagor inherited the title when his brother, Hannish, chose to stay in Colorado. The MacGreagor brothers are married to sisters, Leesil and Cathleen, who grew up in an Oxfordshire orphanage. The Duke and Duchess have two daughters, Blair and Anna.

  The Duke of Glenartair could not be reached for comment.

  “Sisters and both gutter rats,” the duchess mumbled. She folded the paper, set it down, thought about it for a moment, and then read the article again. “How very devastated you must be, my dearest and richest husband. Oh, how you loved the place. I suppose I did too, and I must admit it had the most divine mirrors in the world.”

  She laid the paper aside again and went to the exasperatingly small mirror on her wall. “I wonder what Cameron did with the clothing I left in that dreary cottage of theirs.” She should not have left them behind and regretted it deeply, for she had spent a good deal of Hannish MacGreagor’s money on ball gowns of nearly every color.

  The duchess examined one side of her face and then the other. Were those wrinkles at the corners of her eyes? Of course not, she was not that old. Just in case, she began to massage her temples, pulling the skin gently toward her hairline. Suddenly, she stopped and her mouth dropped.

  “Blair?” she asked aloud. Her Blair? Impossible, Lord and Lady Bayington have her Blair…or so she believed. She raced back to the paper and read it once more. How could Cameron have possibly gotten his hands on her daughter? Moreover, why would he keep the child of a woman he truly detested? Perhaps the gutter rat talked him into it. Yes, that was probably it. At any rate, it appeared he did have her Blair, and if so, there was money to be had in it somehow. Just then, her eyes focused on the words grew up in an orphanage.

  “Abandoned,” the duchess whispered. Perhaps Blair was not her only ticket to wealth after all.

  *

  She could easily have gotten out of working the auction, now that the duchess knew she could call Bernie’s bluff, but the opportunities it might afford her were just too tempting. Even better, she no longer needed to pretend to hang on Bernie’s every word or even to like him. At last, things were finally going her way.

  New York City had dozens of auctions daily and it opened a whole new world to her. She, of course, never attended a farm auction, for she had smelled enough manure to last a lifetime. Still, there were whole households full of items put up for sale after a foreclosure. Though it rarely happened to the more prosperous families, it was possible and she found the prospect intriguing.

  Twice, Dena accompanied her to an auction to see how it was done, and the duchess enjoyed it immensely. The first was held just outside the front door of a home, with the “colonel” holding up each item, and the people shouting their bids until there were no more bids. At that, the colonel shouted, “Going, going, gone,” to the delight of the highest bidder.

  The second auction was even more thrilling, for the items sold were far more valuable, and would have looked nice in any of the mansions she once lived in. Dreaming of what could be again, the duchess had moments when she believed she truly was wealthy, but she caught herself just in time to keep from bidding. She moaned when a particularly fine crystal vase went for far less than she thought it was worth, and as the auction drew to a close, she couldn’t remember a time when she enjoyed herself more.

  *

  When the brochure finally came in the mail from Bernie, she diligently studied the items and the prices he had handwritten on her copy. She admitted she thought him considerably more brilliant than she had before, but that did not make him desirable as a husband prospect. As resolute as she was never to work for a living, this occupation did not offend her senses at all. In fact, she had already convinced herself there was nothing wrong with it, which eased her fears of getting caught considerably. After all, everyone needed to make a profit.

  As Dena promised, the fine carriage the duchess was to arrive in at the auction house came to pick her up the next Wednesday afternoon right on time. She was dressed appropriately modest, yet in a costly looking lace trimmed, off-white blouse, and black taffeta skirt. As well, she wore a colorful blue hat, the only blue hat she owned, with white satin roses on top for adornments. She was to appear meek and married, or so Dena instructed that afternoon. Meek, she supposed she could do – acting as if she were married was not in her plans at all. She would have to find a way around that.

  The duchess was not surprised when several men watched her enter a large room located not far from the heart of the city. She was certainly used to being gawked at, and pleased she still had the ability to turn a head. At this auction, the women were seated in front with the men standing up behind them, and one fairly handsome man seemed more than willing to escort her to a seat.

  “Thank you,” she sweetly whispered. She serenely folded her gloved hands in her lap, as always.

  “May I speak to you later?” he muttered.

  It pained her, but she shook her head. “I cannot,” she whispered back. Disappointed, he nodded and walked away. A moment later, Bernie came to stand behind a podium in the front, and the auction began. He never even looked her way, which she assumed was by design.

  The first item was a Tulipwood side cabinet, which was not listed on her brochure, so she did not bid on it. Next, were several gold timepieces, and a diamond bracelet she would have given half her life to own.

  At last, Bernie got around to the silver candelabra, and as soon as he said the words, she shouted out the price he specified. “Twenty dollars.” Bernie looked a little surprised, but he continued as if there was nothing wrong. Even so, there were no other bidders, and like it or not, the duchess bought her first item. She grinned as if she were quite pleased with herself, but she worried she would hear about it later. Her mistake, she realized, was in not waiting for others to bid first. If they bid high enough, she would not be required to. The duchess inwardly vowed never to let it happen again, and later that day, she believed she made him a tidy sum on a gold leaf, pink alabaster figurine. By the time the auction was over, she was quite pleased with herself.

  That same man approached her again, but this time, Bernie was watching and she was forced to turn down his offer a second time. It was a pity of the truest kind.

  As soon as she got back to her room, she called Dena.

  “I have never heard Bernie yell at anyone,” Dena assured her, “but he might sack you.”

  “Sack her?” the duchess mused after she hung up. She thought only servants got sacked.

  She held her breath the next night when Dena took her to the dingy hotel for their clandestine payoff. Bernie never said a word to her, and she could not wait to get out of the disgustingly, dirty, smelly hotel. The duchess was happy to have more money, but her plan to meet eligible men at the auctions seemed unmanageable, and on that score, she was back to square one. Something had to be done to raise her standard of living – but what?

  *

  “It was not the union men,” Mr. Lester reported as soon as he sat down to breakfast at Marblestone. “It was that scalawag Kevin Loman. He was caught red-handed taking the bell off one of Mr. Tabor’s cows early this morning.”

  “You were there?” Elaine asked.


  “I was. I buy the bottled milk from Mr. Tabor, you see. The boy should have known better, but he is a troublemaker, and troublemakers think they can get away with it.”

  “Did he confess to stealin’ the other bells?” Cook Jessie asked.

  “Not until his father found them hidden in his barn. The poor man is beside himself with shame. Mr. Tabor thought to tell the Sheriff, but who knows where he is these days? Even so, the boy shall be justly punished. His father shall see to that.”

  “Well, at least one problem is solved,” said Prescot. “How is your brother?”

  “Much improved. He has lost the hearing in one ear, suffers a lump still on his shin, but thank the Good Lord, none of his bones were broken. Darrell has quit the union for good.”

  “I cannae blame him for that,” said Dugan.

  “Have you any more good news,” Elaine asked. “Will they settle the strike soon?”

  “Of that, I have not heard.” Mr. Lester leaned forward and looked at Prescot, as if he was about to tell all the secrets of the world. “Mrs. Whitfield looked a little peaked this morning.”

  “Abigail Whitfield?” Prescot asked. “I must tell Miss Leesil right away.”

  “That is hardly good news,” Elaine scoffed.

  Mr. Lester ignored her. “Mind you, I’d not like Mrs. Whitfield to know I was gossiping,” he cautioned. “I’ve a reputation to uphold.”

  “Of course not,” said Prescot. “I shall tell Miss Leesil that too.”

  Millie giggled. “Far be it for us to gossip about the town gossip.”

  Prescot took his wife’s hand. “She does not gossip, she merely tells all she knows.”

  “And she knows everything,” Mr. Lester put in, “but she did not hear a thing from me, I assure you.”

  Prescot and Millie exchanged grins. They had long suspected the milkman was a great source of information, and if anyone could get it out of him, Abigail could.

  “I pray whatever ails Mrs. Whitfield is not contagious,” Elaine mumbled. “The Whitfields are here constantly.” She watched Prescot leave the room and then turned to Gretchen. “Millie says I am about the same size as Sarah. If you need me to make your patterns, I am willing.”

  “Thank you,” said Gretchen. “That would be very helpful.”

  Cook Jessie and Cook Halen exchanged worried glances. Neither thought it was a good idea for busybody Elaine to spend time with Gretchen, but there was little either of them could do about that now. Hopefully, Millie knew what she was doing when she made the suggestion.

  “After you are finished with the dishes, Miss Elaine,” Jessie cautioned.

  “I know.” She waited to see if Mr. Lester would tease her about her menial tasks, but he did not.

  “The new bell came for the train station yesterday,” Mr. Lester said, just before he got up to be on his way. “It is larger and you might even be able to hear it way up here.”

  “Would that not be somethin’,” Ronan said.

  *

  Elaine found Gretchen hard at work, laying out her pattern paper. “Oh, there you are,” said Gretchen. “I shall need measurements of all sorts.”

  “Except my waist? You’ll need extra width for her baby.”

  “True, thank you for reminding me.” Gretchen sorted through her sewing basket until she found the measuring string that had a mark for every inch. First, she measured Elaine’s back from shoulder to shoulder, counted the marks, and then wrote it down.

  “Is it hard to learn to sew?”

  “Sewing is not hard, getting the measurements and making the patterns correctly takes months of practice. Would you like to learn?”

  “Well, I’d not like washing dishes my whole life.”

  “Did you never learn embroidery?”

  “I suppose all girls learn that from their mothers, but I was never very good at it.”

  Gretchen measured the distance from Elaine’s back neckline to her waist. “Where is your mother now?”

  “At home having more children than she wanted. We grew up knowing that as soon as we turned fifteen, we were expected to move on.”

  “Fifteen? That is very young.”

  “I think so too. There are not many occupations for women these days. Even teachers must be sixteen to get a certificate.” When Gretchen lifted her arm, Elaine held it out to be measured. “I read well enough, but mathematics is often beyond me. I’d not make a very good teacher.”

  “Nor would I.”

  “My mother sews, but only for the oldest among us, the rest get hand-me-downs. She uses the same patterns over and over. May I see what you are writing?”

  “Of course.” Gretchen handed her the piece of paper on which she had drawn a silhouette and written the measurements.

  “I see. It does not look that difficult to make new patterns after all.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t, but do not tell anyone, lest all women think they can become seamstresses by trade.”

  Elaine giggled. “And take your employment away?”

  “Precisely,” said Gretchen, retuning her smile.

  “We shall see readymade clothing in Colorado soon. Have you seen any?”

  “Not yet, but I hear conditions in the factories are appalling.”

  “There is little we can do about that here,” said Elaine.

  “We can refuse to buy the readymade clothing,” Gretchen pointed out.

  “Would that not just put the employees out of work completely?”

  Gretchen sighed, “You are right, of course. By the way, when I went to town yesterday to buy more cloth, I happened to overhear Mr. Lester speaking to the banker. Guess how old he truly is?”

  “How old?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  Elaine scoffed, “If he is twenty-five, I am twelve.”

  “I believe him.”

  “Then why does he look so much older?”

  “Perhaps it is all the hair on his face.”

  Elaine held both arms out so the dressmaker could measure her waist. “I suppose I have never truly looked at his face.”

  “I have. He has very kind eyes.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I do.”

  “Kinder eyes than Shepard?”

  Gretchen finished measuring her waist and went to the table to write down the measurements. “Shepard is a very caring man.”

  Elaine wanted to ask what was wrong between them so badly, she had to bite her lower lip hard to keep from it. Furthermore, Gretchen had never said a word about the rose Elaine left. In the end, asking wasn’t worth risking her employment, or the possibility that she might someday be moved up to a housekeeper position. But, oh how, she wanted to know.

  “There, I believe that should do for now,” said Gretchen. “I cannot measure the length until Sarah is here for a fitting.”

  Elaine put her arms down finally. “Do you know Sarah well?”

  “I do, you will like her; everyone does.”

  “And her husband?”

  “Alistair is far more congenial than Prescot, but you best not cross him. He and Mr. Hannish have been good friends for years, and they keep no secrets from each other.”

  “We are to have two butlers, then?”

  “I have not heard, but…” When Shepard stuck his head in the door, Gretchen stared at him.

  “I am sent to town later, would you like to come?” Shepard asked.

  Gretchen tried to think if she needed anything. “I haven’t the time today, but could you pick up more white thread from the general store?”

  “If you have not already bought all they have,” Shepard joked. He turned his attention to Elaine. “You are needed in the kitchen.”

  Elaine slumped, “Of course, I am.”

  Shepard chuckled as she left, nodded to Gretchen and then walked away. A moment later, he came back, took Gretchen in his arms and kissed her. The shock on her face made him smile, and he doubted he would stop smiling anytime soon. In fact, he was so happy he began
to whistle She’ll be comin’ round the Mountain and everyone in the mansion heard him.

  *

  With small babies in the house, Leesil and Cathleen were worried about catching something from Abigail too, so they decided it was best to call. First, they needed a reason so Abigail would not guess Mr. Lester had mentioned her ill health.

  Leesil put Kate over her shoulder and patted her back to burp her. “I know – we shall invite them to dinner.”

  Cathleen shook her head. “They come so regularly, Abigail will ask if ‘tis a special occasion.”

  “True.” Leesil continued to pat the baby’s back while she tried to come up with something better. “I’ve got it. I shall borrow somethin’ and ask that she bring it to dinner tonight.”

  “Borrow what?”

  “Yes, what?” Leesil sighed. “Perhaps we should just wait. If the Whitfields dinna come to dinner tonight, then we shall think of another way to inquire.”

  Abigail called three times that day with the latest gossip, just as she normally did, so the sisters assumed she was fine. They were wrong.

  Sipping tea in the downstairs sitting room after dinner, Abigail truly did not look well. The MacGreagors and Whitfields spoke of all sorts of other things, until Leesil finally got up the courage to ask, “Abigail, what is it? What is wrong?”

  “I am pregnant,” she offhandedly remarked.

  Sitting beside her, Claymore gasped, “What? How did that happen?”

  Abigail stared at her husband in disbelief. “Can you not guess? You were there.”

  “Yes, yes, of course I was.” He was so taken aback his mouth hung open.

  “I am too old, you know,” Abigail confessed.

  “Well, we shall get on with it as best we can,” Claymore said, trying to mask his upset.