The Duke, page 6
Crabbe flung open the doors and announced in his wheezy voice, “Dinner be ready.”
Brandy, for the first time in her life, felt embarrassed. The duke would think them backward. He would think they weren’t civilized. Why could Crabbe not say that dinner was served, like a well-trained English servant?
“It’s about time, ye old sot,” said Lady Adella, planting her cane and rising slowly. Percy slipped his hand under her arm.
“Brandy, ye’re the eldest. Let his grace lead ye to dinner, and mind you don’t bore him with how ye caught the biggest sea bass last month.”
“But, Grandmama,” Constance said. “I might not be the eldest, but I looked older than Brandy. Don’t you think that I should be the one to escort the duke to dinner?”
“No, little pet, you take Bertrand’s arm. It’s a solid arm, a strong arm. Be a good girl now and don’t argue with me or else I’ll have to say things to ye that ye won’t like at all.”
Brandy stood awkwardly, unconsciously pulling her shawl more closely over the gaping buttons. Without turning, she reached out her arm. She felt soft satin beneath her fingers and sent a quick look at the duke.
7
He was smiling down at her with all the obnoxious tolerance of a kindly uncle. As she walked beside him through the entrance hall and across to the dining room, she felt the two guineas click together in her pocket. She had thought to give them to Lady Adella. Now she wasn’t quite certain what to do with them.
“The past seems disturbingly alive,” the duke said thoughtfully, eyeing the rows of bagpipes strung from nails about the walls. Indeed, he thought, he felt like he’d chanced to walk into another world in another time. A huge battle ax hung from the mailed hand of an empty suit of armor. What he assumed was the Robertson colors, a plaid of red, yellow, and green, were draped in dusty folds about a red coat of arms in the shape of a shield above an empty, cavernous fireplace.
“Yes,” she said, “particularly during a winter storm blowing from the sea. The winds whistle down the chimney and make the tartans quiver and billow out, as if they were alive.” She shut her mouth. Talk about boring him with talk of her halibut that all of them had eaten for two days. This kind of talk would send him right off to sleep.
Ian looked down at the girl beside him and saw that her arched brows had drawn together in a frown. He said with all the regret in his repertoire, which, truth be told, wasn’t all that large, “If you’re remembering my behavior of this afternoon, Brandy, I would ask again that you forgive me. I was tired and had suffered nearly two days of delay. But that’s an unpersuasive excuse, isn’t it? Actually, it scared the very devil out of me when Fiona ran in front of my horses, then you were dashing after her. I think I lost a good ten years off my life. I think by tomorrow morning I’ll have a gray hair in my head. Forgive me?”
She felt churlish. She felt stupid and backward. He was splendid, everything a duke should be. He was kind and sincere. He was possibly noble. But he thought she was a bloody child. Well, damnation. “Of course, ye’re forgiven. Do you ever yell?”
“Yell?”
“Yes, ye were very angry, yer face all red, the veins in yer neck throbbing hard, but ye didn’t yell. Yer voice just got real hard and cold. Very clipped.”
“Yes, I yell. But not at—” He broke off. He’d nearly said, “not at children.” But that wasn’t right. She was eighteen. She was a woman. It was amazing. He wondered if she had a headache, wearing her hair plastered back so tightly. And the old gown she was wearing was more suited to a fifteen-year-old. Where the blazes did that ridiculous shawl come from? It looked older than Lady Adella, which was saying something. Then he felt more guilt than he could accept. There was no money, that was it. Certainly there was no money for a girl child’s clothes. He felt like a clod.
He forced a calm smile and directed her attention to the fireplace. “The three wolves’ heads in your coat of arms—when you were a child, did you sometimes fancy they snarled at the thought of invaders?”
“Even now sometimes when I think about them I wonder. Aye, I sometimes fancy that they were once proud and fiercely alive, defending the castle. It’s as though they are under some sort of evil spell, holding them lifeless for all time. It’s a pleasing and romantic notion.”
He saw the glow of Scotland’s rich, fanciful past in those amber eyes of hers—he’d never seen quite that color before. He felt something curious, something that felt really quite warm and very real, something he wasn’t at all used to. He said, “Are those the Robertson colors?”
“Aye. Once they were a rich bright crimson, and yellow, and green. Old Marta takes no care of them now.”
“Old Marta?”
“Grandmama’s maid. I think she must be as old as the castle and just as strong. I heard Grandmama once scream at her that the only reason she let her stay here was because Grandpapa wanted her. Oh, dear, I suppose I shouldn’t have said that.”
“That’s quite all right,” the duke said, fascinated. He suddenly realized that the others had passed into the dining room. “Come, Brandy, we do not wish the others to wait.” But he didn’t really care if the others waited. He felt the warmth fade, felt the chill of reality, until she said in that candid, lilting voice, “I wondered why I had no hot water for my bath. I blamed it on Percy’s being here. He always makes demands of the servants.”
He raised a black brow and felt the warmth again, like smooth honey.
She lightly patted his sleeve. “Oh, it’s not yer fault, yer grace. Strange, though, that Morag did not tell me of yer being here.”
“The rather slovenly woman who keeps scratching her head?”
“She doesn’t scratch her head all the time, just perhaps half the time, and that’s just because she doesn’t take baths.”
“That would explain things.” He looked down again at Brandy, at the proud, straight nose, and the firm chin, a stubborn chin. A precocious girl, he thought, and not without intelligence and charm. Perhaps someday, with proper nurturing, she would become a lovely woman. Damn, she was a woman, not a womanly woman but a beginning woman. He realized with something of a start that he was now her nominal guardian.
“Come, yer grace,” Lady Adella called, “it’s the earl’s chair for ye. We’ll have to rechristen it the duke’s chair. Brandy, ye will be seated in yer usual place.”
The duke looked about the long dining room. How very medieval it looked, with the long table flanked by rigid lines of carved chairs. The high wainscotting was as dark as the heavy furniture, and the firelight and the branches of candles couldn’t begin to pierce into the corners. All that was needed to complete the scene, he thought, was a rush-strewn floor and giant mastiffs gnawing bones on the hearth. He helped Brandy into her seat and crossed to the head of the table. The ornately carved earl’s chair stood nearly as tall as his shoulders, exuding a kind of crude power. The three Robertson wolves’ heads were carved into its back and pressed against his shoulder blades when he seated himself.
He thought of the quiet elegance of Carmichael Hall and shifted his position.
“Ye old sot, pour the wine. I trust ye didn’t slurp it all down while ye polished the silver.” Lady Adella’s strident voice reached him from the other end of the table, and he winced, wondering if all Penderleigh servants were meted out similar insults. The impassive Crabbe filled his goblet.
Lady Adella thwacked her glass upon the wooden table. “All of ye, let us toast the new Earl of Penderleigh.” There was a liberal lacing of mockery in her voice, and Ian saw that she raised her glass first to Percival, then to Claude and Bertrand, before turning to him.
So much for a friendly welcome. The old woman was baiting the men. “I thank you all,” he said in his calm ducal voice, and sipped the heavy wine.
Morag set a steaming bowl in front of him. He assumed it was soup, but it looked like no soup he’d ever seen before. He was at a loss to determine its origins. He wasn’t certain he wanted to know.
Claude cackled. “Ye’re in Scotland now, yer grace. Partan bree it is and not yer usual English fare.”
“It’s a crab soup,” Bertrand said in a friendly voice. “I hope ye’ll find it tasty.”
“It’s a lucky happenstance that we poor Scots still have the sea,” Percy said. “Even the English could not destroy that.”
“Or the Danes or the Vikings or the Picts or the Britons or other unfriendly Scottish clans either, I suspect,” Ian said and saluted Percy with his spoon.
“Percy, mind yer tongue,” Lady Adella sang out, “or it appears that Ian may very well nip it off. Ye’re quick-witted, yer grace, and that pleases me. So few quick wits around these days.”
Ian lowered his head to look more closely at the partan bree. Percy had been introduced to him as Lady Adella’s grandson. Why the devil wasn’t the fellow the heir to the earldom? Perhaps that fact went a good distance in explaining his snide comments on the English in general, and himself in particular. He lifted a spoonful of the crab soup to his mouth and found the meat smooth and rich, the cream tangy. At least as yet he hadn’t any complaint to make of Scottish food.
“Cousin Ian,” Constance said in a soft woman’s voice, “where are yer servants? I always thought that English gentleman had simply hundreds of servants, and since ye are a duke, why ye should barely be able to move from one room to another without someone attending ye?”
“I had the misfortune of breaking an axle on the carriage. My valet, Mabley, is, I hope, successfully negotiating with a blacksmith in Galashiels. I came alone in my curricle, as you know.”
“Ye brought only one servant?”
He’d clearly disappointed her, this woman-girl. He said with a grin, “I’m but one man, not an entire household.” He thought of his gently sighing valet and grinned to himself. Whatever would Mabley think of the scratchy Morag?
“Ye came from London, yer grace?” Brandy asked.
“Yes, a long journey. Nearly six days. Many poorly appointed inns and a swarm of thieves lurking about everywhere we stayed.”
“But why?” Brandy said.
Ian paused with his last spoonful of the crab soup suspended over the bowl, and cocked his head to one side. “Why did I come here, you mean?”
Brandy sat forward, looking at him straightly. “Aye, yer grace. We didn’t believe ye would ever come to Penderleigh, being an English duke and all. We believed ye’d sent a man of business to force more rents out of us. But ye’re here. Why?”
She didn’t realize she was being excessively rude. He did, though, and found himself again charmed by her candor. Lady Adella said to her granddaughter, “Ye pry into matters none of yer concern, child,” but Ian saw, as did everyone else at that long medieval table, that the old lady’s faded eyes were fair to burning with curiosity.
“I suppose it’s natural for you to wonder. But did you really believe that I would ignore my Scottish kinsmen?”
Percy said, a sneer twisting his fine mouth, “What my little cousin means, yer grace, is that we didn’t mind at all being ignored. It’s the land and rents we feared would gain yer attention.”
“Percy, that is not at all what I meant. I’ll thank ye to let me put my own words in my own mouth. Well, perhaps I did mean a bit of it, but not all.”
The duke was forced to laugh. “From outward appearances, I would venture to say that the lands and the castle are much in need of my attention. The rents appear to be excessive already.”
Lady Adella said, “Ye’re my sister’s grandson, Ian, and part of my blood. I’m heartened that ye visit yer holdings. At least so far I’m heartened. Things change.”
The duke would have been pleased by Lady Adella’s sudden pleasant words had he not seen the look of malice she gave Percy, followed by a big smile.
Bertrand said quietly, but he was leaning forward, energy radiating from him, “I have seen to the estate for many years now, yer grace. I myself am much concerned. At yer leisure, I will show ye the account books and all I’ve tried to do. We have such an abundance of raw materials, but we’re lacking funds to get us started up again.”
“Yes, I see that. I will be at your mercy tomorrow, Bertrand.” The duke looked up as Morag removed his empty soup bowl and placed a large platter before him, heaped with something he couldn’t and didn’t want to identify.
“Haggis,” Claude said and smacked his lips.
“Haggis?” the duke repeated, eyeing the atrocious-looking mess heaped up on that huge, dented silver platter not six inches from his plate.
Constance leaned toward the duke and said brightly, “A mixture of oatmeal, liver, beef suet, and the like. Cook always serves it with potatoes and rutabagas. It’s quite tasty. Just give it a chance, yer grace.”
Ian raised a tentative forkful to his mouth.
Percy tossed in, “The whole mess is boiled in a sheep stomach.”
The duke swallowed convulsively, hoping he wouldn’t throw up. A damned sheep’s stomach? Good Lord, what were these people? He tired another bite. He tasted strong black pepper. He quickly drank more of the heavy sweet wine to avoid sneezing.
He tried several more bites. He chewed. He swallowed. He tried not to think about the sheep’s stomach. He looked up to see various pairs of eyes gazing at him expectantly, some smiling, some malicious, some just curious.
“It’s delicious. My compliments to Cook and to the sheep.” Oh, damn, not the sheep. He almost gagged.
Brandy found herself grinning at Percy’s disappointment. She hadn’t realized before that he wasn’t very talented at hiding his feelings. He looked thwarted, his mouth sullen. But he was her cousin and for just a moment, a very brief moment, she felt a stab of pity for him.
Ian looked around the table as everyone ate. Lady Adella, his great aunt, sat like royalty at the foot of the table, attacking the haggis as if she hadn’t eaten in a month. She must be at least seventy, he thought, maybe a hundred, trying to remember his grandmother, her sister. All he could recall was a vague, wispy wraith of a stooped old lady who seemed to have spent most of her remaining days reclining on a comfortable sofa with his own mother in constant attendance. Surely, she couldn’t have had the iron personality Lady Adella appeared to enjoy in abundance. Lady Adella had welcomed him graciously enough, yet had seemed to derive pleasure in pitting him against Percy and Bertrand.
He glanced at Claude, who sat on Lady Adella’s left, seemingly quite content to noisily chew his dinner with his few remaining teeth. He had been introduced as a nephew, and Bertrand, his son, as a grandnephew. Why the devil hadn’t one of these men inherited Penderleigh? He disliked mysteries and determined to unravel these confusing relationships on the morrow.
He looked at Constance, so lovely and trying so hard to make herself noticed and admired, then quickly at Brandy, and back again at Constance. He found it difficult to believe that the two girls were sisters. The one with the unattractive braided hair, and the other with lush, thick black hair that curled provocatively over her rounded shoulders. Brandy wore a shapeless muslin gown, far outdated, and topped with a pale yellow shawl, and Constance a daringly low-cut violet silk gown that showed the promise of a maturing bosom. And Fiona, the redheaded little urchin who had almost dashed herself under his horses’ hooves, in coloring at least was very different from both of her sisters. He looked back down the long expanse of table toward Lady Adella and decided that he had never before seen such a ragtag collection of gentry.
Lady Adella met his eyes and said, “No string of endless courses here, yer grace. When ye are finished with the haggis, we’ll have the trifle served up.”
The duke smiled easily. “Trifle, my lady. That is a dish I’ve enjoyed many times.”
“Not the way Cook prepares it, ye haven’t.” Claude cackled, a grating sound that made one to punch him except there was also just a hint of pain in that cackle as well. Lady Adella had said he suffered from gout.
“At least it isn’t made in a sheep stomach, I trust,” Ian said. “It isn’t, is it?” he said directly to Brandy.
“No sheep involved,” Brandy said, but she was grinning like a thief accidentally given a collection plate. He discovered after several mouthfuls what Claude meant. The sherry was sour and the cake soggy. Good manners required him to finish the bulk of the noble portion that Morag had spooned onto a plate for him. He downed a large draught of wine to soothe his irritated palate. He gazed toward Lady Adella after some moments, wondering if in Scotland the ladies retired to the drawing room and left the gentlemen to their port, as was the custom in England.
“We’ll take our port in the drawing room,” she said presently, as if reading his thoughts. He raised his eyebrow fleetingly and rose with the rest of the company.
As he passed Brandy, she whispered, “That was very polite of ye. I was wrong. Ye do have breeding and good manners to survive a dinner with all of us. The trifle was terrible, but Cook was only trying to impress ye.” She giggled behind her hand.
He was enchanted, he couldn’t help it. “It was a noble effort. I could do nothing else but eat all eleven bitefuls.” He lowered his voice. “Doesn’t poor Crabbe resent being called an old sot?”
Brandy bit her lower lip. “Nay, yer grace, I assure ye, it’s one of her more gentle ways of addressing him. I had hoped that she would refrain from being so colorful in yer presence, but I should have known better.” She added under her breath, “Ye mustn’t pay any attention to Percy. He is ever hateful and, I think, most jealous of yer position as new master here.”
Lady Adella’s omnipresent eye prevented him from questioning Brandy further.
“Come, Brandy, Constance. We must show the duke that Scotland is not an uncivilized land. His grace is in need of entertainment.”
She turned to the duke, who at the moment wanted nothing more than his bed and a long night’s sleep. “Ye’ll find the girls not without ladies’ accomplishments. Constance, since ye’re the younger and it is growing late, ye may perform for his grace first.”
