The Last Heiress (26 page)

“Maybel says all has been well,” Elizabeth said. “We will speak in the morning. For now I shall tell you all my adventures, including the fete that Mistress Boleyn gave me on my birthday. We wore costumes, and as always Uncle Thomas outdid himself, and we were a great success.”

The servants began bringing the meal into the hall. Elizabeth, her family, and Will gathered about the high board. It was a simple country meal: a roasted capon with a stuffing of bread and dried fruits, two whole broiled trout displayed upon a platter of cress, a platter of lamb chops, fresh peas, tiny new carrots in a creamed dill sauce, fresh cottage loaves, newly churned butter, and a half-wheel of sharp cheddar.

There was good brown ale, and when they had eaten their fill there came a bowl of newly picked peaches.

“I did not eat a meal at court that could compare to this,” Elizabeth told Maybel, her eyes sparkling as she took another ripe peach.

“I see travel and weariness have not claimed your appetite.” Maybel chuckled.

“Tell us of the court,” Edmund said.

Elizabeth began a detailed recitation of her travels. Now and again Thomas Bolton would add his own colorful commentary. They chuckled at her wicked descriptions of the courtiers she had encountered, and laughed until the tears rolled down their faces when she explained how she and Lord Cambridge had attended her birthday fete costumed as sheep.

“What did the king say?” Maybel wheezed.

“He is a clever gentleman, and he caught the jest,” Elizabeth said.

“What did your hoity-toity sister have to say?” Maybel asked.

“At first she was a bit taken aback, and said she would not attend,”

Elizabeth said, “but Uncle Thomas knew she would never miss such a fete, and besides, the gossip that would ensue if she did not come could ruin her.”

“Aye, her ladyship has always had an eye out for herself,” Maybel responded.

“Nay, she thinks not of herself now, but of her sons, who are already in service at the court. Henry is a page to the king, and Owein to the Duke of Norfolk.”

“I thought she had one with the cardinal,” Edmund remarked.

“He has fallen from grace,” Thomas Bolton said.

“A poor man’s son who climbed too high,” Edmund said. “It was bound to happen eventually. He did not stay where he belonged, and got above his station.”

“He was a brilliant man, Edmund,” Lord Cambridge said, “and a loyal servant to the king. His crime was that he could not give the king what he wanted.”

“Tell us about Lady Philippa’s gown,” Maybel said.

“She was garbed as a peacock,” Elizabeth said, and went on to explain.

The evening grew late for the country, and Elizabeth went gratefully to her bed.

When she had departed the hall Lord Cambridge explained the visit from his point of view. “I will find her a husband, although I know she is glad we did not. She may be twenty-two years of age, but she is yet young and knows nothing of passion. It is time she learned.”

“Will you send to Rosamund?” Edmund wanted to know.

“Not yet,” Lord Cambridge said. “Let Elizabeth enjoy being home without having her mother and Logan fussing over her supposed failures. There is time yet for a husband and children.”

“The young Scot who was here through the winter,” Edmund began. “His father has written to say the sheep he bought for Grayhaven seem to have taken to their new home well. With Elizabeth’s permission he wants to send his son back to Friarsgate to learn more about our weavers and their looms.”

“Indeed,” Thomas Bolton said. This was surely a sign that what he had in mind could be accomplished. “What did you reply?” he asked as casually as he dared.

“I didn’t see no harm in it,” Edmund replied. “I wrote to the master of Grayhaven that he should send his son back here, but that to learn about our weavers he might have to remain through the autumn, possibly the winter too.”

“ ’Twas wise, I believe,” Lord Cambridge said. “He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, and intelligent to boot.”

“When will you be returning to Otterly?” Maybel wanted to know.

“In a few days I shall send dear Will to see how the builders are coming along,” Lord Cambridge answered. “I shall not return until I can move into my new wing. And Will must be certain we are private this time. As much as I adore my darling Banon, her brood is much too noisy and active for a man of my years.”

“If Elizabeth weds and has bairns”—Maybel chortled—“you’ll not be able to hide yourself away at Friarsgate any longer. Are you certain you would have her wed?”

“For her sake, for my darling Rosamund’s sake, and especially for Friarsgate, aye! Elizabeth must be wed, Maybel. As for me, I shall be a snug as a bug in a rug with my new and absolutely private apartments.

But I shall come now and again to Friarsgate.” He yawned, stretched, and stood up. “I am weary with all the traveling and excitement I have endured over these past two and a half months.” He yawned again. “I shall find my bed. Good night, Edmund. Good night, Maybel.”

He walked from the hall, his facile mind turning. A plain Scot.

Baen MacColl certainly fit that description. He had not thought it before they left for court, but now Thomas Bolton was reconsidering his position. Elizabeth needed a husband. She needed a man who would be as much involved in Friarsgate as she was. A man who would defer just enough to her to make her believe she continued to have complete autonomy over Friargate. A good man like Sir Owein Meredith, her father, had been.

There had been an attraction between them, Lord Cambridge knew. Could he see that it was rekindled? Encouraged to grow into a love between them? And would the Scot love Elizabeth enough that he could overlook the differences that separated their two countries?

Baen MacColl was no Flynn Stewart. His loyalties would be to the father who had taken him in as a lad. He might be the master of Grayhaven’s eldest child, but as a bastard he could not inherit. Would the father consider giving him his freedom in exchange for wealth and respectability? Prior Richard was right: He was going to need a miracle.

Strangely, the thought did not deter him. He had lived a good life and been generous to all. Surely God would now give him this miracle.

Thomas Bolton intended praying harder than he had ever prayed, because this was right. He just knew it!

Chapter 9

C
olin Hay, the master of Grayhaven, looked at his eldest son and said, “I’m sending you back to England, Baen.” He was a big man, standing three inches over six feet, with black hair and leaf-green eyes. Despite his fifty-two years he was a handsome man who gave the appearance of one twenty years younger. He looked more Baen’s brother than his father. “I’ve written to Friarsgate and had back a reply. You’ll go for the summer and autumn, and if you need to remain longer, you will.”

“Why?” Baen asked. “I’m barely home again, Da.” He stood an inch taller than his parent, but had the same wide, high forehead, long, straight nose, and generous mouth. From a distance they were often mistaken for each other.

“I want to learn more about this weaving you told me about when you returned a few weeks ago,” Colin Hay said. “These Friarsgate folk are kept busy the winter long at their looms, and the cloth they weave brings in an income. You will learn everything there is to know about this industrious endeavor, Baen. Then we will attempt to set up a similar undertaking here at Grayhaven. It will be your responsibility, for your brothers, good lads both, have not the instincts for trade or industry.”

“When am I to go?” Baen asked his father. He wondered if the lovely Elizabeth Meredith would have returned from court. And if she had, was she a married woman now? Of course, he had no right to think about her, but he had not been able to get her out of his mind.

Her sweet mouth. Her golden hair and luminous hazel-green eyes. He almost sighed aloud with the memory. He wondered if she had thought of him.

“You can depart tomorrow,” the master of Grayhaven said. “Return when you know what you need to know, lad.”

So Baen had ridden out from Grayhaven the following morning with his dog, Friar, and for the next few days he rode from dawn until darkness. He carried wine in his flask and oatcakes in his pouch to sustain him. His horse grazed the night hours away wherever they stopped.

Friar hunted rabbits. His woolen cape and his dog kept him warm in the fields where he bedded down. And with Friar by his side he was safe from marauders and wild beasts. Down from his Highland home he came, bypassing Edinburgh and riding across the Lowlands to finally cross into England. When he at last topped the hill and looked down into Friarsgate’s valley, he felt an odd sensation in his chest that he couldn’t comprehend. It was if he were coming home. Friar, seeming to recognize where he was too, barked noisily and dashed excitedly about.

The first to welcome him back was the priest, Father Mata. He was coming from his church. “ ’Tis good to see you again, laddie,” he said.

“Edmund will be in the house now with Elizabeth. Today is their day for checking the figures on the flocks.”

“Mistress Elizabeth has returned from court?” Baen asked, dismounting. “And has she brought a fine bridegroom with her, Father Mata?”

“Nay, alas, there is no husband,” the priest said, shaking his head.

“Perhaps she will find one among her neighbors,” Baen said without conviction.

“We have few neighbors, and none near,” the priest replied mournfully. “I do not know what the lady Rosamund will do now. She made Elizabeth the heiress of Friarsgate, but we always anticipated the lass would one day wed and breed up a new heir or heiress for Friarsgate.

It would appear that will not happen now, and what will become of Friarsgate? The lady will quarrel with her daughter when she learns this truth, but they have kept it from her so far, for anger will not solve the problem.”

They had reached the house now, and a lad came to take Baen’s horse. The priest went in with the Scot, and they walked to the hall.

There they found Lord Cambridge, who stood up, smiling broadly at the sight of Baen MacColl.

“Dear boy!” he exclaimed. “Welcome back to Friarsgate. It is good to see you once again. Come and sit with me. How fortunate I am still here to greet you. Alas, the workmen building the new wing at Otterly have been wretchedly slow.”

Baen joined Thomas Bolton, and a servant brought them both goblets of wine. The priest had disappeared from the hall. “Your visit to court was not a successful one, Father Mata tells me,” Baen began. “I am sorry, but if I recall, you did not think it a good idea, but went because Mistress Elizabeth’s mother desired it.”

“It was a stratagem that worked for the two older sisters,” Lord Cambridge said, “and my cousin Rosamund hoped it would succeed for Elizabeth. It did not.”

“What will you do now, my lord?”

“I am thinking about it,” Thomas Bolton said. “Now, tell me, dear boy, why has your father sent you back to us? Are you in the market for additional stock?”

“He would like me to learn about Friarsgate’s weaving trade,” Baen answered. “I think he hopes to give me a purpose in life, as I cannot inherit, being his bastard. He is a good man and loves me, I know, but is concerned with my future in this world. There is only so much to be had at Grayhaven, as Jamie and Gilbert must come before me.”

“He would appear to be a good man, your father,” Lord Cambridge observed, sipping his wine. This boded well. If the master of Grayhaven loved his bastard enough to care about his future, perhaps something could be arranged. Mayhap Colin Hay would not object to giving his oldest-born to England. Now, of course, Thomas Bolton thought he must encourage the budding attraction he had seen the previous winter between Baen MacColl and Elizabeth. She did seem to have a predilection for Scotsmen. Hopefully her little flirtation with Flynn Stewart hadn’t broken her heart too badly. And then there was, of course, the little matter of convincing his cousin Rosamund to approve such a match. At this point, however, she should be delighted for any son-in-law who would love Elizabeth and help her care for Friarsgate.

Maybel came into the hall now, greeting Baen, who stood up, coming forward to stand before her. “I had heard you had arrived,” she said.

“You are welcome. I have prepared a wee chamber upstairs for you, as you will be with us awhile. Is this the pup you took with you several months ago?” she asked, giving Friar a pat. “You’ve taken good care of him, laddie.”

“Aye, I couldn’t leave him behind,” Baen said. “We have become rather good friends, Friar and I. You are as pretty as ever, Mistress Maybel, if I may be allowed to note it.” His gray eyes twinkled at her as he took her hands in his and kissed them.

Maybel chuckled. “Go on with you, laddie,” she told him, coloring, pulling her hands from his, and giving him a friendly swat. “You’re a proper rogue, I can see.”

He grinned at her. “Tomorrow is Midsummer’s Eve Day, Maybel.

Will you dance about the fire with me?”

“Indeed I will”—she chortled—“and be the envy of all the women for having such a handsome young fellow by my side.”

“Baen MacColl, welcome back to Friarsgate!” Elizabeth came into the hall. She had a look in her eye that told her uncle she was happy to see the Scotsman again.

He took her hand in his, slowly raising it to his lips to kiss it. “It is good to see you again, Elizabeth Meredith,” he told her, and she blushed prettily.

Yes,
Lord Cambridge thought, delighted.
The attraction is still there,
and with a bit of encouragement we shall fan it into a love that will last a
lifetime. What matter that he is a Scot? I will wager his father would be
happy to see him wed to a girl like Elizabeth. Settled. Comfortable for the
rest of his life. He is a man of the land. Why did I not see it before?
He almost purred like a cat with his pleasure at the situation unfolding before him. He had promised to find Elizabeth a husband, and he had, though none of the others knew it yet.

“Oh, you have brought Friar with you!” Elizabeth exclaimed, and knelt to fondle the half-grown dog.