The Last Heiress (4 page)

An aquamarine, he explained. There were two brooches. One was of diamonds and pearls set in gold filigree. The other of sapphires and diamonds set in Irish red gold. There were several rings for her fingers, which would be refitted if necessary.

Elizabeth closed the box finally. “I am really going to court,” she said softly.

He nodded with a small smile. “You are, dear girl,” he replied.

She sighed. “It is so difficult to watch my tongue, Uncle. If they are all like Philippa, I shall have such a hard time of it.”

“The fun of the game, dear girl,” he told her, “is in being able to outwit your opponent. Philippa will be expecting the outspoken little girl she hasn’t seen in eight years. But you are no longer that little girl.

You will be a beautifully dressed and coiffed young lady. An heiress of respectable, if not grand, lineage.”

“But alas, Uncle, I am still quite outspoken, and Philippa can irritate me so.”

“I will tell you a secret, Elizabeth. She can irritate me too,” Lord Cambridge said. “But you will fool her by not giving in to your temper when she is annoying. Philippa likes her world to be an orderly one.

You will surprise her greatly if you remain calm in her presence, and we can use her help in this delicate matter. Now, you cannot travel without a tiring woman, dear girl. Do you have someone here who is suitable?”

“I will ask Maybel, Uncle. She will know.”

And indeed Maybel did have a serving woman in mind. “No young and flighty lass for you, Mistress Elizabeth. Nancy is who I have in mind. A sensible woman is Nancy. And she knows how to do hair nice. You know her, my lord.”

“The creature is terrifying,” Thomas Bolton said. “She has a face like a hawk. Will she appreciated being uprooted and dragged to London, and Greenwich, and probably Windsor? She doesn’t have an adventurous look to me. I want no one accompanying Elizabeth who will grumble and grouse at every turn.”

“Not old Nancy, my lord. Young Nancy, her daughter,” Maybel said, chuckling. “Her face is more like a ewe sheep’s. She’s just two years older than Mistress Elizabeth.”

“And not married?” Lord Cambridge was surprised. Country girls married young as a rule, and had a houseful of children aging them long before their time.

“Left at the altar, she was, by a shepherd lad who run off with a Gypsy girl,” Maybel said disapprovingly. “She needs to get away from Friarsgate, if only for a short time, my lord. Like Mistress Elizabeth she knows nothing of the world outside of Friarsgate. If she did it might help ease her sorrow. And when she comes home there is a fine widower with but one little boy who would gladly have her to wife. He does not think now is the time to ask her. He’s a better match for her, I can tell you.”

“It’s Ned, the blacksmith, isn’t it?” Elizabeth said, grinning.

“Now you just mind your beeswax, Mistress Elizabeth,” Maybel said sternly.

“It’s Ned,” Elizabeth replied, turning to her uncle and Will Smythe.

“He lost his wife almost a year ago in childbirth. One of his married sisters is nursing his son along with her child. So he likes young Nancy, does he? Does she know?”

“Of course she knows, but she’s so set on bemoaning her loss of the 
shepherd she can’t be bothered. I’ve trained her myself to be a lady’s maid for the day when you should need one, Mistress Elizabeth. As I said, she’s good with hair, and she is clever with her needle.”

“Is she pleasant?” Lord Cambridge asked.

“Sweet as honey is Nancy, but not as wise as she ought to be,” Maybel answered him frankly. “She’s just what Mistress Elizabeth needs, and is looking forward to serving her. Now shall I tell her it’s time to begin her service?”

Elizabeth turned to her uncle. “What think you?”

“It is still some weeks before we must leave,” Thomas Bolton said.

“It is probably wise for the girl to begin serving you now so you may both get used to each other. You must have a woman servant, dear girl.

All fine ladies do.”

Elizabeth looked to Maybel. “Tell Nancy I’ll have her then,” she said to the older woman. “But she must have her own chamber. I will have no one sleeping in my room, and particularly not at the foot of my bed on a trundle.”

“ ’Tis no problem here, although it may be on the road, my child,” 
Maybel said.

“There are more fine inns now, Maybel, than in the days you went to court with Rosamund,” Lord Cambridge said. “I shall send ahead before we depart, and book our accommodations. There may be a time, Elizabeth, when you and Nancy will share a bed, but I shall try to avoid it for your sake, dear girl. And, of course, in my houses there will be no difficulty.” He smiled broadly. “Just a few more weeks and we shall begin our adventure, my pet. Your wardrobe is almost finished, and you will take the court by storm with your fair beauty.”

“I am not beautiful, Uncle,” Elizabeth replied.

Lord Cambridge looked startled by her words. “Not beautiful?” he cried, his hand going to his heart. “My darling Elizabeth Julia Anne Meredith! Why, you are the loveliest of Rosamund’s three daughters with your pale golden hair and hazel-green eyes. Such coloring is quite unique at the court. My hope for you is that your beauty will overcome any prejudice toward your northern estates. Your features are even, your teeth are white, and your breath sweet. You will be very sought after, for you are indeed beautiful, Elizabeth.”

“Beauty fades, Uncle. What is in one’s heart is more important,” 
she told him.

He nodded. “Aye,” he agreed. “But before any may know your heart, dear girl, they will be ravished first by your beauty.”

Elizabeth laughed. “And then they will be very surprised, won’t they, when I don’t simper and blush?”

“Simpering is for ninnies,” he told her. “You are not a ninny.”

“Nay, I am not,” Elizabeth replied.

In late February a great snowstorm came down from the far north, lasting several long days and nights. The evening before it began there came a hammering on the door of the manor house. The little maidservant opening the portal jumped back with a small scream, for standing in the open doorway was a tall, muffled figure who pushed inside, stamping his boots free of dirt and shaking his cape out with a grunt.

“I’ve a message for the lady of Friarsgate,” he finally managed to say.

“Come into the hall, sir,” the little servant said, ushering him inside. When they entered the hall the young girl called out, “A messenger for Mistress Elizabeth.”

The tall man stepped forward, and they saw he was a Scot.

“Are you from Claven’s Carn?” Elizabeth asked, but the clan badge he wore was unfamiliar to her.

“Are you the lady of Friarsgate?” the messenger asked in return.

“I am,” Elizabeth replied. Lord, the man was tall, and big-boned as well.

The Scot held out a packet to her. “I am Baen MacColl, lady. I’ve come from Grayhaven, in the Highlands above Edinburgh.”

“I do not know it,” Elizabeth said, looking very puzzled.

“But you surely know Glenkirk, lady. My father spoke with Lord Adam, and ’tis he who sent me here.” The tall man shifted uncomfortably.

“Please sit down, sir, by the fire, for from the look of you, you are nigh frozen. The weather is particularly bitter this night, and the air smells of snow,” Elizabeth said to her visitor. She glared at a nearby servant and snapped out one word. “Wine!”

The servant dashed to comply, knowing he would later be repri-manded for his dereliction to duty, but he had been so amazed by the great size of the Scot.

“Aye,” Elizabeth said to the messenger. “My family is acquainted with the Leslies of Glenkirk.” She turned the packet in her hand over, and then said, “This is addressed to my mother, sir. My mother does not reside at Friarsgate. She lives at Claven’s Carn with her Hepburn husband. You have ridden too far. I will give you directions to my mother’s home, and you will go in the morning. Have you eaten?”

“Nay, lady, not since the last of my oatcakes at dawn,” the Scot said.

“A big fellow like yourself can’t live on oatcakes,” Maybel told him.

“Come to the kitchens with me, and I will see you well fed. Then there will be a nice bed space for you in the hall next to the fire,” she promised.

Baen MacColl arose and bowed politely to Elizabeth. “Thank you for your hospitality, mistress,” he said. Then, turning, he followed after Maybel.

“What a handsome young fellow,” Thomas Bolton said.

“If you like the type,” William Smythe responded.

“What type, Will?” Elizabeth asked.

“Rough-hewn and half-savage,” came the answer. “These Scots are very different from our English gentlemen. Your stepfather, for instance, is not at all like Lord Cambridge.”

“I didn’t think the messenger like Logan,” Elizabeth replied. “Logan seems civilized to me now. This Scot is more rugged in appearance, but perhaps it is just his Highland dress that makes it look so. And his face was chapped with the cold, poor man.”

“I wonder what the master of Grayhaven has to write to your mother about,” Thomas Bolton said thoughtfully. “I suppose we can ask her the next time we see her.”

Maybel returned to the hall. “Gracious, that young man has an appetite on him! Why, he wolfed down two game pies and was gnawing on a leg of mutton when I left him. Cook is fussing over him, for he loves to see a man enjoy his food. He was holding out the promise of an apple tartlet. The laddie is most respectful, and mannerly. And 
handsome too.” She cackled. “Why, if I were a young lass I’d have my eye on him, I would!”

“Why, Maybel, you know nothing about the fellow,” Elizabeth said.

“I know what I like, my lass, old though I may be,” Maybel retorted.

“What would Edmund say?” Elizabeth teased her.

“I think he would tell you that for an old woman I still have good eyes in my head.” Maybel laughed. “And do not think he doesn’t appreciate a pretty lass, for he does, Mistress Elizabeth.”

“You will see to his sleeping arrangements,” Elizabeth said.

“Aye, I shall make up the bed space nearest the fire for him,” Maybel responded.

“Then I think I shall seek my own bed,” Elizabeth decided. “Cold winter nights are for sleeping. Tell our guest I bid him a good night, Maybel.” She arose from her place by the fire and, crossing the hall, went upstairs.

In the morning when she returned to the hall Elizabeth was just slightly disappointed to discover the Scotsman had already departed for Claven’s Carn. After eating she fetched her cloak and hurried out-of-doors to speak with her shepherds. She knew that a storm was coming, and she wanted her flocks safely gathered in, for even now the ewes were dropping their lambs. Caught in the snow they could lose many of the young ones if their mams were not properly sheltered.

Riding her horse from flock to flock, she supervised the gathering of the sheep, helping to drive some of the groups of animals towards the barns. Wolves were also a danger at this time of year. They seemed to sense the birthing process, and came skulking about seeking to catch a hapless lamb, and perhaps even its defensive mother.

By midevening they had completed the task, aided by the light of a weak but full moon. The sheep in the farthest pastures were enclosed in barns built in scattered meadows for just such a purpose, as well as for storing hay. Their shepherds and their dogs would remain with them in sheds connected to the barns. Each little accessory structure had been built with a small stone fireplace. They contained supplies of wood, food, and water. Elizabeth Meredith was a woman who thought ahead and considered all possibilities.

As she entered her house, tired but invigorated by her long day out-of-doors, the clouds were beginning to obscure the watery moon, scud-ding across the face of it as the winds began to rise, keening eerily in advance of the storm. Thomas Bolton and William Smythe had eaten earlier, and were both gone from the hall. Elizabeth sat alone at her board while her servants brought her a supper of mutton stew thick with chunks of meat, carrot, and onion; a small fresh cottage loaf; butter; and cheese. They filled her goblet with her own October ale, and she ate hungrily, mopping the gravy from her plate with the last of the bread, reaching for an apple as she swallowed down the rest of her ale.

Then, leaning back in her chair, Elizabeth contemplated her hall with pleasure. The dogs lay sleeping before the hot fire. The oak furniture glowed with a combination of age and good care. Outside the snow was falling, and the world was sweetly silent. She had worked hard this day, and she was content. She didn’t want to go to court or wear the beautiful but constricting gowns that had been made for her.

She didn’t want to have to remember her manners, or be careful of each word she uttered. She wanted to remain here at Friarsgate. She wanted to enjoy the spring and the annual counting of her flocks, but instead she would be on the road to London. To a court she didn’t want to join, and a sister who would find fault with her because she wasn’t a real lady. Elizabeth Meredith sighed deeply, then jumped as there came a thunderous knocking on the manor door.

Chapter 2

E
lizabeth heard a servant going to answer the knocking, and moments later the Scot stumbled into her hall, shaking the snow from his cloak as he pulled it off. “Come to the fire, sir,” she beckoned him. “What brings you back to Friarsgate, and in such dangerous weather?” Tonight she did not have to ask. A servant was at the Scot-man’s side with a large goblet of wine. “Drink,” Elizabeth said, “then sit and tell me. Albert, fetch a plate of stew for Master MacColl. He will be hungry.”

Baen MacColl had accepted the goblet gratefully. His hand was shaking with the cold, and he wondered if he would ever be warm again. He drank half the goblet in a single gulp, and began to feel a faint warmth spreading up from his belly. Perhaps he would live after all. “Thank you, lady,” he said.

“Sit down, sir. You can eat by the fire, for I suspect it will take both food and the heat of the flames before you are truly warm again.”

He nodded. “Aye,” he said, briefly attempting to be polite, but just wanting to bask in the warmth of the hearth until he could feel his extremities again.