The Last Heiress (6 page)

When I saw my mother’s name on the packet I assumed it must be for her, although she is no longer the lady. But it had come from those strange to us in Scotland. They could not know of the changes here, and I am not Rosamund.”

“Have you read the message yet?” he asked her. “Can you read?”

“Of course I can read!” Elizabeth said indignantly. “Can you?”

“Aye.” He began to spoon the oat stirabout in his trencher of bread into his mouth. The hunger was beginning to gnaw at his belly again.

She poured him a goblet of ale. “It was too late last night to be bothered with reading your message,” Elizabeth said. “Do you know what is in the packet?”

“Aye.” He reached for the cottage loaf and the butter. “Is that jam?”

He pointed to a bowl near the butter.

“Aye,” Elizabeth replied. “Strawberry.”

He pulled the bowl over and, dipping his spoon in it, smeared the buttered bread with the jam, a smile of pure bliss lighting his features as he ate it.

“Well?” she demanded of him.

“Well, what?” He had finished his porridge, and was now filling the bread trencher with jam and devouring it.

“What does the letter to the lady of Friarsgate say?” Elizabeth wanted to know.

“I thought you could read,” he said, popping the last bit into his mouth.

“I can! But if you know you can satisfy my curiosity before I read it in detail,” Elizabeth almost shouted. “I cannot believe you are that much of a dunce, sir.”

He burst out laughing, and his laugher echoed through the hall, startling the servants who were busily cleaning. “My father wants to buy some of your Shropshires, if you are of a mind to sell any,” he said.

“They are not for eating,” Elizabeth replied stiffly. “You Scots are much for eating sheep, I am told. I raise Shropshires for their wool.”

He chuckled. “My father sells his wool.”

“We weave ours into cloth here at Friarsgate,” Elizabeth told him.

“You do not send the wool to the Netherlands?” He was surprised.

“We send cloth to the Netherlands,” she told him. “Our Friarsgate blue cloth is much sought after. We regulate how much we will sell each year in order to keep the price high. The Hollanders have tried to copy it, but they have not succeeded. It is shipped in our own vessel, so we are able to control the export completely.”

“This is very interesting,” he said seriously. “Who does the weaving?”

“My cotters, during the winter months when there is no other work for them,” Elizabeth explained. “By keeping them busy they earn a bit of coin, and do not grow lazy. Come the spring they are ready to go into the fields again. In the old days there was nothing for the cotters to do in the dark days and long nights. They drank too much, grew irritable, and beat their wives or children. They often fought with other men, causing serious injuries to the otherwise able-bodied. Now everyone is busy the winter through.”

“Whose idea was this?” he asked her.

“My mother’s, and then my uncle decided that we should have our own vessel, so he had one built,” Elizabeth said.

“How long have the duties of Friarsgate been yours?” he wondered.

“Since I was fourteen. I will be twenty-two at the end of May,” Elizabeth said.

“My dearest girl, a lady never reveals her age,” Thomas Bolton said, coming into the hall. “I was told the Scot was back.” His amber eyes swept over Baen MacColl, and he sighed most audibly.

“You have broken your fast, of course,” Elizabeth said. “If you have not there is no jam left, I fear. It has all been eaten up.”

“Will and I have been up for at least two hours, dear girl,” he told her. “We have been discussing your hair and the state of your hands, Elizabeth.”

“What is wrong with my hair?” she wanted to know.

“It hangs,” he told her. “We need to decide upon an elegant style for you, and then Nancy must learn how to do it. And from now on 
you must sleep every night with your hands wrapped in cotton cloth after they have been properly creamed.”

“Why?” Elizabeth demanded of him.

“Dear girl, only yesterday Will noted that you have hands like a milkmaid. A lady should have smooth and soft hands. The cream and the wrapping will accomplish just that effect. And you must cease all manner of manual labor, my pet,” he told her.

“Uncle, I am what I am,” Elizabeth said, exasperated.

“She can be so difficult,” Thomas Bolton said, turning to Baen MacColl. “She is going to court in a few weeks. Her sisters were delighted at the prospect and looked forward to it, but alas, my darling Elizabeth does not.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “And you must practice walking, dear girl.”

“I have been walking since I was a year old, Uncle,” she said.

“What is wrong with the way I walk?”

“You clump, dear girl. Ladies do not clump; they glide like swans on the surface of the water,” Lord Cambridge said.

“Uncle!” Elizabeth’s tone was exasperated.

“Well, we must at least rid you of the clump,” Tom Bolton said, undeterred.

Baen MacColl snickered, and Elizabeth shot him a black look.

“Those gowns of yours will not take to clumping, dear girl,” Lord Cambridge said. “And you look so beautiful in those fine feathers, my pet.” He turned again to Baen MacColl. “She is the fairest of Rosamund’s daughters, dear boy. Now tell me what brings you back to Friarsgate. I thought you bound for Claven’s Carn.”

Baen explained, and then Elizabeth told her uncle what was in the missive from the master of Grayhaven.

“You are his son?” Thomas Bolton asked.

“Aye, the eldest, but I am the bastard,” Baen said candidly. “I have lived in my father’s house for almost twenty years. I was raised with my legitimate half brothers and my half sister, Margaret, who is now a nun,” Baen said candidly.

“I have always considered that as long as a man is responsible for his appetites there is no harm done,” Lord Cambridge replied. “Two of the Bolton sons belonging to Friarsgate were born on the wrong side 
of the blanket: Edmund, the manor’s steward, and Richard, who is the prior of St. Cuthbert’s. Guy was the heir, and Henry the youngest.

Both the legitimate sons are now dead and buried.”

“And where do you fit in the family tree?” Baen inquired boldly.

“There were twin sons several generations back. The second-born twin was sent to London to wed a merchant’s daughter and make his fortune there. His wife, however, lay with King Edward, and then in a fit of remorse killed herself. The king felt guilty, as her family were most generous supporters of his in the war. So he gifted my grandfather with a peerage,” Thomas Bolton explained.

“Yet you live nearby, if I am to understand Mistress Elizabeth,” 
Baen said.

“Aye, I sold my estates in the south but for two houses, and returned to the north so I might be near my family. It is a decision I have never regretted. Every few years I go to court for a few months, and then eagerly return home.”

“Vowing to never go again”—Elizabeth laughed—“but he always does.”

“Only to get the latest gossip and procure a new wardrobe,”

Thomas Bolton assured his companions. “My Otterly folk would be most disappointed if I did not continue to appear at my most fashionable best.”

“And you never disappoint, Uncle,” Elizabeth assured him mischievously.

“Wretched girl!” he said. “And do not think I have forgotten your lessons in proper court etiquette, for I have not. Come out from behind the board now, and walk across the hall for me.”

Elizabeth groaned, but she complied with his request. Outside, the snow was falling heavily, and there was no escape for her, she knew.

She stepped down from the high board and stamped across the chamber. The pained look on Lord Cambridge’s visage caused Baen MacColl’s handsome face to break into a grin, but he kept silent. He was rather enjoying this quite unexpected entertainment, and it was about to get even better, he discovered.

Thomas Bolton sighed deeply. “No, no, dear girl!” the older man said. “What are you wearing on your feet? Perhaps that is the difficulty.”

Elizabeth stuck out a foot from beneath her skirts. She was wearing a very well worn square-toed boot of brown leather.

“Hmmmm. That may be it,” Lord Cambridge said. “One can hardly glide in such footwear, dear girl, can one? Albert!” he called to the manservant. “Go to Mistress Elizabeth’s chamber and have Nancy bring a pair of court slippers to the hall.”

The manservant ran off to do Lord Cambridge’s bidding.

“At court, dear girl, you will not wear your boots, although they will do nicely for the days that we travel,” Thomas Bolton explained.

“You cannot be expected to walk properly unless you wear the shoes you will wear at court.”

“They hurt my feet,” Elizabeth said.

“A lady bears such torment for the sake of fashion,” he told her gently.

“I wonder if swans’ feet hurt,” Elizabeth muttered darkly.

Thomas Bolton chuckled. “Your mother left this endeavor too long, I fear,” he said. “But go to court you will, darling girl, and you will be a sensation if it is the last thing I ever do for this family!”

The shoes were brought, and Nancy fitted them onto her mistress’s feet.

Elizabeth stood up. “They are too small, and much too tight,” she said.

“Show me!” her uncle barked, and she held out her foot. Thomas Bolton looked up at Nancy. “Fetch your mistress a pair of silk stockings at once, girl! No wonder these shoes do not fit. She is wearing her heavy wool boot stockings. Such elegant footwear is not made for wool stockings.” He sighed. “I must speak with Maybel.”

Nancy ran off again, and returned quickly with a pair of silk stockings and garters to hold them up. She rolled her mistress’s wool leg coverings off and replaced them with the fine silk stockings. Then she fitted Elizabeth’s feet into her slippers. Elizabeth stood up, swayed just slightly, and looked to her uncle.

“Try walking across the room again,” he said.

Elizabeth complied, but this time she moved more carefully, slowly, and seemingly without any purpose other than to get from one side of the hall to the other. The shoes were not as comfortable as her boots, 
but neither were they as uncomfortable as they had previously been.

She turned and looked to Lord Cambridge again.

“That was better, my angel girl, but we still have a lot of hard work ahead of us,” he told her.

And for the next hour Elizabeth walked her hall in her silk stockings and court shoes until at last Thomas Bolton was satisfied with what he saw and allowed her to sit down. She collapsed into a chair by the fire, kicking off the shoes. “I don’t want to go to court, Uncle,”

she said. “I don’t care if I ever marry!”

And what a pity that would be,
Baen MacColl thought. No one as lovely as Elizabeth Meredith should die a virgin. Why was it this beautiful girl was not yet married, and a mother? Was there something wrong with her that he did not know about?

Why had her family not seen properly to her future?

Elizabeth called to Nancy. “Give me my boots and wool stockings, and take these others back to my chamber. I have work to do.”

“Today? In the midst of a blizzard?” Lord Cambridge said.

“It is the day of the month I set aside for going over the accounts.

There have been many lambs born, and I must enter them in my ledger, Uncle. I collected the numbers as I was out yesterday seeing to my flock’s safety,” she said, standing up, her feet reshod. She turned to Baen MacColl. “I am sorry there is naught for you to do, sir, but sit by my fire. As you can see the storm outside these walls is only just beginning to roar.” Then she was gone from the hall.

“Do you play chess, dear boy?” Lord Cambridge asked hopefully.

“I do, my lord. My father taught me when I first came to live with him,” the Scotsman replied. “Tell me where the board is, and I will set it up for us.”

When William Smythe entered the hall shortly afterwards, he found his master and Baen MacColl engaged in a very lively game. He watched, and then he smiled. His master was beginning to become alive with his court personality once more. It was a side of Thomas Bolton he did not see often any longer. He came and stood by his side, saying, “He is beating you, my lord. I am quite surprised.”

“We have only been playing for a short while, Will. Like most young men this one is in a hurry, and when one is in a hurry one makes 
mistakes.” He took Baen’s knight in a smooth motion, and set it on the side of the board with a small grin.

The Scot laughed. “Well played, my lord,” he said with a bow of his head.

Why, the clever young fellow,
William Smythe thought as he continued to view the game.
He is going to let my lord win this contest when
he is really the better player. How diplomatic of him, considering he is little
more than a rough Highlander.
He moved off. He had his duties to complete despite the bad weather, and he would complete them far more quickly if his lordship was being amused.

In the little chamber she used for estate business, Elizabeth read the missive sent her by Colin Hay, the master of Grayhaven. He had, he wrote, two nice-size flocks of black-faced Highlands, but while the wool sheared from his sheep was good, it was ordinary, and hardly worth the bother of shipping to the Netherlands. His friend, Adam Leslie, had said Friarsgate raised several kinds of sheep, and the wool sheared was excellent. The master of Grayhaven wanted to improve his flocks. Would the lady of Friarsgate be interested in selling him some of her sheep?

Elizabeth sat back in her chair and considered his request. Her Shropshires, Hampshires, and cheviots all produced an excellent and high grade of wool. But there were two secrets to the Friarsgate blue wool: the secret of how its color was obtained, and the fact that the wool came from merino sheep. Her mother had learned of this breed from Queen Katherine, and with the queen’s aid had imported several ewes and a young ram. The flock had grown over the years, and now a quarter of the Friarsgate sheep were merinos. Their fleece was heavy and snow white. They were self-lubricating, so that their inner wool was incredibly soft.