The Last Heiress (9 page)

“You did not think I was going to let you go to court without saying good-bye,” Rosamund said to her daughter. She was still a handsome woman, approaching her forty-first birthday. She hugged Elizabeth. “I am so pleased you are going. And I want to see all the beautiful gowns that have been made for you. You must wear one into the hall tonight so Logan and your brothers may see what a fine lady you have become.”

Elizabeth hugged her mother back, and said, “Where is Johnnie?”

“At Claven’s Carn, taking on a bit of the responsibility that will one day be his,” Logan Hepburn answered his stepdaughter. Then he turned on his heel, pierced Baen MacColl with a hard look, and said,

“Who are you? A Highlander, from the look of you.”

“This is Baen MacColl, Logan,” Elizabeth said quickly. “He has been with us for some weeks now, waiting for better weather to return home. His father, the master of Grayhaven, is purchasing a small flock from me. He wishes to improve his stock. He was sent to us by the Leslies of Glenkirk, whose neighbor he is.”

Logan Hepburn held out his hand, and Baen took it, looking directly at the older man as he shook the proffered hand. “My lord,” he said.

“Och, man, Logan will do,” the Hepburn said with a grin. He liked the look of the Highlander. “Your clan?”

“My father is Colin Hay,” Baen answered.

“Well, he spawns big lads,” Logan noted. “Are there any more at home like you?” The man had been introduced as MacColl, which meant he was a bastard, Logan realized. Still, he was obviously well thought of by his sire.

“Two. My half brothers, Jamie and Gilbert Hay,” Logan answered, knowing the Hepburn had already figured out his heritage. Well, he wasn’t ashamed of it.

“Has Elizabeth allowed you a wee dram of my whiskey?” Logan wanted to know. “Lass, have it brought forth at once! You have half a dozen Scotsmen in the hall.”

“Tavis and Edmund are not drinking whiskey!” Rosamund said firmly. “They are far too young. Why, that stuff you brew will stunt their growth, Logan.”

“Awww, mam,” Rosamund’s youngest sons, twins, protested in unison.

“Your mother’s right,” Logan said, and his sons grew quiet.

James Hepburn, who was fourteen, remained very quiet. He watched as four small dram cups were poured and brought forward.

The first went to his half sister’s guest. The next to his father. His brother, Alexander, who was seventeen, was served. Then the servant offered him the last dram, and no one protested. Jamie Hepburn took the pewter cup and, following his father’s lead, raised the little vessel up in toast. Then he drank it all down in a single gulp, gasping audibly as the whiskey hit the bottom of his belly like a hot coal. His eyes watered, but he gamely said nothing.

Logan Hepburn grinned, well pleased. These sons he had sired on Rosamund were braw lads. They were strong and filled with the joy of life, unlike his eldest son, who desperately sought to leave Claven’s Carn and enter a religious order. He had fought with John before they had departed Claven’s Carn, for he wanted his heir to remain behind to oversee his lands. John had wanted to go to a nearby abbey on a retreat. He was glad his first wife, Jeannie, wasn’t alive to suffer the disappointment that John had become. She had been so proud to give Logan Hepburn his first son.

Rosamund, however, had scolded Logan for his intransigence, as she put it. It was important to love one’s lands. John Hepburn loved 
God more and, having experienced a similar disappointment with her eldest daughter in the matter of Friarsgate, Rosamund understood both her husband’s side of the matter and her stepson’s. He had four other sons, she reminded him, and their eldest, Alexander, was like his father in every way, right down to his sense of responsibility regarding Claven’s Carn.

“It tastes terrible, doesn’t it?” Elizabeth remarked to her brother, Jamie, about the whiskey he had just consumed.

“Nah,” James Hepburn said stoutly. “ ’Tis grand!”

“Liar!” She laughed, and the others laughed too.

“Your face got all red,” Edmund Hepburn said.

“And your eyes watered,” Tavis, his twin, noted.

“At least I’m man enough to be offered whiskey,” Jamie taunted them. “You two runts have a ways to go.”

“At least our faces are not full of pimples like yours,” Tavis, the bolder of the two twins, replied. Then he took a defensive stance.

“Aye, Jamie, come on! Try and hit me if you dare!” He danced mockingly before his brother.

“That is enough!” Rosamund snapped. Then she turned to her daughter. “Sons are more difficult than little girls,” she said. “Remember that.”

“Uncle Thomas does not think a great deal of little girls,” Elizabeth teased her relation mischievously. “He has endured the lack of amenities in my hall all winter rather than remain in his own comfortable house with Banon’s brood of little darlings—or demons, as I have heard them referred to by a certain gentleman.”

“Oh, poor Tom,” Rosamund said sympathetically. “Are they really that bad?”

“Perhaps it is that there are so many of them,” Lord Cambridge said.

“I had three, and you found no fault with them,” Rosamund reminded him. “Indeed, you have spoiled all my girls most shamelessly, dear cousin.”

“Banon’s lasses run constantly. They shriek and quarrel among one another. If Katherine Rose receives a blue ribbon and Thomasina Marie a pink, Katherine Rose wants the pink. But Thomasina Marie wants it too. Then Jemima Anne, Elizabeth Susanne, and Margaret 
Mary, the littlest girl, all cry because they did not get ribbons at all.

Because their charming dunce of a father has forgotten to purchase ribbons all of one color at the fair, and has remembered only the eldest two, who want to argue over colors, while the others weep. It is like that at all times. Banon’s children are never silent, and she seems not to notice it at all. I built myself a private wing when Otterly was re-constructed, but the builder made the error of putting a door between the wings. Neither Banon nor her family has any respect for my privacy,” he grumbled.

“So Uncle Thomas is building an entire new wing at Otterly with no access to the main wings,” Elizabeth said. “He has threatened his builder with murder and mayhem if he returns and finds another door.” She laughed.

“Well enough for you to find it amusing,” Lord Cambridge said, aggrieved. “Your house is quiet. Mine has not been. Still, I adore Banon, and I even adore her brood in moderation. As for Robert Neville, he is most likable, for he is a mild-mannered gentleman. We ride and we play chess together. A most companionable fellow.”

“Will you stop at Otterly on your way south?” Rosamund asked her cousin.

“Nay,” he replied. “We must travel quickly in order to reach London in time for my tailor to make any alterations on the new wardrobe he is bringing me. And we must see if anything must be done to improve Elizabeth’s wardrobe. We will stop at Brierewode, however, for it is on our way.”

“Will you carry some messages to Philippa for me?” Rosamund asked him. Despite the fact that Philippa’s renunciation of Friarsgate had hurt her deeply, Rosamund still loved her eldest daughter. It did not matter that Elizabeth was the perfect Friarsgate heiress. Rosamund had always wanted Owein’s eldest child to have the estate. Especially after she had lost their son.

“Of course,” Thomas Bolton replied. “And I shall bring you back all the latest gossip from not only the court, but from Philippa’s family as well,” he promised her.

The manor priest, Father Mata, having arrived to join them, said the blessing before the meal was served. Afterwards Elizabeth was sent 
to her chamber to be dressed in one of her beautiful court gowns. She chose a dress with a rose-colored silk bodice decorated with small sparkling crystals, and a skirt in a slightly deeper shade of the color.

The neckline was squared and edged with the crystals, and the full sleeves had a deep cuff, turned back to display more of the sparkling crystals. The French hood on Elizabeth’s head had a crystal-decorated edging, and the pale pink veil attached to it was made of sheer silk shot through with bits of silver.

“Oh, my!” Rosamund exclaimed. She had never seen Elizabeth in such finery. Then she said, “Let me see the shoes, daughter.”

Elizabeth stuck a foot from beneath her skirts to reveal a square-toed shoe covered in pink silk and decorated with crystals.

“How beautiful!” her mother breathed. She turned to Lord Cambridge. “I remember when you and I went to court, Tom, and you insisted on having a wonderful new wardrobe made for me. And then Philippa, and Banon. Now Elizabeth. How good you have been to us, cousin.” Her eyes grew misty with her remembrances.

“Such shoes hurt my feet,” Elizabeth complained, breaking the mood, “but Uncle Thomas says I cannot wear my boots, even though they would hardly show beneath all these skirts. He says my feet will be displayed when I dance. But I don’t dance.”

Thomas Bolton paled. “God’s nightshirt!” he cried, his hand going to his heart in a dramatic gesture. “I knew there was something I had forgotten. I have not taught her to dance, and she must know how to dance.

The king always expects the ladies at court to dance. Why he danced with you, dear Rosamund! And he danced with Philippa too. How could I have forgotten such an important element of Elizabeth’s education?”

“Oh, Uncle,” Elizabeth attempted to soothe him. “The king will not notice me. It does not matter if I dance or I do not dance.”

“My dear girl,” Lord Cambridge replied, “the king will most certainly notice you. You are young and slender and fair, which he has always liked best in a woman. And you are Rosamund Bolton’s daughter.

Remember that your mother’s friendship with the king goes back to their shared youth at his father’s court. I will have to introduce you to his majesty. If I did not I should be in grave breach of etiquette, and though many things have been said of me, it has never been suggested 
that I lacked the most exquisite of manners,” Thomas Bolton said.

“You must learn to dance! And as your mother is here it is the perfect time. She and I will demonstrate some of the court dances for you.

Then we will try together, for I am an excellent dancer, dear girl, as you will see.”

“We need music,” Rosamund reminded her cousin.

“I will fetch some of the lads who are skilled in such an art,” Maybel said, getting slowly to her feet. “They cannot play as finely as those at court, but they will do.” She moved off on her errand.

Alexander Hepburn grinned at his half sister. “So you’re to learn to dance, Elizabeth? ’Twill be vastly entertaining, I’ve nae a doubt.”

Elizabeth smiled sweetly at him, and then said to their mother, “Do you not think Alex should learn to dance, Mama? While Uncle Thomas partners me, you should partner your son. Certainly you do not want him deficient in the social graces, for he might go to his own king’s court one day, as you and Logan did.”

“That is a fine idea, Elizabeth,” Rosamund replied, knowing very well what her daughter was up to, but pleased at her ability to defend herself in such a skilled manner. She would need such instincts and abilities at court if she was to succeed.

Jamie, Tavis, and Edmund Hepburn snickered as Baen MacColl grinned openly at Alexander Hepburn’s discomfort. The lad would learn from this experience how better to pick his battles, and when to hold his tongue. He was foolish to believe his older sister could not fight back. She was a braw lassie, was Elizabeth Meredith.

“When would I ever go to King Jamie’s court?” Alexander protested. “Da! Tell my mother I do not need to know how to dance such fancy steps. I’ll not mince and prance like some weak fop.”

“Nay, lad,” his father answered. “I think you should learn such dancing. You do not know where fate will take you one day. And when you have learned well you will teach your brothers, for one of them might need to go to court one day to make his fortune.” The laird of Claven’s Carn was almost laughing as he spoke, and he gave his stepdaughter a broad wink of approval for her cleverness.

The musicians entered the hall in Maybel’s company. She settled 
them by the fire and told them to play until they were instructed to cease. Two held reed pipes, one a drum, and another cymbals. It was a most countrified grouping, but it was the best the manor could provide. The quartet began their music, and Lord Cambridge led his cousin Rosamund from the high board. They danced beautifully together, and Rosamund was amazed to find she remembered the steps of the more intricate court dances after all these years. Soon her face was flushed from her endeavors, and she was laughing. After a time Lord Cambridge signaled to the musicians to stop.

“Now it is your turn to learn, Elizabeth. Alexander, partner your mother,” he called to them.

Reluctantly brother and sister made their way from the board, and Lord Cambridge signed to the players to begin anew. To her surprise Elizabeth discovered that mimicking the steps she had watched her mother dance was easy. Soon, in spite of herself, she was dancing with her uncle as if she had been doing it since early childhood. Her half brother, however, stumbled over his feet; tripped their mother, almost causing her to fall; and finally returned to his place, swearing under his breath that dancing such dances was a complete and utter waste of a man’s time. It did not help that his younger brothers all took to the floor, dancing with each other in a mockery of his efforts. Soon the entire hall was laughing uproariously at their antics.

“With your permission, my lord,” Baen MacColl said, asking Rosamund to dance.

“Aye,” the laird replied, smiling as the Highlander led his wife to the floor.

“You dance?” Rosamund said, surprised.

“My stepmother taught me the basics,” he replied. “I may be a bit clumsy with these more intricate steps, but I am of a mind to try if you are of a mind to be patient.”

Rosamund nodded. “I admire your spirit of adventure, Baen MacColl,” she told him, leading him as they danced.

After a while Lord Cambridge cried out, “Let us exchange partners, my dears, and we shall see how well Elizabeth has learned dancing with a less skilled partner, for she will surely have a few at court.” And 
he handed the girl off to Baen MacColl, taking Rosamund’s hand in his once again. “You were always the most divine dancer, dear girl,” he said. “I remember how well you did at court those many years back.”