Until You (39 page)

“That was before my family reappeared,” he defended himself. “And I did keep the houses in London and Greenwich. We will go sometimes, and the girls must one day visit the court. We cannot have them growing up thinking Friarsgate is the world, even if it is the best part of it.”

“When are you beginning your reconstruction of Otterly?” she asked him.

“The house is being torn down now,” he said, “and the site will be cleared, but we cannot begin building until the spring. I shall start after your wedding to the earl.”

“What are we to do with Uncle Henry in the meantime?” she said.

“I had a small but comfortable house constructed for him this autumn past. He has been living there with Mistress Dodger, the housekeeper I hired to look after him. Twelfth Night is almost over, cousin. Tomorrow we shall send Uncle Henry back to his own little nest. It is time. He is beginning to look too comfortable here at Friarsgate, and I find he asks too many questions. I suspect for all his tale of woe he is yet in contact with his son Henry the younger. He has said to me that he wishes he might save this lad from a bad life and a worse end.”

Rosamund nodded. “I don’t want him getting the idea that he might marry his son to one of my girls,” she said. “I would put Friarsgate to the torch before I allowed that.”

“We will see his dreams have no basis in reality,” Tom replied.

“And yet I cannot help but feel sorry for him,” she answered. “Still, I am not quite able yet to forgive him my youth. I do not really recall my parents, but from the time they died and Henry Bolton came into my life, I was miserable. Only when Hugh came was I safe. I want to be generous of nature to him, Tom, but I just cannot be.”

“Then do not,” he advised her. “Edmund and Richard have been almost saintly in their forgiveness, but they did not suffer the brunt of Henry Bolton. You did. Perhaps one day you will be able to forgive him, but now is not the time.”

Rosamund took her cousin’s hand in her own and kissed it tenderly. “You are so wise, Tom. If you are grateful for me, I am doubly grateful for you.”

The following day Henry was transported in a comfortable covered cart back to his own home. Before he left he looked about the hall a final time. Seeing Philippa, he remarked, “Your eldest is nine, niece?”

“In April,” Rosamund said. “Why?”

“My Henry is fifteen now. A good age for marriage.”

“My cousin has become a thief. Hardly a match for an heiress,” Rosamund said tartly. She led him from the hall, and a servant helped him into the cart.

“ ’Tis only that he has no home any longer, and his mam’s behavior broke his heart, niece. With a bit of good fortune he could become an upstanding man once again,” Henry reasoned.

“I wish him good luck, then,” Rosamund replied. Then she added, “But put from your mind any thought of a marriage between your son and my child. My girls will marry with men of higher station. Their wealth will bring them that.”

“You would put Friarsgate into the hands of strangers?” he demanded, his color suddenly high. “This has always been Bolton land.”

“As long as there were Bolton sons, it was Bolton land,” Rosamund reasoned with him. “But there are no more Bolton sons, uncle.”

“There is my son,” he told her in a hard voice.

“And he will never wed with my daughter,” Rosamund told him firmly. She patted her uncle’s hand. “I am glad you came for the Twelve Days of Christmas, uncle. I believe your visit has done you good. You seem stronger than when you arrived. Farewell now, and God go with you.” She turned, and hurried back into the house. She could feel her anger rising. Damn Henry Bolton and his spawn! Would the man never give up his quest for Friarsgate? No, she thought. Not as long as he lived.

 

The winter set in about them. The hills were white with the snows. The lake froze for a short time. Rosamund, Tom, and the girls, bundled in their warmest capes and furs, amused themselves sliding upon the icy surface of the water. They celebrated Candlemas on the second of February, and at midmonth the ewes began lambing. The shepherds watched over their flocks carefully. There had been a rumor of a wolf in the district, and the new lambs were an easy target.

“Put them in the barns at night,” Rosamund ordered. “I will lose not a one.”

“We will purchase some of those Shropshires you’ve wanted, come spring,” Tom said.

She nodded with her agreement. “Aye, I should like a flock of them, Tom.”

The shortest month was quickly over, and the hills began to show signs of life again, greening slowly as the month progressed. She had heard nothing more from Patrick but then he had warned her it would be nigh impossible to get another message through to her.

It would take two days to reach Edinburgh from Friarsgate. Annie, of course, would not be able to come with her mistress. Her younger sister, Lucy, had been being trained all winter to temporarily take her place and in future act as Annie’s helper. Annie was disappointed, but every time she looked at her infant son she realized she was more content to have her wee Harry than to go with her mistress.

They had all been sewing thoughout the winter so that Philippa might have two new gowns to take with her when she accompanied her mother. The young girl had her mother’s coloring. One of Philippa’s gowns was a medium blue velvet, and the other was a rich brown. Philippa was so excited she could hardly remain still at the fittings. She was also to have new chemises and caps. The Friarsgate cobbler made the young girl a pair of square-toed shoes with round enamel buckles decorated with colorful paste jewels.

“I have never had shoes like this!” she exclaimed excitedly when she was presented with them.

“They are for Edinburgh,” Rosamund said. “You’ll be wearing your boots until we get there. These shoes must last you a good long while, unless, of course, your feet grow too quickly. Try not to let your feet grow, Philippa,” her mother cautioned.

Spring now took hold at Friarsgate with the ice gone from the lake and the white sheep dotting the green hillsides. Midmorning of the twenty-eighth, Rosamund and her little party departed for Edinburgh. She had resigned herself to spending the night at Claven’s Carn. There was simply no way they could bypass it and reach decent shelter. She sent a messenger ahead with her request for shelter, and in late afternoon they reached their destination.

“Do try and behave, dear girl,” Tom teased her wickedly.

Rosamund shot her cousin a fierce look. “I will, if he will,” she replied, and Tom cackled with laughter.

They passed through into Claven’s Carn’s courtyard to be met by a Hepburn clansman who helped them from their horses and escorted them into the Great Hall.

Jeannie came forward, smiling, to greet them. “Rosamund Bolton, it is good to see you once again. Lord Cambridge. And who is this lovely lassie? Your daughter, from the look of her.” She took Rosamund’s two hands in hers and kissed her on both cheeks. Then she gave her hand to Tom who kissed it gallantly.

“My dear lady,” he said, “you positively bloom, I am pleased to see.”

“Come sit by the fire and warm yourself,” Jeannie invited them. “The spring is trying to gain hold here in the borders, but it was still, I will wager, a cold ride.”

She signaled to a servant, and he brought a tray of mulled wine forth for her guests.

“This is my daughter Philippa Meredith,” Rosamund introduced her child to the lady of Claven’s Carn.

Philippa curtsied beautifully. “Madame,” she said.

“Your eldest?” was the polite query.

“Aye,” Rosamund answered her. “And your bairn?”

Jeannie nodded to a cradle by her side. “He sleeps,” she said. “He is such a fine laddie! He shall have a brother come the autumn.” And her hand went to her belly proudly.

“Or a sister,” Logan said, coming into his hall. “Lord Cambridge. Madame.” He came to stand behind his wife.

“Nay, Logan, ’tis another wee laddie I carry,” Jeannie insisted.

“This is my daughter Philippa,” Rosamund introduced her eldest.

“You have grown somewhat since the last time I saw you, Mistress Philippa,” Logan said quietly.

“There was nowhere else where we could break our journey, my lord,” Rosamund quickly said.

“You are welcome,” he replied. “To where do you travel?”

“Edinburgh,” Rosamund said briefly.

“Mama is being married to the Earl of Glenkirk, and I am to be her witness!” Philippa said excitedly. “I have two new gowns and a pair of shoes with buckles!”

“How marvelous!” Jeannie said. “What color are your gowns, Mistress Philippa? And shoes with buckles, too!”

“One gown is blue, and the other is a fine golden brown, madame,” Philippa replied.

“What a lucky girl you are!” the lady of Claven’s Carn responded, smiling. Then she turned to Rosamund. “The earl is the gentleman who traveled with you last summer?”

“Aye,” Rosamund answered her.

“He’s a fine-looking man. You’ll be a countess, won’t you?” Jeannie smiled again, but her husband’s look was dark.

“Aye, I will be, but I do not wed him for his title,” Rosamund said.

“So you will desert Friarsgate,” Logan growled.

“Nay, I will not. Nor will Patrick desert his Glenkirk. We will spend part of the year in England and part of the year in Scotland. It is no different than others, even the king, with many estates. And my daughters will be with me.”

“I have bought Otterly from Henry Bolton,” Tom quickly interjected before the conversation took a dangerous turn. “I tore the old house down and am just now beginning to build a new one.”

“Which will be identical to his houses in London and Greenwich,” Rosamund said, and she laughed. “My cousin dislikes change or discommoding his servants. The same people serve him wherever he goes. They, however, have spent the winter in the south without their master.”

“They have been quite busy,” Tom defended himself.

“Doing what?” Jeannie asked.

“I have a passion for beautiful things,” Tom explained. “Consequently, I have too many possessions for two houses. I sent a list of what I wanted transported north to Otterly, and my servants have spent these last months collecting the items, cleaning them, and preparing them for their journey.”

“Ah, I see,” the lady of Claven’s Carn replied. Then a servant came to her side and murmured in her ear. “The meal is ready now,” their hostess said. “Let us to the high board. Lady Rosamund, please sit on my husband’s right. Lord Cambridge, you will sit on my right, and Mistress Philippa will be on my left.” She led them from their places before the fireplace to the great oaken table where the food was now being brought.

The meal was a simple but well-prepared one. There was trout sautéed in butter and served with watercress; a fat capon stuffed with bread, apples, and sage; half a ham; and a lovely game pie with a flaky crust. The bread was fresh and warm. There was cheese and butter. To drink they were served an excellent brown ale. And when the meal had been consumed, a tartlet of winter pears in a wine sauce was brought forth.

“You keep a fine table, lady,” Rosamund praised Jeannie.

The young woman smiled. “I was well taught. Logan does enjoy a good meal, as do his brothers.”

“I notice them missing,” Rosamund said softly.

“They are often late to table these nights,” the laird of Claven’s Carn said.

“Their wives are jealous that I have such a fine son, and even though they have bairns of their own, now that I am again with child, they seek to birth more bairns themselves,” Jeannie giggled. “They are also not pleased that I have taken over the management of my household. They were most lazy. They flout my authority when they can, but it is unforgivable they are not here to greet our guests, Logan.”

“The authority is yours, and they will eventually bow to it,” Rosamund said. “You have simply to hold your ground, lady.”

“My wife does not need advice from you,” the laird growled.