Chapter Twelve

By late afternoon, the Reverend, Jennifer and Felicity had produced a letter which both looked and sounded authentic when they read it aloud. They were satisfied it provided just enough information to intrigue, but without giving too much away. It was important that Alistair MacFarlane did not decide to simply get rid of Edward Colman's so-called ancestor and search for the gold himself. They had managed to make the letter look much older by dribbling tea and water over the paper. Eventually all three had declared themselves satisfied and separated to take a well-earned rest.

As she made her way to the stairs, intending to retire to her bedchamber, Jennifer realised she no longer had her plaid shawl. She stopped and thought. No she didn't take it with her to the library which meant she had to have left it in the breakfast room.

Sighing, she turned round and retraced her steps. Where had she last seen the shawl? Likely she'd left it on the chair. She was about to push open the breakfast room door when she suddenly caught the sound of voices she didn't recognise. For some reason, the sound made her pause. She couldn't later have said what it was about the voices that stayed her hand. Likely they were servants simply clearing up, but somehow she didn't think so. The tone was all wrong.

Leaning her ear against the door, Jennifer strained to listen to the muffled voices. After a second, frustrated, she looked down at the latch. It wasn't engaged, so she gently pushed open the door, just enough to make the conversation a little clearer.

‘Ah ken ye wantin' tae gae runnin' tae the MacFarlane, but we dinnae ken enough. The Laird put us here tae keep an eye on the Sinclairs. We cannae be gaun blabbin' back afore we ken if they be uptae anythin'.'

‘But they hae the bairn. The one what escaped.'

‘Aye an ye gae back wi'oot the wee scunner and the MacFarlane'll likely skelp ye wi'in an inch o' yer life.

‘An once ye leave Caerlaverock, ye'll nae be comin' back. This be a braw place tae work. Ye cannae jus' gie that up wi'oot haein summat more tae gae the MacFarlane. Did ye hear what they gaunnae dae wi' the lad?'

‘Nae. Ah cannae imagine they be takin' him back though.'

‘Well, ye better find oot fer sure afore we take it back tae the MacFarlane. Ah'm nae giein up a full belly wi'oot guid reason.'

As she listened, Jennifer thought her heart was about to burst through her chest. There were spies in Caerlaverock. She felt her anger rise. How dare they? Furiously, she pushed open the door, only to stop on the threshold, biting her lip with frustration. The room was empty. The two nameless servants had gone.

Picking up her shawl which was still on the chair, Jennifer hurried towards the only other door in the room – opposite the one she'd just come through. Perhaps if she was quick, she'd catch up with them. Cautiously pulling on the latch, she stuck her head through into a dim corridor beyond. It was empty, but clearly this was a route regularly used by waiting staff coming to and from the kitchen. To her left the passageway continued on to the dining room. Gritting her teeth, she stepped through the doorway and tiptoed towards the dining room door. Once there, she took a deep breath and carefully pushed it open, just enough to peek through the crack. The room was empty.

Huffing in frustration, she closed the door and went towards what she presumed would be the kitchen. A couple of minutes later she was proved right. Hesitating on the threshold for only a second, she squared her shoulders and firmly pushed the door open, stepping into the kitchen as though she had every right to be there. Which as the lady of the house, she did.

Every eye in the cavernous kitchen turned towards her and Jennifer's bravado faltered a little. There must have been ten people in the room. There was no way of telling which two were the traitors, if any.

‘Ma lady, can ah help ye wi anythin'?' A small woman as round as she was tall, stepped forward, wiping her hands on her apron. Jennifer fought the urge to turn tail and run. What would her mother have done now?

‘I was wondering how Finn was doing,' she blurted in sudden inspiration, looking round to see if she could spot the boy.

‘Och, bless him, he's oot wi Gifford. He be a guid lad, verra happy.'

Jennifer smiled with effort. ‘Would you be so good as to introduce yourselves,' she asked after a second, another inspiration attributable to her mother – the Duchess of Blackmore always prided herself on knowing each member of the household staff by name.

The small woman drew herself up, clearly delighted to be called up to do the honours. ‘As ye wish, ma lady.

‘Ah be Mrs. Allen, the cook,' she went on, smoothing down her apron and giving a small curtsy. Jennifer smiled and nodded, then proceeded to watch each face carefully as Mrs. Allen went through them in turn. Unfortunately there was nothing to indicate that any of those present had been the owners of the two voices she'd overheard in the breakfast room. Indeed, they all seemed delighted to have the opportunity to meet with her.

By the time Jennifer managed to excuse herself, she was actually beginning to question her own interpretation of the conversation she'd overheard, but just as she was turning away, she intercepted a glance between the kitchen maid and the footman. Without pausing, she continued back towards the door she'd come through, fighting the urge to skip in elation. She had them. Those two were the ones she'd overheard in the breakfast room – she'd stake her life on it.

∞∞∞

Augustus Shackleford decided against resting in his bedchamber – there would plenty of opportunity for that once he'd kicked the bucket. Instead, he and Flossy did their now familiar turn around the garden, this time accompanied by Brendon Galbraith's huge wolfhound who the Reverend had discovered was as soft as a babe. In many ways, despite being much bigger, Fergus reminded him of Freddy. He was certain Flossy thought so too. Indeed, to watch the two play together, was like stepping back in time, and the clergyman found himself swallowing sudden tears, which was ridiculous since Freddy had been gone for nigh on six years. And besides, they'd likely be together again in the not-too-distant future. The Reverend chuckled. Freddy would be waiting; of that he was certain.

Sitting down in his usual seat, the clergyman closed his eyes. The events of the last few days coming so soon after such a long journey were taking their toll. He was getting far too old for this kind of tomfoolery. He found himself drifting, the noise of the gambolling dogs fading into the background.

‘Be ye deid, Maister?' The Reverend's eyes flew open, and he almost jumped out of his skin. Finn was staring into his face mere inches away.

‘Tare an' hounds, lad, you nearly gave me a deuced apoplexy.'

‘Ah thought ye was deid,' Finn repeated, seating himself on the bench next to the Reverend. ‘Be she yer dog?' He pointed to Flossy.

The Reverend gave an ill-tempered nod. ‘Shouldn't you be doing something?'

Finn shrugged. ‘Mrs. Allen teld me tae get some sun in ma veins.' He held out a thin white hand and pointed to the blue lines under his wrist. The Reverend frowned. They were covered over with bruises ‘These be ma veins. Ah dinnae ken hoo tae get the sun in ‘em.'

‘You just have to sit in the sunshine, I suppose,' the Reverend answered awkwardly. ‘Though if you sit in it for too long you'll end up looking like a lobster in a pot. And it'll no doubt be every bit as painful.'

‘Ah niver haid lobster. What be her name?' He nodded towards Flossy.

Augustus Shackleford sighed, recognising his peace was well and truly cut up. He might not have spent much time with children, but he knew that when the questions started, they were unlikely to stop short of the Second Coming.

‘Flossy.' The little dog, hearing her name, came running over and rolled onto her back, as ever playing to the crowd, even if it was only of two. Laughing, Finn got down on his knees and rubbed her belly.

‘Ah reckon she likes Fergus,' he added as they watched her scamper away, back to her overlarge friend.

‘I reckon she does,' the Reverend answered drily.

‘Dae ye live here, Maister?'

‘No, I live a long way from here in a place called Blackmore.'

‘That's where the Duke lives too. Hae ye seen ‘im?' The boy was clearly in awe.

Reverend Shackleford grinned and nodded, abruptly realising he was actually enjoying himself. ‘He's married to my daughter, Grace.' Finn's mouth was a round O in response. He shifted a little further away.

‘Dae ye hae a title, then?' he asked breathlessly. ‘Other than God botherer.'

The Reverend chuckled and shook his head. ‘I reckon that's the only title I need.'

‘Whit it be like, Blackmore?'

‘Very pretty, like here. But not the same.' The clergyman looked over at the heather clad hills in the distance. ‘Not so … rugged I suppose. Do you know what that means?'

‘Aye, ah'm nae stupid. Mebbe ye can tak me tae Blackmore, when ye gae.'

Just for a second, the Reverend pictured Agnes's face should he return with an urchin in tow.

‘I thought this was your home now,' he answered carefully.

‘Aye, but ah want tae see the Duke. Be he tall an' braw?'

The clergyman leaned back and thought. Nicholas was most definitely tall. Was he handsome? In an austere kind of way he supposed, though his son-in-law had learned to laugh over the years, which made him look less … forbidding. But then, being saddled with an entire family he hadn't bargained with, if he hadn't learned to laugh, he'd likely have been entirely dicked in the nob by now.

At Finn's, ‘Wha ye laughin' at?' he realised he was chuckling to himself.

‘If by braw you mean handsome, then yes, the Duke is very braw. And tall. And stern. He would make you go to school.'

‘Ah dinnae need tae gae tae school, ah ken ma letters, an' ah can count tae this.' He held up both hands and stuck out his bare feet, spreading the toes.

‘Twenty,' the Reverend said in an impressed voice. ‘That's more than most lads of your age. How old are you anyway?' A shrug was all he got in response. ‘Well, I'm certain you could count a lot higher if you went to school.'

‘Could ah gae tae school in Blackmore?'

The conversation was getting decidedly uncomfortable. ‘Why would you want to leave a beautiful place like this?' he asked uneasily. ‘You'll be well looked after I'm certain. And you'll learn your letters and count to much higher than twenty.'

‘Aye, but ye be a God botherer.' The Reverend looked at Finn's earnest face, and a wave of sadness swamped him. The lad's assumption that being a priest made one trustworthy. In truth, he knew plenty of clergymen who were anything but. For a very brief second, he considered the idea of taking Finn back with him when they returned to Blackmore.

For a very brief second.

Then he shook his head and scowled. ‘I'm too old to be looking after a lad your age,' he declared. If he was honest – and it seemed to him that honesty was a side-effect of the aging process he'd never before considered – he'd never really done much looking after anyone but himself.

‘Ah'd nae be a wee scunner,' Finn went on, oblivious to the Reverend's internal soul-searching.

‘What's a scunner?' Reverend Shackleford quizzed gruffly, more to deflect the question than anything else.

The boy shrugged. ‘It be jus' scunner. Ye ken, bad.'

‘Finn!'

The timing of the shout could not have been better. With a last grin, quite clearly promising that their discussion was not yet finished, the boy got to his feet, gave Flossie and Fergus a quick fuss and ran back towards the house, leaving the Reverend with a lot of thinking to do.