Chapter Five

The next morning dawned cloudy and damp. This, Gifford assured Jennifer was much more usual than the sunny, breezy weather they'd experienced of late. Breakfast was a hearty affair with such outlandish items such as tattie scones which were apparently made from potato, and white pudding, which to her uneducated eye looked exactly the colour of Peter on the mornings after he'd dipped in too deep at his club.

As she perused the huge choice on offer, Jennifer realised she was famished. Her weariness the night before meant she'd only picked at her dinner and retired almost immediately afterwards. Piling her plate high, she took it over to the table where Peter and Malcolm were chatting with the steward.

‘Ah ken ye're eager tae meet wi' Brendon, so ah asked him tae come by this efternuin, if that suits ye m'lord? This mornin' I thought mebbe ye'd like tae inspect the hoose.'

Peter gave a smiling nod. ‘That sounds like an excellent plan, Gifford.' Clearly he was relishing the opportunity to fulfil his role of heir apparent without the Duke looking over his shoulder.

Before Jennifer had the chance to ask Gifford to tell her a little more about the house, the Reverend arrived with Flossy capering around his ankles.

‘How did you sleep, Grandpapa?' she asked, bending down to slip Flossy a furtive piece of white pudding.

‘Like a babe,' he responded cheerfully. Jennifer had been a little worried about her grandfather's uncustomary quiet after their arrival yesterday, especially since his singular behaviour during their journey, but clearly all he'd needed was a good night's sleep – the same as the rest of them.

‘Will Felicity be coming down for breakfast?' Jennifer asked Malcolm. ‘I was wondering if she'd be amenable to taking a stroll around the grounds …' She glanced out of the window at the ominous clouds and added, ‘before it starts raining.'

‘Och, it'll nae rain, jus' a wee spot o' mizzle,' Gifford explained.

‘A cross between drizzle and mist,' chuckled Peter when he saw Jennifer's puzzled frown. ‘What about you, Grandfather. Are you up for inspecting the house, or a constitutional with the ladies?'

Although the Reverend had already decided to spend the morning having a snoop around the house, he certainly hadn't bargained doing it in company – where the deuce was the fun in that? Tucking into his ham and eggs, he thought quickly. ‘Well, I've a mind to spend the morning in conversation with the Almighty,' he answered at length. He wasn't shamming it - he was entirely capable of talking and snooping at the same time. Come to think of it, it was a perfect opportunity to have a bit of a chat with any heathens he happened to come across.

‘Still,' he went on slyly, ‘I reckon Flossy might appreciate a turn around the grounds after being stuck in the carriage for so long.'

‘I'm not sure Felicity will be joining ye,' Malcolm interjected. ‘I think she plans to stay abed today to recover from the journey.'

‘Is she ill?' Jennifer asked anxiously.

‘I think it's more that she wishes to keep her own company with a good book. As the good Reverend stated, we've all been cheek by jowl fer ower a sennight.' He gave a grin. ‘Dinnae ye fret. By the morn, she'll be more than ready to talk the hind leg off a horse again.'

Jennifer gave a relieved nod and rose to her feet. ‘I shall gather my things and wait for Flossy in the small sitting room we were in yesterday, Grandpapa. Please don't trouble yourself to hurry. Like Felicity, I have a good book.' She refrained from mentioning that her novel was about a doctor who created an artificial man from bits and pieces of corpses. It was hardly reading matter for a man of God – or the granddaughter of one, she thought guiltily.Truly, her Aunt Prudence had a peculiar taste in fiction. Nonetheless, Jennifer had to admit the story was both riveting and terrifying.

∞∞∞

After listening to his da describe the Duke as the spawn o' Satan for the fifth time in as many minutes, Brendon had finally had enough. ‘I cannae sit here listenin' to ye blatherin' fer one second more,' he growled, pushing away his breakfast plate and climbing to his feet. ‘Yer backside's oot the bloody windae.' With that, he stalked from the room and made his way outside. One of these days he'd actually manage a civil leave-taking from his only surviving parent. The old bampot spent too much time remembering the old days. To hear him tell it, William Wallace died no more than twenty years back.

Brendon shook his head. He'd yet to give Dougal an accounting of what happened with the MacFarlane and the worry of what his da would do if he found out that the clan chief was ill-usingwee bairns as young as five or six… Brendon shook his head, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

What he'd discovered had to be brought out into the open, but without allies, Brendon had had no chance of bringing down MacFarlane. The Duke of Blackmore was the only one with enough influence to put a stop to the bastard's practise of using young children to work a gold mine that everyone believed had been abandoned at least two years earlier.

He fully intended to tell Peter Sinclair the whole of what he'd discovered, but as far as Brendon was aware, the Viscount was still untried. Gifford had hinted that Malcolm Mackenzie would be accompanying his lordship. Brendon could only pray that was the truth. MacKenzie had been the Duke's right-hand man for many years and could be relied upon not to allow the young Viscount to simply take matters into his own hands and jump out of the bloody frying pan into the fire.

Brendon was also painfully aware that had the Duke known what Caerlaverock's neighbour was involved in, his grace would never have sent his son and heir into such a conflation.

Confessing all might risk his chance of becoming Caerlaverock's next steward, but in truth, it didn't matter. It was far more important to save the children still living from the same fate as those poor wee bairns he'd discovered by accident three months ago.

With difficulty he swallowed his anxious thoughts and concentrated on his next step. He'd been instructed to go to Caelaverock at two p.m. He was already wearing his Sunday best tweed and had no intention of returning anywhere near his cantankerous father until well after his interview was finished.

Tucking his cap into his pocket, Brendon took the track towards the loch shore, Fergus trotting happily beside him. The walk was nigh on an hour, but it would help clear his mind and hopefully calm his ire. Going into the meeting at Caerlaverock with an uneven temper would serve no one.

Directly in front of him, in the middle of the loch, the tiny island ofInchgalbraith rose eerily out of the mist. It was once a stronghold of the Galbraith Clan, and to his da, it still was. Brendon had no doubt the daftie would cheerfully live like some tattyboggle in the ruins of the castle his ancestors had built there.

Though Dougal refused to acknowledge it, the truth was that Clan Galbraith had ceased to exist over two hundred years ago. The penalty for being on the wrong side of yet another rebellion. Most of the worthwhile land had been sold to the then Duke of Blackmore who'd promptly built a house right on the shores of Loch Lomond. According to his da, the position of the building had been deliberate – simply to rub what was left of Clan Galbraith's noses in the dirt.

While Brendon doubted the reason had anything to do with a desire to provoke the sad remnants of a disgraced Clan, they unquestionably had a wonderful view of the magnificent mansion from the rundown tower that was all that remained of his great, great, great grandda's home.

∞∞∞

Jennifer was glad she'd elected to put on her warmest pelisse and bonnet. In truth, she'd never expected to wear either of them, and had only packed them on her mother's insistence. Evidently the vagaries of the Scottish weather had remained engrained in the Duchess's mind.

Exiting the courtyard through a small gate in the wall to the left of the main entrance, Jennifer stepped onto a path that appeared to weave down through the trees towards the edge of the loch. Letting Flossy off her lead, she smiled as she watched the little dog dash backwards and forwards, nose to the ground, clearly lured by the multitude of exciting smells.

Carefully picking her way along the stony track, Jennifer felt a sudden easing in her chest as though something heavy had just been lifted. Out here, there was no one to disapprove. No one to instruct her to be someone she wasn't. She knew that both her parents were beyond proud of the woman she'd become. They had always allowed her the freedom of her own opinions. But, though they had little time for the ridiculous dictates of society and balked against them whenever they could, even a powerful force such as the Duke of Blackmore was forced to at least pay them lip service.

And society said that women did as they were told and did it quietly, without complaint.

Truthfully, Jennifer didn't know where she would possibly find a man prepared to allow her the freedom she'd known growing up. Until now, she hadn't realised that the worry of it was weighing so heavily. Like all young women of good families, she was expected to marry – and marry well. While she couldn't imagine her father forcing her into wedlock with someone she despised, Jennifer knew that even his legendary patience would only stretch so far.

What would her parents say if she declared her wish to remain unwed?

And that was the crux of the matter. Since her come out, Jennifer had gradually become more and more disenchanted with the whole marriage mart. She hadn't shared her feelings with her closest two friends, aside from the conversation in her bedchamber, but she guessed that Mercy at least shared her disillusionment. It was difficult to know what Tory thought. George's twin sister still kept her innermost thoughts very much to herself.

She knew there were men out there with the same progressive point of view as her father – indeed, in addition to the Duke, there were ten of them in her family. Both Peter and her Uncle Anthony were about as far from pompous as it was possible to get, and despite the lurid tales she'd been told of her aunts tying their collective garters in public, they had all found husbands able to look past their supposed shocking behaviour and see their true worth. Indeed, in every case, the men in question had not only recognised, but actively encouraged their wives' free spirits.

So Jennifer knew it was possible. But where to find such a man? There had certainly been no evidence of any tolerance in any of the stuffed shirts she'd come into contact with since her come out.

She was so lost in reverie that she wasn't paying attention to the closeness of the loch as she finally broke free of the copse of trees. Only a sudden shout, made her stop and turn in surprise. ‘Stop, lest ye hae a mind for a swim.'

Frowning, Jennifer looked back down at the ground and nearly yelped in surprise. Her feet were inches from the edge. Her preoccupation with her thoughts and the green covering of algae had nearly ended with a dunking. Heart in her mouth, she hurriedly stepped away from the edge, and turned to see a man running towards her. Behind him was the biggest dog she'd ever seen.

In shock, she instinctively retreated, felt the ground beneath her foot give way, and promptly fell backwards into the freezing cold loch.

∞∞∞

Dougal Galbraith didn't need his son to tell him he was being an old bampot, but like always, his mouth ran away with him. As he watched Brendon storm out for the second time in as many days, a sudden thought hit him. What if his foolish comments aboot the Sinclair family got back tae the Duke and actually cost Brendon the job? The job they both sorely needed him tae get if they were tae survive another winter.

Sighing Dougal poured himself another whisky. In truth, he would'nae blame the lad if he did'nae come back. Things were away tae hell in a handcart. If they did'nae dae the plantin" soon, it'd be too late. And here he was – gettin' pished like always. It was enough tae make even a sober man weep. He took a deep swallow and poured another.

‘Bloody Sassenachs,' he muttered, this time to himself. Hoo dare they turn away a Galbraith? Well, if Sinclair haed the bloody gall tae send his son packin', Dougal Galbraith'd have somethin' tae say aboot it. In fact, he'd do better than that. He'd gae an' have a chat wi' the cub himself. Right noo.

Tossing back the last of his whisky, Dougal climbed unsteadily to his feet and shrugged on his coat. He'd show them bloody guid fer nothin' Sassenachs the wrath o' a true son o' Caledonia.

The feardie would nae even think aboot nae makin' Brendon steward once the Galbraith haed finished wi' ‘im.