Twenty-four

Caitlin, Michael, and their driver huddled under the covered entry, the soggy trunk at their feet. Michael pounded on the door, but the hollow banging was swallowed up by the wind. He pounded again. No one came.

Caitlin was just about to suggest they go around to the back when, finally, the door swung open, creaking slightly on its hinges.

"Who is it?" An old man peered out. He was almost bald, with just a few wisps of white hair curling behind his ears. His face, illuminated by the candle he held, was mottled with age.

"Mrs. Caitlin Blackwell, the widow of John Blackwell." Michael spoke with authority, no longer the glowering, distracted man she'd sat next to in the wagon, but the tall, confident servant. "She's come to claim her dower."

The old man's brows raised. "Mrs. Blackwell, eh?" He peered past Michael, raising the candle for more light. "We've been expecting her. Where is she?"

"I'm here." Caitlin stepped into the circle of light. She held her head high but was suddenly conscious of her soggy, unkempt appearance. She hardly looked the part of the well-off widow.

"Stand aside, sir." Michel sounded impatient. "It's been a long day. Mrs. Blackwell is wet and chilled."

"O' course, o' course." The old man stepped back to allow them into the dark entrance hall, turning to light a candelabra that stood on an otherwise empty sideboard. The candles flickered to life, and she could see him more clearly. A stocky build with broad shoulders and a noticeable paunch, he was dressed plainly all in black, with a stiff stock around his neck, slightly askew. A strip of bristly whiskers adorned his chin where he must have missed shaving.

"We'll require hot food and a fire," Michael commanded. "You have a room made up, I assume?" He raised a brow.

"Aye. Of course." The old man sounded almost affronted. "Just need to light the fire, is all. I'll get Jinny to see to it." He shuffled back a step.

Michael didn't let up. He nodded toward their young driver, who was staring at him in awe. "Mr. McCinnis and his horse will need accommodations for the night. He's back to Inverness tomorrow."

The old man nodded to the boy. "And you, sir?" He looked inquiringly at Michael.

Michael hesitated, and Caitlin took the opportunity to speak. She was, after all, the new mistress of this house. "Mr. Dunn is me secretary." She did her best to mimic Michael's decisive tone. "We work closely together. He'll require a chamber near mine."

Both Michael's and the old man's eyes widened and slid to her, and Caitlin got the distinct impression that she'd said something out of turn. But she'd not suggested they would share a room. And the house was so big . . . Surely it was acceptable to be near her servant?

Michael glared. Clearly, he wanted to contradict her command, but she glared back, telling him without words that he should not.

"Very well, then." The old man opened a door just past the entry and motioned them through. "Come along into the sitting room. I'll build a fire, then fetch Jinny."

As it turned out, there were only three servants in the vast house: the housekeeper, Mrs. Buchanan, a middle-aged woman who also served as the cook; Jinny, a quiet, sallow-faced girl who was the niece to the shopkeep in Inverness and saw to the cleaning, the dishes, the laundry, and any other tasks Mrs. Buchanan found for her; and Forbes, the steward, who—as far as Caitlin could tell—didn't do anything at all besides avoid Mrs. Buchanan, nap by the fire, and eat the food served to him.

It wasn't his fault. He was as old as the hills. He'd been a cooper at the docks in Inverness, but he'd grown too feeble for that occupation and taken the position of steward for almost no pay. Of all of them, he was the one Caitlin liked most.

And of course there was Michael, but with each passing day, he seemed to sink into a deeper depression. His rare smiles dried up, and nothing she could say—no jest nor kind word—seemed enough to bring them back. He disappeared for hours on end, brooding, and when they spent time together, he snapped at her for no reason, making a show of his disapproval of everything she did. As if he expected her to be someone different now that she was a widow in a dower house.

As if he was someone different.

The days, then the weeks dragged on. There was nothing to read in the house, so Caitlin took to spending her mornings outdoors exploring the moor and her afternoons in the kitchen, talking to Forbes and listening to stories from the old man's youth. Not that she was avoiding Michael, not really, but he seemed to prefer to be by himself, and life was dreary enough. She had to cling to any bits of cheer she could find. There was no point in seeking him out if he would only make things worse. Some days she barely saw him, but he did often come to her at night in the cold, draughty room she slept in. She never sent him away—but it wasn't like at Swindale. Their couplings were stiff and pleasureless, and she got no satisfaction from them. Most times, she was left feeling more alone than before they'd shagged. And he always left afterward, afraid that the servants might find them.

Each morning, Caitlin walked farther and farther from the house, hoping to discover that her impression of the land had been wrong. Perhaps she'd find a meadow where grass grew, allowing her to keep a cow or two. But it was no use. There was almost no soil here, nor vegetation. Just a thin layer of life clinging to stone, fighting for survival against the constant bitter wind. Bees could live here, she supposed, but only just. There wouldn't be honey enough to share.

Forbes confirmed her assessment one afternoon over a cup of tea as they sat in the kitchen by the hearth. The gentleman who'd built the house was a laird from an old Highland family, a shifty sort, according to the steward. He'd inherited a vast estate—these square miles in the hills plus an adjoining glen to the southwest. He'd cleared the fertile lands of tenants and given it over to the shepherds, then built this house in the hills as a hunting retreat for himself and his friends, though he visited it only once a year, sometimes less often. Forbes wasn't clear on the details, but he suspected the original owner had come down on his luck and talked Mr. Blackwell—who knew nothing of pasture or sheep—into buying the house and the surrounding land with the idea that he'd be able to use it for wool production.

"Thought he'd make himself a fine feather, he did." Forbes shook his head, chuckling at John's brother's foolishness. "Musta been hot as a red spindle to learn the truth o' it."

"Did he ever come here?" Caitlin asked.

"Na. His man did, once. Didna stay long." Forbes set his cup down and stretched out his legs.

Caitlin stared into the fire. It all made sense now. This land was useless. The perfect place to put an unwanted Irish widow.

But she was stuck, wasn't she? If she left, she'd forfeit her allowance. And there were even fewer options for employment here than there had been in the colony.

The wind howled around the house as her thoughts wandered to those pretty little farms they'd passed on the way from Inverness. They were so very near to this forbidding place, and yet so far away . . .

"On the way here, we passed through some fertile farmland with cottages and fields," she began.

Forbes started. "Eh?"

He must have fallen asleep.

"Farmland," she repeated, more slowly. "On the road from Inverness. There were cottages and fields. It looked as though there were tenants still farming. Do you know the place?"

"On the river there you mean? Before the burnt-out houses?"

"That's right."

The steward nodded, and a far-away smile creased his face. "Aye. I know it."

"Who owns it?"

The old man raised his brows meaningfully. "The farmers do, or most of it. It's their own."

Caitlin wasn't sure she'd heard right. "Their own? What do you mean? Surely, some laird owns it?"

"Nay, lass. It was Banton land before, but the new laird up at Darnalay got the notion to sell the tenants their farms, God bless ‘im."

Banton . Darnalay . Caitlin's scalp tightened. "You mean . . . The Earl of Banton?" Could they really be so close to Michael's cousin's land? Michael hadn't said a word.

But then, she hadn't asked, had she?

"The very same. He has the castle still, o' course, and a few leases from folks who wanted them. But most of it has gone over to the farmers. Hasna made any of the other lairds too happy, that's the truth of it." The old man grinned at her.

"That's—extraordinary." Caitlin still couldn't quite believe it. It had seemed a paradise, the people happy, the land productive. And it had been Michael's cousin's doing. If only she could have ended up with land like that . . .

She gazed at Forbes, intending to ask more questions, but the steward's head had tipped back, his eyes closed.

Caitlin watched the fire for a long while as the old man snored.

At the end of May, Jinny returned from her day off in Inverness with a letter, the first Caitlin had received since coming to Scotland. It was addressed to Caitlin in Emily Flemming's hand.

Heart racing, Caitlin dashed off to look for Michael. Of course he would want to read it, too. Perhaps it would cheer him.

She'd assumed he was in his chamber, but it stood empty, as did hers. She raced back downstairs. No one was in the sitting room, nor had been recently—the hearth was cold. She stepped back out into the entry hall. Could he have gone for a walk? It didn't seem like him, but it was a clear day . . . She strode into the dining room, scanning the moor outside the window. The bleak landscape was as empty as always.

Thunk.

Caitlin froze, listening. That noise—it had come from the small closet that adjoined the room. The serving room, Michael had called the tiny space—a place intended to store dishes and bottles of wine, things that might be needed in the dining room.

She crossed to the paneled door, then pressed her ear to it and listened. A soft, rustling sound drifted through the wood.

A mouse? Had it knocked something over?

She pulled the door open and peered inside.

Other than the creak of the door, all lay quiet and still before her. There were no windows in the cramped space, and only a tiny bit of light filtered through from the dining room. She squinted, assessing the shelves that rose to the ceiling. Everything seemed in order. Her eyes traveled down and scanned the floorboards for anything that might have fallen . . . There. Were those . . . shoes ?

Heart hammering, she stepped into the room, craning her neck in the darkness as her gaze traveled up a pair of legs and finally landed on—

Sweet Jesus, it was Michael.

His bleak, miserable face stared back at her. He was sitting on the floor in the far corner, pressed up against the wall, his knees drawn to his chin. The shadows wrapped so thick around him he might have been one himself.

"Michael?" She stepped closer. "What are you—" Then she spied the bottle in his hand and the clouded torment in his eyes. Her exhale stuck in her ribs, a shard of sudden, sharp anger. Was this what he'd been doing all those hours she wasn't with him? " Michael! " She glared down, hands on her hips, lips pressed together so tight they hurt.

He didn't meet her eye. "I'm sorry," he slurred. "It was just a little, I—"

"How could you?"

He didn't answer. He just stared at her skirts with hollow, weary eyes.

Caitlin clenched her jaw and forced a long breath. Her shoulders fell. It would do no good to scold. She should have guessed he'd try to escape in this way, but she'd been too absorbed in avoiding her own misery to think of it.

She sank down beside him, her anger slowly diluted by an empty kind of guilt. As gently as she could, she took the bottle from him and set it aside, thankful for the dark. At least he wouldn't see her hands shaking.

They could not live like this. They couldn't. She must think of a distraction for them both, keep a closer eye on him. Or else . . . Or else she'd lose him for good.

She held up the paper she'd brought, swallowing back the tears. "We've got a letter."