Page 50 of Highland Fire

The dowager Lady Randal was in a fine fettle.

Her eldest son had sent word that they could expect him at Cranley before the month was out.

Her various offspring could not help remarking the change in their mother: her step was more sprightly; she had more to say for herself; the servants were all set to clean the house from cellars to attics.

But it was the gleam in her eye which gave one of them pause.

“She is up to something. You can bet your last groat on it.”

The comment came from her ladyship’s son, Peter, who, though only four and twenty, was affectionately if not a little provokingly addressed as “Pater” by his younger siblings, a role which had fallen to him as one by one his three older brothers had deserted the nest.

Mary Randal’s fingers fumbled on the harpsichord keyboard, and she said something rude under her breath. Swiveling to face her brother, she said, “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, Pater?”

“I wish you would give me my proper name. I am not your father, thank God. Furthermore, young ladies do not swear.”

Mary threw an amused look at the only other occupant in the music room, her twin, Martha. “And he wonders why we call him ‘Pater,’” she said.

Laying aside her needlework with a muttered imprecation, Martha gave her attention to her brother’s words. “You’re right, Pater. Mama is up to something, but damned if I know what it is.”

Peter let out a long-suffering sigh. Tossing aside the newspaper he had been perusing, he glared fiercely at one sister and then at the other. “Kindly refrain from using bad language, or I shall be forced to take punitive action.”

“What does that mean?” asked Mary, looking a question at her twin.

“You know, he’ll do something nasty, like carry tales to Mama, and we’ll have to forgo dancing class or some other treat.”

“Pater, you wouldn’t! Signor Luigi is our only diversion! We’ll watch our language, won’t we, Martha?”

“I’ll say! Anything to ensure that the signor is not taken away from us. Well, how else are we going to learn how to flirt, and so on, when our brothers can’t be prevailed upon to teach us?”

Martha was referring not only to Rand and Peter, but also to two married brothers who fell between the eldest and the youngest male Randal.

Mary nodded wisely. “To hear our brothers talk, anyone would think they were saints. We may be only sixteen, but we know a thing or two.”

“Such as why our governess gave notice to quit. Poor old Miss Hadley. It was all too much for her.”

“Scandalous!” Mary said the word with relish. “Harry’s elopement she might have allowed. It can happen in the best of families. But when Robert eloped as well, it was just one elopement too many. I heard her tell Mama so.”

“True. And poor Miss Hadley didn’t know the half of it. Perry Marples told me, in strictest confidence, that—”

“Silence!” Peter’s roar of rage had the desired effect.

Both girls pressed their lips together and looked properly chastened.

“You girls are incorrigible, do you know? I don’t mind telling you, I can hardly wait till Rand gets back.

Then he can have the schooling of you. God knows, I’ve failed miserably to inculcate even a modicum of decorum.

You are tear-aways, that’s what you are.

” No one thought it strange that Peter did not lay the blame for the girls’ lack of decorum at their mother’s door.

“If all else fails, I warn you, I shall advise Mama to send you packing to one of our married sisters. Perhaps Emily or Jane can succeed where I have failed.”

His threat worked on his sisters as he knew it would. “We’ll mend our ways, won’t we, Martha?”

“Peter, it was only a joke! Don’t you know when we are funning? We wouldn’t dream of conducting ourselves improperly in polite society.”

Peter was far from mollified. “If you go on as you have been doing, you may never find yourselves in polite society. I shall see to it that you remain in the schoolroom until you are both withered old maids.” Having gratifyingly robbed his sisters of speech, he made a quick exit, containing his laughter till he entered the privacy of his office.

“Well!” said Mary when she had come to herself. “What’s got into him? He’s not thinking of eloping, is he?”

Martha considered her sister’s words seriously.

“I shouldn’t think so. He’s too young.” She mentally reviewed the history she had been compiling on her family, a history which her elders, in all innocence, had persuaded her to undertake in the hopes of drawing off some of the girl’s excess energies.

Their ploy had succeeded, but not in the way they had anticipated.

Having marshaled her facts, Martha continued, “According to all the information I have gathered, the males in our family are all quite sensible until they are overtaken by their twenty-fifth birthday. That’s when all hell breaks loose, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“They really are a shocking lot!”

“Oh, quite!”

“With the exception of Rand. He doesn’t fit the pattern. How do you explain that?”

With the sagacity of one who has been deemed the expert, Martha patiently explained this annoying aberration. “He’s been away at the wars. That must have retarded his development.”

For a long interval, the twins silently contemplated what they knew of their oldest brother’s amatory exploits, which was considerable.

“There was Lady Margaret,” mused Mary aloud at one point. “I thought he might elope with her.”

“Meggins?” Martha vigorously shook her head. “A man doesn’t marry his mistress,” she said.

“Doesn’t he? How would you know?”

“I thought everybody knew.”

This was said with so much condescension that Mary did not pursue that line of inquiry.

“Helen Fielding,” she suggested.

“No, and for the same reason.”

“Juliet Halliday.”

“Ditto to that too.”

Several names were suggested in quick succession only to meet with the same end. Finally, in exasperation, Mary burst out, “I wish you would tell me what a mistress is so that I can hit on someone he is likely to elope with.”

Martha’s jaw dropped. “You don’t know what a mistress is? You don’t know what a mistress is? ” She laughed disbelievingly. “I can’t believe I am hearing this. Why, a mistress is beautiful. She goes to the opera. She drives in a fine carriage and is attired in dazzling gowns.”

“I thought as much.”

“What?”

“You don’t know what a mistress is either.” And grabbing for a cushion, Mary went for her sister, pursuing her around the house till their shrieks and whoops of laughter brought their brother’s wrath down upon their heads.

The dowager’s thoughts, no less than her daughters’, were focused on Rand, and with much the same feelings of speculation.

“I blame the war,” she told the portrait which hung above the marble mantelpiece in the library.

Her late husband’s eyes, so like Rand’s, gazed down at her as though silently contemplating her confidences.

“I tried. Believe me, my darling, I tried. Every time he came home on furlough, and long before that, I paraded a whole bevy of eligibles in front of his nose.” She shook her head sadly.

“It was all to no purpose. He would rather spend his time pursuing the dashers. Well, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you? ”

She took a few steps away from the portrait, then quickly returned to it. “This calls for desperate measures. Surely, this time you agree with me?”

There was no visible response from the portrait; nevertheless, after a moment Lady Randal visibly brightened.

“Mama?”

At the sound of her youngest son’s voice, she spun on her heel. There was an absurdly guilty look on her face.

Peter Randal quickly crossed the distance that separated them. He looked first at his father’s portrait, then at his mother. “I thought I heard voices,” he said.

“Did you?” She slipped her arm through his. “As you can see, I am quite alone. Was I talking to myself again?” She clicked her tongue. “Old age must be creeping up on me.”

He smiled, and his whole face softened. “You’ll never be old to me,” he said.

“Flatterer! You sound more like your father every day.” She then asked inconsequentially, “How old are you anyway?”

Though he looked to be surprised at the question, he answered at once, “Four and twenty,” then frowned at the little smile which winked at the corners of his mother’s mouth.

Over dinner, the conversation was all of Rand and the letter which had arrived that morning.

“It says that he has a surprise for us,” said Mary.

For a moment, a very fleeting moment, the dowager allowed her imagination to soar. No, she decided. She’d built her hopes up before now only to have them dashed to smithereens. “I expect he’s bringing John Murray with him,” she said.

“Or he might have purchased a stud bull for our herd.” Peter’s enthusiasm for the idea was evident in his voice. “We discussed it before he took off for Deeside. The Scots are getting quite a name for themselves you know. Their cattle are in demand all over England.”

“Really?” said Lady Randal, dutifully summoning as much interest as she could command for a subject which she knew was dear to her son’s heart.

In Rand’s absence, each successive son had taken over the management of the estates, until the task had fallen to Peter.

Like his brothers, he had demonstrated a remarkable aptitude for the work.

“Do go on, dear. How will this improve our stock?”

Peter wasn’t given the chance to respond. Martha, to whom Mary had passed Rand’s letter, abruptly cut in, “What’s all this about a family reunion?” She quoted, “I thought we might all get together en famille , so to speak, and this time, Mama, I promise not to upset all your plans.”