Page 45 of Somewhere Along The Way (Mackinnon #3)

Chapter Fourteen

Seaforth.

Rising out of the night like a black-fingered beacon pointing the way. Seaforth. A mansion that looked to be a first cousin to a stately castle, so grand it was, even when cloaked in the chilled, swirling mists of darkness.

And it was dark when they arrived, darker than dark when the coach passed through the last eerie shadows of trees and burst upon a clean stretch of road over a windswept moor.

Seaforth. It lay grand and sprawling before them, for the mist was lighter here and Bella could see how the land lay about them—the way the road came winding down to meet them like some grand carpet rolled out for their arrival.

She felt her heart throb with anticipation, yet the signs and sounds of weariness were everywhere: the arched and sweating necks of the coach horses, their breaths coming fast and steam-filled like so many boiling teakettles; the clink of metal bits; the weary stretch of worn leather; and Annabella’s own exhausted groan as she alighted from the coach, her legs almost giving way beneath her from being too long in one position.

Standing before the immense proportions of the grand house that rose majestically before her, Annabella took no note of her weariness.

Indeed, she was feeling nothing more than a twinge of disappointment that it wasn’t a sunny afternoon instead of the dead of night when they arrived, for she would have loved seeing such a grand and noble house on their approach.

As it was, all she could see was the towering black silhouette rising out of the earth, its spires and gables sharp in contrast against the midnight blue of the surrounding sky.

A moment later she followed her mother to the door.

Taking the great knocker—a heavy brass ring in a lion’s mouth—the duchess gave three smart raps that echoed throughout the great house and came bouncing back at them.

Lights behind the many mullioned windows began to appear all over the house.

Moments later the massive door swung open with a threatening groan, but whoever—or whatever—opened it could not be seen.

Bella shivered and peered into the great hall.

It was lighted by a twelve-branch candelabra sitting on a round marble table in the center of the room.

Eerie shadows played tricks with the light as it danced off the panes of deeply set windows that lined the great hall on either side, just beyond rows of tall marble pillars that supported the roof.

Monoliths of gleaming black granite rose to the ceiling, fluted and carved with crests, standards, and ensigns, strange beasts and birds, and even coronets of rank.

Bella recognized immediately the pattern for an earl—eight balls on tall spikes alternating with eight strawberry leaves.

Suddenly a head was thrust around the door and Bella’s curiosity was quenched.

“Is this the home of the Earl of Seaforth?” asked the duchess.

“ Don-faighneachd art! ” the woman said. “A plague on thine asking!”

The door slammed, almost taking the tip of the duchess’s nose with it.

The duchess, who was getting more put out by the minute, rapped on the door again, using the handle of her parasol.

The door swung open once more, and the same grizzled head poked around it. “And a plague on you for your rudeness,” the duchess responded quickly, before the woman had a chance to slam it a second time. Bella did take note of the fact that her mother did not endanger her nose a second time.

Bella, who by this time had already stepped back behind her mother, was peeping around her to see what she supposed was the housekeeper, a stout, ruddy-faced woman with long silver braids and light blue eyes that looked as if they would, under circumstances other than these, be merry.

But there was nothing merry about the woman dressed in a gray wrapper with a nightcap askew on her head, wiry strands of silvery-gray hair poking out here and there.

Holding a lamp aloft, the better to see the visitors, she greeted them cordially. “What do you want?”

“I would like to see the Earl of Seaforth and the countess.”

“Weel now, you would, would you? And might there be a particular reason for coming here this time o’ night askin’ such?”

“Yes, there might,” the duchess snapped.

“But it is none of your business. Now, stop standing there as if you’re carved from Grampian stone and go inform his lordship that his sister-in-law, the Duchess of Grenville, is standing on his front stoop freezing to death and sure to catch a chill in the night air, while his surly housekeeper interrogates her. ”

The woman’s eyes surveyed the duchess from head to foot and back up again. “His sister-in-law, you say?”

“My good woman,” Her Grace said, giving the woman a poke with her parasol, “I am Lady Seaforth’s sister, and I am fast losing my patience.

Kindly do as you are bid and fetch the earl and my sister or I will go in search of them myself—dragging them out of bed if need be.

” Without another word, the duchess turned to Annabella.

“Come, Bella.” Taking Bella by the hand, she pushed her way past the housekeeper.

“God’s teeth! A more difficult time I’ve never encountered. Where are your manners, my good woman?”

“Dinna be expecting me to toss my bonnet over the windmill at the sight o’ two misplaced visitors in the dead of night. I dinna ken if ye be Gypsies or thieves.”

“Indeed?” said the duchess. “And do you often encounter Gypsies and thieves that go about dressed as we are?”

“Och! I canna say if I have or not. But it’s possible,” the housekeeper said, giving the duchess a sweeping look from head to toe. “ If they be good at beggin’ and thievin’, that is, Yer Grace.”

By this time the duchess had had just about all she was going to take.

She rounded on the woman, giving her a few more pokes with her parasol—this time with each word she emphasized.

“Listen, my dearie . You march your reluctant little legs up the stairs and tell my sister that I want to see her. Now , if you please.”

Not daunted in the least by the duchess’ stand, the woman said, “Are you expected?”

In Annabella’s mind, the wiry woman was either the bravest or the stupidest woman she had ever encountered.

But the look the duchess gave her apparently did the trick, for the woman left, mumbling to herself as she went.

A few months ago this type of behavior would have been something Bella would have taken more notice of, but since coming to Scotland and learning more about the people, she was coming to understand that this woman wasn’t being rude, she was simply being a Scot.

A few minutes later, Una Mackenzie came shrieking into the room and embraced her sister; her husband, a redheaded, chaffy-cheeked fellow of great size, came thundering after her, his eyes skimming over the duchess and her sister locked in a tearful embrace to light upon Annabella standing to one side. He held the lamp in his hand aloft.

Annabella blinked in the bright light as everything about her went out of focus—everything, that is, except her uncle’s face.

It was quite a face, actually, one to inspire poets or lay a challenge to a painter, a face legends are made of—or nightmares.

Her immediate reaction was to run. Too terrified to do that, she gave him a weak smile and took a step back.

He grunted and turned toward the sisters, who had separated and were talking with animated gestures.

“Banshees and relatives are the only things that would be rousin’ a man from his sleep in the dead of night,” he said as his sister-in-law embraced him with what Annabella recognized as fondness.

“Och!” said the duchess, “and dinna teel me ye aren’t a wee bit pleased I’m nae a banshee.”

Openmouthed, Annabella stared at her mother. She had never, in all her years, heard her mother speak like this. In Bella’s opinion, her mother had nothing to worry about. She hadn’t lost any of her Scots brogue.

“I dinna ken if you be a banshee or nae. ‘Tis a fact that hasn’t been proven,” the earl replied.

“Now, Barra, aren’t you pleased to see me?” asked the duchess.

“I’ll answer that when you tell me why you’re here.”

“I’ve brought Annabella for a visit.”

“Who?”

“My daughter, Annabella.”

“The shy-faced innocent with the big eyes?”

“If you’re speaking of the young woman standing behind you, yes,” the duchess said, giving Annabella a thoughtful look. “Although I never thought of her as shy-faced.”

“The lass is timid as a field mouse,” he said, turning to cup Annabella’s chin in his huge hand and tilt her face up toward the light. “Not an ounce of spunk. English to the core.”

Annabella’s mother was still looking thoughtfully at her.

“Well, I never thought about it, but perhaps you’re right—although I have had, on more than one occasion, the opportunity to suspect spunk or something of that ilk was lurking there…

especially of late,” she said, letting her voice trail off to nothing as she became absorbed in thought.

Bella felt her uncle’s eyes probe relentlessly for some time before he released her chin.

“Perhaps,” was all Barra Mackenzie had to say on the subject.

It was then that Bella realized what was meant by the term Scots brevity.

An hour later Bella, who was already undressed and in bed, watched her mother do the same. “What a disparaging fellow,” Bella said. “I do believe I’ve never encountered anyone so prone to hairsplitting. Verily, I felt taken apart, limb by limb, and inspected like a piece of overpriced mutton.”

Her mother laughed. “Oh, Barra has intimidating ways about him, but a finer man you’ll never find. He’s of the tarry-at-home school of farmers, a good father and provider, loving to his family, prudent, and honest as the day is long.”

“A farmer? This hardly looks like the abode of a simple farmer.”