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Twenty-One

KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - JULY 3, 1816

Dav,

These boots are brown. Literally every piece of clothing I own is black, which you well know. You are a spiteful little hellion and I am glad to be rid of you.

Tell Mother that the only creature I’ve had the misfortune of meeting is a particularly recalcitrant sheep named Fenella. The sheep makes it a point to defecate precisely in the places I most frequently step. Godfrey has threatened to give notice if he is asked to clean my boots one more time.

Scotland itself is lovely. The house is in need of a few repairs, but I am certain it will be in perfect order shortly.

Warmest Regards,

Xander

XANDER

After a night with little in the way of rest, I woke with the sun. I directed a much more well-rested Godfrey to locate Lock and seek out recommendations for laborers. And then to find a pallet, a cot, anything in the realm of a bed for Kilmarnock.

Miss McAllen—either having not attempted or having failed in her efforts to escape in the night—rose much later. She grumbled in precisely the same manner Davina did when one of her plans had been foiled so I rather suspected it was the latter.

She set about making breakfast with a practiced efficiency, lighting the fire and setting the kettle to boil. Without a word, she cut a few slices of bread and set them over a hot stone to toast.

It wasn’t until, at last, she settled before me with a singular plate and a singular cup of tea, that I realized the purpose of the entire performance. Her eyes met mine overtop her teacup as she sipped, slurping pointedly, before setting it back on the saucer with a smirk.

The subsequent display involving the toast, butter, and jam, was equally involved and I had little doubt that she was imagining my head when she chomped into it.

“Charming.”

“Were ye hungry, Yer Grace?”

“Not at all,” I tossed back, ignoring the gnawing sensation in my stomach. I hadn’t eaten supper yesterday either. But too many years with Dav had taught me better than to rise to the bait. Miss McAllen may be skilled at needling, but there wasn’t a soul on this earth more capable of driving one to madness than Davina Hasket. My patience was forged in fire and blood, its strength tested hourly for nearly two decades.

Miss McAllen ate purposefully, taking small, almost sarcastic bites of the perfectly browned bread. Each sip of tea was accompanied by a dramatic slurp, and her gaze almost never left mine. It was a challenge, a gauntlet.

It seemed she had formed a plan in the night, and that plan was to make me wish I’d never been born. I had to respect it, to be perfectly honest. Most men, men who hadn’t been raised by a hateful father and a self-indulgent mother, who weren’t preceded by a gambling, lecherous brother and followed by the most troublesome sister in existence, would be brought to their knees by her—I had no doubt of it. But Miss McAllen hadn’t the slightest idea who she was dealing with. And it would be her downfall.

It took her nearly half an hour to finish two slices of toast, and I was certain her tea was long cold before she finally emptied the cup with a final, overloud gulp, topped with a dramatic Ahhh .

“As soon as Godfrey returns, we’ll be heading for Kilmarnock. I suggest you pack a bag, you’ll be away for awhile.”

“I willnae!”

“I suppose you needn’t pack a bag if you do not wish to. But I rather think you’ll regret it. Godfrey and I do not possess a single frock between us.”

“I’ll nae go with ye. It wouldnae be proper.”

“You’re already with child and without a husband. I rather think propriety is the least of your concerns.”

Her glare was sharp, her overgrown brow furrowing above dark eyes. “How do ye know I’m without a husband?”

“You said as much yesterday.”

“I lied yesterday.”

“Yes, about a great many things. That wasn’t one of them.”

“How do ye ken that?” she asked.

“Ah, I think it best I kept that intelligence secret a little longer.” In truth, I wasn’t certain. There was just something in her countenance that reminded me of Gabe when he was pulling the wool over someone’s eyes. And the tell hadn’t been there in that moment. “Best see to packing if you don’t wish to wear that dress for the foreseeable future,” I added.

She huffed as expected, crossing her arms before stomping off toward the room she’d tried to climb from the night before.

“You’ll need a different route if you hope to escape,” I called after her.

Godfrey returned shortly after her departure with pastries. They had nothing on Hudson’s, but they were tolerable. The buttery pastry sparked a memory—Tom Grayson at my side in the bakery, a tart crumb caught on his lower lip in a way that left me desperate to lick it— This wasn’t the time for such thoughts.

By the time Miss McAllen finished her purposeful dawdling, it was nearly midafternoon.

Godfrey loaded her trunk while I shooed her toward the carriage.

“Lock—meet Miss McAllen. Miss McAllen—Lock. Not to be confused with Loch.”

“Quite right, Yer Grace. Pleased to meet ye,” the man agreed with a jovial grin.

She raised a dark brow before turning to enter.

“Not so fast. Lock, you should know that Miss McAllen is a dangerous thief. As such, she is not to be allowed near horses, sheep, goats, donkeys, medium-sized dogs or large numbers of small dogs, any livestock large enough to ride or pull a cart, nor any conveyance, whether it be two- or four- wheeled or not wheeled at all. Nor is she to be allowed on walks, jaunts, strolls, parades, stretches, hikes, or turns about any place. She is allowed to assist in the repairs to Kilmarnock and nothing else. Agreed?”

“Seems a bit harsh, Yer Grace.”

“She’s stolen hundreds.”

He choked on nothing, before adding, “Perhaps not harsh enough, Yer Grace.”

“Indeed.”

“Do ye intend to speak as though I’m nae here with everyone?”

“Yes.” I resumed my shooing motion to the carriage.

She climbed in with a huff and we were off. I settled across from her on the black velvet cushion. “What, exactly, is yer plan in all of this?”

“I hadn’t worked out the entirety of it. But for now—to keep you where I can see you.”

“Brilliant.”

“It’s no worse than yours.”

“It wasnae mine. It was my ma’s. I just kept it up.”

“Tell me about your mother,” I demanded.

“Why do ye want to know?”

“You keep asking me that as though I’m not the one who has been fleeced for years. You are free to assume that I have my reasons and that they are private.”

“She was my ma. I dinnae ken what ye want to ken.”

“What was she like? Was she from the area? How did this scheme come about?”

“Pretty—she was pretty. With light hair and eyes. Small, too, fragile. I think she was from town. And if she had any family, she never mentioned them. I think she was a widow before she married Pa.”

Miss McAllen was quite pretty herself, but not in any of the ways she described her mother. She was tall, and her frame was sturdy—not large, but not petite either.

“And this scheme…”

She rolled her eyes. “It was after Pa died. He was a steward—yer steward. And rather than starve or be forced to wed again… I dinnae ken. She used to say yer family owed her—us. Never ken’d what she meant by that—I always assumed ye were underpaying Pa. When she passed and I took over, that didnae seem right.”

I knew precisely what her mother meant. With each word, I was more certain of the girl's parentage.

“Your father.”

“What about him?”

“What was he like?”

“Sickly, always sickly. His hair was always falling out and he had a cough my whole life. Don’t miss finding clumps of yellow hair all over the house. But he was good, I suppose. Honorable.”

“When did he die?”

“Seven, maybe eight years ago. I dinnae remember exactly.”

“And your mother?”

“Six months ago.” There was a sorrowful note in her voice at that.

“I am sorry for your loss.”

She scoffed. “No, yer not. That is just what yer supposed to say.”

“Both things can be true at the same time. Do you have any brothers? Sisters?”

“Nae.”

“And the father—of your child—where is he?”

“I dinnae want to talk aboot him.” Her arms folded across her chest as she turned to the window.

I was honestly astonished I’d gotten as much information out of her as I had, so I left her to her sulk until we arrived at Kilmarnock.

With great relief, I noticed that Fenella had seemingly moved on to greener pastures as we pulled up around the pond.

Kilmarnock looked no more impressive for a night’s rest—if anything, it seemed to have disintegrated further.

Miss McAllen’s gaze widened at the sight of the ruin.

“Didn’t realize the extent of your efforts, I take it?”

She said nothing, but ripped her eyes from the abbey and, instead, focused on a loose thread on her glove, picking at it.

“Nothing to say?”

“I dinnae know what ye want me to say.”

“Nothing at all.” I sighed and spilled out of the carriage to hand her out.

When I turned toward the house, I realized that in my haste to leave the wreckage of my scheme behind, I’d neglected to shut the door—or it had abandoned the pretense of its function entirely and collapsed in on itself; either way I regretted my return.

“Come,” I insisted, leaving Miss McAllen to trail after me up the drive. Weeds sprang up amid the gravel and there was something irresistible about stepping on as many as possible, grinding my foot with every step.

Finally, I reached the open doorway. Whether a breeze or time had blown it in, I had no notion, but the door hung in pathetic resignation halfway swaying back and forth—surrendering to its inevitable demise.

I stepped inside and turned to the drawing room to find that the breeze must have blown the coverings off a table. It, at least, seemed to be in acceptable shape at first glance. The sheet was piled on the floor, gnawed to holes by something I didn’t wish to contemplate further.

“Christ…” Miss McAllen muttered behind me.

“Precisely.”

I turned and made my way down the hall. Nearly half of the floorboards creaked with each step, a depressing symphony as our parade marched on. Yellowed wallpaper hung in moth-eaten sheets, clinging desperately to relevance.

“Are you certain you wish to stay here tonight, Your Grace?” Godfrey called out from near the door, his voice filled with trepidation.

“Wish to? No. Will? Yes.”

“I believe I shall wait out here for the gentleman with the beds—he assured me they would be delivered before nightfall.” I’d be damn lucky if Godfrey didn’t give notice.

I strode forward, past a music room, an office, and a dining room—all in a similar state to the drawing room.

Just as the weary exhaustion settled into my bones, I heard it. A familiar, wretched bleat.

Before understanding could make itself known, I felt the familiar squish under my boot.

I bit my lips together, holding back every curse I knew as I tipped my head to the ceiling—darkened with a depressingly suspicious stain.

“Yer Grace?”

I turned slowly on my heels, facing her. “Yes, Miss McAllen?” I spit between gritted teeth.

“I think ye stepped in something.”

“Really? What on earth gave you that notion?”

“Just a sense I had.”

“Perfect, then you can use your impeccable senses to go first.” I grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her around in front of me. “Careful of Fenella. I’m given to understand she has a fearsome temper.”

“Fenella?”

“The sheep.”

She rolled her eyes before turning down the hall. A few steps more and the meehheh s grew louder.

And then we reached the last room in the hallway.

“Christ!” Miss McAllen shouted, hand pressed against her heart.

“What?”

Silently, she pointed to the cloth-covered dining table.

There, standing atop the table, was Fenella, chewing on the edge of what was once surely a beautiful floor-length velvet curtain but was now a dust-covered treat for the sheep.

“It’s a bleeding sheep!”

“I told you it was a sheep.”

“I thought ye meant it was a wee little lamb! Hell, yer city folk—could be a large dog for all ye know. But that’s a whole damned sheep!” She spun to try to get behind me, but I refused to budge from the doorway.

“No. You’ll be the one to remove Fenella from the house.”

“I think ye’ll find I’ll not be doing that.”

“I think you will.”

Fenella took that moment to defecate directly atop the table while staring at me with something like malice in her beady gaze.

Miss McAllen caught her snort of laughter behind a hand, but her shoulders shook with silent glee.

“Remove the sheep. Or I call the constable.” I turned back down the hall, refusing to watch yet more destruction of property. Besides, I rather thought Miss McAllen and Fenella would get along splendidly. They were both stubborn she-devils.

I bumped into Godfrey partway down the hall. He sniffed the air for a moment before his gaze found my boot.

Horror washed over his face.

“Your Grace?”

“Yes?”

“Please consider this my notice. Effective immediately.”

“You are joking.”

“I am most certainly not. But I do wish you the absolute best of luck.” With that, he turned and strode out to the drive.

“Godfrey—wait!”

I spilled out onto the front steps, tripping after him in my shit-stained boot.

A large wagon was parked out front where laborers were pulling a simple metal bedframe from the back.

“Gentlemen, I’ll be returning with you to town, if you don’t mind,” Godfrey explained to the disinterested men.

The one that seemed to be in charge looked to me. “Where do ye want these, then?”

Behind me, a familiar bleat rang from the doorway.

“Oh, ye’ll want to keep Fenella oot of the house. She’s nae trained,” he added.

“You know Fenella? Where does she belong? I will pay you double if you can make her be elsewhere.”

“Wishin’ I could. But Fenella does what Fenella wants. Besides, ye’ll be needing a new bed in a week if she’s decided yer house is her house. Dinnae need the extra.”

“Can you bring the beds inside at least?”

“Aye. Just as soon as Fen moves oot of the way.”

Dread filled me as I turned. There in the doorway stood Fenella. It was clear from her expression and her frame that she hadn’t the slightest interest in moving forward or backward, regardless of Miss McAllen’s half-hearted shooing gestures and gentle coos.

My head tipped back toward the sky as I shouted, “Fuck!”

Unfortunately, the satisfaction of the gesture was somewhat lessened when my curse was covered by the sound of Fenella’s bleat.