12

You must pardon me, gentlemen, for being a most unconscionable time a-dying.

KING CHARLES II

Wedderburn Castle
Berwickshire, Scotland

Restless, Everard made his rounds, first to his father’s bedchamber to find doctors hovering, then down a turnpike stair that led to the castle’s kitchen, spence, and buttery. Servants scurried hither and yon, eyes wide and heads bowed at the sight of him. He paused near the wall of bells, each room of the castle plainly marked.

Great Hall. Cedar Room. Tower Room. Great Parlor. Upper Hall. Laird’s Chamber. Dressing Room. Larkspur Room. Morning Room. Nursery. Even the Royal Room for personages of that ilk. Beside this was a slightly yellowed, framed list of household rules signed by his father.

He peered into the cavernous kitchen. The cook, a stout matron with copper hair fading to silver beneath her mobcap, stood looking up at him with a spoon in hand. She seemed near apoplexy at his appearance, and he wondered if it was time to change the rule that servants couldn’t speak until spoken to.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he said, as she was known for her formidable temper.

“Good evening, Lord Fast.” She flushed bright as a beet. “’Tis rare to see any of the family here below, but I’m glad of it.”

“I’ve scarce been here since I was a lad.”

“Och! Ye and yer brothers were a bit like Jackie Horner, sneakin’ belowstairs and puttin’ yer thumb in the Christmas pie!”

He chuckled, his gaze sliding toward the kitchen, where a side of mutton roasted on a spit. “Little has altered.”

“At least not since the countess, yer dear mither, was alive, God rest her.” She pursed thin lips. “As for yer faither, ye dinna bring ill news . . .”

“Nae.” Though he felt such was imminent. “I’m in search of Mrs. Candlish.”

“She’s not to be found in her sitting room, milord?”

“Nae.” He took a step back, the sizzle of roasting meat filling his senses. “But go on about your business, as I’d rather have my supper than you hunting the housekeeper.”

With a cackle, she returned to the large service table where a kitchen maid was beating something in a bowl and a scullery maid created a great clatter washing crockery in a far corner. Housemaids skittered past like mice, curtsying as they did so.

Everard continued down the corridor, intent on another back stair leading to the upper hall that served as the family dining room. Coming down the steps was the housekeeper.

“Mrs. Candlish,” he began.

“Milord, what brings you below?”

“A word with you, if I may.” Overseeing the house sat strangely upon his shoulders. He was usually outside castle walls, on the laird’s business. Or hawking, fencing, throwing the javelin, riding. And at his leisure, playing cards and dice.

“Of course, sir.” She looked befuddled, as though torn between alarm and the pleasure of his company, if it could be called that. “My sitting room is private and near at hand.”

She gestured to a half-open door leading to a chamber where she managed the affairs of the household. Spacious and tidy, it bespoke efficiency, even an austere elegance. Mrs. Candlish’s father had been a bonnet laird from Inverness, but when he’d died, she’d been left with little recourse but to seek a life of service.

After shutting the door, she took a chair near the hearth, a low fire casting flickering light on a faded Turkey-red carpet. Everard remained standing, looking briefly out a window into the kitchen garden, where the late afternoon sun slid behind the castle’s high west wall. How to begin? The whole matter was as unsavory as the day was long.

“When I was last in Edinburgh, I learned three of the servants at Hume’s Land are wanting positions here at Wedderburn instead.” He paused, wondering how his father would manage the matter. “A housemaid, a footman, and a lad-of-all-work. What say you?”

She hesitated, clearly surprised. “’Tis a great change, milord, from town to country. But it seems to come at a providential time. One of our housemaids will soon wed, and a footman has recently sought military service. How soon can they come?”

“I’ll send word tomorrow, and you can likely expect them in a sennight.”

“Very well, milord.” Her voice dropped to a mournful tone. “We’ll soon have need of them.” No doubt she was thinking of the looming funeral and all it entailed.

“Needs be we prepare the house for blacking and coffining.” He looked to his boots, mud-toed from his afternoon ride about the estate. “My faither’s physicians feel it won’t be much longer now.”

She sighed. “I am sorely sorry to hear it.”

“Expect a great many guests, the customary feasting and funeral dance.” Everard spoke of the usual mourning customs with authority, though it seemed odd to talk of the dead before they were so. “My faither has requested nae expense be spared.”

“Of course, milord.”

Funeral costs were usually enormous, often crippling smaller estates. Thankfully, Wedderburn would not be set too much aback by it. The laird deserved a proper burial. All of Berwickshire expected it. As heir, Everard would see it well done. Still . . .

Lord, let my faither rally and live on, if it pleases Thee.

His voice grew hoarse with emotion. “Warn the servants there’s to be nae stopping the clocks, nae shrouding of mirrors and foolish talk of omens.” His mother had abhorred such, feeling it invited in the darkness. His father, steeped in old Scots tradition, turned a blind eye to the superstitions. “Such nonsense reeks of the medieval.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Needs be we summon a tailor and seamstress from the village to fit out those who lack proper mourning garments, including the servants coming from Hume’s Land.”

“I’ll see to it right away, milord.” She went to a cupboard and produced a booklet. “I’m thinking you may need this—a manuscript of household regulations penned by a steward of old. Munro, under your faither’s oversight, never saw fit to change it, though ’tis subject to your will.”

Everard took the tattered auld book from her and stared down at the title. A Form for the Earl of Wedderburn’s Family in Berwickshire.

He moved toward the door, noting the mantel clock hurrying toward supper. Though he did want to gather with his brothers, he was suddenly in no mood to eat.

The Upper Hall was hushed, the laird’s ornate mahogany seat at table’s end empty, as was the countess’s place to the right. Everard took his seat to the left, all seven chairs arranged in order of oldest to youngest. He eyed the door the footmen would soon come through. The journey from the ground-floor kitchen to the second floor was long and winding, the food not always hot depending on the season, but it had been so for hundreds of years and remained the same.

Mightn’t he change that?

Bernard was the first to enter. He was dressed for dinner, though Everard knew he’d been out riding. He came through the door with his characteristic joie de vivre, though it faded at the sight of Everard unsmiling and leaning back in his chair.

Three years younger, Bernard was so opposite him in looks ’twas hard to tell they were brothers. Their temperaments were poles apart as well.

“How was your ride?” Everard asked as a footman appeared with wine.

“I completed the usual rounds,” Bernard said. “The peas and wheat are flourishing despite so much rain, and the men are just now harrowing for the beer crop then the oats. A heavy sowing is in our favor and looks to yield a bountiful harvest.”

“I’ve been studying granary accounts from all four factors,” Everard said. “Needs be we crop oats most heavily in the outfield. Faither also spoke of raising the ploughmen’s pay along with the acremen’s.”

At the mention of the laird, they paused. Bernard sat down as a ruckus was raised in the corridor. Alistair and Malcolm shoved their way into the room, then sobered upon seeing their two elder brothers. At six and twenty, they were too old to behave like schoolboys, as their father oft said, but they continued to roughhouse despite reprimanding. Though they’d seen heavy fighting during their time soldiering on the continent, they retained a merry spirit. They were known around Berwickshire as the Black Twins on account of their dark looks.

Everard welcomed their merriment. Their usual antics helped relieve the gloom of their circumstances. Waiting for someone beloved to die was . . . excruciating. He knew not how to act. How to stay atop his fractured feelings.

Ronan came in next, Orin on his heels. Coarse-featured like Bernard and almost as tall as Everard, Ronan was as dark in coloring as the rest of them while Orin was fair, a star amid the blackness. If not for their mother’s light looks, some might have questioned Orin’s lineage.

Ronan was suddenly as serious as a magistrate. He stared at Everard, a telling wariness on his face that bespoke but one thing. Even before he uttered a word, Everard knew the whole of it.

“It seems Davie has returned from his Highland stay,” Ronan said. “His coach has just passed the gatehouse.”