23
Death, they say, acquits us of all obligations.
MICHEL EYQUEM DE MONTAIGNE
Overcome with a nettlesome desire to have the last word, Everard arrived back at the castle and made his way unobserved to the tower. He’d not waited long by the turnpike stair. Winded and windblown, Lady Hedley soon appeared, her alarm at seeing him sketched vividly across her face. Removing her hat and holding the large hatpin in her gloved hand like a weapon, she faced him.
He stared at her, clutching his own hat behind his back. “Ye look ghastly in black, milady.”
A beat of surprise followed. Had he set her a-simmer?
“How gallant, milord.” She looked him over dismissively, faint scorn in her tone. “You yourself give new meaning to the phrase ‘black as the earl of hell’s waistcoat.’”
He stifled a wry smile. “Did you enjoy your long walk to the kirk and back?”
“Indeed, I did, despite the somber occasion.”
“And how does your bonnie Northumberland compare with our barbarous Borders?”
She smoothed the veil of her hat. “I was too busy being discreet to pay much attention to the scenery.”
“Nae doubt you’ll rectify such in future.”
“If you mean, am I anxious to go out again as I am tiring of my tower prison, the answer is aye.”
“Have done with that,” he said. “I am not your gaoler. Nor did I extend your stay by sending for your trunks and, um, spowe.”
“Spowe? The Old English word for bird. I’m surprised you know it.” Her full mouth curved upward, then flattened into a line. “You mean Pepys, my pet sparrow. Nay, you did not send for such. My father sent them, and for that I apologize, though my belongings are undeniably a comfort to me. Still, I have no intention of remaining here much longer.”
“The duke obviously feels otherwise.”
“I shall pen him a letter posthaste and press for a date of departure, then.”
He held her determined gaze till she turned away and swept past him with a rustle of her skirts. Though she disappeared up the turnpike stair, her subtle rose cologne remained.
Still musing over his last encounter with Lady Hedley but determined to forget it, Everard entered the mews, the stone building facing open moorland that housed the Humes’ hawks and falcons. The earthiness of hay and an almost melodic whistling and chirping on all sides were refreshing after so much company. Was it only two days ago they’d buried his father? It seemed an age instead.
The head falconer approached, his leather gloves always in evidence, a hooded longwing on his left arm. “Good morning, Lord Wedderburn.”
“And to you,” Everard replied, pulling on his own gloves. “I’ve come to see how the gyrfalcons fare, Dragonet and Bedivere in particular.”
“Very well.” He led Everard to their cages, enormous containers of iron with perches inside. “They’ve been enjoying a bit of sport along the hedgerows of late.”
Each bird had an attendant, and Bedivere’s was near at hand, feeding him finely minced wild game. The gyrfalcon, snow white except for slight markings on his wings, was calm. Only hungry birds were sent out. A sated bird was worthless as far as sport.
“Have ye come for a bit of hawking, milord?” the attendant asked.
“Nae. What I’m wanting is a kestrel to teach the youngest Hume hawking.”
“Och, a sparrow hawk for Master Orin, then. The lad can learn to capture one if ye like, then name it and train it.”
“Start small, aye. He’s been studying the art of hunting with birds by book but has nae field knowledge. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll bring him to the mews.”
“We’ll be ready, milord. And the same for ye if ye decide to go out yerself.”
They knew him well. He oft cleared his head by going hawking. It was what he’d missed most while fighting on the continent. He was more about the birds than the chase, a constant point of contention between him and David. David was all about the kill. But he had left that morning for Edinburgh with Calysta, the both of them weary of country life.
Dragonet’s keeper brought him forward, hooded and wary. Sharp talons gripped then slackened as the leather jesses tied to his legs were wound round Everard’s extended arm. Never petted, these hawks were admired cautiously. The magnificent creature made a low rrrrr sound.
“D’ye want to dine, lad?” Everard said, lapsing into Scots. “Or fly?”
“He’s not been out much of late.”
“Still hood shy?”
“Aye, milord, but his dislike o’ being hooded is some better.”
They conversed a quarter of an hour more, and then Everard reluctantly left the mews. With the funeral now behind them, Wedderburn Castle moved forward without Alexander Hume’s steadying presence and oversight. Everard felt the chasm acutely. It seemed he’d been handed a map with no directions or destination, no plan of attack. His father’s illness had been sudden, with little preparation for the changing of the guard. Even the servants seemed tapsalteerie, still recovering from the weeklong lykewake and being up and down at all hours.
Everard headed toward the castle gardens. The yew hedge was in a full-blown June riot, the gardeners hardly able to keep it contained. Unwillingly, his gaze sought the tower, which was almost entirely smothered in ivy, an open window at the top. The dry moat beneath was abloom with wildflowers and weeds.
He’d not spoken with Lady Hedley since the burial. Odd what impressions lingered from that day. The sound of dirt clods hitting the lowered coffin. A woman’s sobs, just whose he didn’t ken. The scent of the wind and the warmth of the sun on his shoulders. He’d been the first to leave, finally carrying Orin home ahead of the funeral goers and leaving him to the care of his nurse.
Overriding all his scattered recollections was his terse clash with Lady Hedley afterward. He rather enjoyed riling her. How did she occupy herself on high? He passed through a side entrance, bypassing a maid carrying a bucket of ashes who curtsied hurriedly before continuing on her way.
That he’d best get used to, though he’d much rather remain Lord Fast. But lairds had a way of dying and lineages continuing. Wasn’t that his father’s final wish for him? A wife. A continuation of the Hume line. The ever-pressing heir.
He sought his father’s study in a corner of the castle, the room that was becoming increasingly familiar and somewhat distracting on account of its expansive windows and views. Lately, he’d combed through account books and such, trying to grasp the complexities and inner workings of the estate. But there was much only a sleuth could decipher. If he only had his mother’s ear. Her companionship and wisdom.
New correspondence sat stacked across his father’s desk. Condolences, he wagered. Taking the top letter, he sat down, propping his boots on the low window ledge and leaning back in the worn chair. He swiped the seal and opened it, akin to uncapping a vial of perfume. Some spicy fragrance he couldn’t own peppered the air.
Our family expresses our deepest sympathies upon the passing
of the former laird. We hope you will feel at liberty to call
upon us at Landreth Hall in the near future.
Believe me yours faithfully,
Alison
He looked up. Beyond the glass in his line of sight was Landreth Hall. Tall chimneys rose above oaks that gave the mansion both privacy and shade in warm Lowland summers. Sir Clive Landreth, a baron, was often away in London as a member of Parliament, leaving his wife and daughters in Berwickshire, though Alison often accompanied him. There she acted as hostess at their London townhouse and attended court functions. The baroness said it comforted her to know so many Hume men were near at hand just a few miles distant.
The temptation to visit was tempered by the tick of the mantel clock. Munro and Mrs. Candlish were due soon for their weekly meeting. But as the clock struck one, only the housekeeper appeared.
“Munro has been beset by the gout, milord,” she said. “He is unable to take the stairs.”
More than gout afflicted him, Everard sensed. He’d been especially downcast by the laird’s death, having served him faithfully for thirty years or better.
“Is there nae stillroom remedy to ease him?” Everard asked. Munro was not a man to shirk his duties unless something was severely amiss.
“Naught seems to help, I’m sorry to say.”
“Send for a physician, then.”
“Aye, milord. I do feel ’tis time.” She sat down in her usual place across the wide desk. The afternoon light called out the dark circles beneath her eyes and the spiderweb of wrinkles from forehead to double chin.
Munro wasn’t the only servant Everard was concerned about. The housekeeper had been in their employ even longer. “And you, Mrs. Candlish?”
“Me, sir?” She looked a bit startled. “Well enough after a lykewake and burial. I might ask the same of ye.”
“Well enough, aye.” He glanced at Alison’s letter again before bending his thoughts to the matter at hand. “How goes it otherwise?”
“As for household news, the Edinburgh servants are in training, and ’tis fortunate since we’ve had one housemaid abed with a fever and another called away for a family misfortune. Cook has requested a summer’s leave to visit her ailing sister in Berwick, so another cook has been secured from Glasgow with a character reference from Lord Buchanan”—she took a breath—“as his lordship has sailed to the American colonies and his return is unknown.”
“Ah, fair Virginia,” Everard mused. Buchanan was not only a Glaswegian but a tobacco laird to boot. “You are in need of leave yourself, are you not?”
Mrs. Candlish flushed. “Yer memory is rapier sharp, milord. But I cannot think of such now, not till matters settle down.”
“Do they ever?”
“Never.” She gave a rueful smile. “A household of this size has as much drama as a stage play.”
“Speaking of drama, how are our guests in the tower?”
She paused, an amused light in her bleary eyes. “Lady Hedley is a most remarkable lass for a duke’s daughter.”
“How so?”
“I scarce ken how to answer, milord.”
God’s truth. “She is wanting to return to Northumberland.”
“Indeed, but with matters unsafe for peers of the realm like the Hedleys, surely she should remain hidden here, at least till government troops withdraw.”
“She attended the funeral.”
“She . . .” Slack-jawed, Mrs. Candlish stared at him. Her shock was testament that the ruse had worked.
“In full mourning garb, which likely came from my mither’s wardrobe.”
“Well—I never—”
“She’s clever. One step shy of scheming. But I don’t want any harm to come to her on my watch. ’Tis the last thing Northumbria needs.” He passed a hand over his jaw, unshaven since the funeral. “At the same time, harboring a Catholic Jacobite here casts suspicions on our loyalties and could well incur His Majesty’s wrath.”
“But, milord, you’ve proved yourself one of Britain’s ablest soldiers. You were even knighted.”
“Alas, Good Queen Anne is dead, and the memory of my service with her. The new king has nae such knowledge, nor can he speak English, let alone ken our prior history.” He spoke slowly and carefully, reflecting on it all. “Loyalties change, as Hume history attests, and allegiances of both servants and masters shift too. I cannot urge caution enough to keep Lady Hedley’s presence secret.”
She fell into silence, then said, “Might there be a spy in our own household?”
He’d considered this. The Scots Postman, Edinburgh Courant, and Gentleman’s Magazine were spread across the crowded desk, proclaiming the country’s turmoil. Government troops sent as far north as the Highlands. Warrants served and arrests made for those who aided and harbored Stuart supporters. Rewards and bounties given to those who exposed them. The new king was trying to quell a rebellion before it began, by any means necessary and at any cost. There’d already been hangings and heads piked in public places.
“I would hate any harm to come to Lady Hedley . . . or to us,” Mrs. Candlish said, eyes roaming the room as if she suspected someone might be listening. “She is highborn nae matter her circumstances—and altogether daring. A perfect storm for scandal.”
“We must be continually on guard.” Everard looked out the windows again, his tangled thoughts so at odds with the douce weather. “Wise as serpents and harmless as doves.”