39

What worries you, masters you.

JOHN LOCKE

Bernard entered the stables, having recently returned from the Hume collieries a few miles distant. The staccato clip of hooves announced his coming, but Everard hardly noticed. Thoughts full of the Edinburgh Courant, he remained so preoccupied he hardly heard Bernard’s greeting. David’s continued exploits were hardly surprising, but to see them boldly laid out in ink before all of Britain . . .

“Good morning, Brother.” Bernard dismounted, and a waiting groom saw to his lathered horse. “Are you riding out?”

“Nae, deciding on a proper mount for Orin and her ladyship.”

“Ah, our guest. Then why do you have the look of our faither contemplating something dire about you?” Bernard plunged his hands into a water bucket and washed the coal dust from them. “Do you want to hear my ill news first or tell me yours?”

“Go ahead.”

With a look around, Bernard reached into his weskit. The two of them passed beneath the stable’s arch with its clock tower before he handed Everard a paper. “The factor wanted this brought to your attention straightaway. Your approval is needed before posting.”

Beneath an eave, Everard perused the paper, recognizing the factor’s bold hand.

The following bound colliers, belonging to Lord Wedderburn’s coalworks along the Firth of Forth, having recently mutinied and deserted viz. Archie Hunter Factor, this public notice is given that no coal master may entertain them: Adam Duncan. John Shaw . . .

“A dozen men, then,” Everard said, reviewing the list. “The Duncans are the ablest and longest-employed miners we have. Surely there’s just cause for their complaint.”

“Their chief grievance has to do with some malady the doctor can find nae remedy for.”

“Send the doctor to me, then, so I can hear firsthand. I’ve not visited the collieries in some time but will do so if only to shut them down, at least temporarily, till the problem is resolved.”

“Shut them down? Surely you jest.”

“Faither deplored conditions there and called it the lowest form of servitude. He spoke of selling or leasing them if not quitting them entirely.”

“Yet our coal exports are second to none.”

“If we do continue, there needs to be extensive improvements to both ironworks and saltworks, not only the coalworks.” Everard folded the paper and pocketed it. “But I’ll undertake it slowly and carefully.”

Bernard tugged at his neckcloth as if it was too tight. The day was the warmest so far but with a rising wind that rustled the thick-leafed oaks and elms about the stables. Looking to the castle, Everard noticed no smoke puffed from Blythe’s chimney. He’d not seen her today and wondered if she’d appear at dinner.

“I passed Boyd at the south gate leaving for parts unknown.” Bernard removed a flask from his pocket and took a long drink. “Any more news about the Jacks and their planned Rising?”

“Boyd is carrying correspondence from her ladyship to her faither.”

“To the duke’s secret contact in Berwick?”

“Aye, and on that subject, more government troops have been sighted coming over the border.”

“I feel to my marrow a conflict is imminent.” Bernard offered Everard the flask, but he declined. “This morn I heard directly from a Jacobite leader in Duns that Stuart forces are well supplied with the latest imported muskets and bayonets from Northumberland clear to the Highlands.”

“I dinna doubt it. Redcoats have even been sent to Oxford, where riots have erupted in favor of Jacobites and against dissenters.”

Bernard whistled. “Reports are being made of pillaging at will and without consequence.”

“Keep a close watch on our own borders. I’ll not have any mischief done us or any of our tenants.” To say nothing of Blythe and her maid. Wedderburn was comprised of a great many men and only a few women, and he’d never been more glad of his small if lionhearted household army.

“And your own news?” Bernard studied him, expression dour. “Might it have to do with Davie?”

“Aye. He’s apparently sponsored a Jacobite dance at an assembly room in the heart of Edinburgh. ’Tis causing something of a storm.”

“I suppose his antics have seen ink.” Bernard grimaced. “Nae doubt the High Street is a-crow from the castle to the Canongate.” When Everard nodded, Bernard took another drink before capping the flask. “Sure ye dinna want a nip?”

“Nae.” Everard turned toward the castle. A whole hogshead of whisky wouldn’t soften the harsh realities of the present.

Blythe had excused herself and Orin for the afternoon, taking dinner out of doors, Mrs. Candlish said. Sitting down in the dining room at two o’ the clock with three empty places made Everard more tapsalteerie than he cared to admit, if only because he didn’t know Blythe and Orin’s whereabouts or how far they’d roam. But after he heard that two armed footmen had accompanied them, his mind eased.

He studied the door, wishing Blythe would appear after all. He might have paid more attention to their going had he not been preoccupied seeing Malcolm and Alistair off to Edinburgh in the forenoon after he went to the stables. Their time at university was at hand, though he might well have need of them at home. But they’d vowed to keep an eye on Davie, at least, and send word if something else transpired.

For now, Everard dined with Bernard and Ronan, the latter noticeably quiet.

“Where are the lassies?” Bernard asked, spearing a piece of mutton. “The dining room feels deserted.”

“Miss Bell has a headache,” Ronan replied.

“‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” Bernard said with a long look at him. “Act 1, scene 1. A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

Ronan kept his eyes on his plate. “I well know it, tutored alongside you.”

“As for her ladyship, she left in a pony cart with Orin a half hour ago, a victual basket between them,” Everard said. He regretted he hadn’t been the one to show her the part of Scotland that rivaled the luxuriant English Midlands, but he wouldn’t begrudge Orin the pleasure. “They have a mind to take their dinner on a high spot overlooking the Merse.”

Bernard looked at Ronan again. “I suppose Miss Bell could not conscience dining alone with us Humes without her mistress.”

Ronan expelled a breath. “I hope that and her headache account for it, aye. Nothing more.”

“Have nae fear.” Bernard continued his literary onslaught between bites. “‘All’s well that ends well.’”

Ronan grimaced. “Is not that Shakespearean play about a woman of lower rank and a nobleman she wishes to wed?”

“So it is,” Bernard said, reaching for a bannock. “But a comedy, not a tragedy.”

“Bethankit,” Ronan replied as Everard listened to their good-natured banter. “We’ve enough mourning at Wedderburn. Time for merriment . . . marriage.”

Bernard stopped eating and stared at Ronan. “Your intentions for Miss Bell are serious, then.”

“Serious as the attack on Flodden Field.” Ronan cast a look at the portrait of the former laird. “I only regret Faither didn’t live to see more of us wed. Mither often spoke of grandchildren. A true tragedy in hindsight that we’ve dragged our feet so.”

“You’ll wait until mourning ends?” Bernard asked him.

Ronan shrugged. “I canna answer yet, though I see no reason why. Faither never let the business of mourning trump the business of living.”

Bernard grew grave. “You care not she’s bereft of a dowry?”

“It troubles her mightily, though I’ve assured her she has need of none.”

“You have my blessing, for what it’s worth,” Everard said, looking at Blythe’s empty chair again. Since when had he stopped thinking of it as the countess’s and started thinking of it as hers instead?

“Where will you live?” Bernard asked.

“Cheviot Lodge is what Faither meant for me, aye?” Ronan looked to Everard for confirmation. “Though Handaxewood in the Lammermuirs would suit.”

“Cheviot is closer. Dinna go too far afield lest we seldom see you,” Everard said. “You and your bride can have your pick of the two if she agrees to wed a barbaric Scot such as yourself.”

Ronan chuckled. “We’ll know soon enough. I intend to ask for Miss Bell’s hand on the morrow.”