“A ball?” Winnifred blinked. Had close proximity to the fumes wafting from the rotting legumes had affected the man’s mind. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Gavin blew out his cheeks, his face going red. “Confound it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Mayhap it was supposed to be a secret.”
Or perhaps her husband simply hadn’t wanted to tell her. Ever since Glasgow, conversation between the two of them had been strained.
She forced a smile. “I won’t tell him I know, not if it is to be a surprise.” It couldn’t have been meant as one, not with all the preparations that a house party and ball necessitated. Another sign that her marriage didn’t represent the partnership she had hoped for. “Now, how fares our experiment? Do your crops show any variance between the supplements?”
“Come see for yourself.” He led her down a narrow dirt path between fields where tiny green shouts were just beginning to show their heads. “I dunnae see any differences, but then it’s only been a little over a week.” He scratched his jaw. “Perhaps that section there is a wee bit higher than the others.”
Winnifred pulled a small glass jar from her satchel. “It is early yet. Visible results are too much to be hoped for.” Kneeling in the first row of barley sprouts, she scraped a small amount of soil into the jar. She made a notation in her notepad. Working her way down the sections of field Gavin indicated, she took soil samples for each type of supplement on each crop.
She rubbed her back as she stood. The jaw in her satchel clinked together as she shifted the bag higher up her arm. “There. I’ll examine these to see if the soil tells us anything.”
“Ye talk to dirt a lot, do ye?” Gavin’s mouth twisted up on one end as he plucked a stone from the ground. He tossed it into a field of corn.
Winnifred’s heart sank as she watched the rock disappear into a row of stunted stalks. “It won’t matter.” She shook her head. “No matter what we discover here, it won’t affect the estate’s crops this year, except for the small portion of your field we’re testing. Perhaps not even next year’s either.”
Gavin planted his hands on his hips and surveyed his land. “We dunnae know how long the sun will hide. Whichever year help arrives, it will be appreciated.” He nudged her with his shoulder. “We’ll make it through. We Scotch always manage to survive.”
She turned to smile up at him, and a lone figure riding a donkey turned from the main road in their direction.
Winnifred’s shoulders stiffened. Donald.
He plodded down the drive, tipping his cap to Winnifred and nodding to Gavin when he drew even with them. “Good afternoon. I wasn’t expecting to find you here, Winnie.”
He looked between her and Gavin, but she didn’t bother to explain her presence. “Nor I, you,” she said coolly. “You’ve said before, several times now, that you were not long for Inver. I expected you to be back in Glasgow.”
He shrugged. “The distance is not so great for frequent trips. Not when there is work to be done.”
“And what work is that?” Gavin asked. He tucked his thumbs in his braces and widened his stance.
“Yes.” Winnifred frowned. In all their conversations, he’d never said what his work was now. “What is your occupation?”
Donald drew his shoulders back. “I do a little of this, some o’ that. Important men trust me to see to their affairs.”
“You never went into business with your father?” she asked. “Didn’t he want you to become a cobbler, as well?”
“My da turned to shoemaking only after we were evicted from our farm.” Donald gripped his reins tightly, and the donkey shifted uneasily beneath him. “He never made enough to support himself, much less a family. I don’t know why I should follow the same shabby path as that witless idler.”
“It’s an honest trade.” She tilted her head. Had he always looked down on his father so? Winnifred couldn’t remember.
“Honest?” Donald snorted. “Aye. My da is an honest serf, bowing and scraping and content to always serve others. We’re tired of obliging others; we want to serve ourselves.”
“We?” Gavin asked.
Donald didn’t respond.
Winnifred worked through his words, weighing each one. “You used to speak plainly. Did that quality disappear at the same time as your respect for your father?”
A brick red flush stained his cheeks. “I came to speak with Mr. Fraser. Perhaps I’ll come back another time when his time isn’t otherwise occupied.”
“I’m always busy.” Gavin stepped forward and stroked the donkey’s nose. “Tell me what you’ve come to say and be done with it.”
Donald raised his chin. “I’ve come with a warning for all right-minded Scots. Times are changing, and ye’d best get right with your fellow man. Memories are long in these parts. Ye want to be remembered well, don’t ye, Mr. Fraser?”
Gavin inhaled sharply.
“That sounds like a threat.” Winnifred shaded her eyes as she looked up at the man she’d once thought might be her husband. “You used to speak kindly, too. What has happened to the boy I knew?”
The donkey tossed his head and took a step back. Donald loosened his grip on the reins. “As I said, times are changing, and I with them.”
Winnifred gripped the handle of her satchel. “I’m quite familiar with your changes. I was near killed in one of them – a riot at the University of Glasgow.” Her blasted ankle still ached. Only Sheena’s skill in wrapping a bandage tightly about it prevented her from limping. “Is that what you want for your country? Mob rule over reasoned debate? Sparring with stones instead of words? Anger instead of cooperation? Surely what I saw in Glasgow is not what you want for your beloved Scotland.”
His hands jerked, and the animal beneath him whined.
“Yer hurting the mouth of that poor cuddie.” Gavin pressed his lips together. “Besides, she dunnae seem large enough to be carrying a full-grown man. Why don’t you climb down off yer ass?”
Winnifred snorted, the burst of laughter escaping her before she covered her mouth with her hand. An ass for an ass. Fitting.
“Not everyone can afford a fine piece of horseflesh. The working man must make do.” Donald peered down his nose at Winnifred. “I’m saddened that you were caught up in any high feelings of the crowd. And that any violence is ever necessary. But as the French say, ye can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs.” He sniffed. “Besides, it’s a husband’s job to protect his wife. Perhaps Dunkeld should attend to his duties and not allow his wife to traipse about when emotions are running high.”
Every inch of Winnifred’s spine snapped to attention. If she could have reduced Donald to ashes with the heat of her glare, she would have. “Pardon me? Are you insinuating that it is my husband’s job to proscribe my movements? That I am in need of being contained?” Good Lord, how could she have contemplated marriage to this pompous sap skull for one moment?
She shifted her satchel to her other arm, the bag feeling unbearably heavy. Her entire body felt heavy. Donald was right; most husbands did control their wives. Winnifred was one of the fortunate ones. She’d moved from the house of a permissive father to that of her husband’s, a man who showed no interest in being her manager, her gaoler. All Sin wanted was for her to speak her mind. And for her love to him.
Her heart clenched. He’d given her so much. Not only a wild kind of freedom that tolerated no restraints when they were alone together, but a freedom in her daily life most wives could only dream of.
Why couldn’t she love such a man?
Donald huffed out a laugh. “If the cap fits ….” His lips curved into a brittle smile. “And with a woman like you in particular, well, let’s just say yer father should have married you to a man with a stronger sense of right and wrong.”
Fury propelled Winnifred forward, but Gavin slid between her and the ass. “It’s time ye were on your way,” he said to Donald. “Your sly tongue isn’t welcome here.”
Winnifred scuttled to one side of Gavin’s body only to meet his outstretched arm. She circled to the other, and he side-stepped in front of her. Well, really. Poking her face over Gavin’s shoulder, she glared at Donald. “You right sot. I remember when you were but a pimple-faced nuisance. When you cried like a babe after tripping over my father’s stepstool. Don’t try to act commanding now you .. you… cretin!. I know the truth. And if you were even half the man my husband is, you would be fortunate indeed.”
Face red, Donald leaned forward in the saddle, his glare never leaving her face. “It seems my mother was right about Sassenach women. You should be careful with that tongue of yers. In times of old, the penalty for insulting a man would be cutting it out.”
“Show me a man to insult,” she sneered
Donald grabbed the donkey’s mane, preparing to climb off.
Gavin raised his hand. “Dunnae be a fool, lad. She is a marquess’s wife. Now, run along. Spread yer poison in another neighborhood.”
Donald’s narrow shoulders heaved. “This won’t be forgotten.”
Winnifred didn’t know if he meant her insults or Gavin’s dismissal. It didn’t matter. The pathetic worm was unjustly arrogant. He only imagined power, wielding none of his own.
Digging his heels into the donkey’s sides, he turned the animal and trotted away.
“You’ve made yerself an enemy, milady.” Gavin watched Donald until the donkey carried him off his property. He turned to Winnifred with a rueful smile. “I suppose yer in good company.”
She tugged at the hem of her spencer, boxing her anger back into its proper place. She took a deep breath. “Men like Donald don’t worry me.”
And yet she remained unsettled. As she took her leave and climbed into her cart next to a footman, she wondered why. She waved one last time to Gavin, everything about her appearance exuding calm.
But inside, stomach was twisting and flopping like a fish out of water.
She didn’t fear little weasels, but the men he could inflame …?
Well, that was an entirely different story.