Jamie saw nothing of Andrew’s father for two days, and began to fear that the appearance of his brother had caused him to revert to his former ways. He made no attempt to see his son, and the boy asked constantly for his papa. No more dinner invitations had come her way, much to her relief.
Gradually the house began to take on its old tensions. Desiring no mutiny, Derek kept his distance for a time from most of the staff, and Edward’s presence was silent and aloof at meals. No one saw him otherwise.
Andrew’s cut was healing rapidly, but since the accident Jamie had found herself sleeping much lighter, jumping to her feet and hastening into his room at the least sound. She had fallen into a rather sound sleep one night only to be awakened suddenly by a loud cry.
She sprang to her feet and ran to Andrew’s side. The boy was whimpering, but she could not be sure that his cry had awakened her. All about her, however, the house was dead still. She waited at Andrew’s side, trying to soothe him back into a peaceful slumber. However, sleep continued to elude him. At length Jamie decided that a small bottle of warm milk would be needed.
She wrapped Andrew in his blanket, picked him out of his bed, and carried him downstairs to the kitchen.
As she went she heard the clock strike a single chime in the dining room. Entering the kitchen carrying a candle in her hand, she saw by the flicker of a shadow on the opposite wall the movement of a silent figure inside.
“Who’s there?” she breathed.
There was no answer, but as Jamie brought the light fully into the room she saw that the other midnight visitor to the kitchen was Janell, the parlor maid.
“Janell,” said Jamie, relieved. “Why didn’t you answer? You scared me near to death.”
Still she said nothing, just standing there as if she wanted to run away.
“Janell, are you all right? You look ill. Do you know how late it is?”
“Yes—I know—the clock just struck half past eleven,” the girl rasped in a bare whisper. “I’m—I’m fine . . .”
Jamie studied her for a long moment. She certainly did not look fine. The young parlor maid, about Jamie’s own age, was very pretty, for it was customary for the gentry to display only their finest servants before their guests. She had large soulful brown eyes, thickly lashed and considered more than alluring by several of the laird’s young field hands. Her thick yellow hair was normally pulled up into a bun on her head, revealing a long alabaster-white neck. But now her hair hung in a tangled mass about her shoulders. The simple cotton nightdress she was wearing was torn at the shoulder.
The questions had barely begun to form in Jamie’s mind about Janell’s odd appearance and agitated countenance, when the other girl turned to go.
“Janell,” Jamie pressed, “are you sure? Something seems wrong. How long have you been here?”
“Only a few minutes,” she sniffed, trying to stifle a sob.
“What’s wrong, Janell?”
“Nothing . . . I’m fine,” she tried to say, but even as she did she could not keep the sobs from escaping her lips.
“Did you hear something a few minutes ago? I heard a scream. I thought it was Andrew at first—but I’m not sure.”
“I couldn’t help it!” cried Janell, but her words were nearly drowned by several more choked sobs, followed at last by a rush of tears. Jamie rushed up to her and, setting down her candle, placed her free arm around her.
“What is it, Janell, dear . . . Please, tell me what’s troubling you!”
“Oh, Jamie . . .” but her sobs now prevented her from speaking coherently for some time.
“It was you who screamed out?”
“I—I couldn’t help it. I was so frightened!”
“Of what? Dear, what is it!”
“It was terrible—” she covered her face with her hands and it was a moment before she could continue. “He turned my head at first,” she went on in gasps, trying to catch her breath. “He is rather handsome, and what girl wouldn’t be flattered to have a laird pay her such attention—”
“The laird!”
“I knew he didn’t really mean the things he said, but still—”
“Janell, what are you saying? Do you mean Lord Graystone?”
“Aye, the laird’s brother.”
“Derek Graystone?” asked Jamie, whose relief was almost visible when the girl nodded. “What did he do?”
“It was late, and I had just gone to bed,” she began, but fresh sobs continued to interrupt her speech. “Maybe an hour ago . . . I heard a knock at my door and—when I opened it—there he was. He pushed his way in . . . He tried to talk to me for a while but then . . . he . . . then he came closer to me, and tried—oh, Jamie, I was terrified! I pushed him away, but he kept trying. I screamed out, hardly knowing what I was doing. He told me to shut up or . . . or he’d hit me. Oh, I was so scared! He came closer again, but I got free and ran to the door and managed to open it a little and scream again. He pulled at me and tore my nightdress, and—oh, Jamie, I don’t know what he would have done . . . but then we heard steps coming along the corridor and Miss Campbell’s voice calling to me. He swore at me and then hurried out—in the other direction. I quickly closed the door and . . . I told Miss Campbell through the door when she came . . . I told her I’d had a terrible nightmare. Oh, Jamie! I was so terrified!” she sobbed.
“So then you came down here?”
“I knew he wouldn’t be back, at least not tonight. I had to get something to quiet myself down—I couldn’t sleep! Oh, but what if he comes back again another night?”
“Oh, dear Janell,” soothed Jamie, but even as she tried to calm the girl, she could not ignore the indignation rising within her at the thought of what had happened. “He won’t try anything again. He can’t get away with this!”
But Janell stiffened and pulled away.
“Jamie, no! Please don’t tell a soul about this! I would be mortified if everyone knew!”
“But Edward Graystone must know. He can’t let his brother treat his servants so.”
“What could he do? What would he do? They don’t care about the likes of us. An earl can do as he pleases with his servants. But—but I’m—I’m not that kind of girl.” She broke down again, this time into quiet weeping.
At length she said again, “Please, Jamie, promise me you’ll say nothing. I only told you because it seemed Providence brought you here just now. And I had to tell someone. I couldn’t bear it alone. But you have to promise me!”
“If it means that much to you, Janell, then, yes—I promise.”
Jamie looked at Andrew, who had fallen asleep on her shoulder. Perhaps he hadn’t required the warm milk after all.
“We must get to bed,” she said. “Come to my room for the night. In the morning you’ll be able to face things much better.”
———
In the morning, it was true, Janell felt much better and was able to resume her duties, though waiting upon the two brothers was a painful task, however much she avoided the mingled look of fury and teasing evil humor which Derek Graystone seemed intent on boring into her face with his penetrating eyes. Jamie, furious but, also wary of the lord, said little, and for once was glad not to see Andrew’s father throughout the day. For Janell she felt only heartache. Gentlemen had toyed with peasant and servant girls through the ages and had always enjoyed immunity because of these positions. But Janell was a tender and sensitive girl, and though Derek Graystone had failed to have his way with her, she had still been scarred by the terror of it. And who could say what might happen in days and weeks to come? If this cruel man was indeed the new laird of Aviemere, could Janell ever be safe? Could she herself be safe? It could have been Jamie just as readily as Janell!
The shadows of evening had begun to fall when Jamie stepped from Andrew’s room, the boy at last asleep for the night, and walked toward the main stairway leading downstairs to the kitchen. There, rounding a corner and looming large at the end of the corridor and blocking her way to the stairs, the form of Derek Graystone came walking toward her.
“Miss MacLeod,” he said with a friendly smile. “I was hoping I might find you thus unencumbered with your . . . duties, as you say.”
Jamie could hardly speak for mingled revulsion and apprehension.
“What did you want, Lord Graystone?” she asked with forced calm.
“I said before that I hoped we might become better acquainted during my stay. But it would almost appear you are avoiding me.”
“I cannot see how acquaintance with one such as myself could possibly interest a gentleman of your stature.” Her tone remained cool despite a growing sense of dread. All the other servants would be at dinner, and she knew Miss Campbell was nowhere nearby to effect a rescue.
“On the contrary,” said Graystone coolly. “When it comes to my position or standing, ‘All equal,’ that’s my creed. I’m no snob.”
“Well, then, perhaps I must be one,” she said, brushing past him and quickening her step toward the stairs. But before she had taken three steps his hand caught her shoulder from behind and pinned her against the wall.
“I begin to wonder about you, Miss MacLeod,” he said, emphasizing the designation sarcastically. “How does a peasant girl like you come to behave in such a high and mighty fashion? Is it because the supposed lord of the manor has already spoken for you?”
“No!” said Jamie, “I—don’t know what you mean! Please—”
“Oh, come now, Miss MacLeod, you know how the game is played between a lord and his servants! Now let’s just go to your room and talk this over calmly.”
“No. I’m going—downstairs—the others are expecting me—please!”
“Miss MacLeod! Miss MacLeod! Do you yet not understand? I know my brother has had a soft spot for you—”
“No, that’s not true!”
“Deny what you will! It hardly matters. But there is a new lord at Aviemere—and you will give your gratuities to me now!”
“Like you expected Janell to give them to you?” she cried, hardly realizing how much worse it could go for her once she angered the violent man.
“So the little slut has been talking, has she?” he snarled. “Well, I’m the laird, and I’ll get what I want any way I please. I own this house, this land—and I own you also!”
“Don’t you dare touch me!”
He laughed an evil laugh, then squeezed her tight against the wall and pressed his fervent lips against Jamie’s neck.
She struggled, but his strength was much too overpowering. She tried to cry out, but he clamped his large hand over her mouth and only whimpers—now of terror, not anger—could escape.
Suddenly she heard footsteps on the stairs. Still held in a tight grip she could not turn her head to see who it might be, but the explosive shout told her it was Edward Graystone.
He was upon them in a moment and ripped his brother violently from his prey. Jamie sank to the floor.
“You miserable wretch!” he cried. “I’ll kill you!”
Derek had received several punishing blows before he was able to recover from the shock of his brother’s unexpected attack. But then he turned on Edward with all the superb training of a Royal officer.
“So, my brother, it comes to this! The two of us fighting over a servant girl!”
“We don’t have to fight, Derek, if you’ll walk away from here. Otherwise I’ll have no choice but to thrash you as you deserve!”
Derek laughed with derision. “You thrash me, younger brother?” And even as he said it he lunged forward. With renewed terror Jamie watched horrified as the skill and training of the one attacked the hatred and fury of the other.
Sidestepping Derek’s initial ferocious onslaught, Edward dealt his brother several punishing blows to his midsection. But like an angered bear, Derek recovered himself and came on again, this time calling upon his ten years’ experience, and it was clear the younger Edward was no match for him. With three swift blows he drew blood from Edward’s nose and right eye.
“Thrash me, indeed, you miserable wretch of a younger brother!” he cried. “You’re nothing! Nothing, do you hear! Nothing but a paid servant to watch over my property! Ha! ha! ha!”
But the insults were unwisely delivered, for even as he laughed at what he thought had been an easy victory, he felt the full force of Edward’s fist against his jaw.
Derek staggered back, almost to the very edge of the stairway. Edward came forward and tried to seize upon his momentary advantage, but again Derek’s skill resurfaced. He slammed three punishing blows into Edward’s chest and belly, doubling him up gasping for air, and then dealt a severe lightning-swift cross to the head which sent Edward sprawling on his back, unconscious. But even as Derek threw the punch, he took a half step backward from the recoil of the force, lost his footing on the landing, and tumbled backward halfway down the stairway before he could stop himself. He lay for a moment stunned, then crawled slowly to his feet and slunk the rest of the way down the stairs and to his room—aching and wondering if any bones had been broken. Even if he had gotten considerably the best of it, he was hardly used to any blows finding their way to his handsome head, and not knowing his brother’s condition as he lay at the top of the stairs, could not help wondering where Edward had learned to fight like that.
Jamie rushed to where Edward lay, now gradually coming to. The cut above his eye was minor, but the blood still oozed from his nose. She ran back to her room, grabbed a towel, moistened one end of it, and ran back down the hall to where he lay.
“Dear God!” he moaned as she applied the wet towel to his face and tried to clean off the cuts. “Is—is Derek—”
“He’s gone,” said Jamie. “He fell down the stairs.”
Edward pulled himself to a sitting position where he remained leaning against the wall. Jamie ran back to her room once more, quickly poured some water from her pitcher into a cup, then ran back.
“Here,” she said, “drink this.”
He did so.
“Thank you,” he replied, then closed his eyes and laid his head back against the wall. He was clearly exhausted.
Jamie said nothing, continuing to kneel at his side.
At length Edward spoke. “I—I could have killed him . . . that is, if I could have. I would have, had I been powerful enough.”
“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along,” Jamie said.
“The fury—the hatred that was inside me—”
“You were just trying to protect me. You wouldn’t have really tried to hurt him.”
“No! no! I would have! I wanted to hurt him. I could have killed him, I tell you! The hatred nearly consumed me! Oh, God!—what might I have done if he hadn’t had the best of me? I might have killed my own brother!”
“You can’t blame yourself. He was threatening me. You were only—”
“You don’t understand!” he interrupted, clearly distraught beyond the mere physical pain of his bruises. “It wasn’t because of you—not all of it—not the evil feelings welling up from within me as I attacked him. I’ve always wanted to kill him. Always! When I saw him there pushing you against the wall, I was overcome with such—such—God help me! There is such hatred inside me! I’m not a good man! For all the selfishness and blackness in my brother, there is evil, there is hatred, there is utter depravity in my own soul. However I try to put a mask over it and hide it from the world, it is there! God help me! What’s happened to me? What kind of man am I?”
He bent forward and covered his face with his hands and began to weep.
Overcome at the sight, Jamie struggled for something to say.
“Let God help you, Mr. Graystone,” she said.
“Teach those things to Andrew,” he replied, still not daring to look up at her for the shame of his tears. “Teach him how to live. It’s too late for God to help me. I have spent my life wanting all the wrong things, and now I have nothing—and I deserve no better.”
“You cannot mean that! You know it can’t be true!” pleaded Jamie. “And even if it is, what’s to stop you wanting the right things now? It’s never too late! Peace is always there to be found!”
“Peace!—I’ve never heard of it—not for the likes of me!”
“It’s for everyone,” said Jamie. “And it’s no more than you’ve always wanted. You tried to get it from Aviemere, and lately you’ve found snatches of it in Andrew. But that’s not where it can be found.”
“I know that only too well!” he said, taking his hands from before his face and holding them in front of him, gazing at the bruises and blood from his own cuts.
“Then look to where it can be found!”
He looked up and faced her squarely, no longer ashamed of his red, tear-stained eyes. For the first time since she had known him, Jamie saw deeply inside—beyond the impenetrable hardness. Even in his most tender moments with Andrew she had not seen this look. Reflected in tears she could see a pure longing for something more, a longing for the liberation of his love-craving heart. They were the eyes of a child.
“If only—oh, God, help me!” he said, but the hard knot in his throat made it difficult for him to continue.
“Yes?” she encouraged gently.
“You are so right,” he went on with faltering voice. “If only—yes, you must be right—but it all seems so backward. Why are we never taught these things? If only I could have such a thing as the peace you talk about!”
“God will give it to you—gladly! You need only ask Him.”
“I have never asked anything of another. I was taught that to ask for help is degrading. I would not even ask Derek for Aviemere.”
“But the peace of God is the one thing we must ask for. To come before God is the one time in life we must truly humble ourselves and admit that we are nothing and have nothing without Him. Only by our asking can God know that we truly want it.”
Again he covered his face and wept.
“I do—I do want it!” he sobbed.
“Then tell Him so . . . in your own heart,” said Jamie.
Still kneeling beside him, Jamie closed her eyes and prayed fervently in the silence of her own thoughts for this once-proud man whose own bitterness had proved too much for him. Truly broken in spirit, he sat beside her, eyes closed but the tears still flowing.
As she prayed, all at once the words came flooding into her mind that she had heard so many times. And unaccountably as she heard them, almost as if he was standing beside her, the voice that spoke was her grandfather’s, though the words were the words of her grandfather’s Lord: “See, here I staun chappin at the door; gin ony man hears my voice an apens the door, I will ging in an tak my sipper wi him, an him wi me, as I will make my hame in his hert.”