Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) by May McGoldrick, Nicole Cody, Jan Coffey, Nikoo McGoldrick, James McGoldrick
Ads: Link
woman’s eyes. “But we were told--”
“I am Catherine Percy.”
The name evoked no glimmer of
recognition in Jean’s face.
“Before your master...took me as
his wife, I was to work with the good fathers at Elgin Cathedral. To start a
school here.”
Slowly the look of confusion was
replaced by one of panic. The woman’s hand suddenly flew to her mouth. “By the saints, mistress, I do not think...why, Mistress Susan...and Lady Anne...”
The young maid’s eyes suddenly
cleared--perhaps at the vision of Catherine’s blue lips--and she hurriedly
moved to the fire, stacking more pieces of wood on the growing flames and
racing back to her.
“Mistress, you’ll catch your death
in that wet shift. Here--out of that thing and let me get you dry!”
Catherine was too cold to argue.
So, nodding obediently, she quickly pulled off the wet garment. A moment later,
dry at last, she appreciatively accepted the soft blanket that Jean had yanked
from the chest and was wrapping around her.
“Sit by the fire a wee bit,
m’lady,” Jean said, moving the stool closer to the fire and placing the ewer on
the floor. “Ye’ll warm up in no time.”
Settling before the hearth,
Catherine watched the maid moving about the chamber, taking her few possessions
out of her bag and airing them on the bed. There was an attentiveness that
bordered on concern in Jean’s manner now, and it was an attitude that had
certainly been absent before.
Clearly, Catherine realized, her
new husband had not even bothered to inform his household as to the identity of
his new wife. But it was also interesting how greatly, and how openly these
people were prepared to dislike her, thinking she was Ellen Crawford.
“I’ll be back to dress ye in a
wink, mistress. I need to be running along for just a moment...to tell Mistress
Susan about...about...supper.”
“Thank you, Jean. I can manage to
dress myself, if you have other duties.” The serving lass wanted to warn her
mistress about the mix-up; Catherine could understand that perfectly. But then, as the young woman leaned down to pick up the soiled clothes, a question popped into
Catherine’s head, and she asked it before Jean could escape. “About your
Mistress Susan. Is she...I mean, does she run the household?”
“Aye, mistress, that she does.
Since Lady Anne has taken to her bed, Mistress Susan has taken charge of the
castle.” Jean lowered her voice to a whisper. “And I do not mind telling ye
that she does a fine job of it, too. The serving folk are much happier taking
directions from her. She’s a great deal easier than Lady Anne and her tantrums.
But then, she came up to Balvenie Castle to do just this sort of thing. My
understanding is that she was trained for it from the time she was a wee lass.”
“So Mistress Susan hasn’t been
living at Balvenie Castle all her life?”
“Nay, mistress. She only came here
last summer, before the harvest. She was brought up here by the countess
herself...to marry the master!”
*****
The sun had only been winning its
struggle with the rain clouds for about an hour when the burly, bristle-bearded
miller led Athol and Tosh along the Kettles Brook. Behind them, where the broad
creek tumbled into the Spey at the village of Rothes, the rest of the earl’s
men waited, happy for an hour’s respite from a day of hard, wet riding.
“I know where my old man likes to
fish, m’lord,” the miller tossed over one broad shoulder. “We’re not far, now.”
Athol frowned and stared at the
man’s bald head, shining and beaded with sweat from the walk. Hopefully, the
miller’s father would have more information to share than the others he’d
spoken with. They’d offered little enough.
The ancient, wizened little priest
and his equally aged housekeeper at the village of Knockandhu had been more
than happy to sit before a morning fire and share with Athol their memories of
his father. With a gentleness and diplomacy that would have
“I am Catherine Percy.”
The name evoked no glimmer of
recognition in Jean’s face.
“Before your master...took me as
his wife, I was to work with the good fathers at Elgin Cathedral. To start a
school here.”
Slowly the look of confusion was
replaced by one of panic. The woman’s hand suddenly flew to her mouth. “By the saints, mistress, I do not think...why, Mistress Susan...and Lady Anne...”
The young maid’s eyes suddenly
cleared--perhaps at the vision of Catherine’s blue lips--and she hurriedly
moved to the fire, stacking more pieces of wood on the growing flames and
racing back to her.
“Mistress, you’ll catch your death
in that wet shift. Here--out of that thing and let me get you dry!”
Catherine was too cold to argue.
So, nodding obediently, she quickly pulled off the wet garment. A moment later,
dry at last, she appreciatively accepted the soft blanket that Jean had yanked
from the chest and was wrapping around her.
“Sit by the fire a wee bit,
m’lady,” Jean said, moving the stool closer to the fire and placing the ewer on
the floor. “Ye’ll warm up in no time.”
Settling before the hearth,
Catherine watched the maid moving about the chamber, taking her few possessions
out of her bag and airing them on the bed. There was an attentiveness that
bordered on concern in Jean’s manner now, and it was an attitude that had
certainly been absent before.
Clearly, Catherine realized, her
new husband had not even bothered to inform his household as to the identity of
his new wife. But it was also interesting how greatly, and how openly these
people were prepared to dislike her, thinking she was Ellen Crawford.
“I’ll be back to dress ye in a
wink, mistress. I need to be running along for just a moment...to tell Mistress
Susan about...about...supper.”
“Thank you, Jean. I can manage to
dress myself, if you have other duties.” The serving lass wanted to warn her
mistress about the mix-up; Catherine could understand that perfectly. But then, as the young woman leaned down to pick up the soiled clothes, a question popped into
Catherine’s head, and she asked it before Jean could escape. “About your
Mistress Susan. Is she...I mean, does she run the household?”
“Aye, mistress, that she does.
Since Lady Anne has taken to her bed, Mistress Susan has taken charge of the
castle.” Jean lowered her voice to a whisper. “And I do not mind telling ye
that she does a fine job of it, too. The serving folk are much happier taking
directions from her. She’s a great deal easier than Lady Anne and her tantrums.
But then, she came up to Balvenie Castle to do just this sort of thing. My
understanding is that she was trained for it from the time she was a wee lass.”
“So Mistress Susan hasn’t been
living at Balvenie Castle all her life?”
“Nay, mistress. She only came here
last summer, before the harvest. She was brought up here by the countess
herself...to marry the master!”
*****
The sun had only been winning its
struggle with the rain clouds for about an hour when the burly, bristle-bearded
miller led Athol and Tosh along the Kettles Brook. Behind them, where the broad
creek tumbled into the Spey at the village of Rothes, the rest of the earl’s
men waited, happy for an hour’s respite from a day of hard, wet riding.
“I know where my old man likes to
fish, m’lord,” the miller tossed over one broad shoulder. “We’re not far, now.”
Athol frowned and stared at the
man’s bald head, shining and beaded with sweat from the walk. Hopefully, the
miller’s father would have more information to share than the others he’d
spoken with. They’d offered little enough.
The ancient, wizened little priest
and his equally aged housekeeper at the village of Knockandhu had been more
than happy to sit before a morning fire and share with Athol their memories of
his father. With a gentleness and diplomacy that would have