labor. Did the gentry ever grasp those truths? They did not. Not like a man who’d worked all his life.
A yellowhammer flitted past, catching his eye for a moment with its bright coloring and musical call. He scanned the brightening skies, inhaling the rain-freshened air. “Our afternoon will be more pleasant without my nephew’s sullen countenance, wouldn’t you say?”
The Douglases laughed—uneasily, he thought—then quickly fell silent. After a lengthy pause, punctuated only by the bleating of sheep, one of them spoke up.
“Mr. McBride, my brothers and I have been wondering …” Ronald shifted his weight, exchanging glances with his older siblings. “Will Edingham Farm be sold, sir? When you’ve married our mother, that is?”
A bold question for a lad who’d seen only seventeen summers. Lachlan gave Ronald his full attention. “Have you an interested buyer?”
“Nae!” Gavin blurted out. “But if it were sold, would the proceeds be split evenly among us?”
“Or will I inherit the whole,” Malcolm countered, “as the eldest son?”
Lachlan locked gazes with each of them in turn. Malcolm was the oldest and the strongest. Only a daft man would challenge him to a fight. Gavin, the middle son, often seemed rash and impulsive. Harmless, though quick to speak. Ronald, the youngest, was also the canniest, Morna had warned him. Tenacious. Hard to fool. Of the three, Ronald would bear the most watching.
“Your father was a generous man,” Lachlan admitted, “bequeathing Edingham solely to your mother. Verra unusual in Scotland for a woman to own property. Perhaps she might answer your question about who will inherit Edingham.” Certainly
he
would do no such thing. Lachlan smiled, hoping to put them at ease. “Rest assured, nothing will happen in haste. You will remain comfortably at home at least until Lammas, when there will be more … ah, more room available at Auchengray, should lodging be required.”
Malcolm grimaced. “With due respect, sir, Edingham may not be as vast a property as yours, but … to be frank, our farm is better tended.”
“If we lived here,” Gavin said, “there’s no telling how much work ’twould take to make this place presentable. The steading alone—”
“My brother means no offense,” Ronald interjected smoothly, touching Gavin’s sleeve to silence him.
“Nor am I offended,” Lachlan said just as smoothly. “There is much room for improvement here. Jamie has done what he could, but …” Lachlan shrugged, letting them fill in the rest. “Perhaps the greater question is, what will become of Auchengray when the time comes? For this corruptible body must put on incorruption, aye? And this mortal must put on immortality. My holdings will no longer matter to me then, but they might matter verra much to you.”
Ronald’s brown eyes glowed like a candlelit turnip on Hallowmas Eve. “Have you no proper heir, sir? None who might rightfully claim Auchengray upon your death?”
Lachlan left the question unanswered for the moment, directing their attention to the westward pastures with a proffered hand. “Come, enough of this morbid subject. We’ve barely started our tour.” He sighed expansively, striking out across the rise. “I wish the weather were more congenial, but ’tis a farmer’s lot to accept what the heavens send.”
His words, it seemed, struck the proper chord. All four of them, he and the Douglases, were the same, were they not? Honest men braving the elements, eking out a living from fields and pastures, ever at the mercy of rain, seed, and stock. As a bonnet laird, naturally he’d moved beyond daily duties in the steading. The filthy byre, the stinking midden were no longer his domain. All the more reason to gather round him young men such as these—not one of them a laird’s heir who fancied himself a master breeder, but strong, capable lads unafraid of hard work.
Genuine farmers. Laborers.
Sons.
Glancing over his
A yellowhammer flitted past, catching his eye for a moment with its bright coloring and musical call. He scanned the brightening skies, inhaling the rain-freshened air. “Our afternoon will be more pleasant without my nephew’s sullen countenance, wouldn’t you say?”
The Douglases laughed—uneasily, he thought—then quickly fell silent. After a lengthy pause, punctuated only by the bleating of sheep, one of them spoke up.
“Mr. McBride, my brothers and I have been wondering …” Ronald shifted his weight, exchanging glances with his older siblings. “Will Edingham Farm be sold, sir? When you’ve married our mother, that is?”
A bold question for a lad who’d seen only seventeen summers. Lachlan gave Ronald his full attention. “Have you an interested buyer?”
“Nae!” Gavin blurted out. “But if it were sold, would the proceeds be split evenly among us?”
“Or will I inherit the whole,” Malcolm countered, “as the eldest son?”
Lachlan locked gazes with each of them in turn. Malcolm was the oldest and the strongest. Only a daft man would challenge him to a fight. Gavin, the middle son, often seemed rash and impulsive. Harmless, though quick to speak. Ronald, the youngest, was also the canniest, Morna had warned him. Tenacious. Hard to fool. Of the three, Ronald would bear the most watching.
“Your father was a generous man,” Lachlan admitted, “bequeathing Edingham solely to your mother. Verra unusual in Scotland for a woman to own property. Perhaps she might answer your question about who will inherit Edingham.” Certainly
he
would do no such thing. Lachlan smiled, hoping to put them at ease. “Rest assured, nothing will happen in haste. You will remain comfortably at home at least until Lammas, when there will be more … ah, more room available at Auchengray, should lodging be required.”
Malcolm grimaced. “With due respect, sir, Edingham may not be as vast a property as yours, but … to be frank, our farm is better tended.”
“If we lived here,” Gavin said, “there’s no telling how much work ’twould take to make this place presentable. The steading alone—”
“My brother means no offense,” Ronald interjected smoothly, touching Gavin’s sleeve to silence him.
“Nor am I offended,” Lachlan said just as smoothly. “There is much room for improvement here. Jamie has done what he could, but …” Lachlan shrugged, letting them fill in the rest. “Perhaps the greater question is, what will become of Auchengray when the time comes? For this corruptible body must put on incorruption, aye? And this mortal must put on immortality. My holdings will no longer matter to me then, but they might matter verra much to you.”
Ronald’s brown eyes glowed like a candlelit turnip on Hallowmas Eve. “Have you no proper heir, sir? None who might rightfully claim Auchengray upon your death?”
Lachlan left the question unanswered for the moment, directing their attention to the westward pastures with a proffered hand. “Come, enough of this morbid subject. We’ve barely started our tour.” He sighed expansively, striking out across the rise. “I wish the weather were more congenial, but ’tis a farmer’s lot to accept what the heavens send.”
His words, it seemed, struck the proper chord. All four of them, he and the Douglases, were the same, were they not? Honest men braving the elements, eking out a living from fields and pastures, ever at the mercy of rain, seed, and stock. As a bonnet laird, naturally he’d moved beyond daily duties in the steading. The filthy byre, the stinking midden were no longer his domain. All the more reason to gather round him young men such as these—not one of them a laird’s heir who fancied himself a master breeder, but strong, capable lads unafraid of hard work.
Genuine farmers. Laborers.
Sons.
Glancing over his
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