Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6) Page 6

  Smoother than a hot knife through butter, he was. Bet he thought the sun came up just to hear him crow, too.

  Gwendolyn hitched her chin higher. “You’re mistaken, sirrah. I’m not their governess. I’m Gwendolyn McClintock, their aunt and guardian.”

  Momentary shock flitted over his attractive face, but he swiftly recovered himself before giving a neat, if somewhat mocking, bow. “My pardon. I’m Lloyd Hollingsworth, great-nephew to Gerard McClintock and Suttford House’s bailiff.”

  Mr. Christie had made no mention of any such arrangement. But then, the solicitor had offered little information other than Jeremiah had inherited the title and estate and needed to present himself at Suttford House at his earliest convenience.

  As he straightened, Mr. Hollingsworth spared Mr. Ferguson another animosity-filled glower. “Ye never answered my question, Ferguson. Why are ye here?”

  Who was he to object to anyone accompanying her?

  Time Mr. Hollingsworth was taken down a peg.

  Gwendolyn accepted Mr. Ferguson’s extended elbow, and delivered her most winsome smile. “Why, bless your heart. He’s Suttford House’s new steward.”

  “New steward?” Hollingsworth recoiled as if she’d dealt him a blow. He blinked slowly, his dumbfounded gaze vacillating between her and Mr. Ferguson. For an instant, he looked utterly lost and flummoxed, and a speck of compassion welled within her.

  He probably viewed himself the victim, and she conceded to a certain extent he was. But only because he’d presumed and overstepped. His next words obliterated the morsel of pity.

  “I canna countenance ye’ve made such a preposterous decision without givin’ me an opportunity to prove myself, ye foolish colonial. Do ye think ye can take over, just like that?” He snapped his fingers. “I ken this estate.” He swiped his arm through the air. “Ken its people, have seen to its management, and yet ye presume—”

  “Mr. Hollingsworth, this is neither the time nor the place to hold such a discussion.” Mindful of the children’s rapt interest, she forced a cordial smile. “We’re travel-weary and famished. I would be happy to meet with you once my family and I have settled in. Perhaps one day next week?”

  She slid Mr. Ferguson a questioning glance, and at his slight confirming nod, continued. “You may have your say then. Think well on your arguments, for they determine whether you stay or leave Suttford.”

  “Ye’ll not be rid of me so easily, as ye’ll soon learn.” Fury simmering in his umber eyes, his upper lip curled into a contemptuous sneer, Mr. Hollingsworth pivoted and rather than enter the house, stomped toward the stables.

  “You intend to keep him on?” Mr. Ferguson murmured in her ear as he guided her to the servants.

  Moisture beaded his upper lip and pain crinkled the corners of his arresting eyes. He needed to lie down before he tumbled over drunker than a sailor on leave.

  She lifted her brows askance. “Likely not, but I think it only fair to give him an opportunity to present his case. His argument has some validity. If he stays, it won’t be as the estate’s overseer though. I am confident you’re much more amenable to work with than Mr. Hollingsworth. There’s something about him . . .”

  “I think it’s unwise and yer compassion is misplaced,” Mr. Ferguson said, his attention focused on Hollingsworth’s tall form stalking down the pathway. “He’s wily and nae to be trusted.”

  Did Mr. Ferguson think her incapable of judging a person’s character, or was he truly trying to be helpful? Or was there something else? Something he’d failed to mention?

  Had she trusted too readily? Too desperately?

  Probably.

  Quite irksome for someone who prided themselves on their common sense.

  Still, as much as she needed Mr. Ferguson’s support and insight, if she were to manage Suttford house, he must allow her to make important decisions. That was the first step in earning the respect she must have to succeed.

  She couldn’t fail Jeremiah in this. His and Julia’s futures depended on making a go of it in their new home. They’d nothing to go back to.

  Gwendolyn stopped and faced Mr. Ferguson. “I’m confident you speak from experience. After all, you are acquainted with Hollingsworth, but try to put yourself in his place. He sees us as usurpers and probably didn’t know Jeremiah existed until a few weeks ago. His whole world has been tilted bum over teacup.”

  As had hers.

  Kandie had taken it upon herself to guide the bashful children to the waiting servants, and from the looks of the smiling and nodding staff, Jeremiah and Julia were well received.

  “I confess, my first impression of him is not favorable.” Eyes slightly squinted, she shifted her regard to Hollingsworth’s stiff back for a moment. “However, I presume his actions these past months have been those of an heir, and from what I can see thus far,” She let her gaze rove the area, admiring the neat lawn and drive, “he’s done an admirable job overseeing the estate. I cannot conceive why our uncle didn’t at least notify him of his bequeathment intentions beforehand though.”

  “I’ve nae doubt old McClintock had his reasons, and we dinna ken he didna forewarn Hollingsworth.” Mr. Ferguson winked at Julia, clutching Kandie’s calico skirt and regarding him warily.

  She smiled and pressed her face into Kandie’s thigh.

  If he was Gerard McClintock’s great-nephew, then Hollingsworth must be a distant cousin of Gwendolyn and the children. Were there other relations hereabouts, too?

  Perhaps even children Jeremiah and Julia might become friends with? The notion was a thin, bright ray to belie Hollingsworth’s less than affable welcome.

  She drew in a deep breath while cutting the expectant, pleasant-faced servants a furtive glance.

  “Enough of this chatter. We’ll know more after interviewing Mr. Hollingsworth.” In what capacity might she permit him to stay on, if she arrived at that unlikely decision? No sense fretting on it now, like a nervous hound protecting a bone. She put on a bright smile. “Now, let’s meet the staff, shall we?”

  Nearly an hour later, Gwendolyn finally reached her room. Following a cordial, if somewhat reticent greeting, from Lowry the butler and Mrs. Norris the bland-faced housekeeper. Then introductions to the sixteen other house staff whose names Gwendolyn couldn’t begin to remember. And lastly after depositing her subdued nephew and niece in the nursery and Aunt Barbara in a lovely cream and rose hued bedchamber.

  As Gwendolyn had boldly requested while climbing the impressive stone stairs to the upper floors, her bedchamber was beside Mr. Ferguson’s, though she made it absolutely clear, there wasn’t to be a connecting door.

  Other than giving her one long blink, Mrs. Norris hadn’t indicated anything unusual about the request. Gwendolyn squelched her unease when she contemplated what the housekeeper might think of the arrangement.

  Gwendolyn might’ve tarnished her reputation in the attempt to prevent ruination.

  Fortunate that a bedchamber had been available for him on such short notice, and Gwendolyn had made a point to compliment and thank the housekeeper for her foresight as well as for her cooperation.

  So, too, did she rave about the superbly well-kept house—a model of tidiness and a devotion to detail. For every surface gleamed as if it had been polished that very day.

  Probably had.

  “The woodwork is magnificent, Mrs. Norris.”

  “It’s my own special polish.” Mrs. Norris nodded sagely as she sneaked a covert glance up and down the corridor. “Beeswax and vinegar,” she murmured. “Those are the secret ingredients.”

  “Truly? Beeswax?” Gwendolyn strove to express an appropriate amount of awe without sounding disingenuous or condescending. “Thank you for taking me into your confidence. Perhaps one day, you could show me how to prepare the mixture?”

 
She loathed dusting and polishing furniture—housekeeping in general—but for the children’s sakes, she’d pretend an interest.

  “Perhaps.” Mrs. Norris thawed a fraction and even offered the merest upward tilt of her full lips. The corners of her eyes pleated, revealing she smiled often.

  Though why it should, that rather took Gwendolyn aback.

  She’d believed the housekeeper a frosty sort. In the future, she’d would be more careful to refrain from forming an opinion at first meeting.

  Except for where Mr. Hollingsworth was concerned. More than a little difficult to find something redemptive in his behavior thus far.

  The housekeeper ran her astute gaze around the room, and apparently satisfied everything was as it ought to be, gave a brief nod.

  “I’ll check on yer bathwater, Miss McClintock. Though I expect it’ll be at least a half an hour longer since we’ve so many baths to prepare at once. Cook’s preparin’ the evenin’ meal as well.” She checked the simple watch pinned to her bodice. “Dinner is served promptly at eight.”

  At the doorway, she paused. “Miss McClintock, ye should ken that though this wing meets my high standards, there are two suites of rooms in the other wing that are in disrepair.” She pursed her lips, her disapproval tangible. “I fear they may harbor vermin, but the old laird wadna let me have them cleaned or made orderly.”

  “And you’d like to see that oversight remedied?” By vermin, did she mean mice? Rats? Some other manner of crawly creature?

  Mrs. Norris gave a single stiff nod. “Aye, afore the whole place be infested. We’ve three cats roamin’ the house, and they are left in that wing each mornin’. I also have the upstairs maid regularly place camphor and peppermint oil in the rest of the wing. The strong smells discourage unwanted visitors.”

  Mice and rats then. No surprise that a house this size with portions built a hundred years ago would have varmints scampering about.

  “Mrs. Norris? What if, after I’ve become familiar with the running of the house and the children and I have established a routine, you and I inspect the chambers together and develop a plan?”

  “That be more than acceptable, Miss.” Mrs. Norris lifted a shoulder and sniffed. “A few more weeks willna make a difference. I’ve been here nearly forty years—the longest of any of the current staff—and they’ve no’ been touched in all that time.”

  Gwendolyn suppressed a shudder and grimace.

  Might be advisable to send a stalwart fellow or two with clubs in ahead of time.

  “That’s very curious, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.” Gwendolyn didn’t want to get on the housekeeper’s wrong side, but suites left in disarray for decades?

  Decidedly peculiar.

  “Aye, Miss. When I was retained, except for a cook, a valet, a single groom, and one maid, no other servants had been in the house for years.” Head angled, her eyes mere slits, she pursed her lips and regarded Gwendolyn for a long considering moment, as if debating whether she could be trusted.

  Gwendolyn would not probe. It would give the appearance of foraging for tattle. If and when the housekeeper felt comfortable enough to trust her, Mrs. Norris would tell her what she knew.

  Mrs. Norris glanced over her shoulder to the door standing open, then edged nearer to Gwendolyn.

  Secrets already?

  “I dinna like gossip, and I dinna tell ye this to pass along rumors. But ye are the young master’s guardian, and ye have the right to ken.” Mrs. Norris drew in a deep breath and released it on a heavy sigh. “In a fit of rage, the old laird sacked the lot one night nearly fifty years ago. Every last staff member down to the gamekeeper and stable lads.”

  “My word. What on earth could’ve caused such wrath?” Gerard McClintock was a cantankerous, temperamental creature, it seemed.

  Mrs. Norris straightened the mantel clock, then rotated the lamp farther along the mantelpiece until the painted flowers on its base faced directly forward.

  A stickler for detail.

  Gwendolyn made a mental note. That might come in useful later.

  “He kept a mistress here,” Mrs. Norris said, her face pinched in censure. “One suite was hers, and the other his. She ran off one night. That be when he flew into a rage, sent everyone packin’ ’cause someone helped her flee. Drugged him with laudanum, ’twas rumored.”

  A chill padded its icy feet down Gwendolyn’s spinal column. “Flee? I don’t understand.”

  With each additional thing she learned about her grand-uncle, Gwendolyn liked Gerard less.

  “Sometimes circumstances, not choice, force women into situations they abhor. And when given a chance to escape, they seize it.” Mrs. Norris fussed with a floral needlepoint armchair pillow. “That be what Heather Abernathy did.”

  “May I ask how you learned all of this if you weren’t retained until much later?” Perhaps Mrs. Norris was mistaken, or perhaps, she was a gossipmonger.

  “Naturally, the unjustly dismissed servants be angry and they grumbled. Word about strange goin’s on always has a way of makin’ the rounds, it do.” The housekeeper lifted a shoulder. “The laird only hired me ’cause he was to wed. He wanted Suttford made presentable for his wife. After years of neglect, that took some doin’, I dinna mind tellin’ ye.”

  “I’m sure it did.” What manner of other unpleasant things could Gwendolyn expect in her new home?

  After Mrs. Norris departed, Gwendolyn released an audible sigh and shoved the heavy door to her bedchamber shut. She unpinned her hat, then unbuttoned her jacket and removed it. Honestly, she’d rather have a tray brought up, but she must make an appearance below to establish her position as mistress.

  Yawning indelicately, not even bothering to cover her mouth, she stretched her arms over her head. She slowly turned in a circle, examining what was to be her chamber for the foreseeable future. A partially open door revealed a quaint adjacent sitting room, and she presumed the third door hid a bathing chamber.

  Quite charming in shades of pale yellow, sage green, and peach, the room possessed an inviting and tranquil atmosphere. A feminine chamber with delicate cherrywood furniture, floral carpets covering the stone floors, pretty tatted doilies, and bric-a-brac displayed here and there.

  She’d be comfortable here.

  As comfortable as possible with the virile Dugall Ferguson next door.

  Had such pains been taken for her arrival or had the room belonged to someone else? Something oddly disquieting about the latter. It made her feel all the more an intruder at Suttford.

  Oh, to be able to climb atop the fluffy counterpane and close her eyes for a few moments. But Gwendolyn feared she would fall fast asleep and miss dinner altogether.

  Trailing her fingertips across the large bed’s thick coverlet, she yawned again. A far bigger bed than she’d slept in at Thistle Glen.

  Everything about Scotland was bigger and bolder. More raw and natural. It intrigued as much as put her off. Peculiar, that—her indecisiveness. She generally knew her own mind.

  She gave the array of ruffled and lace-edged pillows artfully arranged at the headboard a wry smile. She preferred simplicity, truth to tell, and the eight . . . ten . . . no, make that thirteen pillows adorning the bed would be stored away while she resided here.

  For the next decade or more.

  A decade.

  She’d be—Oh, my stars and garters—almost forty. The same age Mama had been when she died.

  That weird twinge that always started in Gwendolyn’s chest and spread to her stomach, leaving her, not exactly sick, but wistful and empty, spasmed again.

  Every time she contemplated her lonely future, the pang pealed like a cathedral’s belfry, a clanging reminder of her lot in life.

  The maiden aunt.

  Gwendolyn sighed and flicked the tassel on
one of the pillows. Enough dismal reflections.

  She couldn’t change what was. Only embrace what she could and make the most of the situation. Deliberately turning her back on her melancholy musings, she fished around for something less depressing to mull about.

  How were the children settling in? She’d asked them to be placed in the same room for now. Too much change at their ages could be frightening.

  The death of their grandfather and father within weeks of one another, to start. Then Gwendolyn towing the lot across the Atlantic and to this rustic locale to start over. No matter how resilient Jeremiah and Julia might be, it was every bit as hard on the darlings as the adults whose lives had been uprooted.

  Pressing two fingertips between her weary eyes, Gwendolyn closed them and drew in a long, fatigued breath.

  Kandie was to see Jeremiah and Julia bathed and fed and then tucked into their beds with a promise that Gwendolyn would kiss them goodnight and read them their favorite fairytale, Toads and Diamonds, before going to dinner. The poor nanny had been half-asleep on her feet, too.

  Most irregular that other than Hollingsworth, no one except servants had put in an appearance when their little troupe arrived. Where were all the other relatives Mr. Ferguson claimed lived here?

  If anyone else did indeed reside at Suttford, she’d meet them at dinner in two hours. Unless they decided to dine in their chamber, either out of habit or in protest.

  What to do about the other residents, if they even existed, she’d decide later.

  While Gwendolyn waited for her bathwater, as well as the items she required to stitch and cleanse Mr. Ferguson’s lacerations, she wandered to the double French-type windows opening onto a balcony.

  She pushed the doors wide, and then gasped at the view.

  Utterly lovely.

  Momentarily awed at the unexpected beauty before her, wonderment rooted her in place.

  Though dusk fully enveloped the Highlands now, in the distance, a rambling river separated two rolling green rows of hills. Lush meadows carpeted the foreground, and creamy fleeced sheep dotted one side of the river. What looked to be long-coated reddish-blond cattle milled about on the other side.