Authors: Elizabeth Thornton
"Janet," Maddie cried out, "we've come home," and she promptly dissolved into tearful laughter.
The bout of weeping was a momentary lapse, occasioned more by happiness than misery, and was soon put to rout by Janet's practised manner of dispensing, in equal parts, a rough sympathy and scalding hot tea. Her shrewd dark eyes darted from Duncan and though she made perfect sense of Maddie's disjointed explanation for their sudden appearance at Drum
oak, she was in no doubt that things were far from what they seemed.
It was only when Duncan rather sheepishly made his excuses and wandered off that Janet voiced her anxieties.
"And what did Lord Deveryn have to say when yer grandpappy tried tae marry ye off tae that duke?"
Maddie's eyes widened then fell away. "Nothing. What should he say?"
"Where is he?"
"In London, I presume."
"Ye left him tae the wiles o' that
beesim
just tae gang and play school with Miss Maitland?" demanded Janet, as if Maddie had confessed to some mortal sin which put her beyond the pale.
At her loftiest, Maddie responded, "I won't stay at Drumoak, and Miss Maitland will take me in till I hear from Uncle Thomas. He's my real guardian, not Grandfather Spencer. Furthermore, the whereabouts of my stepmother and Lord Deveryn are of the supremest indifference to me."
"Tush," said Janet, not the least abashed by Maddie's chilling manner. "Yer temper got the better o' ye again, I make no doubt. Here, make yerself useful," she ordered and pointed to the apron which habitually hung from a hook on the back of the kitchen door.
For the next half hour or so, Maddie, as she had so often done in the past, put the finishing touches to Janet's labours. On each small pot of jam which stood cooling on the plain deal kitchen table, she placed a small circle of oiled paper and topped it with tissue paper which had been dipped in the white of an egg. Last of all, she bound the covers securely with string.
"Ten pounds," said Maddie, counting the jars, "and a little left over for a fresh batch of scones." Her eyes lit expectantly upon Janet and the corners of her lips turned up.
"Hurmph! In the food press," muttered Janet, endeavoring in vain to resist the cozening smile which Maddie had perfected since she'd been a child in leading strings. From a large black kettle on the stove, she poured boiling water into the copper preserving pan, but her eyes carefully followed Maddie as she disappeared into the pantry next to the scullery. Moments later Maddie returned.
"Shortbread, oatcakes, and scones," she said wiggling a
plate under Janet's nose. "D'you know how long it is since I've tasted any of these treats? I didn't know it before, but this is what one misses the most."
She sat at the kitchen table with her back to the wall and watched Janet's familiar and comforting movements as she wrung out a dishcloth in cold water from the pump at the kitchen sink.
"Scones?" asked Janet.
"No! The foods one loved as a child and some special people with which to share them. I can scarcely wait till tomorrow. Shall we have Scotch broth, and sheep's head with trifle to follow?"
As soon as she had said the words, she had a vivid impression of the dinner she'd taken such pains over to impress Deveryn when he'd first come into Lothian. Much good it had done her. He'd been seduced, even then, by a siren's lips and a bunch of hothouse grapes. Men!
"The English," she said disparagingly, "have a fondness for cod's head. Can you believe that?"
Janet calmly proceeded to wipe down her hot stove. "The
puir
man's dinner," she observed. "And they turn up their hoses at porridge." Her eye held a teasing gleam.
Maddie ignored it and opened her lips to §obble a piece of Janet's melt-in-the-mouth fresh butter shortbread.
"Dinna dare!" exclaimed Janet.
Maddie's mouth instantly closed and the shortbread dropped from her fingers. Obedient to Janet's warning, she broke off a piece of dry oatcake.
"D'you know, Janet," she said at last, "you and my tutor, Mr. Clarke, have a great deal in -common. Like you, he is an absolute stickler for form. The problems you both present are similar in nature. With you, it's whether or not one should reach first for the oatcake or the shortbread. With Mr. Clarke, it's whether to make your curtsey to a countess or a marchioness."
With arms akimbo, Janet turned to face her young mistress. "And I would hope that ye didna disgrace the name o' Sinclair and Scotland when ye were in England.'"
"Good
heavens! Nothing like that!" returned
Maddie
in mock
horror.
"I
'm a walking book of correct etiquette.
I
'd
never let the side down. Auld lang syne and Scotland forever rolled into one—that's me."
She reached for the dish of leftover rhubarb preserves and assiduously, though fastidiously, deposited a spoonful on the corner of her plate. "See?" she asked lightly. "I've got it down pat, just as you and Mama always instructed," and she spooned the merest smidgeon of jam on the corner of a half scone and nibbled delicately.
"So," said Janet sagely, "ye dinna care tae be a fine lady."
"Frankly, no. Janet, you know nothing about fine ladies and gentlemen. I could tell you stories that would make your hair stand on end." She was thinking of herself and Deveryn. "Oh, their manners are impeccable, I'll give you that. But one daren't look too closely at their morals."
"Aye," said Janet with more shrewdness than Maddie could safely tolerate, "Lord Deveryn, is it?"
"Why must you drag Deveryn's name into this conversation?" asked Maddie crossly. Her fingers began to drum an idle tattoo upon the tabletop. As abruptly as she had begun, she ceased. "All right! All right!" she said with an air of abstraction. "Lord Deveryn it is! He's not the man I thought him." She was sorry that she had said as much and snapped her teeth together?'
"Never say he's put an unholy hand upon ye!"
"An unholy hand?" Maddie said uncertainly. Comprehension suddenly dawned and colour flooded her cheeks. She made a little choking sound deep in her throat and managed a tremulous and not quite truthful, "Janet! Would I permit it of any man?"
Like the cozening smile, the look on Maddie's face was one with which Janet was all too familiar. "Ye've been a bad girl," she said, and gave Maddie one of her hard, Presbyterian stares.
Maddie tried to look discouragingly aloof, but succeeded in merely appearing absurdly guilty. Unconsciously, with the tip of her tongue, she licked her dry lips.
Janet's eyes narrowed. "If ye've done something wicked ..
"Not wicked, Janet! How could you even think so?"
"Well?" There was no give in Janet.
Maddie offered a crooked smile. "Only an eeny-weeny, teeny bit naughty." She suppressed the childish urge to cross
her fingers behind her hack.
"Lord Deveryn . . ."
"Don't!" expostulated Maddie. On a calmer note, she said, "I can't explain. Please don't ask me. I know you always liked him. He's done nothing to forfeit your good opinion. Really!" She gave her attention to the last piece of scone on her plate. "A lovers' quarrel," she finally got out. 'That's all."
"Mmm!" said Janet. She took the teapot from the table and filled it from the kettle that perpetually simmered on the stove.
"Give it a few minutes tae
mask,"
she said, setting it on the table by Maddie's elbow. She seated herself on a chair opposite.
As though to change the subject, she offered, "There hae been
mony
a change since ye were last here at Drumoak."
"What changes?" asked Maddie, carefully pouring herself a cup of weak tea. She knew that Janet preferred stronger brew, and set the teapot down without offering it.
"Masons, slaters, plasterers, painters hae been in an oot o' the
hoose
for the last
twa
month."
"Slaters?" asked Maddie, looking up. "Are you saying that there's a new slate roof on the house?"
"Among other things. Also, for the first time in years, an agent to see that things get done. Mr. Milne is his name."
"Oh?"
"Ay. Frae Edinburgh. He tells me that he's in Lord Deveryn's employ." Maddie made no comment and Janet went on, "Lord Deveryn seems to be paying the piper."
"Yes, well, the house belongs to Cynthia now, more or less. I'm sure Deveryn is acting for her."
"Ye're as daft as they come," muttered Janet under her breath, and reached across the table for the teapot.
Maddie recognized the taut expression on Janet's thin face. She braced herself mentally for the dressing-down that it signified would follow, and wondered, dejectedly, why in the world she had ever thought she would be coming home to hot-toddie and sympathy.
At last, the harangue began. "Och, I thought ye would be wed tae the man
long
since. Ye're bonnie. Ye've got brains. A body with eyes in her head could see that the man wanted ye like a bee wants honey. He's poured money into yer
hoose
which is more than yer faither did, even when his pockets were
well-lined. And dinna tell me that Drumoak belongs tae yer stepmither! Lord Deveryn himself told me about Cynthia's provision under the terms o' yer faither's will."
"He did?" For a moment, Maddie thought that Deveryn had confided the whole sorry business, but Janet's next words reassured her.
"Aye. When she weds, everything reverts tae ye. And wi' a woman like Cynthia Sinclair, I dinna doubt that she'll shackle some
puir
unsuspectin' male afore the year is oot."
"You do?" Now that was interesting.
"I was hopin'," said Janet meaningfully, "that it wouldna be Lord Deveryn."
"She's trying," agreed Maddie, and leaning one elbow on the table, cupped her chin in her hand.
"And?" asked Janet.
"And what?"
"And what are ye doin' tae see that she disna succeed?"
Maddie's expression turned stubborn. "If he wants her, he can have her," she said, and bit down on her lower lip to quell its betraying pout.
"He can have her," repeated Janet slowly. "Och, it's just as well. A man like Lord Deveryn needs a woman who kens how tae hold him." She chuckled. "In my day, I . . . och, well, that's neither here nor there. It's tae be expected that the ladies will a' be flapping about him like moths tae the flame." And she slanted a glance at her pensive companion.
"You don't know the half of it," said Maddie, and stared morosely into space.
A reflective silence descended.
"Will he come after ye, d'ye suppose?" asked Janet at length.
"Oh yes, I think he must." But then again, she silently reasoned, he might just as easily decide to divorce her from England. For all she knew, it might be possible to do it in secret. Then no one would be the wiser about their clandestine marriage. Except, of course, that in another month or so, fingers would be pointing at her and she would be referred to as a "fallen woman"—which was exactly how she felt. She sniffed.
"Have I ever told ye the story of how yer mammy swept the
field o' her rivals when she first came to Drumoak as yer faither's bride?"
"Frequently," said Maddie discouragingly. It was one of the myths she'd been raised on and, child-like, had never tired of its telling. She knew it by heart.
"What did I tell ye?"
"You know. How mother was young and beautiful but with a beastly temper, like mine. And when she discovered that Papa was a bit of a ladies' man before they were wed, there was a terrible quarrel and she went off in a huff to Edinburgh."
"And?"
"What? Oh yes. Papa had a temper, too, and to spite Mama invited all the most beautiful ladies around Drumoak to a party. Mother heard about it and came storming back with whip in hand and drove them out of the house. Papa had never been more proud of her in his life, and so on, and so on, and so on. Of course, it wasn't true. A lady does not take whip in hand and drive her guests from her home however much she might wish to do so. Still, it was a charming tale."