As for yer household, I will do my best, but I dinna hae the faintest idea of how to manage so large an establishment. I will learn, of course, but ye must be patient wi’ me. This is nae Killiecairn. This is a great house Even yer own mam had servants to do her bidding. I am nae a servant, my lord. I am yer wife.”
“Lass, I dinna mean . . . Ye will hae all the servants ye want to help ye. If I hae offended ye, I apologize,” Patrick Leslie said.
“My lord, ye wed me for the land,” Flanna replied in matter-of-fact tones. “We both understand that. I know my duty. ’Tis to make yer home a place of comfort and to gie ye an heir as quickly as possible. Fortunately, I hae my servant Angus to help me wi’ the first. Angus came to Killiecairn wi’ my mother from Brae. He remembers how a fine establishment should be kept and will help me. As for my second task, ’tis up to ye and I to manage.”
“I hae nae considered—” he began, but Flanna interrupted him.
“What month were ye born in, my lord?” she demanded of him.
“March,” he answered her.
“And how old will ye be on yer next birthday?” she pressed.
He thought a moment, then replied, “Thirty-five, lass.”
“I was born in August and was twenty-two this year, my lord. How old was yer mam when her first child was born?” Flanna asked.
Again he thought for a long moment. That had, after all, been before his time. His half sister, India, was the oldest of his siblings. “I think she was seventeen,” he said. “Aye! She was seventeen.”
“And how many bairns did she hae by the time she was my age?” Flanna queried him.
“Four,” he said, seeing where her line of questioning was leading him, but still not at all certain he was ready for fatherhood. He wasn’t even certain he was ready for marriage, though married he now was.
“Four,” Flanna repeated. “Yer mam had four bairns by the time she was my age! I think, my lord, we hae much work ahead of us. How many bairns did she hae in all?”
Patrick Leslie swallowed hard. “Nine,” he murmured, “but one of my sisters died before she was even a year old. Ye must understand, Flanna, that my mother had several husbands, and a lover, to father her great brood.”
“A lover?” Flanna didn’t know whether to be shocked or not.
“Prince Henry Stuart—he should hae been king after James—was the sire of my half brother, Charlie,” the duke told his wife. “It was before she wed wi’ my father, of course.”
“What happened to him?” Flanna wanted to know.
“Who?” Patrick said.
“The bastard. Yer mam’s bastard,” Flanna responded.
Patrick Leslie burst out laughing. He had never considered Charlie in that manner. To his knowledge, no one had. “My half brother, Charles Frederick Stuart, the Duke of Lundy, has never been thought of in that light, Flanna. While we teasingly call him our not-so-royal Stuart, he was always considered just one of mother’s bairns. Old King James and Queen Anne loved him dearly. He was their first grandchild. Sadly his father, the prince, died shortly after his birth. His uncle, our late King Charles, for whom Charlie was named, was very fond of him. One reason mother retired to England is to make certain Charlie doesna endanger himself by involving himself in this factional fighting over religion and Divine Right. Charlie is deeply loyal to his father’s family.”
“But he was born on the wrong side of the blanket,” Flanna persisted. “How can he be anything other than a bastard?”
“Lass,” the duke explained patiently, “the royal Stuarts hae always recognized their bairns nae matter the mother. ’Twas that way when they ruled here in Scotland, and ’tis that way now in England as well. They are a most loving family. My own blood is also mixed wi’ theirs, as are many families here in Scotland.”
Flanna shook her head. “I dinna understand,” she said, “but if ye say ’tis all right, I will accept yer word.”
Patrick laughed again. “Are ye hungry?” he asked her.
“I am, and I canna help but wonder why there is nae meal on the table, and the master in the house almost an hour now,” she replied. She stood up. “Who did ye leave in charge, my lord?”
“Nae one has been in charge since my mother left,” he said.
Flanna sighed. “Angus, to me,” she called, and the giant man who was her servant stepped from the deep shadows of the hall. In his arms he carried Sultan, purring noisily as Angus stroked him rhythmically.
Patrick Leslie chuckled. “’Tis rare he takes to strangers, but I trust his judgment in men.”
“He’s a grand beastie, my lord,” Angus replied. He was a man of indeterminate age, but he stood straight like a great oak, seven feet tall. His hair was dark brown with streaks of silver. He wore it pulled back and tied with a leather thong. His matching beard was full, but it was a small vanity of Angus’s that he kept it well trimmed and neat. All who knew him knew he took great pride in his beard, as he did in his dress. Angus always wore his Gordon kilt.
“Put the creature down,” Flanna said, “and see why there is nae supper on the table. Are the men supposed to starve after that long ride through the wet today? Tomorrow ye and I must see to putting the management of this house back properly.” She turned to her husband. “Is the castle mine?”
He knew exactly what she meant. “Aye, madame,” he replied.
Flanna turned back to her servant. “Ye’re now the majordomo of Glenkirk Castle, Angus,” she said. “Aggie, where is my chamber? I want a hot bath. I’m yet frozen through despite whiskey and the fire.”
“There are so many rooms, mistress, I dinna know where to look first,” Aggie said, coming forward in the company of an older woman. “She knows,” she continued accusingly, “but she will nae tell me.”
“Hae ye taken to bringing yer wantons into the castle now that yer mam is nae here, my lord?” the woman demanded. She was small and plump, with white hair, but a youngish face.
“This is my wife, Mary,” the duke said. “I wed wi’ her yesterday in her father’s house at Killiecairn. She is yer new mistress. Ye will render her yer respect. Flanna, this is Mary More-Leslie.”
“Can ye housekeep?” Flanna demanded fiercely of the woman.
“Aye,” came the reply, and Mary More-Leslie looked Flanna over critically, recognizing a Highland wench when she saw one.
“Then, ye’ll be the housekeeper here unless Angus says yer a slattern. Now show me to my chambers, Mary More-Leslie.” Flanna knew enough from her sister-in-law, Una Brodie, to know she must exhibit immediate and firm authority over those who served her or lose control of her household. Her gaze never left that of the older woman.
Mary finally looked away and, turning, said, “This way, my lady. We were nae expecting a bride, and so ’twill nae be in readiness; but we’ll manage tonight. Tomorrow is another day, eh?”
The Duke of Glenkirk looked on in surprise as Mary meekly led Flanna and her female servant away. He turned, and Angus was also gone. Sultan wreathed about his ankles. Patrick Leslie sat back down in his chair. The cat leapt into his lap and settled itself.
“Well, Sultan,” he said, “what think ye of yer new mistress? I think, wi’out meaning to, I hae found me a verra fine wife.” A day. He had known her only a day. He had learned she was brave and practical. She seemed to enjoy his lovemaking. She appeared honest and loyal. It was as good a basis as any to begin a marriage. Still, there was much, much more he had to learn about this young woman. He had done a very rash thing by marrying her, he knew.
Patrick Leslie smiled to himself. What would his mother think of this outspoken Highland girl