now with the difficulties in England, their lives must certainly be disrupted to some extent. Henry would know how to bend without breaking. He would survive with barely a wrinkle in his silken breeches, and his family as well. Henry was seven years his senior, and while he had been a kindly elder brother, he had had little time for Patrick Leslie.
His brother Charlie, however, was a different matter. The not-so-royal Stuart was only three and a half years older than Patrick Leslie. He had always had time for his little brother and, consequently, was closer to Patrick than even his two younger Leslie brothers, Adam and Duncan. What was happening to Charlie amid all the strife? He had always been devoted to his father’s family. Had Prince Henry been permitted to wed with the widowed Marchioness of Westleigh as his mother was then titled, Charlie would have been England’s king when old James had died. But Charlie didn’t care if he was king or not. He had been as loyal to the royal Stuarts as any legitimately born son would have been. News filtered slowly into the eastern Highlands. They hadn’t even known of the king’s execution until late spring. Where was Charlie now? “God keep ye safe, brother,” the duke whispered to himself.
“My lord.” Angus was by his side. “The cook will hae the supper ready shortly. I hae spoken wi’ him. Meals will be served on time in the future. Nae one was certain when ye would return, and hence the delay.” He gave the duke a faint bow. “Shall I tell her ladyship, or will ye?”
Patrick Leslie stood up, placing Sultan on the floor as he did so. “I will tell her,” he replied. “I am happy to hae my house in such safe hands now. Thank ye.” He walked from the hall.
Angus now took a moment to look about him. Flanna had done well despite her best efforts to avoid the responsibility accorded her sex. She was wild like her mother that way, although only he could remember Meg Gordon’s stubborn nature. Lachlann Brodie had been entranced with her and found her willfulness amusing. But the old Brodie had kept his promise to his dying wife, although how he would have done it but that the Duke of Glenkirk had fallen into their laps, Angus didn’t know. Still, it was done now. Flanna was both a duchess and a countess with this marriage.
Angus knew a great deal more about the duke and his family than Patrick Leslie would have imagined. His own grandfather had been the duke’s grandfather, the fourth Earl of Glenkirk, also a Patrick. This Patrick had spawned any number of bastards throughout the region. Angus’s maternal grandmother, Bride Forbes, had caught the earl’s eye and birthed a daughter, Jessie, in March of 1578. Jessie Forbes in her turn had caught the eye of Andrew Gordon, the Earl of Brae. She had died two days after giving birth to a son, named Angus after an ancestor, and who was recognized by his father as a Gordon and raised at Brae Castle. The young Countess of Brae, Anne Keith, had married her husband when Angus was three and given birth to her only child, a daughter, Margaret, when Angus was seven. She had treated her husband’s bastard as her own child, the only difference being that he would not inherit either his father’s title or his father’s lands. Those would go to his legitimately born sister, Margaret.
When the Earl of Brae had died shortly after his daughter’s twelfth birthday, it was Angus who had taken over management of Brae, protecting the widowed countess and her child from any and all who would make an attempt on either the heiress, her mother, or Brae. It was Angus who had seen Lachlann Brodie’s interest Meg Gordon one summer at the games at Inverness; but Meg Gordon would not leave her mother, who was then ill and failing. Only two years later, when Anne had died and was buried, did Meg, at her half brother’s urging, accept the suit of the Brodie of Killiecairn.
“Our blood is better,” he told his half sister honestly, “but ye’re far past yer prime, Meg. He doesna care if ye hae bairns, for he’s got half a dozen lads by his first wife, God assoil her. He’s old enough to be yer da, but he’s in love wi’ ye, any fool can see. Ye’ll do nae better, for all ye hae is Brae and its lands. Ye hae nae cattle or coin. This is as good a match as ye’ll get, and he’ll be kind.”
“What will happen to ye, Angus? I’ll nae leave ye,” Meg Gordon had told her half brother.
“Few away from Brae know I am our father’s bastard,” Angus replied. “I’ll come wi’ ye as yer personal servant. Brodie will nae deny ye yer servant, and anyone wi’ eyes can see I’m useful.”
So Meg had accepted the offer of marriage from Lachlann Brodie, a man thirty-three years her senior, and to her surprise her husband had, despite his years, proved a vigorous lover. He had also adored her and done everything he could to make her happy. And Angus Gordon had entered the household at Killiecairn, silently watching over his younger sibling and eventually her child, making himself as useful as possible so that none would complain that he didn’t earn his keep. When Flanna’s mother had been on her deathbed, she had confided to her only child that Angus was her half brother and Flanna’s uncle. Flanna had continued to keep the secret.
Angus Gordon noted the portraits hanging over the two fireplaces. He saw the well-made furniture, the fine tapestries, the beautiful silk banners hanging from the rafters, the silver on the sideboard, the porcelain bowls, and the beeswax tapers in the candlesticks. The lamps burned pure, fragrant oil, and there was both wine and whiskey on the table. The place needed a good cleaning, but it had not been left for too long a time, it was obvious. This was the great hall of a wealthy man, and his niece was now that man’s wife.
She had a great deal to learn, Angus thought to himself. Meg had loved her only child, but she hadn’t taken the time to teach her how to manage a great house. His sister had probably never thought Flanna would do so well. When Meg had died, Una Brodie had done her best to teach Flanna the rudiments of housekeeping; but Flanna had never been very interested, and besides, Killiecairn wasn’t an impressive establishment. His niece preferred the out-of-doors, riding and hunting from dawn to dusk. Meg had taught her daughter to sign her name; but other than that, Flanna could not write, nor could she read. The only language she knew was her own. Angus shook his head wearily. His niece was very badly prepared for her new high station. He wondered what the duke would think when he learned it. He shook his great head a third time. There was so much to do. The household, he could manage, but Flanna had to be educated enough so that she didn’t shame her husband. Had he not heard Patrick Leslie tell his wife that his own mother was a princess? Certainly a princess knew how to read, and to write, and to converse in foreign tongues. Flanna spoke a brand of Highland English, and Scots Gaelic only a Highland Scot could understand.
He heard the servants begin entering the hall to set the high board and bring the food. He turned quickly and began directing them in an authoritative voice. The duke and Flanna entered the hall, and he escorted them to the high board, seating his niece at her husband’s right hand. Then, with a flick of an eyebrow, he signaled the servants to bring the meal to the table. “ ’Tis a simple meal, my lord, for the cook was ill-prepared, I fear. It will be better tomorrow.”
“I prefer a simple meal,” Patrick Leslie replied, his eye taking in the broiled trout, the roast of beef, the game pie, the steamed artichokes, the bread, the butter, and the cheese. “ ’Tis an amazing repast for one so ill-prepared,” he noted dryly.
“If ye are pleased, my lord, then I shall certainly tell Cook,” Angus said, pouring the wine with a deft hand and then stepping back. “I regret, however, we hae only pear tartlet for a sweet. Wine or ale, my lady?” He bent by Flanna’s side.
“Oh, wine!” she told him, turning to her husband. “We only had wine on special occasions at Killiecairn. Will we hae it at every meal, my lord?” She sipped at her cup greedily.
“If it pleases ye, madame,” he replied.
She nodded vigorously. “I hae never tasted a wine so good,” she enthused. “Where does it come from?”
“France,” he said, half amused. “My mother hae family there.”
“Is yer mam French?” Flanna asked him.
“Nay. My grandmother, who is the Countess of BrocCairn, and whom ye will meet, was English born. My mother’s father was the ruler of a great empire in the East. The English call it India.”