The Heiress Bride - Catherine Coulter [76]
She went into the Laird’s Inbetween Room and was delighted to see Dulcie seated between Philip and Dahling.
“Good morning, Dulcie, children.”
Dulcie said, “Good morning to ye, m’lady. Philip, dinna frown like that, it’ll put creases in yer forehead fer all yer lifetime, ye ken? Dahling, stop smearing yer eggs on th’ tablecloth!”
Another normal breakfast, Sinjun thought, remembering the breakfasts with all of Ryder’s children. Bedlam, sheer and utter bedlam.
She served herself from the sideboard and sat down in Colin’s chair, since it was closest to the children.
“That’s Papa’s chair.”
“Yes, and it’s a very nicely carved chair. It’s even big enough for him.”
“You don’t belong there.”
“You don’t belong here,” Dahling added.
“But I’m your father’s wife. Where do I belong if not here, at Vere Castle?”
That stumped Dahling, but not Philip.
“Now that Papa has your money, you could go to a convent.”
“Master Philip!”
“But I’m not Catholic, Philip. What would I do there? I don’t know anything about crucifixes or matins or confessions.”
“What’s matins?”
“Prayers said at midnight or at dawn, Dahling.”
“Oh. Go to France and be the queen.”
“That’s quite good, Dahling, but unfortunately there isn’t a queen of France at the moment, there’s just Empress Josephine, Napoléon’s wife.”
Both children were at an impasse. “This is delicious porridge. The fresh oatmeal makes all the difference. I love it with brown sugar.”
“It’s better with a knob of butter,” Philip said.
“Oh, really? Then I will try it with a knob of butter tomorrow.” She took the last spoonful, sighed with pleasure, took a sip of her coffee, and announced, “I have worked very hard for the past three days. This morning I have decided to reward myself, and you will be the rewards. You will go riding with me and show me around.”
“My tummy hurts,” Dahling said, grabbed her middle, and began to groan.
“Then ’tis buckbean ye be needing, Dahling.”
“I’ll ride with you,” Philip said. Sinjun caught the evil wink he gave to his sister.
* * *
It took Philip less than two hours to get her lost in the Lomond Hills. It took Sinjun another three hours to find her way back to the castle. However, the morning wasn’t a waste by any means. She’d met five crofters’ families and drunk five different ciders. She found one man who could write—Freskin was his name—and thus he had a quill and some foolscap. She began to list all their names and what needed to be done in repairs. They had little grain, and nothing could keep the fear from Freskin’s wife’s face when he said it. They needed a cow and a couple of sheep; ah, but it was grain that was most important.
If any of the men, women, or children believed it a pitiful state of affairs for her that she was here only because of her healthy stock of groats, they were polite enough not to say so. Sinjun began to understand more and more of the local dialect. It was either that or drown in lilting sounds. A sweetie wife, she learned, meant a gossip. Freskin’s wife was certainly a sweetie.
Since the day was beautiful, she let her mare canter over the soft rolling hills and through the forests of larch, pine, birch, and fir. She drank from her cupped hands from Loch Leven. The water was so cold it made her lips tingle. She let her horse wander through a clump of fir trees and nearly stumbled into a peat bog. She held her mare to a walk over the harsh barren moors of the eastern hills. All in all, when she returned to Vere Castle she was tired and had quite enjoyed herself.
She paused atop the rise she and Colin had halted at such a short time before. Vere Castle still looked magical, perhaps even more so now that she felt a part of it. She reminded herself to purchase some material to make pennants to fly from those four castle towers. Perhaps she could even find a lovely young girl with golden hair to sit in one of the tower windows and plait and unplait her hair.
She was singing when she espied Philip, surely on the lookout for her, near the massive Tudor front doors.
“Why, Master Philip,