The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [14]
Tysen, who wasn’t stupid, and thought the old man was grand, said quickly, “If you would like to see to the placement of my clothes in the laird’s bedchamber, I would be very appreciative.”
“May I even fold yer cravats, my lord?”
“My cravats need to be arranged as well, Pouder. I thank you.”
“Ah, at last I will be a valet-in-training,” Pouder said, sighed softly, and let his head fall forward to his chest. His white hair settled gently onto his shoulders. He was asleep.
“Aye, a valet-in-training,” Tysen said quietly, savoring the taste and feel of that strange term on his tongue. He went quietly out the front doors, careful not to disturb Kildrummy’s butler.
He stepped outside to see MacNee, a handsome young man who looked after the stables. Rufus was with him, ready, Tysen thought, for his breakfast. But MacNee wanted to chat a bit. “Big Fellow is happy,” MacNee said. “All settled in, ate his oats, drank all his water. Aye, ye slept well in the laird’s bed, my lord?”
“Aye,” Tysen said. He was a “my lord” now. It felt very odd.
“Aye, that bed draws a body down and soothes his brow. Och, me brain’s not pulling its weight, my lord. Mrs. MacFardle has asked me to take all the eggs she collected to Barthwick Village, just down a ways from here, and sell them to the local folks. Too many eggs we have now, ye see, since the chickens squawk and twitter during storms and jest lay and lay. Ye need to go back inside, my lord, and have yer breakfast.”
Tysen was smiling as he went once again into the grand entrance hall, dominated by Pouder, sleeping quietly in his chair. MacNee and Rufus went to the kitchen and Tysen went into the small breakfast room with its impossibly old dark paneling and ancient portraits of dead animals strung up on lines in sixteenth-century kitchens. He would remove all the painted gore from the walls and make them white. The dark old carpet would come up and he’d have the lovely wood floor polished until it sparkled. He blinked at himself. It was the first time he had ever thought like this. He’d always, he supposed, simply accepted his surroundings as they were. Besides, Melinda Beatrice had seen to the vicarage. He didn’t recall if he’d even been asked if he liked this carpet or that piece of furniture. But now, here at Kildrummy Castle—it was all his. Yes, those floors would be polished until he could see his reflection in the wide, thick boards. He also wanted to meet everyone, hire every worker available to clean his house. He wanted to tour his lands, count the sheep, learn what kind of fish the men caught. He rubbed his hands together. England was a long way from Kildrummy Castle. He felt light and happy.
He felt infinitely blessed.
He ate porridge that Mrs. MacFardle begrudgingly served him, found it excellent, and decided his first visit would be to Barthwick Village.
[You are] the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth.
—Shakespeare, King Henry IV
Mary Rose stood in the shadow of the thick pine trees and watched the new Baron Barthwick stride out through the gate of Kildrummy Castle, wearing buff riding britches and a dark brown jacket. He looked very fine, very much an English gentleman, not that she was all that certain, for she’d only seen a few in her twenty-four years. He was young, but that wasn’t a surprise. She’d overheard Uncle Lyon telling about the Fall of Barthwick, now in the hands of a demned Englishman, one too young to know what he was about. Then he cursed Tyronne Barthwick for not ensuring an heir—half a dozen boys weren’t enough and then the old coot had the gall to die when he’d only reached his