The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [78]
“Thank you, Pouder, I shall.” Without thinking, Tysen took the old man’s arm and gently steered him back to his chair. It was well padded, a good thing, since Pouder looked to be all bones.
Tysen called out over his shoulder, “Mary Rose, you converse with my daughter when she returns from feeding the geese.”
“I will speak with her as well,” Miles MacNeily said, walking toward them. He gave Tysen a small salute and smiled at the sight of Pouder, whose head had already fallen forward to his chest.
Tysen tracked down Mrs. MacFardle in the vast Kildrummy kitchen. With no preamble, he said in a calm, very cool voice, “Mary Rose is lying on a settee in the drawing room. She is doubtless hungry. If you are not carrying a silver tray loaded with delicious cakes and nicely hot tea to her in the next ten minutes, you will leave Kildrummy Castle. If you are not smiling and respectful to Mary Rose when you deliver that tray to the drawing room, you will also leave in the next ten minutes. Do you quite understand me, Mrs. MacFardle?”
“But she is a bastard, my lord! She doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t belong anywhere where there are respectable people. Folk hereabout will believe you too democratic, too lax in your morals—er, no, that isn’t quite right, is it? Perhaps, because you are a vicar, you have to continually watch yourself not to care too deeply about people who don’t deserve it. Yes, it is a matter of having too much kindness, my lord. It isn’t what Lord Barthwick should do. Mary Rose mustn’t sleep in your bed. If she is still too ill to return home, then she may sleep in the servants’ quarters, up just one short flight of stairs to the third floor. There is this quite charming room that—”
Tysen felt waves of anger washing through him, and it appalled him, this emotional reaction that came from deep within him, destroying his control. “You have said quite enough, Mrs. MacFardle. Mary Rose Fordyce has agreed to marry me.”
Her mouth gaped open. She looked utterly horrified.
“Either you will accept her as your mistress, as Lady Barthwick of Kildrummy Castle, and treat her with respect, or you will leave, in the next minute, actually. The decision is yours. Now, we await tea in the drawing room. Ten minutes, Mrs. MacFardle, no longer.” He said not another word, not even when he heard her suck in her breath behind him.
He turned at the doorway and said over his shoulder, “You are the first person to hear our news. It might be a very polite thing if you were to congratulate me on my good fortune.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. MacFardle. “Change of this nature is unwelcome. I knew that an Englishman would bring disaster. However, congratulations, my lord.”
He had forgotten about Mrs. Griffin. When he walked into the drawing room, she was sitting in a deep, faded chair that she’d had Mr. Griffin pull over to within a foot from where Mary Rose sat on the settee. She was tapping her foot, lightly tapping her cane on the carpet at her feet as she said in a loud voice, “I have had quite enough of this, Mary Rose. I have decided that I will take you to Edinburgh with Mr. Griffin and me.”
“Mary Rose has agreed to marry me, Mrs. Griffin.”
Meggie jumped to her feet. “Papa, really? Oh, this is wonderful! Mary Rose, you will really marry Papa? You will live with us?” She dashed across the drawing room, rubbing the bread crumbs on her skirts, and dropped to the floor at Mary Rose’s feet and hugged her knees. “I hadn’t really expected this to happen, but it is ever so nice. We will all have such fun, you will see. Oh, I am so very happy.”
“Child, you will hold your tongue now. You should be in the nursery or sitting quietly reading sermons, or whatever it is that children—”
Tysen was grinning from ear to ear, he just couldn’t help it. “Mrs. Griffin, my daughter needs to get acquainted with her future mother. Now, tea is to arrive shortly. Pouder, what is it?”
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