Yelling at his staff would simply motivate them to quit their posts more quickly.
And his solicitor—competent man though he was—would merely point out, yet again, that a run-down castle miles up a Highland glen was a difficult prospect to staff. Experienced household servants who were willing to accept such employment were few and far between.
In other words, beggars did not have the leverage to be choosers.
To soothe his frustrated thoughts, Fox had downed a bottle of Madeira. That, at least, never disappointed him. Though he would likely pay for the indulgence with a sore head in the morning.
He rubbed his upper right thigh, grunting with pain. Once, his loyal batman, Thompson, cooked his meals and massaged away his aches. The man had worked miracles with a curry, as well as sore muscles.
But like everything else in Fox’s life, Coorg and a rogue blast of gun fire had robbed him of Thompson.
The ache in Fox’s hip meant the dark clouds surely would bring rain before morning, more’s the pity. The castle was more akin to a sieve than a fortress. Each new storm revealed yet another crack that dripped water or whistled with wind.
Sometimes Fox felt like the castle itself—a former beacon of power gone to rack and ruin, battered and betrayed, no longer able to withstand life’s punishing forces.
He leaned his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes.
His body wasn’t tired. He didn’t need more sleep.
No.
The weariness seeped in from his soul.
Anger and hurt and grief.
So. Much. Damn. Grief.
He swam in it.
The sorrow of lost loved ones. The endless sting of betrayal from those he had trusted most.
Fox recognized that he wasn’t melancholy, per se. He didn’t suffer from a general depression of spirits, the sort that shrouded a life in gloomy darkness.
No. He was simply . . . threadbare. His soul too tired and too battered to let emotion in or out.
And now with Madeline in his care—this bright-eyed, golden-haired, effervescent force of a child . . .
How was he to see her to adulthood? How was he—an army captain—to navigate the ins and outs of raising a little girl? A competent housekeeper could sort the rest of his life, but a mother for Madeline?
Fox pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, rubbing until he saw stars. A burst of rain lashed the window panes.
Hadley wasn’t wrong.
Fox needed a wife.
Over that miserable tea of leaky sandwiches, his lordship had even recommended the perfect lady for the job.
Miss Leah Penn-Leith.
Fox had scarcely looked up from his burnt shortbread as Hadley spoke, but the earl’s every word drummed into his skull nonetheless.
“She is exactly the wife for ye, Carnegie. I’ve known her for nigh upon thirty years now,” Hadley had said. “Older. A spinster. Rumor has it she experienced a disappointment early on, which is why she has never married. I ken it’s more that she exists in an in-between place within local society. Her mother was a fine lady from Aberdeen, but her father was a gentleman farmer. So Miss Penn-Leith is too grand for most of the farmhands here abouts, but too lowly and too much a spinster to catch the eye of a gentleman of means.
“But she is a wonder, I tell ye. A magician of management. Level-headed and endlessly kind. I don’t know a soul in Fettermill who doesn’t love and admire her. Men don’t appreciate good-sense as much as they should when seeking a wife. Mark my words, Miss Penn-Leith would whip your household into order and deliver ye peace on a platter.”
To that end, Hadley had suggested a more traditional courting. A casual meeting while dining at Muirford House. An afternoon social call. A dance at the local assembly.
Blech.
