“Go home, Donald,” the earl said wearily.
“Are ye nae coming, man? The fighting is over, though God knows ‘twas no real fight at all. Just a wee bit of butchering.”
He peered closely at his elder brother. “Yer going to hae a black eye, Tavis,” he said.
“So are ye,” the earl noted dryly, and then he grinned at Donald. “Are all yer teeth still there, laddie?”
Donald Fleming gingerly felt about his jawline. He spit once or twice, and then he replied, “Ye’ve loosened two or three of them, man, but I think they’ll hold. Why aren’t ye coming home now? Not that damned English spitfire still?”
The earl’s grin faded and he glared darkly at his younger sibling. “I want to see my daughter,” he told him, daring him to refute his explanation.
“Hummmph,” Donald said. “Will ye be wanting me to take all the men wi’ me?”
“Aye, take them all. I’ll be home in a few days’ time, and there’s none fool enough to attack Tavis Stewart, though he rides alone.”
Donald Fleming departed with his brother’s clansmen, leaving the Earl of Dunmor to his own pursuits, although Donald didn’t believe for a minute that Tavis’ chief reason for remaining behind at Greyfaire was the little dark-haired lassie who was his niece. The earl remained behind because of that pale-haired English vixen with a temper bigger than she herself was. His brother hadn’t been able to bring Arabella Grey to his bridle before. Donald wondered what had changed that Tavis thought he could bring the wench to heel now.
The earl watched his forces leaving, and then he turned back into the hall.
“Father Anselm would say a Mass of thanksgiving before we break our fast,” Arabella told him, and he followed her to the little family chapel which was off the Great Hall. There was no church now, for the little Greyfaire church had been one of the first things Sir Jasper Keane had destroyed when he had turned outlaw. The chapel was crowded with all the remaining Greyfaire folk. Many were elderly, but there were some young men, and a few women with children. Despite the happiness of the occasion, it was, the earl thought, a pitiful gathering. FitzWalter was right, though Arabella had not yet faced it. Greyfaire was dead.
Afterward in the hall they sat together at the highboard and he was served a hearty breakfast of oat porridge, fresh-baked bread with sweet butter, a honeycomb, and a good brown ale.
“You have sent your men away,” she said to him.
“Their job is done, madame, and besides, I realize that ye dinna hae the means at the moment to feed such a great troop,” he answered her.
“Thatwas kind, Tavis,” she replied, using his name for the first time since he had arrived at Greyfaire. “In another year or two I shall have Greyfaire back to its old self, and my hospitality will not be so niggardly.”
“Will ye be able to restore your estate, lovey?” he asked her, slipping without even realizing it into his old form of address.
“Aye! Of course I will!” she insisted.
“How will ye go about it?” he persisted.
“There is no hope of a harvest this year,” she began seriously. “It is simply too late in the summer to plant another crop, but we can clear the fields back again so they will be ready for plowing in the spring. I will replant the orchards then too.”
“How will ye live through the winter? Yer people will need to be fed,” he said.
“I’ll buy grain and flour in York,” she told him. “We’ll dry the grasses we weed from the fields to feed the livestock we have, and then in the spring I’ll buy another flock of sheep to replace those that were stolen. There’s deer and rabbit in the hills that are mine to hunt. We’ll manage, Tavis.”
He wanted to tell her that it was all madness. That she should never again be able to rebuild Greyfaire, for she looked at her lands through sentimental eyes. In the best of times it had never been a rich estate, and the times were not particularly good now, but he did not tell her. She would not have accepted his word in the matter, and it would have driven a wedge between them just when he believed there was a chance of his winning her back. Arabella might be proud and stubborn, but she was no fool. Eventually she had to come to her senses. So he listened, and he nodded, and he held his peace, mindful of FitzWalter’s approving eyes upon him, and somehow the captain’s silent compliance in the matter was comforting.
He remained at Greyfaire for several days, avoiding any serious confrontations with Arabella, remaking his daughter’s acquaintance and pretending to himself that they were once again a family. He stood as witness with Arabella at the wedding of his clansman, Fergus MacMichael, and Lona, assuring the young couple that there would be a place for them at Dunmor whenever they decided to return. Finally, however, he could no longer deny that Dunmor and his own obligations as its earl existed. He departed Greyfaire, promising to return as soon as he could.
He came as often as he dared during the autumn months, always arriving with some gift to help her. Several stags, dressed and ready for hanging. A few casks of wine. Bushels of apples and pears, enough to last until the spring. He knew that she shared her bounty with all of her people, and they did not starve, although their rations were certainly not generous. In February the storms came and he could not go to Greyfaire at all. Penned within his own castle, he lashed out in his frustration at anyone who dared to approach him, for he feared for Arabella’s safety, as well as that of their daughter.
“Will it nae stop snowing?” he demanded of no one in particular one winter’s evening.
His mother, who had been caught at Dunmor by this most recent storm, replied calmly, “It will cease snowing when God wills it, Tavis, and nae a moment before. Do sit down. Yer behaving like a spoilt lad.”
“There was barely enough firewood the last time I was there, Mam,” he told her. “What if they could nae get it cut in time? They’ll freeze to death!”
“Then they will, Tavis, and yer fretting about it will nae change a thing, laddie,” came the calm reply. Lady Margery had finally given up any hope of marrying her eldest son off to some good Scots lass. He would rewed Arabella Grey, and no one else, she realized.
When the weather broke, he rode pell-mell across the border to find that they had, indeed, survived the serious weather quite comfortably.
In the early spring sickness struck Greyfaire. Several children and half a dozen elderly souls died of the White Throat. Arabella lived in terror that Margaret would catch the disease, but she did not. The Spotting Sickness followed, however, and here Lady Margaret Stewart did not escape. She fell seriously ill, to the great fright of her mother, who, though she nursed her daughter lovingly and with all of her skill, could not seem to make the child well. In terror Arabella Grey sent for the Earl of Dunmor, who arrived posthaste, looking haggard, and closely followed several hours later by Lady Margery Fleming, bringing her own remedies for her granddaughter, convinced that her greater experience in these matters would prove successful.
