“But Grandmama,” Katherine Neville, age nine, whined, “they will not obey me. And it is her fault!” she said, pointing at one of her sisters.
“Why should I obey you?” eight-year-old Thomasina demanded to know.
“You listen to your sister because she is your elder by one year and ten days, if memory serves me,” Rosamund said. Then she turned back to Katherine. “But you must set a good example, and not bully your sisters simply because you are the eldest.”
“Did our mother and her sisters get on better than we do, Grandmama?” Thomasina asked pertly.
“Indeed they did,” Rosamund said quickly. “Now go and wash your hands and faces, my pets. When you do you will be welcome at the high board tonight.”
The five little girls looked to Banon, who nodded her approval, and so they ran off to do their grandmother’s bidding. “You have asked them to the high board so you will not have to discuss Elizabeth,” Banon said.
Rosamund nodded. “After the meal I shall tell you all,” she promised.
Banon made a face, but was forced to be content with her mother’s decision.
It was a happy table that evening. Led by Katherine Neville, Thomasina, Jemima, Elizabeth, and Margaret Neville exhibited their best manners. And when the meal was over and they were dismissed by their parents, they kissed each of their relations good night and retired without a word of complaint.
“Your behavior has been excellent, girls,” Rosamund told them as the left the hall.
Katherine turned and curtseyed with a smile to her grandmother, but Thomasina, turning, grinned and winked mischievously before scampering after her siblings.
Banon waited patiently for several minutes after her daughters had departed the hall, but finally she could bear it no longer. “What has happened at Friarsgate?” she demanded of her mother.
And so Rosamund explained quietly and in detail.
When she had finished her recitation Banon said bluntly, “Well, I would have never thought Bessie had such passion in her, Mama. ’Tis true that Katherine was already in my belly on our wedding day, but at least Rob and I knew we were getting married. Do you think Logan and Uncle Thomas can bring this Scot back? And what if she does as she has threatened and refuses to wed him?”
“For once in her life,” Rosamund said, and there was a distinct edge to her voice, “your youngest sister will do precisely as she is told. We will protect her position in the marriage contract that is drawn up, but she will marry Baen MacColl so that her child may know its father and Friarsgate have its next generation. Whatever is or is not between them they must settle themselves, but marry they will.”
“Or that dear boy Logan will set the Highlands aflame with his outrage,” Lord Cambridge said drolly. “If I must make a trip north to Scotland in the dead of winter, my darlings, I do believe I should enjoy myself. I have not a doubt that Logan Hepburn will see to it that I do, and provide me with a variety of amusements. Now,” he said, rising, “I must leave you. Will and I have to see to my packing. If I am to appear before this master of Grayhaven it must be in my finest garments so that I may convince him to release his son to us. It will not do that I look less than my absolute best. We do not want him to think badly of our family. Good night, all.” He blew them several kisses as he left the hall.
“The master of Grayhaven is in for a rare treat,” Robert Neville said with a grin. “I doubt he has ever met anyone like Lord Cambridge.”
“Nor is he ever likely to again,” Banon agreed. “Let us hope this Highlander survives his encounter with my uncle.”
“Let us hope Logan survives his travels with him,” Rosamund said, chuckling. “He likes my cousin, but Tom has always confounded him. And takes great delight in it.”
“I hope this Baen MacColl is worth all the trouble we are going to for Elizabeth,” Banon said. “You have met him. Is he, Mama?”
Rosamund smiled. “He is. Bessie is going to be very happy, when she ceases being angry at us and at herself for ever letting him go.”
Chapter 13
Colin Hay, the master of Grayhaven, stared at the man who stood before him smiling broadly. He was a peacock of a fellow in his scarlet velvet breeches with cloth of gold showing through the slashings. His striped gold-and-scarlet silk stockings sported a single garter of sparkling red crystals sewn upon a golden ribbon which adorned one shapely leg. His scarlet velvet doublet had full padded sleeves and a fur collar, and was trimmed in rich marten. The shirt beneath had a ruffled edging on the collar and sleeves. His hat had a stiff turned up brim, and was embellished with an ostrich plume.
“My dear sir,” the vision said in the plummy tones of a well-bred northern Englishman, “I am delighted to meet you at last.” A beringed hand, freed of its pearl-trimmed glove, was thrust towards the master of Grayhaven.
Colin Hay took the soft hand and shook it, for to do otherwise would have been intolerably rude, and he had no quarrel with this fellow. Yet. The handshake surprised him for it was firm and hard. He had not expected such a handshake from such a creature. “My lord,” he said. The man was obviously nobility. Then his gaze swung to the peacock’s companion, and he relaxed, recognizing the garb and stance of a border laird. He held out his hand again, this time towards his fellow Scot. “Sir.”
Logan Hepburn shook the hand offered him firmly. “My lord. I am Logan Hepburn, the laird of Claven’s Carn. My companion is Thomas Bolton, Lord Cambridge of Otterly. We are kin through my marriage to Tom’s cousin Rosamund Bolton.”
“Of Friarsgate?” Colin Hay grinned. “You’re both welcome to Grayhaven,” he said jovially now that he knew who they were and could place them. Wine!” he shouted to his servants. “Come and sit by the fire, gentlemen,” he invited them.
“Gladly!” Lord Cambridge said. “Your weather is not disposed to be kind to travelers, my dear sir. I thought at least twice I should die of the bitter cold. Were it not of the greatest importance that we see you immediately I should be safe at home cataloging my library.” He sat in a wood chair directly next to the fire.
A servant brought goblets of wine, and when the three men were finally all settled by the hearth, Colin Hay asked, “Why have you made such a journey in the dead of winter, sirs? I agree with Lord Cambridge. It is not a good time of year to travel.”
“Where is your son?” Logan Hepburn asked.
