Adam was agreeable to this match between his father, particularly understanding that there would be no offspring due to his father’s condition. He would, however, come with his father to Edinburgh in the spring to meet Rosamund. The earl wrote to Rosamund that because the winter was setting in, he did not know if he might communicate with her again. They would meet at an inn in Edinburgh called the Unicorn and Crown on the first day of April. They would visit the king at court and ask his permission to be wed in his own chapel by the young archbishop of St. Andrew’s, Alexander Stewart. They would then return to Friarsgate while Adam Leslie rode north with the news of his father’s marriage. In the autumn, Patrick and Rosamund would travel to Glenkirk for the winter months. The earl spoke of his love for her and of how he missed Rosamund. His nights, he wrote, were long, cold, and dreary without her, his days gray and gloomy. He missed the sound of her voice, her laughter. He wished nothing more than to have her within his arms once again. “I will never love anyone as I love you, sweetheart,” he concluded.
Rosamund read the missive, smiling with her happiness. She turned to the clansman who had brought it. “Have you been in the castle’s Great Hall, lad?”
“Aye, m’lady,” he replied.
“And has the painting of the earl been delivered and hung?”
“It came in the summer when the earl be away. Lady Anne were very surprised to see it. It was nae hung until the master returned. It be a fine painting. So lifelike, m’lady. All who see it say so.”
Rosamund nodded. “The painting of me in this hall was painted by the same artist,” she said.
“Aye,” the clansman said. “I can see ’tis similar.”
“I will be sending you home with a message for the earl,” Rosamund told him.
“Thank ye, m’lady,” the messenger said, and he went off with a servant to be given a sleeping space.
“I must be in Edinburgh on April first,” Rosamund said.
“Oh, mama, must you go away again?” Philippa protested.
“Would you like to come with me?” her mother inquired.
“Me?” Philippa squealed excitedly. “Go with you to Edinburgh? Oh, mama! Aye, I should very much like to go with you. I have never been anywhere in all of my life.”
“I did not go to King Henry’s court until I was thirteen,” her mother replied.
“Will I meet King James, mama? And Queen Margaret? Will we go to the Scots court?” Philippa demanded.
“Yes,” her mother said, smiling. “We may even celebrate your ninth birthday there. Would you like that, Philippa?”
Philippa’s face shone with her approval.
“You spoil her,” Maybel said. “You must not spoil her.”
“Children should be spoiled. Lord knows you did your best to spoil me, though you forget it now,” Rosamund teased the older woman gently.
“I tried only to make up for Henry Bolton when you were a wee thing,” Maybel defended herself. “I had no opportunity to spoil you once you were in Hugh Cabot’s charge, for he enjoyed spoiling you himself, God assoil his good soul!”
“Aye, God bless both Hugh Cabot and Owein Meredith,” Rosamund responded.
The Leslie clansman departed the following morning with a letter to his master from the lady of Friarsgate. Her correspondence to him was much as his to her had been. She had written of her loneliness without him, a loneliness such as she had never known in all her life until now. She had written of her daughters and of her estate, of their preparations for winter and how they were waiting eagerly for Tom’s return. She told him that Claven’s Carn had an heir at last. And she closed by sending him her undying love and telling him how eager she was for their reunion on the first of April, that she would bring Philippa to Edinburgh so both his only son and her eldest daughter could witness their marriage vows. She put a drop of her white heather scent upon the parchment, smiling as she did so.
On the twenty-first of December, St. Thomas’ Day, Tom appeared back at Friarsgate, bringing with him her uncle Henry. The children swarmed about this favorite relation hardly noticing their great-uncle. Rosamund, however, was shocked. Henry Bolton had indeed changed for the worse. He was gaunt, and his face wore a death’s-head.
“You are welcome at Friarsgate, uncle,” Rosamund greeted him.
His almost colorless eyes fastened upon her. “Am I?” he asked with just a touch of his old spirit. He leaned heavily upon a carved cane. “Lord Cambridge would insist I come, niece. He has purchased Otterly from me.”
“Tom was right to bring you, uncle,” Rosamund replied. “I am told you are alone now, and these festive December days should not be spent alone, without family. I was waiting only for Tom to send to Otterly for you.”
Henry smiled cynically, the facial expression almost a grimace. He nodded. “I thank you for your welcome, niece.”
“Come, uncle, and sit by the fire,” Rosamund said. “Lucy, fetch Master Bolton a goblet of spiced hot cider.” She led him to his place, seating him in a high-back chair with a tapestry cushion. “Your ride was cold, and the dampness threatens snow, I fear.” She took the goblet her serving girl brought and put it in his gnarled hand.
“I thank you,” he said, and he sipped gratefully at the hot cider. Slightly revived, his glance swept the hall. “Your daughters are healthy,” he noted.
“They are,” she agreed.
