Scotland was proving quite the disappointment already.
I truly didn’t know why the Crown bothered with these impoverished, windswept lands.
I spread a thick layer of butter across the fire-toasted bread.
At least the butter was fresh.
One bite had me groaning under my breath—finally, something vaguely acceptable to my palate.
The dining room was smaller than the one in our London townhouse, but it had character. The wooden panels were dark and well crafted, though the room itself needed a proper cleaning. With some work, and a capable staff, the estate could fetch a handsome sum if sold.
I’d always known some distant thread of Scottish blood ran through the Wolverton line, but I’d never felt connected to it. Standing here now only confirmed my suspicion: thank Godmost of my peers didn’t know the truth. I’d never hear the end of it.
I tossed a cube of sugar into the miserable tea and stirred it just as a knock sounded at the door.
Graham poked his head inside.
I waved him in and took another sip of the ghastly concoction.
The sugar hardly improved it.
“Isn’t there anything better than this tea?” I asked.
“That’s all there was in the pantry, my lord. Tea is expensive here.”
“Hmm,” I hummed, noncommittal.
Of course.
They were the peasant class.
What would they know about good taste?
“How’s the bread? Ma wife baked it this mornin’at the crack o’dawn,” Graham said as he stepped properly into the room.
I offered him a tight smile and nodded. Lying was not my strength, so the gesture would have to do.
“And the butter?” I asked, taking another sip of the watery milk.
“Milked an’churned this mornin’,” he replied, chest puffing with pride.
“Lovely,” I said, though it was only just passable. Still, better than the tea.
“We’ve got some potential workers here,” Graham continued.“Callum MacDonald and his niece.”
“Good. That was quick,” I said, sitting a little straighter.
The sooner I completed this task, the sooner I could leave this godforsaken land.
“Well? Do you know them? Are they any good?” I pressed when he hesitated.
“Aye. Callum I’ve known fur years. He can graft,” Graham said, running a hand through his greying hair.“The girl looks sturdy enough.”
I almost smirked.
So, no refined lady of the ton.
Most likely some unruly heathen born of peat and stubbornness.
