“The fools say I do not deserve the title,” he had said bitterly. “One day they will change their tune.”
Penelope stood at Callum’s side and was introduced, curtsying prettily. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, but he worried that her looks might be held against her. People might say he had been blinded by her beauty and married her despite his father’s opposition.
“Ye are from London then?” Hector said disparagingly. “I do no’ see the sense of the place myself. Why go south of the border when we have the grandest towns here? Edinburgh for instance. London is nothing to Edinburgh.”
Penelope listened with polite attention. “If that is so, then surely you have much to teach the people of London,” she said earnestly.
Hector eyed her doubtfully. “Do you think they would listen?”
“I think they would. Although...” she hesitated. “Your accent might cause them some difficulties. You may have to speak very slowly, Sir Hector, because Londoners are rather slow learners.”
His clever wife had said the right thing, and Sir Hector looked pleased as he took his place at the table with the others. The courses were brought forth,properservings Callum was glad to see, and he helped himself to seconds.
“Have ye cooked the oatcakes the way they should be cooked?” Hector said at one point, reminding them again of his falling out with Luna.
“I have them cooked the way they are always cooked,” Luna retorted, setting down her cutlery with a clatter.
“I have heard your oatcakes are the best in Scotland, Your Grace,” Penelope bravely spoke up. “But then I know so little about them. Tell me, Sir Hector, how do yours differ?”
Hector gave her a considering look. “I don’t quite know. My cook is the one who makes them and she assures me they are the best.”
“Oh. Perhaps she could show me.”
“Ye want my cook to show you how to make oatcakes?” Hector asked, surprised and with a touch of cynicism.
“If she wouldn’t mind,” Penelope said deferentially. “Then I could taste them and decide for myself. Her Grace wouldn’t mind, would you, Your Grace?” She looked at Luna with a smile.
“Of course not!” Luna declared, happy to join in. “I will rise to the challenge, Sir Hector. What say you? Are you brave enough to pit your cakes against mine?”
Hector seemed to be searching for the trap. “Aye, verra well. No tricks, mind.”
“I do not need any,” Luna said sweetly. “My oatcakes are the best by far.”
Callum looked doubtfully at his wife, and she gave him a wink. He remembered Angus’s saying he should trust her, but it was difficult to do so when there seemed to be so much at stake at this blasted luncheon.
The conversation turned to other matters. Maxwell spoke of the sheep owned by his neighbors encroaching on his borders. “I do not mind them,” he said, “but they take the land that feeds my tenants.” Hector thought the opposite, that there was good money to be made from the beasts. They argued, but to Callum’s relief, it did not become hostile.
After the meal, they sat about the great fire, the men drinking Maxwell’s whisky, and the women chatting about children and their households.
“The ladies do not withdraw at Bonnyrigg?” Penelope asked curiously. “In London, the ladies withdraw to a separate room and leave the men to their talk.”
The room fell silent. “We do not withdraw at Bonnyrigg,” Luna said with a decided snap. “Not while I have breath in my body.”
“We ladies have just as much to say as the menfolk,” Cat spoke up, clearly echoing something her mother had told her. “We want our part in any decisions that have to be made.”
Luna gave her a pleased nod. “We are equal partners here.”
“Oh, I agree,” Penelope said with feeling. “I always thought it very unfair. An old fashioned practice. This is so much better. My mother always wanted to stay to hear what was being spoken about,” she frowned, “and perhaps to stop him making another unwise investment, but my father was a conventional sort of man.”
Luna watched her curiously. “Your parents are in London?”
“No, no, that is...” Penelope swallowed and Callum reached for her hand—he was seated beside her.
“Penelope’s parents were killed in an accident ten years ago. She and her brother were left orphans.”
Sir Hector was quick to respond. “What sort of accident? A shooting accident? My brother died when one o’ his guests shot him instead o’ the grouse. Bloody fool.”
“It was a coaching accident,” Penelope said. “The coach rolled over and they were killed. My brother was only eight years old, and I had care of him.”
