Laird Henderson was living proof of a cautionary tale.
Now, Henry was being sent into his province with the task of transforming an unknown girl into an heiress of Scottish heritage for the simple reason that Henderson had failed to produce a legitimate heir. Now, the laird bloodline was diluted and, in the eyes of enemies, weakened. Regardless of Henry's skills as a tutor, this child would have too great a weight upon her shoulders for a woman to carry, let alone a woman of questionable childhood. Laird Henderson, for all his friendship and loyalty to Anderson, was throwing his lands and his people into turmoil; into a weaker state of being.
Given the current state of affairs in the north, Henry could only guess at the number of close provincial powers that might seek to take advantage of Henderson's fall from grace.
Which was, of course, why Henry would never have truly rejected his assignment.
A loss for Laird Henderson was a loss for Laird Anderson.
Sighing, his elbow falling to the ridge of the open window and his temple resting upon his palm, Henry's gaze looked out across the Highlands. Each ridge was stained white in the brightness of the afternoon. The greens were turned to lime and the hard rock to silver, blinking in the sunlight. It was the rocky terrain across the horizon that held Henry's attention. For somewhere amidst those cragged hills and small mountains were his own laird's mines, the nest of Anderson's wealth.
His disapproval aside, Henry could not deny the pride he felt at being asked to shoulder such a challenge as protecting that wealth.
Henry's life, rich in childhood, had been destined for little after the death of his parents but limited wealth and no privilege at all. It had been the work of coincidence that brought him and his sister, orphaned, into the care of Laird Anderson and seen the both of them given all that they now possessed.
Henry's income, his education, even his loyalties and personal ideology came from the laird of his home back in the Lowlands. Now, he had the chance to somehow repay that a little. Of all the counselors in Scotland, his friend and leader had chosen him, had requestedhimfor so important and task. Henry could not deny the pleasure that brought him or the easing it gave to his sense of indenture.
For the sake of his and his sister's good life, he would see to Henderson's bastard child.
When the carriage hit a particularly large divet in the road, Henry's head collided with the roof of the carriage, and he let out a grunt of pain. The driver's voice came down through the window in apology.
"Apologies, sir. Roads be worse up here for a bit."
Henry sighed again. Oh, he knew all too well the state of the roads in the Highlands. He knew the state of their forests too, their meadows and mountains, their trade, and their political relations with the South. He knew all there was to be learned about Henderson's northern provinces. What he did not know was just how broken and gnarled his own path would be.
Or how the woman he was being sent to fetch would affect the course of such a journey.
"Arabelle."
"Ah'm stirrin', ah'm stirrin'!" Belle hastened to promise. She latched hold of the spoon and started twisting the utensil around and around. The stew made a soft scraping noise as she pried it from the bottom of the cauldron. She had been staring into the flames, wondering at their prettiness, and had let her focus wander from her task.
"Arabelle," her mother said again, trying to attract her attention.
Sitting on the little stool beside the hearth, Belle looked over her shoulder at her mother and was surprised to see an unfamiliar look on her face.
Mistaking her call as a chiding for getting distracted, Belle had imagined the woman's brow low and those lines on either side of her lips more pronounced with displeasure. Thin lips and downturned eyes were common symptoms of her disapproval. If her nose flared at all as she spoke, Belle knew that she wastrulyin trouble.
Yet, none of these markers were displayed on her face now.
Instead, Elise's brows were drawn close and high, as if in fear or worry. Her eyes were wide, and her lips were parting and sealing over and over in uncertainty. In her hands, she held a curling piece of parchment. It was long and glossy. Given the cost of such things, it was the most paper Belle had ever seen within their little house. Aside from the Bible that Elliott had used to teach her to read.
"What is it, Ma?" Belle asked, stirring the stew again when it bubbled too ferociously. She hated it when little burnt pieces floated in her supper.
Elise was quiet for a while.
Perhaps, if Belle had still been looking her way, she might have read the reason in her eyes. Instead, it just sounded to Belle as if her mother was once more tired from a hard day.
"There is a letter for you, Arabelle."
The spoon stalled in the cauldron, and Belle looked around in shock.
"A letter?" she asked as if to be sure. "For me?"
Besides her mother and a few of the children that had grown up on nearby farms, Belle knew no one. Her world was her mother's world and consisted only of their cottage and the marketplace a few miles west where they sold wool and fish and took in seamstress work. Belle could read only in the most skeletal sense, and she was the finest reader of those she knew; no one she could think upon would ever be able towritea letter, let alone know how to send it.
Elise held up the unfurled parchment.
Belle felt her excitement grow when she saw the tiniest of ribbons secured in its end with a marked blob of wax. It looked so official, so royal. Like an invitation to a grand ball or fairy tale festivities.
