Not so, her son. Did she not recognize her son’s darker nature? Could Madeleine be that loyal, blindly loyal, to her son—or to her clan—that she ignored all but the good she found in him? The charmer Caitrin had met in the garden and library might be the only side of him he showed to his mother. If that were true, she had little hope of swaying Madeleine against the match and enlisting her help in dissuading her son or convincing her father to abandon his plan. And with Jamie determined that she take the time to get to know MacGregor, she felt more alone than ever.
Though her appetite abandoned her at that thought, she’d promised her father, so she continued on her way to the kitchen. Perhaps a bit of food would make her feel better. She might have a chance to speak privately with Madeleine, when she finished dealing with the cook. At the very least, she was unlikely to encounter either Alasdair or Jamie there.
****
Hours later, she encountered Madeleine MacGregor again in the great hall.
“Ah, Caitrin, yer father and I had a lovely turn around the garden, but I fear it was harder on him than he would admit, so I feigned a headache and brought him back in. He’s gone to rest, and I’m feeling restless. Would ye like for me to show ye parts of the keep ye’ve yet to visit?”
Stunned, Caitrin could only nod. “Of course. That would be lovely.”
They headed outside. As they walked, Madeleine kept up a running description of everything they passed—the bakery, the soapmaker, the practice yard, the blacksmith’s. When they reached the keep’s small kirk, Madeleine took her inside. “This is where ye will be married, should my son and yer father agree on the betrothal.”
Caitrin looked around and sucked in air. The space seemed too close, smaller than she imagined it would be. The kirk boasted beautiful stained glass windows, filled with colors that might be brilliant on a sunny day. But at the moment, they were muted against the clouds building up outside, reminding her of dark eyes. A few rows of benches fronted the altar with its holy objects. “Have ye a priest?”
“Aye, though he does travel now and again to outlying crofts and to our neighbors as need be. He will be present when called upon to marry ye, of course.” Madeleine dropped onto a bench. “So many years ago, I stood there,” she pointed to the front of the kirk, before the altar, “to be married. I was terrified. I hope ye will no’ share the same fears.”
Nay, Caitrin thought, mine will be worse. Less about the loss of my maidenhead and more about the loss of my clan and my father. But she could not say those words.
Madeleine must have taken her silence as agreement, for she continued. “When did ye lose yer mother, lass?”
“When I was nine. Long ago.”
“Did ye have a nurse, someone to school ye in the things a woman must ken?”
Madeleine seemed sincere in trying to reassure her, to help her, if she needed a woman’s advice. Thanks to Rona, she did not. “Aye, I did. I ken what to expect. But I thank ye for yer concern.”
Madeleine stood. “Well, that’s that, then. Let me show ye the portrait gallery. Ye’ll want to meet the MacGregor ancestors sooner or later. Today might as well be the day.”
Madeleine led her through the keep upstairs to a hallway she’d yet to encounter. Lined with paintings, it seemed dark and foreboding until Madeleine lit the torches spaced between the portraits. She stopped at one of the newest, moisture glinting in her eyes. “My husband,” she announced. “Lost at Flodden, like so many others.”
“I’m sorry,” Caitrin told her. There were no other words to say.
“Dinna be.”
Caitrin’s mouth fell open.
“Did I shock ye? He and his brother died the same day,” she said, pointing to the next portrait, “probably fighting back-to-back. Or against each other, ’tis hard to say. They were never far apart, whether in accord or at each other’s throats. People called them The Twins. Though their looks were quite similar, they werena twins at all. But they didalmosteverything together. There were times when even I had trouble telling them apart.”
“It must have been difficult—”
Madeleine gave a mirthless little laugh before Caitrin could finish the sentence. “My husband was bad enough, but his brother was worse. Moody. Gleeful one moment, filled with fury or despair the next. He never married.” She paused to study the faces in the portraits, her expression closed off. “We’re better off without them.”
Caitrin quailed. If Madeleine had any idea what her son was like, and he was an improvement over his father and uncle, then Caitrin felt sorry for her, indeed.
“Now this,” Madeleine said, pointing to another portrait, “is their father. Alasdair the first, I call him. He was a strong man, like a bull physically, but prone to fits of laughter then of unyielding gloom. He must have been a trial to his wife. He fathered the Twins, and a host of bastards besides. Those he sent to be fostered away from here. I understand she wouldna tolerate their presence. I canna blame her for that.”
Caitrin nodded. What sort of family did her father mean to marry her into? Were other MacGregor branches like this one?
Madeleine waved down the hall, but remained where she was. “The rest of their stories are much less scandalous, so I’m told. I never had the time or inclination to study the old laird’s journals. If their wives had kept any, I’ll wager those would be much more interesting reading.”
Caitrin did laugh at that. Many wives journals would be more interesting than anything their husbands thought to record. More interesting to other wives, at least.
“Do ye keep one?” Caitrin asked, her curiosity getting the best of her.
“No’ for years, since the Twins passed. Since then, my life has been fairly boring. It’s a relief, really. I travel, visit friends elsewhere in Scotland and on the continent. I’m seldom here. ’Tis good luck that I am now, to meet ye.”
“I agree,” Caitrin told her.
