Page 18 of The Scottish Duke
This was his land, his home, his heritage, and he felt the bond every day of his life.
He left the suite, leaving Matthews to follow with his bag. Only then did his valet express his annoyance with the travel arrangements by sighing loudly and dramatically.
Alex bit back his impatience, concentrating on the sights around him.
Mrs.McDermott made sure every inch of Blackhall was in pristine condition. He appreciated the housekeeper and made sure she knew it, giving her a Christmas stipend that ensured she couldn’t be lured away from the castle.
A genuinely pleasant person, Mrs.McDermott never failed to give excellent service and to do so without whining. Perhaps he should ask her for a valet recommendation. Matthews had been with him for years, but lately the man’s behavior was grating.
His mother was right, they had lost a few maids recently. Sometimes, the lure of factory jobs in the city proved to be detrimental to their staffing requirements.
If they needed to increase their wages to entice new servants, he would have to review the situation. He didn’t mind spending the money, but he wanted to ensure that the older staff members didn’t feel as if they’d been cheated. He wanted harmony in all his homes and especially at Blackhall, where he spent most of his time.
He descended the staircase designed by Sir William Bruce a hundred fifty years ago when the older part of the castle had been renovated. However many times he saw it, he was always in awe of the engineering that had created the masterpiece. It reminded him of the curve of a shell, the inspiration for the gilded iron of the banister and the carved balusters. The staircase curved tightly onto itself, giving a panoramic view of the floors above and below. From here he could see the full entryway as well as the French doors in the rear of the main building leading to the terraced gardens.
At the bottom of the stairs he turned left, making his way down the wide corridor and to the east wing. Pushing open the door to his office, he entered a room filled with two desks, chairs, and three tables set in front of the windows.
His apprentice sat at one of the tables, hunched on a stool, a magnifying glass in one hand and a small card in the other. Jason was the son of Blackhall’s head gardener and possessed of keen eyesight and a disregard of time that matched Alex’s. He never caviled about putting in long hours. Nor did he have any outside interests other than his work. He was the perfect apprentice, eager to please, industrious, and intelligent.
If Alex faulted the young man for anything, it was that he was a little too perfect. Such people invariably disappointed.
Jason’s hair was the color of straw, some strands lighter, as if the sun had bleached them. Until he’d offered the boy a position as his apprentice, Jason had spent nearly every day with his father, learning the gardening trade.
“It’s not that I don’t like seeing things grow, Your Grace,” he’d said once. “It’s that I’ve got no talent for it. Me da’s got the gift. I’ve got the curse. Me da doesn’t want me touching anything for fear I’ll kill it before it has a chance to put down roots.”
The head gardener had verified Jason’s words by looking relieved when Alex informed him that he’d like his son to be his apprentice.
Jason had been with him ever since, appearing in the office when dawn lit the sky and working until Alex dismissed him.
“We’re making a side trip before we go on to Inverness,” he said, entering the room.
Jason glanced up, blinking at him.
“Your Grace?”
“A small personal errand,” he said. “Have you packed the cases?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Jason had copied all the names, occupations, and other details of his subjects onto lists that he was going to take to his Inverness home for safekeeping. The original cards, the ones with the fingerprints, would remain at Blackhall. The lists, which included the dates he’d taken each print, would go a long way to proving that his discovery preceded that fool Simons. The Scottish Society had only to study the matter to agree.
Unfortunately, he’d learned that logic didn’t often lead to the results he wanted. People were unpredictable. Besides, the society had already given him reason to distrust its decisions.
Still, he would try once more. He had a core of iron, a fact they would soon realize. So would the idiot—Lorna Gordon or Marie—who’d left the anonymous note for his mother.
“You going out walking again, Mrs.Gordon?”
Lorna heard the sneering tone in the landlady’s voice and wondered if she talked like that to other people or only to her.
Every time she left her room of late, the woman was standing in the hallway watching her, just as she was now.
Mrs.MacDonald, if she’d been a color, would have been a blackish brown, the same shade as a fouled bog, or the color of marshland roots.
“Yes, Mrs.MacDonald, I am,” she said, buttoning the top button of her cloak.
“To collect your herbs?”
She nodded, pulling on her gloves.
