Page 13 of The Texan Duke
At least the wind had subsided a little and it wasn’t currently snowing. The sky, with its cover of clouds, wasn’t all that promising, however.
His boots crunched on the snow as he made his way to the circular approach. He hadn’t been able to see much last night and maybe that was a good thing. Turning, he looked at Bealadair for the first time.
The white stone of the house looked almost yellow against the pristine snow. He counted four floors, but he wasn’t sure if the line of windows along the roofline meant there was another floor up there. A row of dark gray statues, each of them different—at least from what he could see from here—stretched along the parapet. One of them was missing and its absence stuck out like a missing tooth.
The main part of the house stretched for a considerable distance and was buttressed on either side by two more wings.
How expensive was it to maintain this place? How many servants did it require to run it? Questions he needed to have answered before he made a decision.
He stuffed his gloved hands into his pockets, turned and began to walk.
Snowdrifts covered the scenery. He couldn’t tell a hedge from a hill. Tree branches were dripping with icicles. The land undulated, giving him the impression that something beneath the earth was pressing up, trying to push out, to be free. Some distance away, the ground sloped, descending to a fairly wide river that curved through what was probably his property.
His. This didn’t feel like his. Not like the ranch did when he rode out to inspect fences or meet with one of his division managers.
This world was alien to him. This land was strange and old and unlike the raw newness of Texas. In Texas, the land seemed to go on forever; everything as far as he could see belonged to the XIV Ranch. He missed the sound of cattle moving over the earth, the dust rising from their hooves. He missed his cattle dog, Serephus.
Why hadn’t his father ever mentioned this place? Had he ever felt a longing for it, like Connor felt a need to be home?
He wanted to find something about Scotland that was familiar, but the longer he stood there, the stranger it felt. His father’s family—his ancestors—had made their mark here, had claimed this land, had been born and had died here.
Yet that knowledge didn’t make him feel more connected.
He continued to walk down the road, keeping Bealadair to his left. Ahead of him in the distance was the purplish hue of mountains. Not anything like those in West Texas, but respectable peaks. He wondered what those were called. No doubt something else he couldn’t pronounce.
When he came to the end of one wing, he left the road and followed a path thick with snow. In a short time he found himself at the back of Bealadair where various lanes led to outbuildings and, farther away, to the stable.
He took a smaller path to the left and walked around a copse of trees. The small hill he was on gave him a view of the landscape to the back of the house. Here the river appeared again, this time the water covered by ice and snow.
His stomach rumbled and he suddenly wanted breakfast. And coffee. He needed to find his way to the kitchen and officially start his day. He needed to meet with the steward and the housekeeper, the majordomo—a position he’d never heard of before, but which, according to Glassey, held some responsibility.
Shecame to mind.
He’d get to see her again. She’d disappeared last night. After he’d come inside she’d simply vanished. Nor had his cousins been forthcoming with any explanation. It was as if she’d been invisible, but he’d seen her well enough.
He turned back to the house, feeling the first threads of optimism since he’d arrived.
Elsbeth had always awakened at dawn, preferring the early morning hours the best, before all the servants were at their duties and hours before the rest of the family rose. Often, the sun hadn’t made an appearance by the time she was dressed and downstairs.
She and Gavin would often take tea together in the library, before he began his work for the day. Sometimes, he’d have questions for her, a concern that had occurred to him the night before. He wanted to know about the roof tiles or the frames for the portraiture on the third floor.
When he’d asked why she wanted to take on Mrs. Ferguson’s duties, she tried to explain how she felt.
“To give me something of consequence to do,” she’d said. “And I think Bealadair needs an ombudsman. Someone to speak for it. It’s like this giant creature that shelters us all, but someone should polish its teeth and make sure its fur is combed.”
The duke had laughed at that, but it hadn’t been in ridicule as much as fondness. He had been like a second father to her, offering her his wisdom and his affection in equal measure.
Somehow, he’d known that his time was limited. At first, when he’d wanted to discuss it she’d demurred, attempting to change the subject. Once, she even left the room. He got his way, though, as he did most of the time. She listened as he talked about his own mortality and didn’t try to hide her tears.
“What shall you do when I’m gone, Elsbeth?” he’d asked in their last conversation.
She hadn’t hidden her grief from him, but reached over and laid her hand on his.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess it’s all up to the next duke.”
“I think you’ll find my brother to be a generous man.”
She wanted to know how he could be so certain of that, not having seen Graham for forty years, but she didn’t ask.
