The Richness of Love Read online

  “Now, if you will excuse me, mother and Moira – I will bathe then sleep for a wee while before I go out again.”

  He rose yawning expansively.

  The Countess and her daughter watched as he sauntered towards the stairs.

  “He is a fine young man,” whispered the Countess. “Your father would be so proud of him. He has had to cope with so much since he left – ”

  Moira could see her mother’s eyes filling with tears, but she turned quickly away.

  “Leave me now, my dear, I must go over the menus for cook.”

  Moira quietly closed the door of the drawing room behind her and made her way to the kitchen. Cook was making black bread – it had been some months since they had last tasted the white variety.

  “Good morning, cook. What will you be serving us for luncheon today?”

  Cook sighed and gestured towards the pile of swedes on the table.

  “Neeps and tatties, my Lady.”

  Moira pulled a face. Times were hard indeed.

  She loathed the plain fare that they were forced to eat nowadays, but she reminded herself that should her father come home with changed fortunes, then there would once more be meat for the table.

  She slipped out of the kitchen door and into the vegetable garden.

  She had not forgotten Stuart Weston, the charming stranger whom she had encountered there.

  Indeed, she had caught a further glimpse of him in late September when he had ridden up to the castle to call on Ewen. She recalled each precious moment he had spent at Lednock, going over each second time and time again.

  The way he had bowed and smiled at her, his hair falling wildly over his collar and the masterly fashion he sat astride his horse.

  Twisting some strands of mint around her fingers, she inhaled the scent and thought wistfully,

  ‘I do wish I had been bold enough to ask him to take tea with us. Surely it would not have been so unthinkably forward as he is an acquaintance of Ewen’s?’

  But she had not dared to ask and she felt only regret as the two men had set off, laughing heartily en route for the coast.

  Moira had pleaded with Ewen to take her with him.

  “What, a woman on board a ketch? Unthinkable,” he roared.

  Stuart, she noticed, did not join in the jocularity. Instead, he simply touched his hat and turned his horse towards the castle gates.

  ‘He is so respectful and noble,’ Moira had thought as she watched him canter off. ‘I do hope that Ewen invites him to the castle again soon.’

  But with all the troubles that had beset them, he had not come and so Moira’s dream of becoming further acquainted with Stuart was yet one more whimsy to be dismissed, along with the idea of visiting Edinburgh.

  Now, the weather had turned and it was November. The cold and rain descended on Loch Earn and Lednock had remained shrouded in clinging fogs.

  The castle was a grim place in this kind of weather, its stone walls remaining chilly and damp.

  It was on such a morning, towards the end of the month, that the telegram arrived.

  Ewen was not at the castle – some tenant farmers had turned nasty upon hearing that their monthly rents were to be increased by three pence and he had gone to meet them.

  Only Moira and her mother were at home.

  Rankin walked in with his usual lack of urgency and handed the Countess the telegram. She caught her breath as she realised what it was.

  “What is it, mother?”

  “It’s a telegram, darling. I think it is from your father.”

  “Do not tarry, open it.”

  The Countess held the telegram at arm’s length, too nervous to open it in case it was bad news.

  “Mother, we have to know what is inside. Pray, open it.”

  With a firm rip the Countess tore open the brown paper.

  “What does it say? Oh, mother, do tell me, tell me!”

  The Countess’s eyes filled with tears, but they were tears of joy. Weeping, she handed the telegram to Moira.

  “Darling, your father – he is coming home next Wednesday. He is safe and well, praise the Lord!”

  Moira hastily scanned the telegram for some kind of clue as to her father’s financial success – but found none.

  Almost immediately, her joy was replaced by a creeping fear. If all was well, and her father had made his fortune, then surely he would have said as much in the telegram?

  The Countess rang for Rankin and immediately began to pace the room.

  “There is much to be done before your father’s return. We must have the castle cleaned from top to bottom and ensure that there is meat for the table. I will order Ewen to have one of the pigs killed for the occasion – your father loves pork chops.”

  Rankin appeared, his creased face a mask of inscrutability. Moira had always been just the tiniest bit frightened of him as she found his manner quite threatening.

  She had read Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’ and thought that if he had ever met Rankin, then surely he was the inspiration for the Count!

  “Ah, Rankin. His Lordship is due home next Wednesday.”

  “Welcome news, my Lady.”

  “Indeed. Now, I want the entire castle spotless. Bring out the best silver and see that special attention is paid to the library.”

  Rankin hesitated for a second. Moira could see that something was troubling him.

  “Are there any particular items of silver required?” he asked warily. There was an awkward silence during which Moira could have sworn that her mother had blushed.

  “Just the platters and the cutlery, I think, Rankin. We don’t want to overdo it?”

  “Quite so, my Lady,” he replied bowing deeply.

  Moira was puzzled by this curious exchange. What had made Rankin and her mother so uncomfortable? Instinctively, she glanced towards the large mahogany display cabinet that housed the family silver. The shelves were almost bare.

  ‘Where are the candelabra?’ thought Moira, ‘and that hideous Georgian oyster server that we usually fill with ice?’

  Moira tried to give the gaping holes in the display cabinet no further thought.

  *

  Just before lunch Ewen returned from his meeting with the tenant farmers. Striding through the hallway, Moira walked straight into him.

  She knew immediately that it had not gone well.

  “Ewen, you surprised me.”

  “I am sorry, Moira, but I fear that I am in a foul temper. You cannot reason with these farmers – they seem not to understand that all our futures are in peril.”

  Moira watched her brother closely. He cared so much about the estate and had known all the tenants since he was a boy. He hated any kind of confrontation.

  “Was it awful, Ewen?”

  “Aye, ten men against one. They think we’re being greedy, they don’t know that we are all struggling.”

  Trying to raise Ewen’s spirits, Moira told him the day’s wonderful news.

  “Ewen, you will not be struggling on your own for much longer father has sent a telegram and he arrives home next Wednesday.”

  For the first time in months – since his trip with Stuart Weston in fact – Ewen let out a joyous roar. He picked his sister up and twirled her around, hooting all the while.

  “And the money, did he say anything about the money?”

  “Not a word. He merely said that he was on his way home and to expect him on Wednesday.”

  “Then he’ll be wanting to surprise us!”

  Ewen’s attitude was confident but Moira remained silent. Almost supernaturally, he seemed to divine what she was thinking.

  “You think that all is not well too, do you not?”

  “Yes. I confess that the lack of information has made me fear the worst.”

  Ewen walked away down the long hall, brooding all the while.

  “If father had made money, then surely he would have sent some home by now?”

  “He knew that if the harvest went badly for u
s, we would be in trouble. Although we’ve been lucky and it has been a fair one, things are still not easy.”

  “We should be more positive, Ewen,” began Moira, after carefully considering what her brother had said. “Father is a modest man and would never be seen to flaunt himself or his money in any way. He may want to keep the surprise for us when he returns. A telegram is hardly private, after all – ”

  “Aye, maybe you are right, but let us promise each other that we will not tell mother of our misgivings.”

  “Of course, now away with you and get changed. Cook will not be pleased if we let our luncheon go cold – it’s neeps and tatties.”

  Ewen pulled a face.

  “Then the sooner father returns home, the better,” he called, bounding up the stairs.

  *

  The news that the Earl’s return to Lednock Castle was imminent spread through Loch Earn and the surrounding estates. Campbell, the farmer who had been one of the most outspoken over the rent increases, came to see Ewen.

  Ewen was grooming his horse in the stables when the dour farmer appeared with his cap in hand.

  “Campbell, what brings you to the castle?” asked Ewen, a little frostily.

  “I hear that the Earl is due home this week, my Lord.”

  “Aye, that is so.”

  Ewen was quite taken aback by the man’s uncharacteristically deferential demeanour. Campbell was a blunt crofter and often addressed Ewen by his Christian name.

  “Then it will be a happy day for us all. I wanted to hear the truth from yourself – you will have no more trouble on our account.”

  Campbell put his cap back on and left. Ewen stared after him in disbelief. Had the hoary old crofter really come to admit defeat? He wondered what other rumours were sweeping the village to have made a man such as he back down.

  Ewen was still smiling to himself when he slipped in the back door – he wanted to avoid the scampering of the hired help who were busy making ready for the Earl’s return.

  In the kitchen, Moira was doing an inventory of the stores with cook. Ewen heard her voice and poked his head around the door.

  A large, glazed ham sat on a dish while several brace of grouse hung from hooks overhead. There was butter and sugar aplenty and cook had made some oatcakes. Swiftly, Ewen snatched one and crammed it into his mouth greedily.

  “Heir or not, I’ll smack your hand if ye take one more,” cook threatened, picking up a wooden spoon.

  He gestured to Moira to come outside.

  “What is it?”

  “Campbell has just been to see me. He has conceded defeat over the rents.”

  “Father will be so proud of you,” she said smiling. “You will have something positive to tell him on his return.”

  “Let us hope that he, likewise, brings good news.”

  The Countess, who had stepped into the kitchen, interrupted their conversation.

  “What is this good news, pray?” she queried, raising an eyebrow.

  “Mother, the farmers have accepted our new terms over the rents. Campbell came to see me this afternoon. I see that we are ready to celebrate – has father sent some money? I cannot see how else we could afford a whole ham!”

  The Countess’s face darkened and her hand rose to her throat. At first, Moira did not place any significance on the gesture, but as her mother stood there, she realised that her neck was not covered with her usual string of pearls.

  ‘Surely she cannot have sold them?’ Moira thought in horror.

  She knew that the pearls had been a present from the Countess’s father on the birth of Ewen. She could not imagine her parting with them.

  But the ham, the sugar and the jars of gentleman’s relish told another story.

  ‘The sooner father gets home the better before we have to sell the castle as well.’

  *

  Moira could not have known how prophetic her words were to become. The day finally dawned of the Earl’s return.

  “I want today to be extra special,” proclaimed the Countess as a huge vase of scented lilies was delivered.

  “What time did father say he would arrive?”

  Moira had come downstairs in one of her best dresses. Her hair was ornately done and she looked very grown up.

  “Around five o’clock,” replied the Countess. “We have all day to prepare.”

  Moira fervently hoped that her worst fears were not to be confirmed, but she soon found herself caught up in the preparations.

  Five o’clock came all too soon. The Countess was flushed with excitement as she tidied her hair for the tenth time. Ewen and Moira sat in the drawing room, anxiously awaiting the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel outside.

  Finally, just after the stroke of five, the Earl’s carriage turned into the drive.

  “Will you go outside to greet him?” asked Ewen quite pale with nerves.

  “I cannot,” whispered Moira. “In any case, we should let mother see him first.”

  “Aye,” sighed Ewen, relieved.

  The pair could tell by the shouts outside that their father was home.

  There, standing in the hall looking in a most unpleasant humour was the Earl.

  Moira thought that he looked older and thinner than when he had left and a cold feeling gripped her heart.

  She ran to kiss him but he was gruff and dismissive.

  “Let me get my coat off, girl,” he snapped. Moira leapt back, feeling hurt.

  ‘I have not seen my father in six months and he brushes me aside like a servant,’ she thought, miserably. ‘This does not bode at all well.’

  Ewen strode up to his father to shake his hand.

  “How went the harvest?” asked the Earl tersely,

  “Not bad, father, not bad.”

  “Let us be grateful for small mercies,” was the reply.

  Ewen and Moira exchanged glances – any positive hopes they may have harboured were fast evaporating.

  “Sir, would you care for some refreshment?”

  The Countess was eager and solicitous.

  “I just want to lie down awhile, woman. Can you not let me be? I am tired and will want dinner in an hour. I trust that will be possible?”

  The Countess recoiled in horror – she did not recognise the man who stood there.

  Collecting herself, she smoothed her hair and said to her children,

  “Come now, your father is exhausted from his travels. We shall allow him to rest before dinner.”

  Moira and Ewen watched their father walk slowly upstairs without so much as a backward glance.

  “This does not feel right,” mumbled Ewen under his breath, “I have received warmer welcomes from the undertaker!”

  *

  And so dinner was a most sombre affair.

  The Earl ate heartily of all that was put before him, relishing especially the pork chops, while the rest of the family did not. They scarcely dared to breathe for fear of upsetting him.

  “How is the pork, dearest?” asked the Countess nervously.

  “Aye, grand, grand,” replied her husband, not looking up from his plate.

  “What was the food like in America, father?” Ewen asked boldly.

  “Good. Fine steaks – ”

  By the time the pudding arrived, the whole family were feeling tense.

  Moira could tell that her father was building up to making some kind of announcement – she had seen him in this kind of mood before.

  Not touching his Apple Snow, he cleared his throat. Everyone turned to look at him and the Earl began to speak,

  “Much as I am glad to back in the bosom of my very dear family, it is with a heavy heart that I have returned to you.”

  He paused. Moira dug her fingernails deep into the palm of her hand, the blood rushing from her head.

  “There is no easy way to say this, so I will say it simply. We are ruined, utterly ruined.”

  The table was silent, shocked into wordlessness.

  “Larry Harwood was nothing b
ut a crook who took our money and ran off with it. He promised me the earth and then did nothing but spend everything in a most profligate manner. He duped me into investing in a mine that did not exist and to secure the deal, I signed over the deeds to Lednock Castle and all the land.

  “In short, we are penniless. Harwood has run off to heaven-knows-where and so the American Bank is calling in his debts. It is only a matter of time before they come to claim what is theirs. That being Lednock Castle.”

  Such was their shock that the family could not speak. Moira could see that Ewen was silently fuming in his chair and that her mother was trying not to cry.

  In a strangled voice she broke the silence,

  “But surely they cannot take our home? Scott, tell me that this is not so?”

  “Would that I could, dearest Margaret, but I cannot. I have been an utter fool – how can you ever forgive me?”

  The Countess patted his hand, tears spilling over.

  “We will manage somehow. Ewen, Moira, would you please leave me and your father alone?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  Outside the dining room, Ewen grabbed Moira by the hand and squeezed it hard.

  She could not stop herself from weeping profusely.

  “What will become of us, Ewen? Are we about to become homeless paupers?”

  “Not while I draw breath, sister,” came the grim reply. “We will overcome this.”

  “But father has lost the castle. Where will live? Where will we go?”

  “I promise you, we will not be homeless,” replied Ewen stoutly. “I will think of a way if I die trying.”

  “Perish that it comes to that, but never have we been in such peril! Oh, Ewen. What will become of us?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Moira spent the whole night wide awake.

  ‘I cannot believe that he would risk our home,’ she muttered to herself over and over again as she tossed and turned.

  She shivered as she tried to picture life away from the castle. Although she had often bemoaned its lack of modern conveniences and the numbing cold in the winter, she loved the castle with all her heart and could not imagine living anywhere else.

  But in spite of her deep sorrow, her heart went out to her mother.

  ‘Poor mother. She has so much to bear,’ she pondered, as the dawn started to break over the castle battlements.