Page 18 of To Winter at Wildsyde

Oh, yes, she would.

Chapter 9

Dear Ruth,

I’ve not heard from you for a while. How are you getting along with that pig-headed husband of yours?

― Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Ethel Stephens to Mrs Ruth Anderson.

27th November 1814. Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.

Gordy drew up his horse, staring at his home in the glittering sunshine of a cloudless day. The grass beneath them was brittle and white with frost, the bite of cold burning his skin. It was late in the morning and the place appeared to be a hive of activity. Squinting against the sunlight, he regarded the men working on the roof. He couldn’t blame Clugston for getting on with the job, he supposed. When he’d told the man to wait for him to return before beginning the work on the castle, he’d not expected to be away for so long. Cowardice was a powerful motivator, it seemed. He grimaced, aghast with himself, and more so when his guts twisted with anxiety.

“Are ye a man or a mouse?” he muttered as his horse sidled beneath him, picking up on his disquiet. Murdo made a huffing sound, yapped at him, and then sneezed. “I’m nae feart of her,” Gordy protested, as the dog appeared to be looking at him in disgust. Minnie and Morag danced excitedly about Murdo, jumping at him until he quieted them with a deep throated growl. He looked up at Gordy, as if silently showing him how it was done. Gordy wondered if he’d lost his mind entirely as the bloody dog seemed to have more sense than he did.

“Ach, hell with it.”

He urged the horse on, cantering towards the castle. As he drew closer, he prepared himself for the coming battle of wills. She would be furious with him and he was well aware she had every right to be. It didn’t mean he would give an inch, though. She needed to know that this was how things would be, and if he had to throw his weight around to do it, so be it. Not that he meant to raise a hand to her. He’d never strike someone weaker than he was. His father had given him a revulsion of such brutality, and physical bullying was not his style. Not that he was above intimidation if it got him what he wanted. Aye, his wife was in for a shock if she thought to wheedle anything resembling an apology from him.

With this iron-clad resolve established in his mind, he rode through the courtyard and dismounted, throwing his reins to a lad he did not recognise but assumed he’d employed to perform such a service. He hurried on, impatient to get the confrontation over now, striding on through the inner courtyard and up to the front door, which opened as if by magic. He paused on the threshold, staring in disbelief at… a butler.

“Good morning, Mr Anderson,” the man intoned, opening the door wide for him.

“Who the devil are ye?” he demanded, glowering at the fellow and his precise English accent.

It was a cut-glass tone that made all the hairs on the back of Gordy’s neck prickle with irritation.

“Garrick, sir.”

From somewhere in the recesses of his brain, Gordy remembered having seen him before. He’d not paid him much mind at the time, too overwhelmed by the lavish display of wealth dripping from every corner of his surroundings on visiting his future wife’s home. Gordy frowned at the man and then looked around the entrance hall with a start of surprise. It looked different. The furniture was different, there were carpets and soft furnishings, there were floral displays contrived from holly and evergreen and some spiky yellow flower he had no name for. There were pictures on the walls. It looked as if he’d returned to the wrong place. It looked… welcoming.

At that moment a door banged and Ruth appeared, flanked by a severe looking woman with steel grey hair and fierce expression who was scribbling down in a small book whatever Ruth was saying. Gordy experienced an unexpected jolt of some unknown emotion as he stared at his wife. She looked as regal as ever, dressed in a dark green gown, trimmed with lace and with… his tartan about her shoulders, pinned with a silver thistle brooch. His breath caught. A rush of something hot and possessive surged through him, which irritated him beyond reason. He clutched at the anger like a drowning man might catch at anything to keep his head above water, no matter how feeble. Gathering himself for the inevitable outburst, he inhaled, steeling himself.

Then she saw him.

“Oh, there you are,” she said, beaming at him. “Welcome home. Goodness, you must be exhausted. Mrs Crust, order a hot bath for the laird at once, please. Are you hungry, dear one? What a silly question.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Of course you’re hungry. Now do go on upstairs and relax. I’ll have a tray brought up to you. Mrs Crust, if you would find something tasty for my husband?”

“At once, Mrs Anderson,” the woman replied, and bustled off.

Before Gordy knew what was happening, Ruth had taken his arm and was bearing him up the stairs.

“Did you have a successful journey, my love? But how hen-witted of me, of course you have. There’s been an endless stream of goods and men arriving almost daily. You must be worn to a thread. I promise I won’t fret you to death with dozens of questions, though I’m dying to hear how you fared. You have a rest now. Your dinner will be up directly, and then a good long soak in the bath. Oh, and you have a valet, Jenkins. You’ll like him very much. Such a cheerful soul. Well, I’ll stop bending your ear, dear heart, and I shall see you later.”

Finally she stopped to draw breath, reached up on her toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek, and closed his bedroom door in his face.

Gordy stood staring at the door for some time, utterly bewildered. What the hell had just happened? He swung around at the sound of movement behind him, his hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his sword.

A young, slender man of perhaps twenty-five, clean-shaven and neat, and currently white as a sheet, froze in terror on the far side of the room.

“G-Good m-morning, Mr Anderson,” he stammered, gazing at the sword at Gordy’s hip with horror.

Gordy grunted and removed his hand. “Jenkins, I presume?” he said, glowering at the fellow.

The young man brightened, rallying now the threat of imminent death seemed to have receded.

“Indeed, sir, and may I say what a pleasure it is—”

“Nae, ye may not,” Gordy retorted, furious to discover yet another English scunner underfoot. “If yer to work for me I’ll have the minimum blether. Hear me, lad? I winnae support ye flapping yer gums at me afore noon.”