Page 26 of To Winter at Wildsyde

“When must ye be leavin’ us?”

“I’m… not exactly sure,” Ruth replied, awkward now, but it appeared she didn’t need to explain.

“Ah.” Mr Clugston’s face turned sour. “It’s an heir he’s wantin’, aye?”

“Aye,” Ruth mimicked both his accent and his expression with bitterness. “He’s got my money and, once that part of the bargain is complete, I have fulfilled my usefulness.”

“Ach, dinnae say it, lass.”

To her surprise, Mr Clugston laid a hand on her arm, stilling her. The informal manner in which he addressed her shocked her almost as much as his gentle touch.

“Why not?” she demanded, keeping her breathing even with difficulty when she wanted nothing more than to fall to her knees on the frozen ground and sob. “Why not say it? It’s true isn’t it? He doesn’t give a damn for me. There’s no point in pretending otherwise.”

“It’s nae us who’s pretending.”

Ruth blinked, doing her utmost to remain calm and staring at the man before her who’d become increasingly blurry.

“What do you mean?”

Mr Clugston drew in a breath and looked around them, as if afraid someone might be listening in. He cursed, blowing clouds on the frigid air. “Come wi’ me,” he said, taking her by the arm.

“Where are we going?” she demanded.

“I’m going to show ye what the truth is, Mrs Anderson, and maybe then ye will understand what ye are up against.”

Ruth held her tongue, though questions burned inside her, anxious to get out. Mr Clugston would give her some insight into her husband and she was not about to risk him changing his mind. So, she hurried along in his wake as he led her back into the castle, lighting a lantern on the way, and then guiding her through a maze of storerooms, some of which she still hadn’t discovered when she’d inspected the castle.

In the farthest reaches in a forgotten corner of the labyrinth below ground, he unlocked a heavy oak door and pushed hard as it groaned in protest.

“Come in,” he said, holding the lantern high and taking Ruth’s hand as she stepped into the little pool of golden light. “I reckon it’s time ye met the laird’s family.”

“His family?” she echoed, staring around at the dimly lit shapes, shrouded in sack cloths to protect them from dust.

“What? Did ye think he sprang fully formed from the fiery depths?”

Ruth rolled her eyes at him. “Good heavens, no. I just assumed his parents were dead, and he never mentioned brothers and sisters, though I suppose that ought not surprise me. He’d not speak a word to me if I didn’t force him to it.”

“Well, here ye are, then.”

Mr Clugston reached out and tugged one of the sheets, raising a billow of dust that made Ruth choke and splutter, until what little breath remained snagged in her throat as he lifted the lamp and illuminated the painting beneath.

“Oh,” she said, staring at the family portrait.

It was a beautiful picture, painted with such skill she knew it was an excellent likeness. There was her husband’s mother, slender and elegant with black hair and green eyes, and the kind of self-assurance that all beautiful women seemed to possess without even trying. Two pretty young girls stood beside her. They were miniature versions of their mother, promising great beauty to come, with the eldest perhaps twelve and her sister a year or so younger. Behind them stood a huge man with dark brown hair and brown eyes. He held the hand of a small boy who could be no more than two years old. The expression on the man’s face was one of fierce pride.

“Gordy,” she said, reaching out to touch the painted image of her husband as a child.

Her heart ached with longing as she wondered if their own son might look just like this. He’d been an adorable little boy.

“’Twas a happy family. Ye can see it clear enough, aye?”

Ruth nodded and then frowned, turning to Mr Clugston. Before she could ask anything, he spoke.

“Why’s this lovely picture condemned to the darkness?” he said, as if reading her mind. “Because that’s where your husband put it on the day his father died. That’s why I brought ye here. None of the others know. It was hushed up and buried deep, and none of the present staff were even here when the old laird lived, but I know it. I don’t reckon yer husband realises it, but I’m nae blind, and I’ve served this family man and boy.”

“Tell me,” Ruth demanded, desperate to understand what had happened to the happy family in the image before her.

What had made her husband into the remote, unfeeling man he wanted her to believe he was?