Page 27 of To Winter at Wildsyde

“The old laird was a possessive man, and he loved his wife beyond reason,” Clugston began, nodding towards the beautiful woman captured in paint. “They were happy too, as ye can see, but she was never satisfied with life at Wildsyde. She wanted society, to be admired, and to dance and enjoy herself. Gordy’s father was nae sociable, to put it mildly, but to please his wife, every year they’d go to visit his cousin, the Earl of Morven. The earl isnae known for his generosity, but once a year he gives a lavish ball for kith and kin, and the Andersons always went. The party lasted for over a week and it was the highlight of the mistress’ year.”

“What happened?”

Mr Clugston snorted. “I cannae say exactly, I only know that when Gordy was five years old, a man came to visit. The fellow’s daughter was with child and he accused the old laird of being the bairn’s father. All the folks round here knew the laird had a wandering eye and a taste for an innocent maid. When he denied it—though I dinnae doubt it was true—the man told Gordy’s father a few truths of his own. How he knew I cannae guess, but he told the laird that Gordy was not his son.”

“Oh, no.” Ruth held her breath, instinct telling her that this was not the worst part of the story.

“Those eyes of his, that tawny colour, is not uncommon in the family bloodline, so Gordy’s father had not made the connection until the man told him that the Earl of Morven was Gordy’s father. If ye saw a painting now of the earl in his thirties, ye would nae be able to deny it. That’s why Morven never lifted a finger for Gordy, then or now. Heir or nae, he disnae want the boy near him for anyone to speculate, least of all his wife. Best to keep him buried here, at Wildsyde.”

He turned back to the painting, glowering at the beautiful woman in the image.

“His mother tried to deny it at first, but he had the truth from her in the end. She begged for forgiveness, but a man like the laird cannae bear to be cuckolded. Certainly not by the head of the family. He was twice damned, though, too proud to have anyone else know the truth. He could nae publicly deny Gordy was his son, but in private… in private, he made his feelings plain enough.”

“But surely,” Ruth said, her voice catching as the implication became clear, “he couldn’t blame Gordy? He was just a baby, and it was none of his doing.”

Mr Clugston snorted. “Did nae one ever tell ye, Mrs Anderson? Life is nae fair. The old laird could never forgive his wife, and he came to despise Gordy. In turn, his mother couldnae bear to look at him, for he was the proof of her shame and the reason her life was ruined. The castle became a battleground as the laird took to drink and became handy with his fists. She stuck it out for two years, and then she ran.”

“Ran where?” Ruth asked, almost choking on the words as she imagined what life must have been like for Gordy.

“Paris. She made a grand success of herself, too. Mistress to some French nobleman. She was the toast of the city and had everything she’d ever wanted. Two years later she sent for her daughters and they joined her there. To give him his due, her lover did his best for her girls and they both married well.”

“But Gordy,” she protested, unable to check the tears now as they coursed down her cheeks. “He’d have been left here all alone.”

“Aye,” Clugston said, his expression bleak. “That he was, with only a man who despised him for company.”

Ruth covered her mouth with her hand, as if she could force the misery to stay inside of her.

“His sisters told him they’d send for him once they were married, but I reckon the excitement of being young and celebrated, and all the delights of Paris were enough to make them forget they had a little brother. Whatever their excuses, they never came back, not until the old laird was dead, and by then the damage was done. They were married, fine ladies with elegant gentlemen for husbands, and Gordy was an awkward young man of sixteen, full of pride and anger. It was clear his sisters were shocked by how rough spoken he was, though what they could expect when he’d been left to run wild half the time, and beaten when the old man could catch him…. Anyway, Gordy lashed out in response. He was vile to them and lived down to their expectations. They couldn’t get out quick enough.”

He stared back at the painting, at the idyllic picture it gave of a happy family, of love and safety, and Ruth saw his eyes glittering in the lamplight.

“I did the best I could for the lad. Especially when his father was alive,” Mr Clugston said, his dark brows drawing together and his voice rough with emotion. “But I was only a young man myself and I couldnae be with him every second of the day.”

What he didn’t say was eloquent enough: what life was like for a small boy, alone at Wildsyde with a violent father who hated him.

“He disnae trust ye, Mrs Anderson, nor any woman, but maybe if he found one who’d stand by him, and nae run away no matter how badly he tried to make her go….” He shrugged and bent down, picking up the sheet and covering the portrait up again. “It’s a lot to ask, I know,” he said, his mouth thinning into a hard line. “Too much, I don’t doubt. He’ll nae make ye happy, nor thank ye for trying to stay.”

“I don’t need his thanks,” Ruth said, putting up her chin, “But I won’t leave. If he wants me to go, he’ll have to pick me up and carry me out.”

Mr Clugston snorted. “Ye think he widnae?”

“I have no illusions,” Ruth replied, her tone dry. “But I think I understand him a great deal more than I did before. I thought it was just me he didn’t want, but I see now that he has no reason to trust anyone.”

Mr Clugston nodded and led her back out of the room, locking it behind him.

“Thank you,” Ruth said when he turned back to her.

He shrugged, giving her a wan smile. “I’m nae sure I’ve done ye any favours, Mrs Anderson, for I can see you’ve a gentle heart. I thought ye ought to know, though. He’s a good man, the kind who’d spend his last coin on another if he thought they needed it more than him, but he’s a hard man too. He’s had to be to survive.”

Ruth nodded and put her hand on his arm. “I understand that now, and I do thank you for telling me, with all my heart, but I meant thank you for all you’ve done for him, for not leaving him, and… and for keeping his secrets.”

Mr Clugston stared at her, his throat working, and then he gave a sharp nod and patted her hand, before leading her back outside.

Chapter 12

Dear Matilda,

I cannot believe it is almost December. I have started planning for the festivities and cannot wait to decorate the castle for Christmas. I am filled with hope as it has begun to look like a home at last. I must tell you that I am capable of miracles too, as I have made some small progress with my husband’s pig-headed staff. I think the lure of a new Rumford Stove might even be enough to soften Mrs MacLeod’s black heart, we shall see…