Page 25 of A Debt Inherited

Marjorie looked at the glass again. It showed her seated, a basin in her lap, her maid standing behind her like a shadow waiting for orders neither of them wished to give.

She thought of Alexander in the nursery, his curls damp after sleep, his solemn frown when he built towers from wooden blocks and knocked them down by law of his own choosing. He was five years old now. Old enough to ask why Uncle Hugh dined at the head of the table. Old enough to notice when his grandmother’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

If this child were a girl, Hugh would make her disappear under some merciful name.

If this child were a boy—

He would be named. Blessed. Carried through the house as answer and atonement. Men would call him heir, and women would lower their eyes. Hugh would set him where Alexander had been refused and call it Providence.

She would be put aside. Alexander with her.

Marjorie gripped the basin until the rim bit into her fingers.

“My lady.”

“Yes,” Marjorie said. “Send for my mother.”

Chapter 12

Glenbride Castle, Berwickshire, December 1786

A fortnight later, Lady Isobel watched the expected carriage appear at the crown of the far hill and pass the old gatehouse. Years before, that same crest had come to Glenbride for Julian, promising alliance, continuance, and hope.

Now it came to cover what blood, law, and appetite had made.

Mrs Muir entered with the tea tray. Lady Isobel directed its placement and waited while Mrs Muir set the cups, plates, and folded napkins into exact order. When she withdrew, the room looked ready for any ordinary call.

A moment later, Mr McNab opened the door.

“Lady Catriona MacLeod, my lady.”

Lady Catriona entered without haste. The years had taken the softness from her face and left the structure beneath it. She had been handsome at seventeen; she was formidable at three-and-twenty. The same dark hair. The same clear Highland colouring. The same steady eyes. But the girl who had once lowered them before Lady Isobel’s questions had learnt, somewhere between Dunrannoch and Glenbride, the value of looking first.

Lady Isobel rose.

“Lady Catriona.”

“Lady Isobel.”

Not my lady. Not ma’am.

Lady Isobel indicated the chair opposite her own. Lady Catriona sat, her gloves still on, her back unyielding without stiffness. She did not look about the room. That, too, was new. At seventeen, she had noticed everything and tried not to show it.

Lady Isobel resumed her seat.

“Tea?”

“Thank you.”

The silver pot stood between them, bright, polished, and innocent. Lady Isobel poured. The cup made no sound when she set it down. Lady Catriona accepted it, but did not drink.

Six years before, her hand had trembled once upon the saucer when Julian came into the room. Lady Isobel had seen it and thought the girl modest. Perhaps she had been.

Perhaps not.

“You remember Glenbride,” Lady Isobel said.

Lady Catriona’s eyes moved once to the window, where the winter light lay thin against the glass.