The mist had thickened to soup by the time they drove the windy roads to Eilean Ros, and when they arrived at that grand estate, Mared was soaked through to her drawers. Payton stepped out, dry and neat, and strode purposefully to the house, his cape flapping about his ankles as he jogged up the steps and disappeared inside.
The footman—Charlie, he said his name was—helped her down from the driver’s bench and handed her the portmanteau. “Just in there,” he said, then jumped on the runner of the coach and slapped the side of it, indicating the coachman should move on.
As the coach rolled out of the drive, Mared looked at the door of the Douglas mansion, swallowed the lump of dread in her throat, and forced herself to walk, struggling with the heavy baggage, resorting to dragging it up the fourteen steps to the oak doors.
Beckwith, the butler, met her in the foyer. He was a small, thin man with a face that seemed permanently pinched with displeasure, and he looked at her stoically as he announced, “Ye are to wait here, Miss Lockhart.” With a quick once-over, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the corridor to the right.
“Wait as if I were riffraff,” she muttered and dropped her portmanteau with a thud, pushed the arisaidh from her head, and folded her arms petulantly.
Payton had her as his servant—was there really a need to treat her poorly? She glared at the grand staircase before her, each step made of stone, rising up to the first floor and an enormous candelabra, then up again, to the second. At the top of the second story was a full-length portrait of a long-dead Douglas woman, resplendent in her court dress and jaunty plaid Scots bonnet. She was smiling down at Mared, almost as if she mocked her. “Foolish lass! Ye might have walked up these stairs a lady, but now ye’ll walk up a servant.”
Mared snorted, looked down at her feet. Diah, how long would she be made to stand here like some forgotten piece of furniture?
Her answer came shortly thereafter with the sound of his footfall in the right corridor. She would recognize that stride anywhere—long and lean and determined. She lowered her arms, clenched her fists.
He appeared informally, another signal that her status in his eyes had changed. He wore his waistcoat and the tails of his neckcloth dangling down his chest. He hardly spared her a glance as he entered the foyer and walked to the grand staircase and began his ascent. “Just this way, Miss Lockhart,” he called over his shoulder.
Mared looked at her portmanteau, then at him, jogging easily up the steps to the first landing, where he paused to turn around and look at her. “Is there a problem?”
“Aye,” she said, her hands on her hips. “The luggage is a wee bit heavy.”
He glanced at the bag at her feet, then at her. “Ye appear to be a strong lass and quite capable of carrying it. Come then, ye are wasting my time.”
Mared gaped at him, but Payton had already turned and continued upward. She muttered her true opinion of him under her breath and leaned down, picked up the heavy bag, and started upward, wincing each time the bag banged against her leg.
When she reached the second landing, she had to pause to catch her breath and drag the back of her hand across her forehead. He made a sound of disapproval above her, and she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was standing on the third landing, one leg on the stairs that narrowed and went up to the servants’ quarters, his arms folded sternly and impatiently across his chest.
And he was frowning. “Ye keep me waiting.”
“Can ye no’ have a wee bit of pity, then?” she snapped as she tried to catch her breath.
“No,” he said instantly and sharply. “I’ve no more pity left for ye, no’ even a wee bit. If ye will please hurry along, then.”
“Bloody pig,” she whispered under her breath. She picked up her portmanteau and struggled with it to the top floor.
When she reached the last floor, where the unadorned corridor narrowed, Payton was waiting again. He could wait for an eternity for all she cared, and she put the portmanteau down and wiped her forehead once more. He grunted, and suddenly walked back to where she stood, took the portmanteau from her hands as if it weighed nothing, and carried it to the last door on the right, where he disappeared inside. With an irritable sigh, Mared followed him.
He had brought her to a small, whitewashed square room, its only pleasing feature a small dormer window that she assumed overlooked the loch. A single bed was pushed up against one wall, covered with a worn cotton coverlet. On the opposite wall stood a plain, three-drawer bureau in need of paint. The top of the bureau was graced with a chipped ewer and a basin for washing. A very small mirror was nailed to the wall, and Mared could see from where she stood that it was distorted.