“Aaiie,” he bellowed and grabbed his side, dropping the letter in his haste. “Ye bloody wench! I was just having a wee bit of sport, ’tis all!”
“Take yer sport from someone else,” she said and stepped forward, waving the paddle before him.
“Bloody wench,” he muttered again, and still holding his side, he pivoted about and stooped to quit the washroom.
Mared waited until she was quite certain he was gone, and still holding the paddle, she retrieved Payton’s note.
M. Lockhart
It was the only mark on the outside of the note. Mared shoved the paddle into the bluing tub and broke the Douglas seal at the bottom of the letter as she moved to the window for light.
I have received your inquiry and would suggest that if you have such luxury in your day to pen long notes informing me what you will and will not do whilst in my employ, then perhaps you have too much time on your hands altogether. You might put your mind to more productive tasks. In that regard, my cousin Sarah brought it to my attention that the needlework on some four fire screens in the green salon and main drawing room are in need of repair. I suggest you put your hands to the better use of repairing those screens than the wasting of my ink and paper.
You have my permission to close some rooms in the north wing, as approved by Mr. Beckwith.
Douglas
That was it, the sum of his blasted note, and Mared was enormously disappointed, but moreover, quite miffed. She balled the note up and tossed it beneath the kettle at the hearth, and with arms folded across her midriff, she watched it curl up and turn to ash.
“That’s what I think of yer sodding note,” she muttered and turned sharply about…and saw the bluing tub. “Oh no,” she said. “Oh dear.” She had forgotten all about the bloody neckcloths. Using the paddle, she lifted the first one out of the tub. Her eyes went round when she saw it and with a squeal she dropped the paddle into the water and covered her mouth with her hand.
The neckcloth wasn’t the snowy white it should have been. It wasn’t even tinged blue. It was purple.
Mared suddenly burst out laughing. She laughed so hard that she bent over with it. When she at last caught her breath and had wiped the tears from beneath her eyes, she fished them all out to dry.
Payton enjoyed a successful meeting with Mr. Bowles from Stirling, a man who was keenly interested in investing in Payton’s distillery, and who was, incidentally, already exporting fine Scotch whiskey to England and France. And making a tidy profit from it, apparently.
At the conclusion of their meeting, Payton suggested they walk down to the loch so that Mr. Bowles might see for himself the crystal-clear spring waters that came down from the hills. As they walked outside, Cailean, Payton’s dog, came racing around the corner to meet them. He had, Payton noticed, a collar of some sort around his neck. And as they walked on, Cailean trotting ahead of them to the loch, Payton thought he must be seeing things, for he would swear it was a purple neckcloth tied around the dog’s neck.
When they reached the edge of the water, Mr. Bowles squatted down and put his hand in the loch, and Cailean put his snout at the man’s face. “Ho, there!” Mr. Bowles said, and reached for Cailean’s ear, scratching him for a moment before rising to his feet. “Good water is the key to good whiskey,” he said.
“Aye,” Payton agreed.
“If I may—is that a cravat about yer dog’s neck, milord?”
“Ah…” Payton paused, leaned down and had a look at the handsomely tied bow. “I believe it is,” he said, and mystified, he gave Mr. Bowles a small smile and a shrug.
They talked a little more about the water and walked a little farther around the loch, where one of the highland streams fed into it. When they started back, they passed a pasture where the milk cows grazed. “Idyllic place ye have here, milord,” Mr. Bowles said as they walked along the split-rail fence.
“Thank ye.”
Mr. Bowles suddenly stopped walking and leaned forward, squinting at the cows.
Payton followed his gaze. And he squinted, too. What in the bloody hell?
“Curious habit, using cravats as collars,” Mr. Bowles opined.
“Frankly, I wasn’t aware that we’d begun the practice,” Payton responded dryly.
Mr. Bowles chuckled. “I’d wager someone is having a bit of fun at yer expense, milord.”
“I think ye are right,” Payton said with a thin smile and gestured for Mr. Bowles to walk on. He turned the conversation to his distillery, looking back only once at his milk cows with their purple cloths, at the ends of which were tied the bells.
That night, after dressing for supper and dining alone, Payton retired to his study and picked up pen and paper.