That Monday, Rodina and Una were practically bubbling with the news that there was to be a supper party and that Miss Crowley would be in attendance. They were of the firm opinion that Miss Crowley would soon be their new mistress. Mared feigned indifference, much to the girls’ chagrin.
As the week wore on, Mared grew weary of hearing about the blasted event. On the day the happy affair would occur, Beckwith found her reading a newspaper from Edinburgh while Una dusted in the green salon. He glowered at her.
“Aye?” Mared asked politely.
“The stores, Miss Lockhart. There hasn’t been the least bit of work done on the stores since Mrs. Craig’s passing, and therefore, they are pitifully low on a variety of household goods.”
“Oh,” she said, and turned back to her paper. “Must I really, Mr. Beckwith? I don’t care for it down there. It’s dark and cold and it smells.”
“Aye, Miss Lockhart, ye must.”
“Oh all right!” she said curtly and stood up. “Carry on, Una!” she said brightly, and with a smile for Beckwith, she headed for the dungeon.
The task seemed to take forever. But it wasn’t the tedium of the inventory that kept her so long—it was that she could think of little else besides Beitris and Payton and the horrid affair that was to be held here tonight.
It didn’t help that as she worked, she could hear Beckwith and the footmen preparing for the arrival of guests. At one point, she was called upon to open the china closet, and the expensive blue Wedgwood china was removed to be used for the supper, along with the Storr silver serving pieces. Mared knew from her family’s plunder of their own silver and china that the contents of the two closets could bring enough for the upkeep of Talla Dileas for an entire year.
Charlie also took two trays of crystal stemware, and Mared saw Beckwith come up from the wine cellar more than once with several dusty bottles. So Douglas thought to make a show of it, did he? She wasn’t surprised. Douglases, by their very nature, were a bunch of preening peacocks. One need only look at Miss Douglas to know it was true—the woman was absolutely obsessed with her appearance.
Mared was still laboring over the inventory, trying to remember what she’d just counted instead of thinking about Douglas, when Beckwith came for her again. “The laird would see ye in his chambers, Miss Lockhart,” he said stoically. “There is something to do with his clothing and having it repaired.”
A rush of fire flared up in her chest. She couldn’t see him now, not after all these days had passed, not when he was on the verge of offering for Beitris. “His clothing! Do ye no’ have someone to see after it, Mr. Beckwith?”
He frowned at her and glanced at his pocket watch. “As ye surely must have noticed, we’ve no valet here at Eilean Ros. Now I’ll thank ye to hurry along, Miss Lockhart, for ’tis nigh on six o’clock and guests are expected within the hour.”
“Perhaps ye might suggest a valet, sir,” Mared said impertinently, but Beckwith had already walked smartly away. “He’s extraordinarily fond of his clothing, aye?” she called after him. “Perhaps in addition to suggesting a valet, ye might suggest he employ another housekeeper!”
Beckwith responded by disappearing up the stairs.
Mared slammed the accounts book shut. “Repair his clothing, indeed, as if I am expected to be the bloody house seamstress as well!”
Nevertheless, she put the inventory away, snuffed out the candle, locked the dry provisions room, and marched on to see after the emperor. She walked past the main dining room on her way up and clucked at the large bouquets of white hydrangea on the table.
She rolled her eyes at the extravagance and continued on, pausing only briefly in the foyer to check her appearance in a mirror. With a little pinch of her cheeks and the smoothing of a thick strand of hair that had fallen from her braid, she continued up.
The door to the master suite of rooms was slightly ajar, and when Mared knocked, she heard a muffled reply from somewhere deep within. She hesitated briefly, for she’d not clearly heard him bid her enter, but then again, he’d sent for her, and surely he’d find fault if she didn’t enter promptly. So she pushed the door open a little farther, poked her head around the door, and almost shrieked.
He was just walking from his dressing room, looking curiously at the door. He was wearing formal black trousers that were precariously unbuttoned and riding low on his hips. And nary a stitch more.