She gasped at the sight of them, and I knew I’d chosen well.
Once I’d ushered the joyful girl out of my room, who insisted she could juggle her presents, my breakfast tray, and the laundry all at once, I joined my brother downstairs. He arched his eyebrows at my bright smile, but I ignored him, unwilling to let anything spoil Bree’s infectious cheer.
We passed out gifts to the remainder of the staff, and then Trevor told them they would have the remainder of the day to do as they wished. The coachman and footman who would accompany us to Dryburgh Abbey were promised they would receive an extra day off sometime that week.
Gage, who had viewed the ceremony from the doorway of the drawing room, waited until the three of us were inside the carriage before asking about Handsel Day.
“It falls on the first Monday of the new year, and is when the Scots prefer to give their presents to each other,” Trevor explained. “As most of our servants are Scottish, and perhaps, more importantly, Mother was Scottish, it’s always been the tradition we follow at Blakelaw House.”
“So you don’t celebrate Christmas or Boxing Day?” he asked, naming the holidays on which Englishmen usually gave each other gifts.
“Not in the way most English do. Though we do attend church service and enjoy a nice dinner.” Our father had been English, after all, and we did live on the English side of the Border, arbitrary as that was much of the time.
The Border region was almost a country unto its own—had always been, even during the time of the Border reivers—and Scots and English mixed freely. Because of the tales that had been handed down through the ages about the fierce Border Marches, outsiders often assumed there were nasty ongoing feuds between Scots and English along the boundary between the countries. But more often than not, a Borderer would side with his neighbor—no matter which country he was from—than some distant government in London so far to the south or Edinburgh to the north. Now, that wasn’t to say there weren’t still feuds between rival clans, but they, as often as not, pitted Scot versus Scot, or English versus English, as English versus Scot.
It would be almost impossible for an outsider like Gage to understand the strange dichotomy of concord and rivalry that made up the backbone of the Borders. Most of the people who populated it were descendants of those who had suffered through centuries of war and pillaging and reiving. It had taken a stubborn, hardy disposition to survive, and their descendants were understandably no different. They had their own traditions, their own way of doing things, and woe to those who tried to stand in the way.
This was something it would behoove us to remember as we made our inquiries, especially as Gage was an outsider, and a Londoner, at that.
CHAPTER TEN
When we arrived, Dryburgh Abbey was already awash with midmorning light. The stones where Dodd had died were scrubbed clean, though I suspected Willie had rubbed his hands raw in doing so. I huddled deeper in my fur-lined cloak as we paused at the spot on our way into the abbey, wondering where the young caretaker was on this cold morning. I could feel Gage’s eyes on me as I explained the location’s significance, but as we passed through the west door, he was distracted by the late Lord Buchan’s yawning grave.
I’d asked the current earl not to fill it in on the chance that Gage was able to uncover something that the rest of us had missed. He circled the plot and bent down to examine a few things while Trevor and I stood by watching. I shifted closer to the headstone, a red smudge on the marble having caught my eye, and when I turned back, it was to find Gage actually climbing down into the grave.
My chest squeezed uncomfortably, seeming to force all of the air from my lungs. Gage’s actions were quite justified and perhaps even necessary, but the sight of him down in that grave made a chill of foreboding run down my spine. I wanted to reach out and snatch him back, to order him out of there, but I seemed frozen, unable to speak.
Neither of the men seemed aware of my reaction, as Trevor inched closer to where Gage stood with his head lowered, scrutinizing something in the grave. They both murmured something, but I could not hear them, didn’t want to hear them. I just wanted Gage out of that ominous hole in the ground.
Thankfully, he found nothing to interest him and quickly climbed out with the aid of my brother. Once his feet were firmly planted on even ground again, I turned away, unwilling to let him see how rattled I was. The air came rushing back into my lungs, and I breathed deeply for several moments of the sharp winter air, trying to regain my composure.