Fallen Angel (2 page)

Miss Spencer adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of her patrician nose, and she smoothed the smart lace cap which adorned her neat coiffure. For a lady who was fast approaching forty, she possessed an uncommonly girlish figure, straight backed and slender, which was shown off to advantage in the warm, long-sleeved frock of blue kerseymere which she had chosen to wear to stave off the interior chill of Drumoak's drafty halls and chambers. Though her gowns were not of the first stare, their unmistakable cut, with meticulous attention to fabric and detail, distinguished the wearer as a lady addicted to quality, good taste and, particularly in the colder climes of Scotland, uncompromising comfort.

She picked up her knitting needles and glared distastefully at the work in progress. The sigh of frustration which escaped her lips was edged with impatience. She hoped she would never again have to knit another pair of bedsocks for her niece. The child was nineteen years old! If she had her way, the girl would be shopping in Bond Street for silk stockings and ribbons, and lengths of the finest gauzes and smooth satins to be made into fashionable dresses and breathtakingly beautiful ball gowns. Comfort should be the last thing on a young girl's mind! But Maddie had humbly asked her aunt if, in lieu of the silk stockings she had promised for her birthday, she would be kind enough to knit a pair of bedsocks to keep her toes warm during the long winter nights. Maddie cheerfully owned to being hopelessly inept with any sort of needlework. Her aunt wasn't fooled for an instant. She knew that it was lack of attention, not aptitude, which was responsible for the girl's want of accomplishment. Why, in some circles, Maddie, for all the warmth of her compassionate nature, would be considered positively
farouche.

It was time, decided Miss Spencer as she furiously attacked each stitch on her knitting needle, that Donald Sinclair was brought to a sense of his iniquity. Before he removed to London, to the fashionable life of ease—and vice, if rumour was to be believed—in which he indulged amongst the beau monde of English society, she meant to have it out with him. It was intolerable that he spared scarcely a thought or a groat for Maddie who was so cruelly banished, at the whim of her stepmother, to the lonely wilds of Scotland. Maddie deserved better. And if Cynthia Sinclair was reluctant or ineligible to introduce Maddie to a wider circle of acquaintances among whom, hopefully, a suitable husband for the girl might be found, then she, Nell Spencer, would be more than happy to take the girl, to her grandfather and do everything that was necessary to launch her into society.

She glanced at the clock on the oak mantel. It would be a good hour before father and daughter would admit outsiders to their intimacy. She would wait until the vestibule was clear before going to tell Janet that dinner would have to be set back an hour or so. Her mouth tightened. That old crone, she knew, harboured a grudge for the shifts which Donald Sinclair's extravagant young wife had put Maddie to since his remarriage five years before. Dinner might very well turn out to be a dismal affair.

Janet, basting the Christmas goose in the back kitchen, heard the deep accents of their long-absent master as he came through the front entrance and she mumbled into her chin that she wished he was a lad again so that she might skelp his backside and make him mind his duty. Big Duncan, who was pushing through the back door with an armful of firewood, was equally succinct in his condemnation. He spat angrily into the black iron grate and swore that he'd happily break Donald Sinclair's bloody neck, aye and that o' the English
beesim
he'd taken to wife, if the wee lass hadn't made him promise to be on his best behaviour for the fortnight her father would be in residence.

Janet looked up from her domestic labours and said sharply, "She's with him, then?"

"No! Thank the Lord!" averredDuncan hastily. He grinned. "So ye can unearth a' those gewgaws ye've been burying this past sennight. Drumoak is safe from her greedy eyes and paws for a wee while yet."

"What gewgaws?" Janet sniffed. "She's already plundered the house o' everything o' value. If there was anything left, d'ye no think she'd be here in person to stuff it in her pockets or cart it away? Aye, and sell it later, I've no doubt. A 'lady' in her position maun have pin money to squander."

"One o' these days, the master will find himself up to his neck' in the river Tick."

"Bankrupting Donald Sinclair is the least o' that foreign
beesim's
sins," said Janet sourly, and she lifted the lid of the black iron pot to add boiling water to the
cloutie
dumpling that had been simmering for hours at the side of the hot coals.

She could forgive Donald Sinclair the folly of his infatuation for a woman half his age. He wasna the first man and he wouldna be the last to make a horse's arse o' himself over a pretty face and a ripe body, but what she could not forgive was the shabby way the pair o' them had treated Miss Maddie, casting her off as if she were some poor relation, out of sight, out of mind, whilst they pursued their pleasures in the fleshpots of London.

From a hook on the wall, she removed a wooden spurtle and vigorously began to beat the lumps from the savoury roux she had prepared earlier as a base for her parsley sauce, the invariable accompaniment at Drumoak for all fish and fowl. She would have preferred to vent her anger in some sympathetic ear, but she had no wish to confide her thoughts to Duncan. She sliced her grandson a quick glance, her expression hovering between affection and regret. Appearances, she knew, could be deceptive. Though the lad was bonnie to look at, he was inclined to be simple-minded since he had taken a ferocious beating from Black Douglas up at Balmedie. The mill had gone on for over twenty rounds and put paid to Duncan's promising career as a fighter. But he was still as strong as an ox, and fiercely loyal to the wee lass who had nursed him back to health. It wouldna do to get him all fired up over the slights the poor wee thing had endured at the hands o' her wicked stepmother.

She jerked her head in the direction of the faggots Duncan was stacking at the side of the hearth. "We'll need a sight more than that to keep us warm this cold spell."

He gave one of the damp logs a vicious kick with the toe of his booted foot. "You're no forgetting that the home wood was cut down last year to pay off the master's gaming debts? You tell me where to find kindling and I'll go fetch it."

"I should have smothered him when he was a
bairn,"
Janet said, then folded her lips together as if to prevent herself saying more.

"Can I hae one o' those sweet-mince pies?" asked Duncan, and in the same breath reached for one of the pastries which was cooling on the long trestle table, and before Janet could answer, he had stuffed it into his mouth.

"Och, away and help Jacob with the master's boxes." Her voice was tart, but it gratified her to see Duncan so obviously enjoying her handiwork. He reached for another and she waved her spurtle under his nose. "Go on now! Ye're just in my way here. And see that ye keep yer tongue between yer teeth. Miss Maddie will no thank ye if ye misery her father."

"Aye," he answered automatically, but his look was less than kindly. He muttered inaudibly under his breath, and dragged himself from the comfort of the warm hearth. As he pushed through the kitchen door, Janet's soft voice halted him.

"Och Duncan, remember it's Christmas Day. Donald

Sinclair was once young himself, and as bonny and blithe as Miss Maddie is now. We maun forgive and forget, for auld lang
syne!
"

Dinner that evening proved to be a more congenial affair than the ladies had anticipated. The Christmas goose and pudding were done to perfection; the coal fire in the small back dining room burned brightly in the grate, Janet having been well warned not to bank up the fire with vegetable parings, as was the custom at Drumoak, to conserve their diminishing supply of coal in the coal cellar; and the absence of Cynthia Sinclair, who had remained in London for some vaguely specified reason, could only be regarded as an act of grace. Without the overbearing presence of her sharp tongued stepmother, Maddie relaxed her guard and openly enjoyed her father's company.

But Maddie was not wholly at ease. She listened idly as her aunt inquired after mutual acquaintances in London, but her eyes travelled slowly over her father's face and form, trying to discern what was different about him. She had never seen him cut such a dash, she decided, as if money were no object. His garments were of the first stare; a diamond pin reposed in his intricately folded neckcloth; and as for the gifts he had showered on them earlier that evening, she was sure she did not know how they were to be paid for. Still, he could not quite look her in the eye.

She tried to dismiss her uneasy thoughts. She was imagining things! Donald Sinclair had always been a fastidious dresser. Her aunt would say that he was trying to keep up with a wife who was twenty years his junior, and Maddie suspected that that was the truth of the matter. She watched covertly as he reached for the brandy bottle for the third time since they had sat down to dinner, and her uneasiness increased. She wondered if there was more to her stepmother's absence than her father had intimated.

"Don't frown, Maddie! It doesn't become you."

"I'm not frowning, Papa. I'm grimacing. I've just bitten down on one of Janet's Christmas favours. I may have chipped a tooth."

Maddie brought the silver dessert spoon to her mouth and, with as much delicacy as she could manage, extracted a small wad of paper.

"Good God, I'd forgotten about the favours in Janet's Christmas pudding. Well, come on girl. Tell us your fortune."

Maddie carefully unwrapped a small silver object and held it out on the palm of her hand. "A baby," she said, then added mischievously, "Perhaps I'm to have a little brother or sister."

"No!" The word was almost an expletive. Aware of the sudden tense silence, Donald Sinclair relaxed against the back of his chair. "No," he repeated more softly, "and it's just as well."

Maddie exerted herself to pass over the awkward moment. "Wait, I think I've found another." Again, she unwrapped a small object. "A ring this time. Now whom do I know who is about to be married?"

"Mayhap it's yer own wedding." The quiet words came from Janet who had entered silently to place a pitcher of hot pouring custard on the table, an accompaniment for her
cloutie
dumpling which these English
sassenachs
insisted on calling "Christmas pudding."

Miss Spencer frowned. In her father's house in London, a servant would never dare join in a conversation as if he or she were part of the family. Such familiarity was unthinkable. But at Drumoak, the servants were a law unto themselves.

"Look, Janet, a baby, too." Maddie held out her palm to display both tiny trinkets.

"Well, see that the ring comes afore the
bairn,
young lady, or I'll skelp ye myself."

"It's only a game, Janet. Besides, there should be more to life for a woman than marriage and babies."

Maddie wished she could take back the incautious remark but only her aunt's sniff of annoyance betrayed that her words had found disfavour. She hastened into speech before she was asked to explain herself.

"Well, come on, you two. What's your fortune for the coming year? There are lots of favours still to be discovered in Janet's pudding."

"I've got the key." Miss Spencer looked hopefully at Maddie. "Does this mean we shall be removing to a new house?"

"Janet would say so. Or it might mean that you are going for an extended visit."

Miss Spencer's eyes wandered to her brother-in-law. She squared her shoulders. She coughed, and finally, before her courage failed her, she said with quiet precision, "Donald, would you permit me to take Maddie to my father's house in London for a visit? He's an old man now, and deeply regrets the estrangement that has kept his granddaughter from him all these years."

"What?" Donald Sinclair tore his gaze from the small object in his hand which had claimed his attention.

Miss Spencer, a little more flustered, repeated her request. "Well, will you?"

"I don't see why not. We'll talk about it tomorrow, shall we?"

Both ladies stared open-mouthed at the man whose attention was once again claimed by the object in his hand, unaware himself of the different emotions he had aroused in his companions. Miss Spencer was flushed with elation, but Maddie, always sensitive to what lay beneath the surface, felt her stomach knot. Donald Sinclair and his father-in-law had not been on speaking terms since her mother had eloped with the Scottish country squire, a northern barbarian in her grandfather's eyes, almost twenty years before.

"Papa, what is it?" Fear lent urgency to her voice.

His laugh sounded strained and hollow. "I've got the lucky angel," he answered, and he opened his clenched fist to reveal the small silver favour which nestled in his palm. "The last time that was dished up to me was before I met your mother. Here, you have it. Perhaps the Sinclair luck is about to turn." He grasped Maddie's wrist and pressed the favour into her open hand.

"It doesn't work that way, Papa," she said with a tease in her voice, trying to lighten his mood. "Fate has given you this favour. You cannot refuse it or give it away. The Sinclair luck is with you for the next twelve months."