Page 4 of Falling for Her Highland Steward
“When would you like to start, milady?” Gordon asked. He was eager to start and finish as quickly as possible.
“Straight after the funeral,” Erin replied at once, then glared at the men as they let out an immediate chorus of indignation.
“But milady,” Father Thomson said, frowning in reproach, “you must appreciate that a period of mourning is required for people of your status. It sets an example for others.”
Erin speared him with a look that would have felled a bear. “Thank you for your advice, Father!” she snapped. “Even though it was not asked for. Please do not try to educate me on matters like this. I have been brought up with the strictures of upper-class manners for my entire life, and I will stand for no more of it! Tell the widow who has been struggling to keep her children warm and dry in a house with a gaping hole in the roof that I am in mourning. Tell the guards whose armor needs to be repaired that I am in mourning.
“I shall do my duty and wear black so that everyone knows that I had respect and affection for my husband, but I will not go into hiding and do nothing while there is work to be done. Nairn would not have wanted me to put propriety over duty. You seem to forget that I am the laird here, even if only for a short while. So first, we will give my husband a solemn and dignified funeral, then we will start. Agreed?”
The men exchanged troubled glances, but at last, they assented, although grudgingly.
“Excellent,” Erin said firmly.
“Should you not be resting, milady?” Michael Oliphaunt asked anxiously.
“Resting is the last thing on my mind, Michael,” she replied. “I have a funeral to arrange. Thank you all for coming and for your helpful advice and encouragement.”
They all stood up as she left, then Michael whispered to Father Thomson, “I have never seen her like that before.” His voice was incredulous.
“Have you not?” the priest asked. “Somehow, I think we have seen the real Lady McCaskill for the first time, and it will not be the last.”
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Erin was surprised at how well attended the funeral was. She had thought that a few neighbors would pay their respects then leave quickly, but she had not anticipated the number of tenant farmers and ordinary folks who wanted to pay tribute to their laird. The little church of St Finian’s was packed to capacity, so much so that there was a queue outside, and Father Thomson and his curate would have to give communion to his many parishioners at the door.
“I am amazed,” Erin remarked to Michael, as they watched the last of the villagers and tenants squeeze into the back pews. “I never thought so many people would be here. The estate is so neglected I expected them all to stay away.”
“I’m not,” Michael said mildly. “He was a well-loved laird, in spite of the mess of the estate, and the tenants and villagers set great store by doing their duty. He is unlike some I could mention.” His gaze slid over to Laird Mackie, a tall, lanky man whom Michael suspected of some underhanded dealings against Laird McCaskill. He had resolved that he would be the first to be dealt with.
It was a lengthy service, and Stephen, frustrated at being forbidden to speak and move around, began to fidget and squirm. “Mama, when are we going to get out?” he asked irritably. “I want to play with Brian! He has a new puppy.”
“Shhh!” Erin whispered, kissing the top of his head. “We will be out soon enough, then you can go and see the puppy. Listen to Father Thomson now.”
“But I cannot understand him!” he protested. “What is he saying?”
Erin had to admit that Stephen was right. The truth was that nobody could understand what the priest was saying since he was speaking in Latin, and Erin, not having had the benefit of a classical education, could barely understand it either. “I will tell you later,” she whispered.
Stephen’s expression was almost comically sulky, but he sat still for a few moments, playing with a carved wooden horse that Michael Oliphant had made for him while the Mass droned on around him. Eventually, he became cross again, bored and chafing at the bit to be outside in the fresh air. He began to tap the wooden horse on the front of the pew, and Erin took it from him. He snatched it back from her and hid it behind his back.
“When are we going home?” he asked huffily.
“In a wee while, Stephen,” Betty answered. “Then you can have venison pie an’ raspberries an’ cream!” Those were his two favorite foodstuffs.
“But I want to go now!” he protested. Then something else caught his eye. “What is in that big wooden box?” he asked, pointing at the coffin.
Erin trembled inwardly for a long moment before she answered. Her son was so young and innocent, and his questions so sincere, that she found answering them as an adult almost impossible. “It is your father’s body,” she explained at last. “He is going to travel to heaven in it.” She could not think of anything else to say on the spur of the moment.
“Aye, like a carriage,” Betty supplied.
“I thought he was in heaven already.” Stephen looked puzzled. “And where are the horses?”
Erin looked desperately at Betty, who gave her a reassuring smile.
“The horses are outside, Stephen,” she answered. “But ye can wave goodbye at the church door, then we will go tae get some orange juice!
Oranges were new to Scotland and were still exotic and expensive, and Stephen loved them. “But now ye must be vera quiet.” She put her forefinger over her lips.
Stephen nodded firmly and began to play with his toy again, while Erin mouthed a silent thank you to Betty, who winked at her. Betty was a godsend.
