Page 5 of Falling for Her Highland Steward
Erin was grateful that her son was not going to the graveside. Before the funeral, she had taken Michael’s advice to keep him away, reasoning that it might be upsetting for him.
“A little boy as small as he is...” He shook his head. “To see the body of his father going into a big dark hole in the ground will be horrible for him. My father died when I was seven. I was made to go to the graveside, and I had nightmares for months.” He shuddered at the memory. “Leave him with Betty, Erin.”
She sighed when she heard what he had to say, then nodded. “That is true,” she agreed, then gave a rueful laugh. “But I am equally concerned about the barrage of questions that will follow. He wants to know about everything!”
“So did we all at that age,” Michael had said, chuckling. “Still, he is not consumed with sadness. I doubt that he will realize what all this means ’til he is much older. Anyway, I know that Nairn kept him at a distance for his own good.”
Erin had nodded. “You are much wiser than I am,” she said sadly. “And Betty is a treasure. What would I have done without you?”
He had put a friendly arm around her shoulders. “Somehow, Erin, I think you would have managed. Nothing ever holds you back.”
Erin had laughed. “You have much more confidence than I, Michael.”
Erin eventually succumbed to the pressure of her advisors and went into mourning, but she insisted that it should only be for a week, during which time she wore the deepest black. She hated it and became so sick of it that she went into half-mourning, wearing gray and dark purple, not caring who was shocked. She was a laird now; she could do as she pleased, and she was not pleased to sit around doing practically nothing while the estate crumbled around her.
For the first few days, she spent most of her time in Nairn’s study, trying to understand the accounts in the various ledgers as well as the rest of the documents, which consisted mostly of bills and letters to suppliers. She was alarmed to see that the estate’s debts far outweighed its income, and at last, she understood why her advisors were so worried.
Michael came to see her eight days after the funeral, and she was glad of some company from outside the castle, even though she had turned away dozens of friends without seeing them. Erin simply did not have the stomach to receive more condolences, no matter how well-meant, and she knew that a lot of latitude would be given to a newly-widowed woman.
When he walked through the door, she put her arms around him and gave him a gentle hug. “I am so glad to see you,” she told him, smiling. “I missed you.”
“How are you, Erin?” Although he returned the smile, he looked concerned.
“I am well enough,” she replied, as she ushered him into a seat in front of the desk. “I miss my husband, of course. Even though he was so ill, he kept his sense of humor ’til the end. Hours before he died, he ordered me to look my very best for the funeral, or he would come and haunt me and scold me for not trying my hardest! And he said that I should not ruin my best handkerchiefs with my tears since I had spent weeks embroidering them, and he would hate to see all that work going to waste. He could joke about his own death even though he could hardly talk.” She wiped her eyes with the aforementioned handkerchief, feeling embarrassed.
Michael watched her as she went to the wine decanter and poured a glass for each of them. He had always been fond of her, and now that the laird was dead, he wondered that perhaps she would look his way once a decent amount of time had passed.
“You look pale,” he observed. “You have spent too much time indoors.”
“I suppose so, but then I was instructed to, remember?” Erin said dryly; then, she picked a bottle of rich red wine from the rack. “This should help! It is the last of the wine we served at the funeral, his best Madeira. He said he did not want his guests to think he was mean, and he wanted a good wine so that we could drink a toast to his health—or lack of it!”
They laughed as they clinked their glasses together.
“To Nairn McCaskill,” Michael said fondly. “And a life well-lived. Sláinte Mhath!”
“To Nairn. Sláinte Mhath!” Erin took a sip of the wine. It was delicious, but then her husband had never stinted on the quality of his food and drink—or anything else for that matter. He had always put her comfort and happiness, and that of Stephen, before his own. It had been one of the best things about him.
Michael sat back in his chair and sighed. “Time to get started,” he said reluctantly. “I have been dreading this.” He frowned as he stood up and sat beside Erin at the desk.
“Yes. I have been having a look through these figures,” Erin said grimly. “I am not an expert by any means, but I think that this column here”—she pointed to the line of figures—“which is our total income, should be more than this one”—she indicated another—“which is our total debt. Instead, it is the other way around, and that is bad. Am I right?”
“Indeed you are.” Michael’s voice was grim. He studied the figures a little more closely for a while, sipping his wine and occasionally shaking his head. “This is even worse than I had feared, Erin. At this rate, the estate will be completely bankrupt within a year, and Stephen will have nothing to inherit except debts.” He sighed. “I will not let that happen.”
“Then we must put it right,” Erin said firmly. She had always been a fighter and refused to believe that things were hopeless. It was simply not in her nature to give up. “Where do we start?”
“Firstly, we must hire a steward, one who knows exactly what he is doing. As I said before, your husband was a good man with a kind heart, but in business, kindness can often be mistaken for stupidity.” He looked down at the books again and rubbed his forehead. “Tomorrow, I will begin to ask around the area to see if I can find a suitable candidate.”
“Good.” Erin’s voice was firm and determined as she smiled. At last, some action was being taken, and she felt happier and less helpless than she had for months. “I will leave that to you, then, Michael. In the meantime, I will have the masons fix the outer wall near the eastern end where it is crumbling. I am the laird now, at least for a while. I must begin to do my duty.”
Michael smiled as he stood up to leave. “Aye, M’Laird,” he said politely. “Do not worry. You have friends aplenty.”
“Have you worked as a steward before?” Michael asked the man sitting in front of him. He looked like a farmworker, and he certainly talked like one. Estate managers usually spoke in Scottish English, not Scots, but Erin would never judge a man’s competence on the way he spoke.
“Aye, M’Laird,” the man, whose name was Duncan Stewart, answered. He was small and sturdy and looked every inch like a man of the soil. His dark shaggy hair had been carefully combed and trimmed, and he had a neat, short beard. His plaid and shirt were both clean but ragged, and he had obviously dressed his best for the interview, but still, he did not look at all like a steward.
“I am not the laird,” Michael informed him stiffly. “This lady is. Lady Erin McCaskill. You may address her as ‘milady.’”
“Sorry, milady,” he mumbled, looking at the desk. “I have never seen a lady laird before.”
