Page 24 of The Nabob's Designing Daughter
Urjit, her loyal servant—more than a servant, her dearest friend—nodded and led her along the corridor away from the footman on duty.
“Miss Strachney took a gig out this morning in a great hurry. Rolly Gillespie was seen climbing up with her.”
“Have the stable saddle my horse.”
“Our horses,” he said.
“Yes. Thank you, my friend.” She snatched the first maid she came to away from her dusting and hurried to change into her riding habit. Rolly Gillespie’s father was a bad piece of work. If Ann went to that croft alone, she was in danger.
Errol might find her, of course, but what if she returned to Kinmarty alone with him?
She chuckled. If that happened, she’d love to see the look on Strachney’s face.
But Errol might not find her in time.
“My mother’s married name,Robillard, must be added,” he told Busby.
The factor scribbled in his notebook.
“See that the stonemason gets on to it immediately.”
“Of course. Anything else here, sir?”
He looked around. Busby had a long list of chores in his notebook from their tour of Mounth Tower. The family graveyard, however, appeared to have been well tended, almost lovingly cared for.
His mother’s grave lay next to his grandmother’s. Bare soil on the other side was all that could be seen of his grandfather’s final resting place.
“Have him carve the old baron’s stone before we lose sight of where he was buried.”
Busby scribbled some more.
A chill wind nipped him, and he looked at the sky. The midafternoon sun had disappeared behind clouds. More rain was coming.
And he had one more stop before returning to Kinmarty.
The duke and Henderson had left earlier, and he knew that a groom on a fast horse could fetch him back quickly if the duchess needed him. Still, he shouldn’t linger long.
Both men mounted and Busby led him down a track from the house. He could hear the water before he saw it. As they broke through the trees, he saw figures scrambling away through the brush.
“Poachers?” he said.
“Hungry crofters likely. We try to keep them away. The old baron lost interest those last few years.” Busby cleared his throat. “Finest salmon fishing in all of Scotland here.”
“Is there a lodge around here?” he asked. “Any dwellings nearby that could be turned into lodges?”
“Nearest croft is the Gillespies. That way.” Busby pointed. “Two rooms. Dirt floor. Needs a new roof.”
Darleton’s property inventory listed several such crofts.
The river rushed down and widened into a deep natural pool, and then rushed on down to the sea miles away. “I wish I’d brought gear,” he said.
“I’ll fetch some, if you’d like.”
Errol shook his head. “Another time. It’s getting late.” He’d find time to fish on his land before he sold it. And he would have to sell it. He couldn’t see a way to make Darleton self-supporting. Even if fishing brought in funds, he didn’t have the capital to establish such a business, or the time to do so if he returned to London.
He bid the factor farewell and promised to return as soon as his business at Kinmarty allowed.
He turned down a path in the direction Busby had pointed, hoping he’d get a glimpse of this two-room hovel on his way to the lane.
