O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,281

Duke of Kilsyth and his family with him, but they’d held on, gripping the ledge with their fingernails at first, and slowly regaining what they had so nearly lost. They’d already lost the old duke, slaughtered at Culloden, and the new duke was determined that wouldn’t happen to him.

She didn’t need to refer to the slate on the table at her elbow, but she liked having it. One day was much like another, and she liked that, too. She’d had enough turmoil for one life. Now, she wanted peace.

Watching the gray-blue sea, the choppy waves tipped with white when the sea whipped it up, she planned her day.

She’d have to make sure the hall had enough holly boughs. On Twelfth Night they’d have the villagers up for their ball. They looked forward to it all year. And she needed to check that she had enough little gifts for everyone. Lengths of cloth for the servants and some of the women, packets of ribbons and pins, firkins of beer, and the rest. Only meticulous planning produced the best results. Her mother had taught her that.

A cloud of dust on the road at the far end of her vision attracted her attention. Someone was coming up the road from the village. One person on a horse. The minister of the kirk, maybe.

Mr. Ruthven had carefully courted her for the past six months. He was new to the village. Many villagers regarded him with suspicion, and shifted restlessly through his hour-long sermons every Sunday. He reminded them of their sins on a regular basis, but he did visit the poor. He had a good heart.

She sighed. She had no time for Fergus Ruthven today. No doubt he would follow her around, discussing the arrangements for the Christmas services, and what would happen when it snowed. It would snow, for sure, but on this side of Scotland, the west, it was warmer than the more exposed eastern side, and snow often arrived after Christmas.

She huffed a laugh. Warmer was relative. Pulling her woolen shawl closer around her, she blew out a breath that fogged the window, but it cleared as soon as it had hit. The windows here were the old ones, small mullions fastened in the casements with lead strips. Little drafts crept up to surround her. But she was used to it.

That horse was making good ground. As she watched, she factored Mr. Ruthven into her day, pushing the discussion with Cook on the day’s menu aside. Cook knew how to feed the servants. Most of the house was under Holland covers, and she’d planned to set the maids to polishing the furniture and checking everything was in order. Perhaps wash that disgracefully sooty painting above the fireplace in the grand hall. No, the Yule Log would make it even worse. She’d make a note to do it after the festivities.

Her quiet time was over. She left the room and clattered down the spiral stone staircase. The door that had hidden it was long gone, removed by the English soldiers when they came to search, and never replaced. What was the point? Everybody knew about it now.

Two years ago, the duke had brought his bride here, and their small son. Her family had descended on them, and turned the castle into a place of joy and frantic activity. Rhona had loved it, but when the weather permitted, they’d all left. The duke had never returned, but his brother-in-law, a keen astronomer, had brought his wife here sometimes. Apparently, the turret room on the other side of the house, the north facing one, was perfect for making observations. But they arrived, lived privately and left.

This season was the only time the castle came to life, like the old days when the current duke’s father had made it his home.

Down another flight of stairs, this set covered in rough drugget so that footsteps did not echo through the castle and then to the carpeted floor, to where the family lived. Down from that was the main floor, the grand salon with its carved stone ceiling and the music room, instruments long gone out of tune. Rhona used to have them tuned once a year, but what was the point, when nobody played them?

Turning, she made for the side stairs leading to a lesser hall and door. Still not the one the servants used, but more intimate, the one the family used to use every day, the one closest to the stables. Perhaps if she