A Governess Under the Mistletoe: Highland Christmas Book 2 Read online

  A Governess Under the Mistletoe

  Highland Christmas, Book 2

  By

  Emma Prince

  Copyright

  A Governess Under the Mistletoe (Highland Christmas, Book 2) Copyright © 2020 by Emma Prince

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. V1.0

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Thank You!

  Books by Emma Prince

  Teasers for Emma Prince’s Books

  About the Author

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  Chapter One

  Late November, 1839

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Blair MacTierney, Earl of Brenmore, closed his fist around the letter in his hand. The paper crumpled, causing the carefully inked words to disappear from view, yet they continued to ricochet through him like musket balls.

  Bloody hell.

  John Cullingham, Blair’s solicitor, slid another sheet across the oak desktop.

  “You’ll notice in the fourth column the adjustment to wool prices,” Cullingham commented, rifling through still more papers. “Unfortunately, they’ve taken another downturn, but Brenmore could support at least another four hundred head of Cheviot sheep, if you choose to…”

  Blair glanced up as the Englishman’s voice trailed off. Apparently his solicitor had finally noticed Blair’s sudden dark mood. The man cocked his sandy head, peering at Blair through rectangular spectacles. “Bad news?”

  That was an understatement. Instead of responding, Blair passed the letter to Cullingham. “Tell me what ye make of this.”

  Cullingham smoothed the paper and quickly scanned it. As he continued, his brows inched up.

  “Were you aware that your relation had passed?”

  “Nay,” Blair clipped. Truth be told, he’d known nothing of Douglas MacInnish, Earl of Glenrose, other than that he, and his Highland estate, existed. The Earl was one of his mother’s distant cousins, he thought.

  “And you are the last living male in his line,” Cullingham said with a frown, scanning the letter once more, “but you aren’t to inherit?”

  Blair exhaled. “A quirk of Scottish law.”

  “Ah yes.” Cullingham adjusted his spectacles. “The young female ward mentioned here.” He shot Blair a quizzical look. “She is permitted to be named the heir. It seems I still have a few things to learn about the antiquated traditions that linger in your country’s legal system, my lord.”

  “But what of the rest?” Blair demanded, shifting in his chair impatiently. “What of the claims upon me?”

  Cullingham picked his words for a moment. “It appears to be a straightforward arrangement. The late Lord Glenrose’s daughter will inherit the title and estate when she comes of age. Until that time, you are to be her guardian, as well as the guardian of Glenrose’s two hundred and twenty-five parcels of land.”

  Two hundred and twenty-five plots—which meant two hundred and twenty-five families to work them. Perhaps a thousand souls suddenly dependent on Blair. What was more, according to the letter, Lord Glenrose’s will had specified that Lavinia MacInnish, his only living heir, be twenty years old when she inherited. And that the lass was only ten now.

  Bloody rotting hell.

  Ten years of managing yet another Highland estate? Glenrose was undoubtedly in similar straits as Brenmore, along with the rest of the Highlands.

  After scraping by for generations, property owners could no longer squeeze enough out of their rocky, recalcitrant lands to remain solvent. Crofters were being cleared from their small plots and acreages were consolidated to make way for more profitable uses of the land—mainly sheep grazing.

  A heavy weight settled in Blair’s chest at the thought of what almost certainly awaited him as Glenrose’s guardian and executor.

  “Can’t this be handled by someone in Lord Glenrose’s employ?”

  Cullingham pursed his lips. “If you truly do not wish to take on guardianship of the estate, the late Earl’s solicitors could be deputized to see to the maintenance of the lands and the young Lady Lavinia’s upbringing.”

  Muttering a curse, Blair pushed back from his desk and strode to the single window in his cramped study. He stared down at the damp cobbled street below.

  When he’d left the Highlands ten years past, he’d thought it was for good. This modest residence, clinging to the edge of Edinburgh’s respectable quarter, hadn’t been meant as a long-term solution to his abrupt departure from Brenmore. But it suited the needs of a solitary man, and kept costs to the estate low.

  Of course, taking on Glenrose would bury Blair under double the paperwork, not to mention Cullingham’s additional fees for the management of land leasing for sheep grazing. But damn him if that weren’t the real reason he hoped to find some loop or crevice that would allow him to slip out of this.

  In fact, Blair wasn’t too busy to oversee a second estate—especially when all that was required of him in the keeping of Brenmore was the occasional decision about numbers of Cheviot per acre and how long to hold out for an improvement in wool prices. And he wasn’t in such dire straits that he couldn’t afford his English solicitor.

  The truth was, he didn’t relish the chore that likely awaited him at Glenrose. Dismantling an estate wasn’t pretty business.

  Depending on the state of affairs, the late Earl’s residence might be saved, but the families who’d worked the land for generations would probably have to be cleared. Some might be coaxed into other industries in the Lowlands, and others could be encouraged to emigrate, assuming the estate could bear the cost of incentivizing such a move.

  But if the crofters of Glenrose were like those of Brenmore, a stubborn few would do all in their limited power to resist. They would have to be forced out.

  It was an ugly task, one Blair had witnessed first-hand as a younger man. Then again, it was better than the alternative. Change had come to the Highlands, whether its residents liked it or not.

  Blair’s father had held out as long as he could to preserve Brenmore as it had once been, but ultimately he’d bent to the forces of modernization. Far too many of his peers had continued on as before, either afraid of change or defiant against it, only to fall into bankruptcy and lose everything.

  More than once after his father’s passing, Blair had thought bitterly that he ought to have inherited the title of Earl of Cheviot, for
all that was left of Brenmore were sheep. But at least he still controlled his family’s ancestral lands. Brenmore still existed—if in name rather than spirit—and remained in the care of the MacTierney line.

  If he were to take on the role of Lavinia MacInnish’s guardian, it would mean making hard choices about her future inheritance. Blair couldn’t in good conscience leave such decisions to solicitors, who’d likely run the estate into the ground. It would be better to turn to sheep grazing and have something left to leave the late Lord Glenrose’s daughter.

  Depending on the condition he found the estate’s finances in, however, Blair would have to play the part of cold-hearted, clear-eyed executor when it came time to clear the estate’s residents from their homes.

  Just as his father had before him, Blair would bear that unpleasant responsibility.

  Decided, he turned to face Cullingham. “I’ll have to go to Glenrose to determine the nature of the late Earl’s affairs. In all likelihood, Glenrose will need to follow Brenmore’s course to keep my ward’s inheritance solvent.”

  Cullingham nodded crisply. “I can begin drawing up the papers right away, my lord. As I said, it should be a straightforward matter, tidily handled.”

  Though Cullingham might think it simple when written out in ink on paper, Blair very much suspected these next few weeks would be anything but tidy.

  He hadn’t been to the Highlands since his father’s death. Nor had he wanted to return, for the Highlands of his youth had been cleared away along with the crofters. It had been a bitter departure, seeing the estate stripped of all but sheep and putting his father in the frozen ground. He’d overseen Brenmore from his Edinburgh residence ever since. But it seemed fate was dragging him northward once more.

  He tugged distractedly on his cravat. This business would be over soon enough, he reminded himself.

  “Very good. I’ll send word from Glenrose. With any luck, we’ll have matters settled before the new year.”

  Chapter Two

  Blair turned up the collar of his woolen overcoat. Life in the Lowlands had made him soft. He’d forgotten how the cold, damp Highland air knifed through clothing and flesh to sink into the bone.

  Breath puffing in misty white plumes before his face, he urged his horse into a trot. Glenrose manor must be close now.

  It had been his idea to travel by horseback despite the predictably foul weather. None of the newly constructed railway lines even came close to this remote corner of the Highlands, and Blair preferred to avoid rattling around in a carriage for long stretches whenever possible.

  Besides, this mode of travel would allow him to get a sense of the condition of Glenrose lands even before reaching the estate. Still, he flexed his gloved hands on the reins for the dozenth time against the piercing chill.

  He’d been traveling along the edge of the estate for some time, past rolling hills made umber by the frigid season and a handful of crofts hunkered down under the slate-gray sky, but had yet to catch a glimpse of the residence.

  Just as he crested a rise in the muddy road, the manor house revealed itself off to the north. Its gray stone façade was nearly lost against the bleak clouds behind it, except that the structure’s sharp lines set it in relief.

  It was an ancient keep, at least three hundred years old if Blair’s estimation was right, and perhaps even older.

  The bulk of the structure was rectangular, but two round towers had been added to diagonal corners. Judging from the slight variation in the stones’ color, a more recent addition had been made at the back of the main keep, but otherwise, Blair might as well have been riding directly into the medieval era.

  He turned off the road and onto a long, graveled path that led to the front of the manor.

  As he drew nearer, he was relieved to note that although the keep was old, it was not the crumbling, decrepit castle he’d feared upon first sighting. The windows were glassed, the stones free of moss and cracks, and the pathway leading to the wide double doors well-tended.

  Still, the manor cut a solemn, imposing line against the austere landscape, a reminder of a harsher time. To his surprise, that gave Blair a strange comfort. The gears of change ground slowly here. These stones had withstood wars, famine, sieges, and several centuries’ worth of Highland winters. It was not unlike Brenmore in that regard—or at least how Blair remembered it from his youth.

  He guided his horse around to the side of the keep, where he’d spotted a wooden add-on that appeared to be the stables. When he dismounted and led the animal through the open door, a stable hand jumped to his feet so quickly that he knocked over the stool he’d been dozing on.

  “Afternoon, sir. Can I help ye?”

  “I’m Lord Brenmore, come to see to Glenrose’s affairs.”

  Judging by the widening of the young man’s eyes, Blair was expected. And perhaps feared already.

  The lad doffed his cap and hastily took the horse’s reins, assuring Blair that the animal would receive close attention.

  “My bags should arrive via coach before nightfall.”

  “I’ll send them inside, sir—er, milord.”

  Leaving the stables, Blair crossed to the manor’s front double doors. But before he had to decide if he should knock, the doors opened. Instead of a butler or footman, however, a woman of middling years stood clasping her hands and staring at Blair.

  “Milord,” the woman breathed. “Ye must be the Earl of Brenmore, the late Earl’s relation.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Welcome to Glenrose, milord. I’m Mrs. Drummond, the housekeeper. Please, do come in out of the cold.”

  Inside, an entrance hall had been created by dividing what once must have been a large, open great hall. At the back of the entrance hall was a spiral stone staircase leading upward. Two passageways branched on either side of the stairs, one to the left and one to the right.

  “Would ye like to rest from yer travels, milord?” Mrs. Drummond asked, receiving Blair’s overcoat, gloves, and hat. “Or mayhap ye’d like to see Glenrose straightaway?”

  “A tour, please.”

  Mrs. Drummond dipped her white-capped head and set out at a brisk pace. Off to the right was the master suite, which presumably had belonged to Douglas MacInnish. Given that Mrs. Drummond hung Blair’s coat outside the suite’s dressing room, he was apparently to stay there.

  “Beg pardon, milord, but Lord Glenrose didnae employ a valet. I could send up one of the lads from the kitchen if ye like, or—”

  “Nay, that won’t be necessary.”

  It was obvious the manor was operating with a skeleton crew of servants. Whether that was because the estate was in graver danger than Blair had originally suspected or because the late Earl wasn’t overly concerned with the customs of refined society remained to be seen.

  Blair followed Mrs. Drummond back out through the dressing room, bedroom, and sitting room designated for the master of the keep, then into the left wing of the manor.

  Here lay the bulk of the residence, it seemed. The passageway opened onto a large, sprawling chamber. Unlike the entrance hall, the space hadn’t been divided with recently added walls to create a more modern set of rooms. Instead, it had been left open, reminiscent of a massive great hall fitting the keep’s age.

  The space served as both dining room and drawing room, just as it would have several hundred years ago. At the back sat a massive wooden table and a dozen heavily carved chairs. A door set into the stones along the far wall presumably led to the kitchen.

  The front portion of the room was situated with several tall-backed, deep-cushioned chairs and well-worn sofas. They were arranged casually in front of an enormous fireplace—it was perhaps a dozen feet wide, with a mantel that was so rustic as to be little more than a giant tree trunk hewn in half.

  Though the rambling room was washed in austere gray light from the tall windows filling the front wall, it felt surprisingly cozy and lived-in. The stone walls and floors were softened with thick, richly colored c
arpets and hanging tapestries, and the windows were trimmed with cascading burgundy drapery. Clearly this was a well-used and well-liked room.

  Again, Blair was struck by the lack of formality in the space, along with the ancient yet cozy feel all around. The keep had been updated, renovated, and softened for the comforts of modern life ever so slightly, but it still bore a rustic and very Highland lack of polish.

  “And here is the study,” Mrs. Drummond said, indicating an opening in the front corner of the room which Blair hadn’t noticed at first.

  As he stepped in after her, he realized that the study was housed in one of the keep’s two round towers.

  It was a breathtaking room. The ceiling soared overhead, spanning the height of both of the keep’s two storeys. Curved bookcases had been built to circle the entire study, except for where tall windows had been cut out of the stone to let in natural light. A ladder was propped against one of the shelves so that the leather-bound volumes on the upper levels could be reached. A cluster of comfortable-looking chairs and a large oak desk filled the rest of the space.

  “This was Lord Glenrose’s favorite room,” Mrs. Drummond commented quietly. She nodded toward a gilt-framed portrait hanging on one of the few patches of exposed stone. “There is his likeness. If ye dinnae mind me saying, milord, I can see a wee bit of family resemblance.”

  Blair studied the portrait. Though Lord Glenrose appeared to be at least fifty in it, his hair was the same coal-black as Blair’s mother—which Blair had inherited as well. Likewise, the pale blue eyes that stared down at him were a reflection of his own.

  Though he had never met the man, blood and history bound them together. And now Douglas MacInnish’s legacy rested in Blair’s hands.

  “Lord Glenrose lived a simple country life here, milord, but rest assured that ye will have all the comforts the Highlands can afford at Glenrose,” Mrs. Drummond said, straightening. “I hope ye’ll find life here pleasant and to yer liking.”