foot and in a wagon. The furnishings they’d brought with them would be carried up from the ship in a separate transport.
Lady Mackenzie had introduced them to Niall MacDonald, who was to accompany them on horseback. She explained that Mr. MacDonald had been dispatched from Balhaire to help them settle in. He appeared younger than Bernadette’s twenty-nine years, and had a bad eye that wandered aimlessly as the other one looked directly at you.
Avaline’s brutish fiancé did not appear to see them off, which Bernadette thought the height of uncivilized behavior. But his mother was there, and the lady was quite warm in her smiles and well wishes for them. “You will see some of our loveliest views on the road to Killeaven,” she assured them. “The glen is lush this time of year.” She took Avaline’s hand in hers. “Miss Kent, please do forgive my son’s absence this morning. Something has come up at Arrandale, our smaller estate, and where he currently resides. It required his immediate attention and he regretted deeply that he had to depart early this morning.”
Bernadette turned her head so no one would see her roll her eyes.
“Oh. I see,” Avaline said. But she clearly didn’t see, as her cheeks were coloring with uncertainty.
Lady Mackenzie noticed it, too and said quickly, “But he means to call straightaway, just as soon as you’re settled.” She smiled reassuringly.
Bernadette thought the lady’s smile was lacking something. Conviction, perhaps.
They piled into the coach—Lord Kent going first, as was his habit. The coach lacked sufficient springs and swayed badly as each one climbed in. Bernadette sat next to Avaline, across from her parents, as they set off for the four-mile journey to Killeaven in the company of several armed men.
“Why are they armed?” Avaline asked, looking out the window.
“Hmm?” her father asked, distracted. He’d already been at the bottle. “Mackenzie sent them.” He shrugged, stifled a belch, then said, “Now then, girl, you’ll marry Mackenzie in three weeks’ time.”
Avaline gasped and looked to her mother, who, as usual, remained silent. “So soon?”
“Yes, so soon,” he said, mocking her. “Your mother and I can’t stay on forever.”
Avaline gasped again. “You mean to leave me?”
“Avaline, for heaven’s sake,” Lord Kent said with exasperation, and turned to his wife. “You have raised a simpleton, madam. Will you not say something?”
Lady Kent clearly didn’t want to say anything, but she began hesitantly, “That—that is what your father—”
“Something useful!” Lord Kent spat, and turned his burgeoning rage to Bernadette.
“Ah...you will be married with your own house,” Bernadette said quickly. “It wouldn’t do for you to spend the first weeks or months of your married life with your parents, would it?” She glanced at Lady Kent, hoping for help, but Lady Kent had dropped her gaze to her lap, her confidence demolished years before Bernadette had come along.
“That’s better,” Lord Kent said. “Stop weeping, Avaline,” he said, sounding resigned to it, and with a loud sigh, hunched down in his seat and propped his foot on the bench next to Bernadette. He turned his gaze to the window and closed his eyes.
Bernadette put her hand on Avaline’s knee and squeezed tightly. She knew, after six years in the family’s employ, that nothing undermined Avaline worse in the eyes of her unforgiving father than her tears.
Avaline didn’t stop weeping, but she did manage to stifle the sound of it.
Bernadette turned her attention to the window, too, unwilling to talk to any of them any more than was absolutely necessary. As she watched the landscape slowly rolling along, she noticed a trio of riders. They were at a distance, but they had come to a halt, and the men on the horses were watching the coach. As the coach turned east with the road, the riders began to follow at a parallel for at least a half hour, at which point, they turned into the woods and disappeared.
The coach began to slow, and they started down a hill, the road curving slowly to the floor of the glen. Bernadette could see the house on the banks of a river, backed up to a hill. She counted twelve chimneys—the house was not small. It rather reminded her of Highfield, her family’s home and where she’d happily grown up. Unfortunately, Highfield was not a happy place for her now.
“See, Avaline?” Bernadette whispered, leaning across her to point. “This will be your house.”
“What?” Lord Kent said, waking from his nap. He rubbed his face as he sat up.
“It’s Killeaven, is it?” Avaline asked. She had long since ceased her tears, but her face was swollen and splotchy.
“It is,” Bernadette said.
They wended their way down and onto a drive that was overgrown, the shrubs and trees untended. “Is it empty?” Avaline asked.
“Of course it is,” her father said impatiently. “Do you think we would move furnishings into another man’s house? The Somerleds have departed for greener pastures.” He chuckled. “Chased out like the traitors they were, I’ve heard told,” he added as the coach rolled to a halt. “Now, let me see what I have bought.” He opened the coach door and leaped to the ground. He didn’t bother to help anyone out, but let the carriage man do it. But the carriage man was apparently so unaccustomed to the job that he fairly flung them out of the coach.
In the drive, Lady Kent slipped her arm through Avaline’s and held her close—for her own comfort or that of her daughter’s, Bernadette couldn’t guess. They followed behind Lord Kent as he marched forward to the door, threw it open and disappeared inside. Niall MacDonald was just behind them.
Bernadette paused as the Kents entered and looked up at the house. She noticed some pocks in the stone facade. The windows looked rather new to her, but the door was weathered and shrubbery growing wild. It was a curious mix of neglect and new. She started for the door, looking at the land around the house, and noticed, with a start, the three riders again. They were on a hill overlooking Killeaven, watching.
She hurried after the others.
She found them all in the foyer, looking around. The foyer was very grand, two stories tall, with a double staircase curving up like two sides of a human heart, meeting in a wide corridor above. At their feet there were marble tiles with some rather curious gashes and marks. The walls were stone here, too, and Bernadette noticed the same pocks as outside.
Mr. MacDonald stood with his hands clasped behind his back as Lord Kent marched about, opening and slamming doors.
“What are these marks?” Bernadette inquired curiously, touching one of the pocks with her fingers.
Mr. MacDonald glanced at the wall. “Left by musket fire, then.”
“Muskets!” Bernadette repeated, sure that he had meant another word entirely.
He fixed his good eye on her and said, “There was quite a fight for Killeaven, there was.”
A fight? Bernadette looked around again, noticed the pocks everywhere in this grand entry and tried to imagine men firing guns at one another
