"Come in," Jeannie called.
Mairie, the maidservant, entered carrying a large jug of gently steaming water. "Good morning, m'lady, I hope you slept well. I've brought you hot water to wash in." She carefully set the jug on the washstand and turned with a self-conscious smile. "The Laird said you'd be sleeping late the morn, and to bring you your breakfast in bed. So, what would you like to eat?"
"What is there?" For the last six years, she'd eaten nothing but porridge for breakfast—and sometimes for dinner as well.
Mairie looked surprised. "Anything you want, m'lady. There's porridge, of course. And if you're still hungry there's eggs, any way you want, and black pudding, ham, kippers, toast—or bannock, if you prefer—whatever you like. And a pot of tea. Or chocolate, if that's your preference."
The choices dazzled her. "A boiled egg would be perfect, and a slice of toast. And tea. Is there any honey?"
"Of course, m'lady. Roskirk honey is the finest you'll ever taste," Mairie said proudly. She turned to leave, then looked back doubtfully. "So, no porridge at all?"
"No porridge," Jeannie said firmly. "Just a soft boiled egg and toast with honey."
Mairie left, and Jeannie slipped out of bed and padded barefoot across the room to make her ablutions. She slowed, frowning. The wooden floor felt slightly gritty underfoot. She peered down at it. The floor needed sweeping. And now she came to look more critically at her surroundings, she could see a faint layer of dust on the mantel. And the dressing table. And there was a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling.
Jeannie frowned. The room needed a good cleaning.
If she'd been an unexpected guest placed hastily in a little used bedchamber, there might have been an excuse for such slapdash housekeeping—though she didn't think so—but this was the laird's bedchamber. It should be gleaming with care at all times.
She remembered what she'd said to the housekeeper the previous night. I can see for myself the castle is well run.
She'd said it to be polite, that was all. She'd been too nervous yesterday to notice anything. But now, in the clear light of day, and with her wedding night behind her, she realized she'd spoken too soon.
Cameron, manlike, would probably not have noticed the faint air of neglect that was so obvious to her now. Last night the housekeeper had sent maids up to prepare the laird's bedchamber for his wedding night. Those sheets had been fresh and sweet smelling—Jeannie might have been nervous, but she'd noticed that. You could smell the sunshine in freshly washed and dried sheets.
So the maids had made up the bed with fresh sheets, but hadn't swept or mopped the floor or polished the furniture.
Jeannie couldn't imagine anyone neglecting such obvious tasks, especially when preparing the room for their laird on his wedding night. Cameron was obviously beloved by his people, so wouldn't they want his bedchamber to be perfect? Especially for such a night.
Could it be deliberate? An intentional slight? Or was it simply a matter of lazy or neglectful maids.
Thank God for Mam's experience as housekeeper in a great house.
She washed and dressed, pondering the day ahead of her. She expected some kind of hostility from Cameron's uncle—oh, he'd been all smooth politeness in front of an audience last night, but that would no doubt change once they were alone. She resolved to take tea with him this afternoon. Best to know from the start.
But first there was the house to inspect with the housekeeper, Mrs. Findlay. And the matter of a dusty bedchamber to be addressed.
She used Cameron's brush and arranged her hair in a loose knot. She stepped back and examined her reflection in the looking glass. And sighed. If only she had a different dress to wear, something smarter and a little bit more fashionable. Clothing was a kind of armor, and she was going into battle.
Legally she was the laird's wife—apart from the consummation—but she still had to earn her place.
"MAIRIE," JEANNIE SAID when the girl returned with her breakfast on a tray. "The maids who prepared this room yesterday."
"Yes m'lady?" Mairie said cautiously.
"Have them come up, please"—she glanced at the clock on the overmantel—"in fifteen minutes."
Mairie left, and Jeannie turned to her breakfast. She surveyed the tray with pleasure. Her boiled egg sat in a blue flowered egg-cup, and beside it was a plate of golden toast, still warm, a small dish of butter and a pot of honey. A blue teapot was covered with a knitted cosy, and beside it sat a dainty cup and saucer with a matching jug containing milk. There was also a sprig of heather in a tiny vase.
The cook, at least, was taking pains to please the new mistress. The thought cheered her.
She cut the top off her egg and was pleased to see it was perfectly cooked: the white was firm and the yolk rich and runny. She dug in hungrily. It was the best breakfast she'd had in years. The only breakfast that wasn't porridge.
She was finishing her second cup of tea when Mairie returned with two worried-looking girls. She introduced them; Kirsty and Aileen. Kirsty was wringing her apron between nervous hands. The girls were close to Jeannie's own age, but their demeanor brought home to her how greatly her position had changed. She hoped they couldn't tell how nervous she was.
"You prepared this room yesterday, I gather," she said.
"Yes'm, but—"
