Page 51 of To Winter at Wildsyde

Gordy had taken to eating his meals in his study, and for the past two nights he had not come to her bed. In fact, she’d not seen him at all. She didn’t know what to do. Did not know how to reach him, but she had to find a way. She reached for another spoon and polished it furiously, as if it were a magical lamp and a genie might grant her a way to make her husband give a damn for her. The cloth buffed and polished as she tried to cudgel an answer from her brain in lieu of a friendly djinn.

A new anxiety, one she’d been trying to ignore, pushed its way forward and claimed her attention, though. She had not started her monthlies yesterday. It was far too early to think anything of that but… but if she were with child, her chances for success were about to diminish considerably. The moment Gordy knew, he’d have her out the door.

Though what she’d said was true, she had no intention of leaving, and would keep coming back; the reality of humiliating herself before the staff in such a way was not something she relished.

Don’t dwell on it, she counselled herself.

“There’ll be nae spoon left if ye keep at it like that.”

Ruth looked up to see the wry observation had been made by Sheenagh. Turning her attention to the spoon, she discovered it was indeed gleaming and set it aside. Before she could reach for another, Sheenagh moved the remaining cutlery away and snatched up the cleaning cloths.

“That’s enough of that, missus. You’ve been up since dawn and nae eaten a bite since breakfast, and that only a wee bit o’ herring. It’s nae enough to keep a mouse alive, and ye promised me ye would listen to my ideas for yer wardrobe besides.”

“So I did,” Ruth said, smiling at her and stripping off the soft white gloves with which she’d protected her hands.

“There’s tea and scones in yer room, awaitin’ ye. I’ll be up in a bit once you’ve eaten.”

“Perfect,” she said, getting to her feet. “Thank you, Sheenagh, that’s just what I need.”

Sheenagh nodded, as though this had been perfectly obvious, and Ruth left the kitchen, amused at being both coddled and bullied at once. As promised, tea and scones, both savoury and sweet, awaited her and Ruth appreciated both kinds, sipping her tea and putting her feet up by the fire. A full stomach on top of the cosy room—and very little sleep from nights spent fretting about her lummox of a husband—conspired against her and her eyes closed. Comfortable and sleepy, she almost took no notice of the disturbance beyond her window, or the odd, unsettling clang of metal, assuming it was the workmen about their business. Something about the tenor of the shouts wasn’t right, though, the usual camaraderie noticeable among the workmen was absent and there was another, brutal edge to the muffled sounds.

Starting awake, Ruth hurried to the window and peered down. On this side her room looked down over the inner courtyard and she gave a little shriek of alarm as she saw two men, each of them wielding a bloody great sword. The clash of metal rang through her now, recognised for the danger it truly was and her heart seemed to turn in her chest as she identified the two combatants.

Gordy and Mr Clugston.

The two men were fighting, and not playing at it if she were any judge of the furious strength on show as the blades shrieked and sang together at each strike.

“Oh, my God!”

She took to her heels and ran, flying pell mell down the endless bloody stairs, not one of which was even or straight, and any one of which would send her flying if she missed her footing.

“Garrick!” she cried, skirts in hand as she flew across the hall to the doors that led onto the inner courtyard.

Garrick stared at her for a dazed moment before doing something shockingly out of character for a man of his dignity and running in her wake.

She scrambled to a halt on the cobbles outside, stunned by the clash of metal as the two men hefted the huge broadswords. The sound when they made contact was appalling, amplified somehow by Ruth’s heart which was pounding in her ears.

“Stop!” she shrieked, running towards them and waving her hands. “Stop this, you blithering idiots!”

Though she knew it was foolhardy at best, and possibly lethal, Ruth ran for them, taking advantage of their momentary distraction to force her way between them both.

“Get out the way,” Gordy said, his voice dark with fury.

“I will not. What the devil do you think you are about? Explain this to me, at once!”

Foolhardy or courageous, once she was between them her temper lit, as she considered what damage they might have done to one another.

Gordy glowered at her, his rage evident in the glittering of his eyes. The two men had stripped to the waist for combat and Ruth tried not to be distracted by her husband’s impressive expanse of powerful chest and slick muscles. Turning to glance at Mr Clugston she felt a little jolt of surprise to discover the older man was not the least bit soft about the middle as one might expect. Indeed, he looked to be in fine trim himself, if fighting considerably above his own weight.

“Dinnae concern yerself, Mrs Anderson,” Clugston said, his expression grim. “I decided it was time someone told yer husband a few home truths and taught him some manners.”

“Shut yer damn mouth,” Gordy growled. “Ye will nae speak to my wife again, nor look upon her either. Ye can consider yerself dismissed from my service.”

“Indeed, he may not,” Ruth retorted, folding her arms and glowering at her husband, her own fury growing by the moment. “Gordon Anderson, that man has been loyal to you since you were a baby, and if you repay that loyalty in such a way, I shall never forgive you. What’s more, neither will you forgive yourself, once you’ve calmed down and realised how idiotic you are being.”

“Ach, but he’s nae my man, is he, Ruth? He’s yers now, and he thinks that gives him the right to comment upon my marriage.”

Ruth groaned inwardly and shot an exasperated look at Mr Clugston, who shifted uneasily, his sword still held in a defensive pose. His eyes darted between her and Gordy, as if weighing up the greater threat.