Page 7 of To Winter at Wildsyde

Ruth turned back to Mrs MacLeod and knew the woman hated her and was presently wishing her to the devil. Well, it seemed she had a battle on her hands. So be it.

“You may show me to my room, Mrs MacLeod.”

The woman’s face was not as hard to read as her master’s. Her blue eyes glinted with dislike and irritation.

“A guest room, then,” she said, a faint smirk at her lips, and the implication was clear enough.

She did not believe Ruth would be staying long.

Chapter 4

Dear Ruth,

I felt I must write and tell you that Bonnie and Mr Cadogan returned to Holbrooke House and were married there. I was never more relieved. I think they will be happy together, certainly Bonnie is head over ears in love with him. If Mr Cadogan has any sense at all, he’ll realise how lucky he is in short order.

Now, my dear, my worries are all settled upon you. Are you married now? I beg you to write to me and let me know how you are getting along? What kind of man is Mr Anderson? Is he kind to you?

― Excerpt of a letter from Miss Matilda Hunt to Miss Ruth Stone.

6th November 1814. Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.

After a hot bath, three cups of tea and a bowl of stew which Ruth had to admit was delicious, she felt a little more able to face the coming encounter. Her room was neat and plain and arctic in temperature, with a dismal fire that belched smoke at random intervals. The bed was well aired, though, and the sheets clean and worn but neatly mended. She dressed carefully, choosing a plain blue day dress which Matilda had assured her was beautifully cut and became her large frame. It seemed a no-nonsense style and in keeping with what a strong-minded woman ought to wear when facing a revolt. She must at least look the part even if she was quaking inside and Ruth was in no doubt that she was facing something of the sort if not outright rebellion. In her experience, the housekeeper was at the heart of everything. If she was against the mistress and ready to make her life difficult, the rest of the staff would follow her example, whether or not they agreed. To earn any respect in such circumstances, Ruth knew she must put any hopes of a friendly working arrangement to one side, for now at least. She was fighting for her place here, and that meant war.

It wasn’t the first time she’d confronted such situations. As the daughter of a self-made man there were plenty of servants who would turn their noses up at her and treat her with disrespect. They considered her neither fish nor fowl and trying to be nice only made matters worse. Now she was fighting her heritage as an Englishwoman too and Mrs MacLeod didn’t appear to be the sort to be turned up sweet by a few pretty words.

Ruth stood in her chosen arena at precisely half-past six, as arranged. Only one member of staff presented themselves. She kept her chin up, refusing to show any insecurity. Would her husband allow the staff to treat her like this after they were married? It was all well and good to agree she had control of the household, but unless he upheld her decisions that promise was worthless. They’d all follow their master’s lead. She knew he’d only married her for the money, but surely he’d give her something in return? She took a deep breath and addressed the man before her.

“Mr Clugston?”

“Aye, Miss Stone. I’m pleased to meet you,” the fellow said, snatching the cap from his head and holding out his hand to her.

Ruth shook it, relieved to discover someone who didn’t appear to want her blood. This was Mr Anderson’s man of business, though, so he’d not want to ruffle the feathers of the golden goose before they had their hands on her money. It was a bitter thought, but Ruth saw no reason to suppose it was otherwise. She’d met plenty of men who were happy to make up to her fortune and there was little point in sugar coating the truth. That didn’t mean it didn’t sting though.

Mr Clugston was a man in his late forties, but still hale and hearty, with broad shoulders and an air of vitality about him. His head was entirely bald and somewhat at odds with his luxuriant salt-and-pepper beard, which was neatly trimmed. Shrewd grey eyes lurked beneath equally thick eyebrows and Ruth thought perhaps there was a touch of humour there. An intelligent man, she suspected, and one she needed on side.

“Have you been with Mr Anderson long?” Ruth asked, keeping her voice a carefully neutral balance between pleasant and efficient.

This man needed to know she had a head for business and was not some flighty featherbrain. She did not need him to like her, but it would be a relief to know she had an ally.

“Since he was a wee bairn,” the fellow said with a nod. “I’ve lived here all my life and reckon I’ll die here. I’d assumed the roof would fall in on ma heid, to be truthful, but perhaps that’s nae to be my fate after all?” There was an amused lilt to the question and a slight quirk to his lips.

Ruth smiled. “I have never seen a more glorious sight than Wildsyde as I arrived with the sun setting at its back,” she said, hoping to illustrate her desire to put things to rights here and not demand parties and new frocks when the place was falling to wrack and ruin. “Having said that, I can see it is in dire need of care, and I should consider it an honour to be a part of reviving it to its former glory.”

There was a glimmer of something that might have been approval in the man’s eyes but, before Ruth could be certain, the rest of the staff appeared. Any hopes that she might have been overly pessimistic, having now met Mr Clugston, were quickly put to rest.

There were four women, including Mrs MacLeod who led the group in, and there was no lessening of her animosity judging from the scowl on her face and the way her arms were folded tightly across her chest. All of them wore expressions bearing various degrees of suspicion and belligerence.

As no one seemed to be in a hurry to make them known to her, she turned to Mr Clugston, as the least hostile person in the room. “Would you introduce me, Mr Clugston?”

“Er… certainly,” he said. “Mrs Jessie Irwin and Miss Sheenagh Baillie are maids of all work, and Miss Flora Moffat here is the laundry maid.”

Jessie glared at her, every bit as resentful as Mrs MacLeod. She was a little older than the others, perhaps in her thirties, with a round face and a figure to match. Flora as skinny as a bean and the youngest of all of them, perhaps only sixteen.

Ruth nodded and gave what she hoped was a pleasant smile as she turned her gaze on the third woman, and the most obviously hostile. Sheenagh Baillie. “I am pleased to meet you all.”

“Oh, aye, and what’s your position to be, then?” Sheenagh looked Ruth up and down with a sneer.

She was an undeniably pretty girl, though with a sour turn to her mouth.