Page 10 of Christmas Wore Plaid

Brady felt guilty about that, as had his father when the man had learned of her lot and gone in search of her, a woman named Colleen Thomson, to bring her home to Aberfeldy. News of the orphaned child had just come to light, but so far, Brady’s search had been fruitless. He’d been sidetracked by the fair Emerson passing out coins as if they grew on trees while he’d traveled to the constable.

He’d never seen anyone in Crieff so flagrant with their coin. He certainly couldn’t afford to be, with his parents deceased, his hopes and dreams sealed away in the back of his mind, and a mountain of responsibilities on his shoulders. He was little more than a titled farmer himself.

He had just begun his apprenticeship with the family accounts when his father and mother had been overturned in a carriage during a rain storm, plummeting down a hillside. None had survived. The responsibility for Aberfeldy Manor and everyone on it had fallen directly on Brady’s shoulders in one swift moment—no time to mourn, no time for more schooling, certainly no more time for acting.

It was only a month later that the collections on debts began to roll in, and Brady realized his affluent life had been a veneer of lies. An illusion. His father had borrowed obscene amounts to continue housing their tenant farmers so as not to exacerbate the clearances, and to send him to school. The man’s heart had been in the right place, but he’d lied to all in the process about his true wealth, and Brady’d been slammed with the burden and the shame. Romeo had drunk his poison. He was the laird now. He had a job to do, debts to pay, and hadn’t a clue how to accomplish any of it.

He had bungled it miserably.

How on earth could a decent man demand rents from tenants when there was no money for them to give? When their daughters were turning to prostitution? It wasn’t his tenants’ fault that crop markets were poor and didn’t pay them enough to pay him his rents due. How could he evict a family with wee children into the streets when he had space aplenty on his lands, just to save a few coins each year? London and beyond wanted Scotland’s wool, mutton, beef, and therefore, sheep and cattle herding were growing in demand. They required more land, and far less labor. Where were all the tenant farmers to go, with no skills to work in the cities and no jobs in the country?

Now, he had come face to face with Emerson Lindt—nay, Pritchard. He swallowed bitterly, but the truth continued to bite him. God, she’d always had such luscious, sable curls that were brushed to shining. He’d never gotten to touch them again after that night at her window, never gotten to court her as he had once expected he would. And bollocks to Clara Ellsworth and her gossip mongering. He’d begun reluctant betrothal talks with another, for clearly, there was no point in waiting for Emerson, but such a discussion had been in its infancy, and when his parents had died and debts had crushed him, nothing more had come of it. No family of breeding would marry a daughter to a pauper.

Emerson still had those beautiful spirals and had developed the stature of a confident woman, which made her fainting surprising. He hadn’t seen what hid beneath her cloak, but from her slender build, he hoped he might see more of her to confirm his suspicions about her beauty. Carrying her home had been piss-poor timing to feel satisfaction in touching her, but he had, after all this time. His body still tingled from the sensation of her pressed to his chest, and what his hands had felt didn’t lie: a petite waist, curving hips, and slim legs. It was torture now to soak in her beauty, knowing another man had been given the pleasure of being her husband when it should have been him. They would have been each other’s firsts, but somehow, in some way, someone had intercepted his correspondences to her and if she’d written him as she’d claimed, they’d intercepted hers, too.

After his parents died, her marriage had seemed like the fatal blow to an already wounded lad, alone and admittedly scared as he sold off every last horse except for the few he needed, every last carriage, every last unneeded tool and golden candelabra, even their beautiful piano, to pay off the debts. He had gasped for air some nights as he lay abed, and could barely rise in the morns, wishing he could vanquish the pain. Attending parties and traveling abroad seemed like trivial wastes of time when all he wanted was bread on the table and to forget.

With his finances already plummeted and more folk showing up on his doorstep, begging for a bit of land, he’d ceased hosting the annual charity Christmastide party, unable to waste the precious money in the face of growing hardship. Import costs to bring food north were rising, as they paid others for the foods they could no longer produce. Which meant fewer people employed, more people desperate. He’d given all that he could. He’d slashed his rents so many times, that some folk were paying him a mere penny a week. Aye, a bleeding heart like Emerson’s had seen him into the poorhouse himself, for he could have evicted his tenants like everyone else.

“Aye, I’ve done my part, Emerson, and driven myself into the ground because of it,” he muttered as he walked.

The masonry holding the stones of Aberfeldy Manor together was cracking. The plaster on the reception’s walls was peeling. He hadn’t the means to repair it. His household staff had been asked to stay on for salaries he’d slashed in half, and then cut in half again. He’d let his valet go onto a new household without replacing him, making dressing an exercise in futility without someone to attend to the complicated parts of a gentleman’s wardrobe—which was why he wore his plain trousers and tartan mantle most days. The servants had mostly left now, too, grateful for their jobs in such tough times, but unable to subsist on the mere pottage his measly wages provided. He couldn’t blame them. But now, the state of things had gotten so dire, there was no longer coal for fires. He’d resorted to peat. There were no candles to be lit in unused chambers. The hearth in their once-grand parlor remained cold, for there was no longer any reason to fuel it.

And here was Emerson, fresh from Oxford, passing out pence as if she were King Wenceslas on St. Stephen’s Day.

He slowed his gait, stopping in front of a public house overlooking the old gallows hill where the town scaffold had once stood. He’d been gutted by the news of Emerson’s marriage, and already hardened at heart when he’d learned that she had been widowed in such a short time. He knew nothing of her husband, other than what Clara had imparted or he’d overheard from Bess on his occasional Sunday service, which was that Corbin was a wealthy young barrister pupil who was also co-owner in his father’s businesses, accepted to the Inns of Court and favored to be a rising star among London law. Brady’d hated the bastard on the spot, even though he knew not a whit more about him other than his name and profession.

But seeing Emerson now and the wistfulness that had spread across her face when she’d recognized him had softened his resolve. She seemed to have remembered not just him, but her affection for him, in that wistfulness. Did he dare try to see her again? Would she welcome his attentions? His heart skipped a beat, thinking it might be possible. Or would she dismiss him, now that he was poor? He’d never cared much about social rules, which was why he had wanted to act on the stage—why he’d climbed to Emerson’s window so long ago to steal a kiss. His first kiss. Her first kiss. At least he’d been the first one to kiss her and fall for her.

He dragged back the public house door. He hated spending money so wastefully, but after running into Emerson, he needed a drink before meeting with the constable. As he let go of the latch, the town appraiser shoved through onto the street.

“Ah, Brady MacInnes,” the man said. “Fancy seeing you in the toon. It’s been a while.”

“I have need of the constable,” he grumbled. Aye, he rarely showed his face in town anymore.

“Not about any trouble I hope?”

“A personal matter.”

Trouble was a demon he couldn’t afford. He’d lose what little he had left and he’d worked too hard to allow that to happen. He’d given all he could, and bore the calluses to prove it. His poor tenants were living on boiled potatoes.

Just a fortnight prior, Laird Reginald had come calling to hand him a pamphlet on the Americas. Henry Reginald, a nearby landowner, was sending twenty of his tenants to New Scotland in the Canadas, because he had nothing left to offer them here. Reginald had taken one look around Brady’s ailing manor and urged him to do the same. The price of passage was cheaper in the long run, and he wouldn’t have to evict anyone to the streets to join the throngs huddling in the churchyards each Sunday begging alms.

Aye, he was thinking long and hard on the matter. But Scotland was these poor folks’ home. Could he ship them away to ease his pocketbook, unknowing of how they would fare in a foreign world an ocean away? What if their ship capsized, or scurvy plagued them? Such illnesses would kill off the bairns before they even set foot on the new soil, as well as a good portion of the healthy folk, too. He supposed the best way to handle it would be to ask for volunteers. If anyone wanted to go, he would send them after Christmastide.

“Did you hear that Lady Emerson Lindt has returned?”

Good Lord, Brady had forgotten that the appraiser stood in front of him. “Aye. Pritchard is her name now.”

His thoughts strayed back to Emerson. He thought on the dark ringlets tumbling out of her bonnet as she’d bent to console the child. Odd that Emerson didn’t wear her hair up, as was the fashion, but then again, Emerson had always been different. Her Aunt Bess had named her after her father to honor his memory, spoiled her, and allowed her much freedom from the restrictions of a young lady. Then again, Bess had always been one big exception to the rule, too, having been born without manacles of propriety around her wrists. He could recall years ago, hearing Lady Bess scold another at church who had tried to counsel her on how to raise a proper lady by saying that Emerson needed to run and play like any boy did, and would they not mind sticking their noses in someone else’s business instead of hers.

“She hired me to value her aunt’s property whilst she arranges the sale,” the man said. “A stately home, Bess Lindt had, and fully furnished, too. I feel certain she’ll have a buyer in no time. If any furniture is unwanted, she’s requested it sent to the Charity Poorhouse in Edinburgh in memory of Lady Bess Lindt.”

Her house was filled with expensive furnishings that any other would shudder to think of being relegated to a workhouse. Now that Emerson was back, no matter how brief their reunion so far, the thought of her selling off Bess’s home and leaving again caused an ache to settle in his chest.

“Didn’t you used to be sweet on the lass?”

Be damned, but one look at her now and Brady still was. That sweetness had dulled as he’d aged, realized Emerson was never returning, and gained experience with the fairer sex. But it was still there, and caused a pang to plague him at the thought of them having been denied each other.