Johanna Lindsay - The Heir

Such had been the case ever since the last of Archibald's four sons had died fourteen years ago. The last had been Duncan's father. Two of the sons had died due to pure carelessness, two due to nature's fury. Duncan's parents died together. They had been sailing to France to sign contracts for a new market for MacTavish wool. Such a short trip, yet the storm had been so sudden and so violent, the ship never made it to its French port.

Duncan would have been on that ship as well if he hadn't experienced such a horrid bout of seasickness before it even set sail. Archie, there that day to see his kin on their way, had insisted he stay behind. Duncan had been disappointed. He had wanted to travel. At seven years of age, it would have been his first trip so far from home— and his last.

Being the last of Archibald's direct line, Duncan had been coddled thereafter, and so overprotected, he often felt stifled by Archie's concern. He couldn't blame the old man, though. It couldn't be easy, outliving all your children. And Duncan was his only grandchild.

Two of Archibald's other sons had been married before they died, but three pregnancies between them had gone bad, so the two wives, both being childless, had returned to their parents when their husbands died. The last son had become a priest. It was falling off the roof of his kirk when he'd been repairing it that had taken his life.

Archie had experienced much tragedy in his life. Duncan had as well, having known all but one of his uncles. It was amazing, though, that Archibald wasn't a bitter old man. He wasn't even that old, though he was certainly referred to as the "auld" man by one and all. But he'd married young himself, and his four sons had each been born on the heels of the other, in the four years following his marriage. His wife likely would have given him many more children if she hadn't herself died giving birth to the last.

He'd never remarried, though he certainly could have, and still could. He was only sixty-two this year. Most of his red hair was still red, if somewhat faded, the gray at his temples and in his beard giving him a distinguished look, or it did when he took the time to fancy himself up. Having retired, though, when he turned over his many concerns to Duncan, he rarely left home these days, and at home he was usually a bit on the unkempt side.

Having no one to impress other than the cook, whom he'd kept up a long-standing flirtation with, and who, unfortunately, never took him seriously, Archie could often still be found in his bedclothes in the middle of the day.

Today he was fully dressed, combed, and scrubbed, and he wasn't looking too pleased when Duncan joined him in the kitchen. So he'd been told of the solicitor's arrival. Good. It allowed Duncan to get right to the point of his own concern the moment he sat down.

"Why did you no' tell me, Archie?"

Archibald grimaced, and not because Duncan used his first name. That wasn't a matter of disrespect, but as he would have it. And he didn't try to evade the question by pretending he didn't know what Duncan was talking about.

"Because I didna want ye dividing yer loyalties afore ye needed tae."

"What dividing? My loyalty is here and will always be here."

Archie smiled at that, looking rather smug for a moment. But then he sighed.

"Ye hae tae ken how it was, laddie. My Donald was fair smitten by yer muther. There was nothing for it but that he hae her, despite her being English. But she was a young lassie, no' even eighteen yet. And her da was no' happy that she had her heart set on Donald as well. Nor did he want her living sae far from home. He refused tae let them marry. For nigh a year he refused. But he loved his daughter, and couldna help but see she was dying o' heartbreak. Sae he compromised. He demanded Donald's heir, my heir, be sent tae him at his—yer—majority. If she'd promise that, then she could marry Donald."

"I ken why the promise was made, I dinna ken why I'm the last tae know aboot it."

"Tae be honest, lad, I'd been hoping that auld bastard would die long afore now, and his solicitors wouldna know aboot ye. Surely he mun have some other kin somewhere, that they could've been finding tae give his damn title tae. But nay, he's going tae bluidy well outlive us all."

The last was said in such disgust, Duncan might have laughed if he weren't at the center of this dilemma. And he hadn't heard yet what Archie's plan was, to get him out of it. But neither had Archie finished answering his question.

He reminded him, "And my mother? Why did she keep it a secret from me?"

" 'Twas ne'er a secret. Ye were just tae young afore she died, lad. She would hae told ye when ye were a bit aulder. She was no' unhappy wi' her promise. She was English, after all, and pleased that ye would be the next Marquis o' Birmingdale following her da. She held much stock in titles, ye ken. Most o' the English do."

"You should have told me, Archie. You shouldna have let it come tae the day o' collecting, wi' me no' knowing. And what am I tae do wi' that wee Englishmon upstairs who thinks I'll be going wi' him?"

"But ye will be going wi' him."

"The devil I will!"

Duncan shot out of his chair so quickly, it toppled over to the floor, startling the cook across the room into dropping a knife, which caused her to shriek when it almost stabbed her toes. She cast Duncan a glare. He didn't notice, glaring himself at his grandfather. Archibald, wisely, kept his eyes on the table.

"You canna sit there and tell me you've no' figured a way oout o' this," Duncan continued hotly. "I willna believe it! Who's tae manage here, then, if I go?"

"I managed well enough afore ye took o'er. I'm no' sae auld—" "You'll drive yourself intae an early grave—"

It was Archie's chuckle, this time, that cut Duncan off. "Dinna think tha' my giving ye the reins meant I was ready tae retire. Nay, ye just needed the learning, laddie, and hands on was the best way tae get it."

"For what purpose then? So I could go off and be a blasted marquis instead?"

"Nay, sae ye'd hae firsthand knowledge tha' ye could teach tae yer son."

"What son?"

There had been many letters between the two old men—and much arguing. This was explained to Duncan that morning as he ignored the breakfast Cook set before him, and asked for a dram of whisky instead, ignoring, too, the stern look the old girl gave him for imbibing so early of a morn. The arguing had not been over whether Duncan would go to England, but over who would lay claim to his firstborn son.

"The one that'll be taking o'er here," Archie explained. "Nae one expects ye tae divide yerself, Duncan lad. We've tae many businesses here, and there'll be tae many duties there in England for ye tae assume. That'd be tae much for any mon, and tae long a journey for ye tae be making constantly back and forth."

They both wanted him wed posthaste so that he'd have a bairn by next year that would be farmed out—just as he was being. They didn't care what he thought of their arranging his life for him. They'd already agreed between the two of them that with Neville getting him, it was only fair that Archie get his firstborn.

He had a good mind to board a ship to some far-off place and to hell with both of them. But he loved Archie. He was furious with him at the moment, but he still loved him and could never break his heart that way.

Yet he felt like his life had never been his to live. They'd decided long ago that he would do as he was told to do, and that was that. Perhaps if he'd been raised differently, it might not have bothered him at all, to be so controlled. But Scotsmen were a fiercely independent lot, and Highlanders even more so. Which was why he still couldn't believe that Archie had ever had any intention of honoring that damned promise. Agree to it, aye, to keep the peace and get Donald his bride, but in the end, he should have ignored it.

Yet he found out why Archie was resigned to honor the promise when he'd asked him directly, "And what if I refuse tae go?"

Archie sighed and said forlornly, "I loved yer muther like a daughter. I didna think I would, her being English, but she was the sweetest lass, and she grew on me verra quickly. I realized long ago, afore she died, that I couldna dishonor her by breaking her promise. Even after she died, and the choice was truly mine, I still couldna dishonor her memory."

"The choice is mine , Archie, no' yours tae be making for me."

"Nae, ye dinna hae any more choice than I did, because ye loved yer muther, tae, and wouldna put such a stain on her memory, would ye now?"

Duncan didn't answer that. What he wanted to say stuck in his craw. Of course he couldn't dishonor his mother. But he was hating her at the moment, for putting him in this despicable position, and that put another knot in his throat that was nigh choking him.

His silence, however, prompted Archie to add, "Yer no' seeing the benefits yet, that I gained for ye by delaying yer going. Had auld Neville got ye when he wanted ye, three years ago, ye'd hae been at his complete mercy. Now he'll find that he mun be careful in what he asks o' ye, tha' he could as easily get a nay from ye as a yea. For yer muther's sake, ye'll be taking over the duties she was sae happy tae dump on ye, but ye can accomplish wha' needs doing in yer own way, no' as Neville would hae it."

As appeasements went, that one didn't hit the mark for Duncan, when what he wanted was to kick Henry Myron on his way back to England— without him. That thought was so appealing, he almost left the kitchen to do just that. None of them, not his mother nor either grandfather, had taken his own preferences into account. He'd lived all his life in the Highlands. How could any of them think he could possibly want to live anywhere else? Title or not, great wealth or not, he didn’t want to live in England.