"I tried. You're the one who volunteered to step into the role of my valet," Adam countered. "Why did you do that? You had as much of an opportunity to correct their misconception as I did."
Murphy shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know."
"Neither do I," Adam admitted. "Other than the fact that something simply doesn't feel—"
"—quite right." They answered in unison.
"Exactly," Murphy pronounced. "I can't put my finger on what's bothering me. But I know something is bothering me. I'm not entirely comfortable with this situation."
"Neither am I." Adam paused. "Did you notice the way everyone looked to Max or to George before they moved?"
"I noticed," O'Brien said. "I didn't know if you did."
"I kept telling myself that it was because they didn't understand me, but Max and Isobel and George and Gordon Ross all speak English, so that couldn't be the reason." Adam scratched his forehead. "So why didn't anyone try to help defend her from me?"
"Who?" O'Brien asked.
"You know who," Adam snapped. "The Valkyrie. The Amazon. George."
"You said you didn't sleep with her." Murphy O'Brien enjoyed ruffling Adam McKendrick's feathers, loved seeing him loose some of his control, so he relished his role as devil's advocate every chance he got.
"I didn't," Adam repeated.
Murphy narrowed his gaze. "You wouldn't speak to the Valkyrie the way I heard you speak to her this morning unless you didn't think she was a lady or an innocent or unless you intended to find out."
Adam was thoughtful. "I can't deny that," he said softly. "I spoke to her in a way no gentleman should ever speak to a lady—especially one who is still an innocent."
"How do you know she still innocent?"
Adam shot O'Brien a look that spoke volumes about the continued wisdom of playing devil's advocate or of asking patently stupid questions. "She's still innocent. I'd bet my life on it."
"So would I," O'Brien agreed.
"Then why didn't her father or brother or uncle punch me in the nose?" Adam stared at his friend. "You would have defended your sister's honor. God knows I've defended my sisters' honor often enough." Adam frowned. "So why didn't George's family defend her honor? There's no excuse for it."
"Unless they've something to fear," Murphy suggested.
"Such as?"
"Losing their positions."
"I'm more inclined to dismiss them for not defending her honor than I would be for defending it," Adam said.
"You know that and I know that," O'Brien replied. "But they don't know that because they don't know you. You heard them, Adam, their employer died. They're starting over in a new place. Maybe they were afraid of jeopardizing their positions here."
"I hope so," Adam fervently replied. "I hope it's as simple as that."
"Would you dismiss them?" Murphy asked. "Knowing they may have nowhere else to go?"
"Who me?" Adam put on his most innocent face. "I'm the Bountiful Baron, remember? Western Benefactor to Blond, Beautiful, and Betrayed Women everywhere."
"Ah, criminy," Murphy swore. "I knew it!"
"Knew what?"
"You're preparin' for a third installment."
Adam grinned. "Then let the adventures begin...."
Chapter 10
The 'Bountiful Baron is a man of action and few words.
—The Second Installment of the True Adventures of the Bountiful Baron: Western Benefactor to Blond, Beautiful, and Betrayed Women written by John J. Bookman, 1874.
Once Adam decided the lodge was ideally suited for the purpose he intended, plans for the building and the grounds got under way.
No one knew exactly what the McKendrick had in mind for the lodge, but everyone wanted to watch the progress and share in the process. The word went out that the McKendrick was a rich, eccentric American who paid top wages to workers willing to help renovate the lodge and construct a private golf links. McKendrick was looking for permanent staff, and that was all that was needed to entice the men and women in Kinlochen and the surrounding crofts and villages to travel to Larchmont to offer their services as craftsmen and day laborers and as housemaids, laundresses, cooks, and kitchen and scullery maids; as stewards and footmen, gardeners and gardeners' helpers, stable boys and caddies. Permanent staff lived in and was allowed one day off a week, paid holidays, and time off for sickness and emergencies. They were guaranteed perquisites at Easter and Christmas and the end of every year of service. A permanent position in a house like Larchmont Lodge was the best form of employment one could hope for in the Highlands, and dozens of applicants vied for every position.
Adam had never lived or worked in a house the size of Larchmont Lodge. He didn't know everything he needed to know in order to run a huge household, but he owned and operated a hotel and saloon back home in Nevada, and he knew enough to hire the best people he could find and allow them to take pride in doing their jobs. At Larchmont Lodge the man charged with the task of finding the right people for the jobs was Gordon Ross. Gordon quickly learned that Adam McKendrick was a man who held his staff to high standards. In that regard, he was like every aristocrat and royal Gordon had ever come across, but unlike most royalty, the McKendrick expected and was willing to pay well for quality service.
And Adam believed in allowing a man the opportunity to pursue his dreams. No one employed at Larchmont Lodge had to remain in his current station simply because the men in his family had always held that position. If a gardener aspired to become a butler or a stable boy or stable master or valet, Adam McKendrick believed in allowing him the opportunity. He believed in providing the men and women who lived and worked on his domain with opportunities for advancement and the means to live a better life.
To that end, Adam asked Gordon to create as many jobs as possible, and to arrange to have a roster of additional help available at all times. The additional staff would earn quarter day wages for agreeing to work at the lodge when needed and would receive full day wages to supplement their regular income for substituting for permanent employees on off-days, holidays, sickness, or emergencies. This meant that the local farmers, craftsmen, shop owners, housewives, and crofters could continue to work for themselves, but would also have the opportunity to receive training in other positions and to earn additional wages by working at the lodge or on the grounds. Max, Isobel, and Albert were in charge of training all household workers, and Gordon and Josef were in charge of training all outside workers.
Except children. Adam specifically instructed Gordon not to hire children. Any young man or girl hoping to work at Larchmont Lodge or for the McKendrick had to have reached their sixteenth year. Children could be paid for helping with the daily chores like running errands or sweeping steps and walkways, for walking ponies, mucking stalls, and weeding borders and flower beds, and other traditional childhood tasks so long as they worked no more than a half day.
Gordon agreed, and although the grounds of the lodge echoed with the sounds of children, it was the sound of laughter and play. Once the staff and the day laborers were in force, the creation of the golf links began near one of the old stone gatehouses that was being renovated to include a bar and wine cellar overlooking the eighteenth green.
Adam sent to St. Andrew's, the oldest golf links in Scotland, for help in designing the one at Larchmont. He also sent for instructors and craftsmen to fashion the clubs and balls used in the game. Because he was paying top wages, men who loved the game of golf flocked to Larchmont looking for work. That influx of workers dictated that the next step in the renovation was the refurbishing of the staff quarters.
Adam's decision to begin with the women's wing of the servants' quarters was a result of a simple but earnest desire to remove George Langstrom's wolfhound from the second floor—and his close proximity to Adam's bed. Work began at the top. Laborers repaired the leaking roof and ceiling by installing new slate roofing tiles and a new plaster ceiling. Oilskin shades and thick wooden interior shutters were added to the wi
ndows to help keep out the cold night air and interior walls removed so that bats of thatch and straw could be stuffed between the wooden timbers and the stone exterior wall as additional insulation.
The dormitory-style quarters, though efficient and practical for children, allowed little privacy for adults, so Adam ordered the room partitioned off into private areas that each contained a bed with feather mattresses, a nightstand, a chair, a wash-stand and a mirror. One larger, separate, more spacious area contained a bed long and wide enough for a very tall woman and an Irish wolfhound to sleep on. Two water closets with twin sinks and bathtubs, hot and cold running water, and two toilets were added.
No one in the village of Kinlochen had ever seen a water closet, and workers had to be brought in from Glasgow, along with the supplies, in order to construct them. But Adam felt it was worth the expense and the effort.
In his journeys to England escorting or visiting his sister, Kirstin, Adam had discovered that the water closets, if they existed at all, left a great deal to be desired. Those with running water worked intermittently, and the others weren't water closets at all, but earth closets or worse, chamber pots in wooden cabinets. Wealthy gentlemen expected better facilities, and the employees who provided service for wealthy gentlemen deserved better.
Unfortunately, the construction of the water closets and the bathing facilities was proving to be more of a challenge than Adam had anticipated. The employees and the locals who kept stopping by the construction site to gawk hampered the craftsmen and laborers from Glasgow.
The only employees who seemed immune to gawking were Gordon Ross and the Langstrom family. The women's wing was in chaos, but the rest of the house ran as smoothly as clockwork. It didn't run to suit him, but it ran smoothly.
It was hard to believe. Especially in light of the fact that the only members of the staff who followed his instructions were the laborers working on the renovations. He was the undisputed head of the household, but nothing in the household ran according to his directions.
In the three weeks he'd been at Larchmont Lodge, Adam discovered that breakfast was never served when he ordered it. Nor luncheon or dinner. None of his domestic instructions were followed as he issued them—all of them seemed to be circumvented by someone—either Isobel, or Albert or Max— but Adam had to admit that the household ran smoothly—with or without his instructions.
His sister Kirstin had told him once that England's great country houses were run for the convenience of the staff and not for the convenience of the owners. Adam had scoffed at the notion, but now he wasn't so sure. He didn't like it, but he didn't seem to be able to do very much about it. He couldn't even control the dog.
Adam entered his bedchamber to find the wolfhound lying in the center of his bed. The dog lay snoring on his back with all four paws in the air. Careful not to wake the beast, Adam backed out of his bedroom and closed the door. "Miss Langstrom!"
A door down the hall opened. Shy, dark-haired Brenna stepped onto the threshold and covered a yawn with her hand.
"Not you." Adam pointed toward his bedroom door. "The other Miss Langstrom."
Brenna frowned at him.
Adam frowned back at her. "George. I want George. Your sister Georgiana ... Where is she?"
Brenna pointed to the valet's room across the hall.
Adam crossed the hall and opened the door. "Miss Langstrom!"
The Langstrom in question sat before the coal grate, a pair of leather work gloves, a pail of ashes, and a container of lead black beside her. She turned at the sound of his voice and Adam noticed several things at once—she wore a black silk moire gown—a Worth from the look of it—covered by a plain white cotton pinafore. The black set her blond hair and her figure off to perfection, much better than the soot streaked on her right cheek and across her forehead.
"Yes?"
"We need to talk about your dog."
"Oh?" George wiped her hands on her skirt and jumped to her feet so fast she stepped on the hem of her dress, lost her balance, and fell against the mantel. A porcelain shepherdess toppled off her pedestal and crashed to the hearth.
Adam moved as quickly as possible, but he wasn't fast enough to save the delicate bone china. The shepherdess figurine splintered against the marble.
A look of sheer horror crossed George's face as she dropped to her knees and began collecting the pieces of the broken shepherdess. It wasn't the first object she'd broken in his presence. Yesterday she had dropped a tray of dishes she'd been carrying to the kitchen when she met him in the corridor, and three days before that she had broken one of the collection of clay pipes in his study, and the day before that she had lost her grip on a china cup and saucer when he walked into the dining room.
"I am too sorry," she apologized.
"It's all right." Adam bent to help her. He took several large pieces of the figurine she'd retrieved from the hearth out of her hand and placed them in the ash pail.
"But..." Embarrassed beyond belief at her unprincesslike clumsiness, Giana resumed her hurried attempt to gather all the bits of the broken shepherdess. She collected the largest pieces of china, then unthinkingly swept her palm across the hearth to corral the smaller pieces.
"No!" Adam grabbed hold of her wrist to stop her. The touch of his fingers on her hand sent a jolt of electricity through him, but he was so intent on preventing the mishap he knew was coming that he barely noticed. But he was too late.
Adam flinched almost as badly as Giana as a piece of one of the lambs that had adorned the base of the figurine sliced through the fleshy portion of her palm.
"Oh." She gasped in pain and surprise and instinctively closed her hand to halt the flow of bright crimson blood that ran from the cut down the side of her hand.
"Don't!" Adam eased his grip and gently caressed her wrist with the pads of his fingers, feeling the steady throb of her pulse against them, as he gently pried open her fist. "Please." He looked into her eyes. "Let me."
Giana opened her hand, relaxing her grip and allowing the McKendrick to inspect the wound.
There were blisters on her palm and a jagged wound. Adam ran his thumb over the cut, wincing as he felt the sliver of china from the shepherdess protruding from her hand. The wound was small, but fairly deep, and droplets of blood pooled around his thumb, staining the nail.
George sucked in a breath.
Gritting his teeth, Adam carefully removed the porcelain shard. It had to hurt, but she didn't complain.
Adam noticed the tears sparkling on her lashes and the incredibly fragile feel of her hand in his. He was immediately struck by the contrast of their skin tones—his dark, hers so pale and translucent that he could see the fine network of blue veins beneath her skin.
Reaching for the handkerchief in his breast pocket, Adam carefully dabbed at the bloody cut, before wrapping it around her palm to help stanch the crimson flow. The expression on her face tugged at his heart. It was filled with equal amounts of bewilderment and betrayal. She looked like a lost child who can't understand how she came to be that way. Adam impulsively pressed a kiss against her palm to make the hurt go away the way his mother and sisters had kissed away his childhood wounds.
Giana shivered at the rush of warmth flooding her body when Adam gently pressed his lips against her hand. A shock of awareness jolted her. She stared up at him. The flicker of deep emotion in his dark eyes pleased her. She held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity, reluctant to let it go. The look in his eyes sent a tingle of awareness down her spine. "I am too sorry about the little shepherdess."
"It doesn't matter," Adam told her.
"Oh, but it does," Giana insisted. She recognized the fact that the little shepherdess had been a priceless bit of sixteenth-century porcelain.
"I will pay for it and for all the other things I have damaged."
"There's no need." He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm as much to blame for the accident as you are. I startled you. If I hadn't burst in here shouting at you about th
e dog, you wouldn't have knocked the shepherdess off the mantel. Besides, it was only a bit of pottery."
"But it was Meissen porcelain ..." Giana murmured.
That caught his attention. Adam lifted an eyebrow in query. "How did you know it was Meissen?"
Giana bit her bottom lip. "We ... I... She ... had a collection of Meissen shepherdesses."
"Who?" He asked.
"The countess of Brocadia." Giana glanced at him from beneath her lashes. "I dusted them."
"Brocavia," Adam corrected, caressing her wrist with his thumb.
"Pardon?"
Her pulse fluttered beneath his thumb. "The countess of Brocavia," he explained. "You said you dusted the countess of Brocadia's Meissen shepherdesses."
Giana lowered her gaze. "I meant the countess of Brocavia. My English is not—"
"Your English is fine," Adam told her. "It's your countess I question." He also questioned the countess's wisdom in allowing George to dust her collection of little shepherdesses. But that was supposing the countess actually existed and Adam wasn't so sure.
"I do not know what you mean," she said.
"I think you do."
Giana's eyes momentarily flashed fire as she pulled her hand from his grasp and scrambled to her feet. It was the second time the McKendrick had accused her of telling an untruth. And the fact that he was right only made it worse. Before her parents' death, Giana had never knowingly told a lie, but her parents' death had necessitated a huge deception and an intricate web of half-truths. But she wasn't a liar by nature, and Giana couldn't help but take exception to the fact that Adam McKendrick believed she was.
Adam didn't get to his feet right away. He stayed where he was, kneeling on the hearth, wishing he didn't have to force the issue, wishing he didn't have to acknowledge what he knew must be the truth. But wishing didn't change the truth or make the confrontation any easier. Adam let out a breath and pushed himself to his feet. He expected to tower over her and was pleasantly surprised, once again, when he was able to look her in the eye. "There was no countess of Brocavia."