But if the crofters of Glenrose were like those of Brenmore, a stubborn few would do all in their limited power to resist. They would have to be forced out.
It was an ugly task, one Blair had witnessed first-hand as a younger man. Then again, it was better than the alternative. Change had come to the Highlands, whether its residents liked it or not.
Blair’s father had held out as long as he could to preserve Brenmore as it had once been, but ultimately he’d bent to the forces of modernization. Far too many of his peers had continued on as before, either afraid of change or defiant against it, only to fall into bankruptcy and lose everything.
More than once after his father’s passing, Blair had thought bitterly that he ought to have inherited the title of Earl of Cheviot, for all that was left of Brenmore were sheep. But at least he still controlled his family’s ancestral lands. Brenmore still existed—if in name rather than spirit—and remained in the care of the MacTierney line.
If he were to take on the role of Lavinia MacInnish’s guardian, it would mean making hard choices about her future inheritance. Blair couldn’t in good conscience leave such decisions to solicitors, who’d likely run the estate into the ground. It would be better to turn to sheep grazing and have something left to leave the late Lord Glenrose’s daughter.
Depending on the condition he found the estate’s finances in, however, Blair would have to play the part of cold-hearted, clear-eyed executor when it came time to clear the estate’s residents from their homes.
Just as his father had before him, Blair would bear that unpleasant responsibility.
Decided, he turned to face Cullingham. “I’ll have to go to Glenrose to determine the nature of the late Earl’s affairs. In all likelihood, Glenrose will need to follow Brenmore’s course to keep my ward’s inheritance solvent.”
Cullingham nodded crisply. “I can begin drawing up the papers right away, my lord. As I said, it should be a straightforward matter, tidily handled.”
Though Cullingham might think it simple when written out in ink on paper, Blair very much suspected these next few weeks would be anything but tidy.
He hadn’t been to the Highlands since his father’s death. Nor had he wanted to return, for the Highlands of his youth had been cleared away along with the crofters. It had been a bitter departure, seeing the estate stripped of all but sheep and putting his father in the frozen ground. He’d overseen Brenmore from his Edinburgh residence ever since. But it seemed fate was dragging him northward once more.
He tugged distractedly on his cravat. This business would be over soon enough, he reminded himself.
“Very good. I’ll send word from Glenrose. With any luck, we’ll have matters settled before the new year.”
Chapter Two
Blair turned up the collar of his woolen overcoat. Life in the Lowlands had made him soft. He’d forgotten how the cold, damp Highland air knifed through clothing and flesh to sink into the bone.
Breath puffing in misty white plumes before his face, he urged his horse into a trot. Glenrose manor must be close now.
It had been his idea to travel by horseback despite the predictably foul weather. None of the newly constructed railway lines even came close to this remote corner of the Highlands, and Blair preferred to avoid rattling around in a carriage for long stretches whenever possible.
Besides, this mode of travel would allow him to get a sense of the condition of Glenrose lands even before reaching the estate. Still, he flexed his gloved hands on the reins for the dozenth time against the piercing chill.
He’d been traveling along the edge of the estate for some time, past rolling hills made umber by the frigid season and a handful of crofts hunkered down under the slate-gray sky, but had yet to catch a glimpse of the residence.
Just as he crested a rise in the muddy road, the manor house revealed itself off to the north. Its gray stone façade was nearly lost against the bleak clouds behind it, except that the structure’s sharp lines set it in relief.
It was an ancient keep, at least three hundred years old if Blair’s estimation was right, and perhaps even older.
The bulk of the structure was rectangular, but two round towers had been added to diagonal corners. Judging from the slight variation in the stones’ color, a more recent addition had been made at the back of the main keep, but otherwise, Blair might as well have been riding directly into the medieval era.
He turned off the road and onto a long, graveled path that led to the front of the manor.
As he drew nearer, he was relieved to note that although the keep was old, it was not the crumbling, decrepit castle he’d feared upon first sighting. The windows were glassed, the stones free of moss and cracks, and the pathway leading to the wide double doors well-tended.
Still, the manor cut a solemn, imposing line against the austere landscape, a reminder of a harsher time. To his surprise, that gave Blair a strange comfort. The gears of change ground slowly here. These stones had withstood wars, famine, sieges, and several centuries’ worth of Highland winters. It was not unlike Brenmore in that regard—or at least how Blair remembered it from his youth.
He guided his horse around to the side of the keep, where he’d spotted a wooden add-on that appeared to be the stables. When he dismounted and led the animal through the open door, a stable hand jumped to his feet so quickly that he knocked over the
