Page 120 of The Laird's Masked Passion

At last, Maither has written.

She reached for it too quickly, nearly upsetting the cup beside her. Tea washed across the saucer and stained the white cloth beneath it, but Elspeth scarcely noticed.

“Thank ye,” she told the servant.

The door closed, and only then did she turn the letter over.

The writing upon the front was not her mother’s. Morven Fraser formed Elspeth’s name with soft, generous curves, as though even ink deserved kindness. These letters were narrow and severe. Each stroke stood apart from the next with no more warmth between them than soldiers arranged for inspection.

Thomas Fraser.

Elspeth’s fingers tightened around the parchment. She considered leaving it unopened. This was foolish, of course. A letter could not become less dreadful merely because one refused to break its seal. Still, she sat for several moments with it upon her lap, listening to the low crackle of the fire and the wind pressing weakly against the chamber windows.

Finally, Elspeth broke the seal. The sound was very small. It nevertheless seemed to split the room. She unfolded the parchment and began to read.

Elspeth,

Nodear. No blessing. No inquiry after her health.

She had not expected one, yet expectation had never prevented disappointment from arriving.

Yer letter was received. Yer maither was in nay condition tae answer it, and therefore the burden has fallen tae me.

Elspeth’s breath stopped. Her eyes returned to the words.

Nay condition.

Her mother had been unable to write.

Elspeth pressed one hand against the edge of the table. She continued.

Ye have at last proved useful tae this family. Yer marriage settled a debt which could nay longer be permitted tae threaten Fraser lands, and ye have been provided with a husband whose rank exceeds what might otherwise have been expected fer ye.

Heat rose through Elspeth’s face.

Useful.

The word struck with the old familiarity of her father’s voice. He had often spoken of people as though they were tools of varying quality. A servant was useful until age slowed her. A tenant was useful while rents were paid. A daughter, apparently, became useful only when sold.

She looked toward the fire. For one fierce instant, she wanted to thrust the letter into it and watch her father’s careful hand blacken at the edges. But her mother remained somewhere below the next fold, so Elspeth read on.

It is unfortunate that even in performing the single duty required of ye, ye have managed tae bring further disorder upon us.

Her fingers went cold. She read the sentence again, because cruelty was sometimes so calmly expressed that the mind mistook it for reason.

The attack upon the cathedral has caused considerable embarrassment. Questions have been asked which ought never tae have arisen, and men of the Crown have made themselves troublesome where discretion would have better served all involved.

Elspeth’s mouth parted, though no sound came.

Men had died. Blood had run over consecrated stone. Women had screamed beneath the clash of steel. Colin had taken a blade across his hand while standing between her and an armed man. Her father called it allembarrassment.

A bitter laugh rose in her throat and died there.

Whether the violence followed MacKenzie or was provoked by some conduct of yers is nae yet kent. Given yer tendency toward defiance, I cannae dismiss either possibility.

The paper trembled. Elspeth placed it upon the table, but that only made the trembling visible in her hands. She was being accused as though she had invited armed men into the cathedral between the vows and the kiss, and as though Robert Munro gathered soldiers because Elspeth once spoke too sharply at breakfast or failed to lower her eyes quickly enough beneath her father’s displeasure.

She knew it was absurd. Yet guilt did not require truth in order to wound. It needed only a familiar doorway, and her father had spent years building them within her.