Soul Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)(38)

He saw his father smile fondly. His mother laughed. “Well! She sounds like a good sort. Tell me more, Son?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, she's the daughter of the duke of Pavot, and she's...a bit frail.”

“Frail?” his mother wanted to know at once. As daughter of the Seer of Dunkeld, his mother was always quick to take interest in the health of others, though she herself was not a healer.

“Well,” he paused, thinking about how to describe Claudine's malady. “She...she tires very quickly. And she can't walk, not far.”

“Oh.” Leona nodded slowly. “Perhaps a stay in the country would be of benefit to her. It's something I've noted. The air in town is tired air – too many people breathing it, too many fires and middens and things to taint it.”

Conn chuckled. “I think you should mention that one to your mother,” he commented. “All the physicians I know say too much fresh air is dangerous for you. But if you've observed something else, I'll take your word on it.”

Leona nodded, smiling with contentment. “I'm glad you will.” She turned to Francis. “Do you think she would be allowed to visit us here? In the countryside?”

Francis frowned. “I don't know.”

“Why not?” his mother asked.

Conn laughed. “You do read the poor young man the rule book. I'm sure he'll tell us slowly. In his own time.”

Leona rolled her eyes at her husband, though she was still smiling fondly at him. “Conn, you stubborn...oh!” She grinned impishly. Then she turned back to her son. “Now, Son. Why ever not?”

Francis sighed. Their interchange had given him a moment or two to think about it, but he still had no ready answer.

“I think her family would not approve of me,” he said slowly. “I mean...Lady Claudine is the only daughter of the duke, and I rather think they want a duke's son for her.”

Conn pursed his lips. “You're probably right, son,” he said softly. “But then, we cannot know that. You met her father?” He frowned.

Francis shook his head slowly. Now that he thought about it, that was odd in itself. He had not so much as heard of the Duc du Pavot, the entire week. Whenever she went about the palace, she was with her maid, or uncle. Or both – but never her father. That seemed strange.

“I wonder that the duke has not passed on,” he said carefully. “For I never saw him there.”

He let a serving man refill his empty dish of stewed plums gratefully, and then turned to his mother.

“I don't know, Son,” she said mildly. “Conn? Do you?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. I do seem to recall something about du Pavot, mind. I can't think what it is now. But when I think of it, I'll be sure to tell you.” He smiled at Francis.

“Thank you, Father,” he said.

“Right. Now. If nobody minds, I think I'll ask Margerie to bring us some of that marzipan from the kitchens. I still feel as if I haven't had my fill.” Conn grinned.

Leona laughed. “You two! You're so alike sometimes it scares me. Not that I'm averse to a little marzipan, mind you. I could round off a good luncheon with that.”

They both smiled fondly at her.

When luncheon was over, Francis went to his chambers, where Yves had arranged for his clothes chest and saddle-pack to be brought. He opened the saddle-pack, drawing out the roll of documents, one with a seal attached.

“I should take these down to Father.”

He went to his father's study, a small room at the end of the second floor. “Father?”

“Come in, Son. Just checking the accounts before Yves comes in. Or he'll be casting his hawk's eye over them and see my mistakes. Good to have him back.”

Francis laughed. “Good. Father? I had the documents verified. Here they are.”

“Oh. Wonderful. Thank you, Son. If we could just keep them in this drawer here? Perfect. Next time old Malviers comes up with some creative story about his cattle straying, he'll get a surprise.” He chuckled.

Francis, remembering Yves and his suggestion about Malviers and the cattle, laughed. “Quite so.”

He felt reluctant to leave and lingered in the doorway, wanting to speak to his father.

“What is it, Son?” his father asked.

“Father? I wanted to tell you something. But I'm not sure how to start.”

“You're in love with the Lady Claudine?” his father inquired.

Francis stared at him. “H...how did you guess it?”

His father chuckled. “I was in love too, once.”

Francis nodded. “I know, Father. I see the love between you and Mother so much more clearly.”

“Well,” Conn ran a hand through his hair, the same reddish paleness as his son's own. “If you feel halfway the same to how I feel about your mother, it couldn't be better.” he gave a contented sigh.

This close, Francis could see the signs of his father's age – the carved wrinkles at the corner of his eyes from squinting into bright sunshine, the etched lines on his brow. There was gray in his hair and the skin of his cheek was looser than it might have once been. However, the softness in his eyes and his tenderness when he spoke of Leona was moving.

“I hope so,” he said.