Northcliffe Hall
August 15, 1815
TYSEN SHERBROOKE GAZED out the wide windows onto
the east lawn of Northcliffe, his brow furrowed thoughtfully.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I did know that I
was in line for the title, Douglas, but I was so far down
on the list of rightful heirs that I never imagined it could
actually happen. Indeed, I haven’t even thought of it for
a good decade. The last grandson, Ian, he’s really dead?”
“Yes, just six months before the old man died. It seems
he fell off a cliff into the North Sea. The solicitor seems
to think Ian’s death is what shoved Old Tyronne into the
grave. Of course, he was eighty-seven, so he probably
didn’t need much of a push. That means that you, Tysen,
are now Baron Barthwick. It’s an old barony, dating back
to the early fifteenth century, when men of importance
were barons. Earls were later additions, upstarts for a very
long time.”
“I remember Kildrummy Castle, of course,” Tysen said.
“It’s right on the coast, below Stonehaven, overlooking
the North Sea. It’s a beautiful place, Douglas, not immensely
tall with no windows like the old medieval Scottish
castles, but newer, built in the late seventeenth
century, I believe. I remember being told that the original
castle was destroyed in one of their interminable clan
fights. The new one, it’s got gables and chimney stacks—
a good dozen of them—and four round angle-turrets. The
lower floor of the castle is closed off by the building itself
and attached to a curtain wall that encloses a very large
inner courtyard.” Tysen paused a moment, seeing everything
from a younger perspective, and his eyes glistened
a bit as he said, “Ah, but the countryside, Douglas, it is
untamed and wild, as if God gazed down upon it, decided
against our modern buildings and roads, and left it untouched.
There are more crags than you can begin to
count, and deep-rutted paths, just one narrow, winding
road, really, that leads to the castle. There’s a steep, rocky
hill that goes down to a beach, and wildflowers, Douglas,
wildflowers everywhere.”
This was quite a poetic outpouring from his staid, very
serious and literal brother. Douglas was pleased that Tysen
not only remembered Barthwick so well but also appeared
to admire it immensely. He said, “I remember your
going there with Father when you were—what? About ten
years old?”
“That’s right. It was one of the best times of my life.”
Douglas wasn’t at all surprised. It was unusual that any
of them had ever had their father completely to themselves.
Whenever Douglas had his father’s full attention,
he’d felt blessed by the Almighty. He still missed the
former earl, an honorable man who had loved his children
and managed to tolerate his difficult wife with a wry smile
and a shrug of his shoulders. Douglas sighed. So much
change. “Since you are now the holder of an ancient me3
dieval barony, I suppose I shall have to let you sit above
the salt.”
Tysen didn’t laugh, but perhaps he did smile, just a bit.
He hadn’t laughed much since he’d decided to become a
man of God when he was seventeen. Douglas remembered
their brother Ryder telling Tysen that of all the men
placed on this benighted earth, it was a vicar who should
have the greatest sense of humor, since God obviously
did. Just look at all the absurdities that surrounded us.
Hadn’t Tysen ever observed the mating ritual of peacocks,
for example? And just look at their buffoon of a prince
regent, who was so fat he had to be hoisted in and out of
his bathtub? Ah, but Tysen was serious, his sermons highminded,
stark in their message that God was a stern taskmaster
and not apt to easily overlook a man’s lapses.
Tysen was now thirty-one years old. He certainly had the
look of the Sherbrookes—tall, well built, brown hair
streaked with blond, and Sherbrooke eyes the color of a
summer sky. Douglas was the changeling, with his jetblack
hair and dark eyes.
But Tysen didn’t have his siblings’ love of life, their
seemingly inborn boundless joy, their belief that the world
was a very fine place indeed.
“Sitting above the salt—I haven’t heard that phrase in
a very long time,” Tysen said. “I suppose I must travel to
Scotland and see what’s what.” He sighed. “There is always
so much that demands my time here, but Great Uncle
Tyronne deserves an heir who will at least see that the
estate is run properly—not that I have much experience
in that area.”
“You know I will assist you, Tysen. You need but ask.
Would you like me to accompany you to Barthwick?”
Tysen shook his head. “No, Douglas, but I thank you.
It is something that is my responsibility. I have an effi-
4 CATHERINE COULTER
cient curate who can assume my duties for a while. You
remember Samuel Pritchert, don’t you?”
Oh, yes, no way to forget that dour prig. Douglas
merely nodded.
“No, I will go by myself. All the heirs dead. Douglas,
I remember all the cousins. So many boys. All of them
are really dead?”
“Yes, a great shame. Disease, accidents, duels, a case
of too much revelry. As I said, the last heir, Ian Barthwick,
evidently fell off a cliff into the North Sea. The
solicitor wasn’t specific about exactly how it happened.”
“There must have been six boys to inherit, all of them
before me. And that’s why, as I remember, Great Uncle
Tyronne set me up as an heir. It amused him to see it
done legally—to place an English boy in line for an ancient
Scottish barony. Naturally he never expected that it
would come about.”
“And now it’s yours, Tysen. His jest came back to hit
him in the face. The castle, the rich grazing lands, more
sheep than you can count even when you’re trying to fall
asleep—all of it belongs to an Englishman. And many of
the crofters and tenants are fishermen, so that means that
even during bad times, no one starves. It isn’t a wealthy
holding, but it is substantial. I understand that Great Uncle
Tyronne didn’t believe in clearances. None of that has
ever been done on Barthwick land.”
“Good for him,” Tysen said. “It’s a pernicious practice,
Douglas, dragging people off land that they’ve farmed or
raised sheep on for hundreds of years.” He paused a moment,
then said, “I suppose that my son Max is now the
heir to the Barony of Barthwick. I do wonder what he
will have to say to that.”
He would probably quote some Latin, Douglas thought.
His brother’s elder boy was very intelligent, quiet, a
scholar, perhaps even more serious than his father had
been at his age. He had been named after their grandfather,
the only scholar in the entire line of Sherbrookes, so
far as Douglas knew.
“When you leave, Tysen, bring the children here, and
Alex and I will look after them. Your Meggie can whip
not only her brothers into shape but her cousins as well.
Heathens, the both of them.”
Tysen did smile then, a slow, calm smile. “She is amazing,
isn’t she, Douglas?”
“Just like Sinjun at her age. Meggie will rule your
household, Tysen, if you’re not careful.”
Tysen looked appalled. “No, really, not at all like Sinjun,
Douglas. Perhaps she looks like Sinjun, but a hoyden
like Sinjun? Oh, no. I remember Sinjun could drive you
to Bedlam with her antics. Oh, no, Meggie is much more
restrained, much more a little lady than Sinjun ever was.”
Douglas said, “Do you remember how Father threw up
his hands when Sinjun kicked Tommy Maitland in his
backside and he went flying off a cliff? Thank God he
didn’t break his neck.”
Tysen said, “And that time she sewed all your trouser
legs together? I can still hear you yelling, Douglas. No,
Meggie isn’t like Sinjun was. She’s very obedient. I’ve
never had a day’s worry with her.” Suddenly a slight furrow
appeared between his brows. “Well, perhaps she does
have our two servants at her beck and call. Perhaps also
the boys do obey her quickly, usually without fuss. Then
there’s Cook, who actually bakes dishes just for Meggie.
But it is her sweetness, her patience, that gains her the
love and obedience of all those at the vicarage, even her
brothers.”
It was difficult to restrain himself, but Douglas didn’t
roll his eyes. Was his brother completely blind? Evidently
so. Meggie was careful around her father, the chit was
6 CATHERINE COULTER
that smart. He said, “I remember I boxed Sinjun’s ears so
many times I lost count.”
Tysen said, “I did that once. As I remember, I was
thirteen and she was nine and she had tied the tail of my
favorite kite around Corkscrew’s neck—you remember
Corkscrew, don’t you, Douglas? What a dog! He was the
very best. In any case, then Sinjun throws a stick and off
goes Corkscrew, and believe it or not, that kite lifted off
the ground, before it got tangled up in one of Mother’s
rosebushes and got ruined. I smacked her before she managed
to run and hide from me.” Then, very suddenly, Tysen
managed a very big smile. “I hadn’t realized—I will
see Sinjun and Colin. It’s been too long.” He rose and
stretched. “Well, I suppose there is no time like the present.
Samuel Pritchert will take good care of all our people.
Thank you for taking the children, Douglas. I believe I
will leave on Wednesday. I daresay I can write a good
dozen sermons in my head, it will take so long to get
there.”
Meggie quickly ran down the long hallway when she
heard her father moving toward the door of Uncle Douglas’s
estate room. She ran right into her aunt Alex. “Goodness,
Meggie, are you all right?” Alex grasped her niece’s
arms and eyed her closely. “You were listening, weren’t
you? Oh dear, I did too at your age. Your aunt Sinjun
still does. What is going on, Meggie?”
“Father is going to Scotland on Wednesday. He’s leaving
the boys here.”
Alex raised a brow. “Oh, yes, the new title. It’s right
that he should go. And what about you?”
“Oh,” Meggie said, giving her aunt a very wicked
smile. “I’m going with him. He needs me, you know.”
“You think he will take you?”
“Oh, yes,” Meggie said. “Is there anything I can do for
you, Aunt Alex?”
Alex Sherbrooke just stared down at her niece and
lightly touched her fingertips to her lovely hair. Tysen
didn’t have a chance, she thought. She sent Meggie up to
the schoolroom to have luncheon with her brothers and
cousins. They were evidently holding special races, using
the tables and desks for obstacles, their tutor, Mr. Murphy,
had told her as he’d mopped the sweat off his brow. Alex
knew that Meggie could bring them back to order. She
was still smiling when Tysen and Douglas came out of
the library.
“Hollis just told me that luncheon is served,” she said.
“Indeed, my lord,” Hollis said, giving Tysen a rare
smile. “The title and dignities will suit you well.”
“Thank you, Hollis.”
Alex said, “Is the new and very worthy Baron Barthwick
ready for some of Cook’s thin-sliced ham?”
“How very odd that sounds,” Tysen said thoughtfully,
then he added in a very serious voice, “And be sure that
I am seated above the salt cellars, Alex. I am now that
important.”
She laughed, as did Douglas, but Tysen didn’t. He
merely acknowledged with a slight smile that he’d said
something that could be construed as moderately witty,
then asked about his nephews’ health.
“Their health is splendid,” Douglas said. “It’s their
damned good looks that are driving me to the brink of
madness. Both James and Jason will slay the women, Tysen.
By God, they are only ten years old—the same age
as little Meggie—and already all the local girls are showing
up on our doorstep at all hours, presenting colorful
bouquets of flowers wrapped up in pink ribbons for Alex,
presenting me with homemade slippers, even plates of
tarts that they claim they baked with their own small
hands—anything to bring themselves to the twins’ attention.
Most of the time, they have no idea which twin is
which, so you can imagine how many pranks the boys
play on them.” Douglas shook his head, then added,
“Thank God, so far the boys take it in stride, but it’s
nonetheless nauseating and portends bad things for the
future.”
Tysen said as he seated himself at the small dining table,
“I suppose they do greatly resemble your sister,
Alex.” He added matter-of-factly, “It’s true that she is the
most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Isn’t it strange
that the twins should look so much like her and not like
you or Douglas?”
“Tony, damn his eyes, just laughs and laughs whenever
that is pointed out,” Douglas said and handed Tysen a
plate of Cook’s famous thin-sliced ham, sprinkled with
her renowned Secret Recipe that always had badly
crushed basil leaves in it. “At least Tony and Melissande’s
children look like we could be their parents, so that’s
something. Now, Tysen, let me tell you the rest of what
Great Uncle Tyronne’s solicitor wrote.”
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2026 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
