Enlightened

by Joanna Chambers

  The sudden, unexpected insult shocked David like a physical blow, and his gaze snapped to Murdo, who looked so furious David was sure he was about to lose his formidable temper. To David’s surprise, though, he pressed his lips together, keeping himself in check, even as a faint flush across his cheekbones and the flaring of nostrils betrayed his agitation.

  “I know you have no manners, Father,” Murdo said, “but Mr. Lauriston—my secretary—is a guest in this house, and I will thank you to show him the respect he deserves.”

  “Your secretary,” the marquess repeated, his tone frankly disbelieving. Then he shook his head and brushed past Murdo, walking farther into the room and sitting himself down on the same chair Murdo had selected earlier. It was the chair, David realised, of the master of the house, occupying as it did the dominant position in the room.

  Murdo turned to David. “Go and see your friend,” he said quietly. “Liddle will arrange the carriage for you.”

  “There’s no need for Mr. Lauriston to leave,” the marquess said behind him in a carrying, cut-glass voice. “I’m not here to discuss matters of state, Murdo. Nothing I have to say to you needs to be said in private. In fact—”

  Murdo turned on him. “Father—” he began, but the marquess went on, heedless of the interruption.

  “—it rather seems to me that it’s only fair if he stays to hear what I have to say.” He gave Murdo a small, cruel smile before turning his gaze on David again. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Lauriston?”

  David frowned and glanced at Murdo, who was still staring at his father, his expression betraying nothing, though David could detect his suppressed anxiety.

  David stayed silent, not responding to the marquess. But neither did he move away. He knew something was coming, something that Murdo didn’t want him to hear and that the marquess definitely did, and for the life of him he couldn’t walk away, despite knowing this was going to be painful.

  “You see,” the marquess continued in a deceptively reasonable tone of voice, addressing himself to David this time, “I’ve been trying to prevail upon Murdo to come back to London for, oh, about six months now. To fulfil an obligation he undertook almost a year ago.”

  Murdo glanced at David. “I was going to tell you,” he muttered. “I just needed to—” He broke off, and his gaze was bleak.

  “Tell me what?” David asked weakly.

  “About his engagement,” the marquess said. “Murdo has been engaged to Lady Louisa Hartley since last March. And it’s past time the wedding took place.”

  Chapter Ten

  Murdo was engaged to be married—and he’d never said a word about it to David.

  All those letters from London...

  David perched on the edge of one of the uncomfortable drawing room chairs and stared at his own hands. Out in the hall, the marquess was complaining at being escorted out of the house. No sooner had the marquess made his announcement—and David had murmured some vague words of congratulation—than Murdo had invented another pressing appointment he had to attend. The marquess didn’t believe a word of it, but Murdo had somehow herded him out of the room while David hung on to his dignity by a thread, a strained smile on his face.

  Another rumble of voices. Murdo’s was low and certain, the marquess’s sharp and querulous. Then the front door closed, and the only sound was Murdo’s careful footsteps crossing the hall.

  When David looked up, Murdo was standing in the doorway, an expression on his face that David found difficult to read—his mouth was tight and grim, as though he was angry, but his dark eyes were soft with regret. He stepped into the room and closed the door carefully behind him

  For a long moment, they were both silent, then Murdo said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I wanted to fix it before I told you.”

  “Fix it?”

  “Break it off.”

  David gave a sharp, humourless laugh. “How can you break it off? You’re engaged. You’ve made a promise to this Lady Louisa.”

  Murdo sighed and passed a weary hand over his face. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you,” he said. “I knew you’d say that.”

  David stood up so quickly, his knee felt like a knife had been stuck in it, and he had to grab the back of the chair to steady himself.

  “How dare you!” he said. “How fucking dare you! You didn’t tell me you were engaged—and you knew very well how I’d feel about that.”

  Murdo looked away, his expression part ashamed, part mutinous. “You think these things are written in stone, David, but the reality is, engagements are quietly terminated all the time.”

  “The reality is, it’s a legally binding arrangement, and she’s entitled to hold you to it.”

  “For God’s sake, Lady Louisa Hartley will not cause a scandal by suing me for breach of promise! That would benefit no one—least of all her. She’d be a laughingstock!” Murdo stepped forward, closing the gap between them. “David, please—I just need a little time to negotiate my way out of this. I’ll meet with her father, agree on an appropriate form of compensation, and let him make whatever announcement he wants to ensure Louisa saves face—”

  “You think it will be that easy?” David retorted hotly. “With your own father determined that the marriage should proceed?”

  Murdo’s jaw tightened. “Forget my father. I can deal with him.”

  David’s anger drained away, to be replaced with anxiety. “You’re talking about a man who threatened to have you committed to an asylum when you spoke of defying him once before. He knows what you are, and he’s shown you he’s prepared to use that knowledge against you.”

  “So I shouldn’t try to extricate myself, is that what you’re saying? You think I should marry her?” Murdo’s expression was grim.

  “Christ, I don’t know!” David exclaimed. He turned away, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I only learned about this ten minutes ago. What do you want me to say?”

  “Honestly?” Murdo snapped. “I rather hoped you might actually want me to give her up.”

  David slowly turned back to look at Murdo, staring at him in bewildered astonishment.

  “Oh, it’s not as though I expected you to say that,” Murdo added in a bitter tone. “I expected exactly this—for you to tell me I can’t get out of the engagement, that I’m honour-bound to go through with the wedding. To keep a fast hold of that precious pride of yours, that part of you that you guard so fucking close.”

  David’s temper returned at that. “You chose to keep this from me,” he exclaimed, “and now you expect me to shrug it off within ten minutes?”

  “No, of course I don’t! I wanted to tell you. But every time I thought about it—hell, I knew it would be like this. I thought if I could just resolve it first, then tell you...” He broke off, shaking his head, his eyes on the floor as though he couldn’t bear to look at David.

  David didn’t know what to say. He was angry and grief-stricken. The fact that Murdo had deliberately kept this from him—through all those days and nights together at Laverock House—made him feel sick to his stomach. He wanted to walk out of this house and out of London and keep walking till he reached home.

  “I’m going to see Elizabeth,” he said, suddenly decisive. “It’s probably better if we’re apart for a bit.” He made for the door, his arm brushing against Murdo’s as he passed.

  “David—” Murdo said. His voice sounded rusty and broken, but he didn’t put a hand out to detain David, and David didn’t look back.

  HE’D COME AWAY WITHOUT directions to Blackfriars, but he didn’t want to return to the house, so he just walked till he came upon a groom tending a gentleman’s horse outside another lofty townhouse. Once he’d got used to the man’s strong cockney accent, he discovered the way to Blackfriars was simple enough—walk east and stay close to the river, keeping an eye out for the tall steeple of St. Bride’s Church to the north.

  Even with such simpl
e directions, David felt somewhat disorientated. It was the sheer size of London. Like twenty cities in one, and everything scaled up accordingly. Streets that were miles long and mazes of squares and crescents and lanes. Every now and again, he made sure to stop a passerby to check that he was still going the right way.

  It was easier once he had St. Bride’s Church’s steeple in his sights. The groom had told him that once he’d passed it, Blackfriars was very close, and, sure enough, a talkative costermonger was able to direct him to Shoemaker Row with a few simple instructions. David gave him a penny for a sorry-looking apple in thanks, passing the fruit to a beggar woman he passed a few minutes later.

  As he walked on, the streets became shorter and narrower, a labyrinth of lanes whose tall, stooped buildings crowded together like a parliament of crooked old men sharing a fire. There were no cobbles here, just hard-packed dirt lanes riddled with potholes and muddy puddles. The walking was hard on David’s leg, and he found himself relying on his cane more than he liked to. He’d left Murdo’s house over an hour ago, and the temper that had sent him striding out the door had worn off some way back. Now, he was tired and aching and longing to reach his destination, even as he dreaded carrying out the task that had been given to him.

  Elizabeth and Euan lived on a tiny street just off Shoemaker Row. It was a little shabby, but clean and well tended. A group of laughing children played with a couple of spinning tops in the street while their mothers exchanged gossip from their front stoops. When David paused outside Elizabeth’s door, one of the women looked over at him.

  “You looking for someone?”

  David took a chance that Euan would be going by his own name, even if Elizabeth was not.

  “Mr. MacLennan,” he said. “He’s an old friend.”

  “Oh, you’re Scotch, like them,” the other woman said then, smiling. “Well, Mr. Mac’ll be at his work, I’d think, but his missus’ll be in, I reckon.” She turned aside, satisfied now that she knew his business, and David knocked on the door, hoping they were right and that Elizabeth was in.

  She was. She answered the door, looking pink-cheeked and dishevelled with floury hands and a tendril of dark hair stuck to her cheek.

  For a long moment she just stared at David in utter disbelief, then she let out a cry and threw herself into his arms. He laughed, purely in surprise, then patted her back awkwardly. Despite everything, they had always been physically formal with one another, and this unbridled affection was entirely new.

  Eventually, Elizabeth pulled back, and he saw that her eyes were wet and the hand that covered her mouth trembled.

  “David—” she whispered. “It’s really you.”

  “It is,” he said, smiling. “May I come in?”

  She laughed at that, through her tears, a lovely happy sound that made him feel good. “Of course, what am I thinking? Come in, come in!”

  She ushered him into a tiny hallway, closing the door behind them.

  “You look well,” she said, looking him over. Her roving gaze snagged on his cane, and she added, “Did you walk here?”

  “All the way from Mayfair.”

  “Mayfair? Goodness me, that’s miles!”

  “Yes, well, my knee’s grumbling a bit now,” David admitted. “Do you suppose I could sit down?”

  “Of course! Look at me, keeping you standing here! Come into the kitchen and sit down. I’m making a pie.”

  She bustled in front of him, and he noticed she’d put a little weight on. She was, once again, the round, cheerful girl he’d first known, rather than the thin, haunted one who had returned to Edinburgh after months of marriage to Sir Alasdair Kinnell. Now, in a plain, green-and-white gown with a serviceable apron over it, she looked very far from that sad, wealthy and finely dressed woman.

  “You’re making a pie?” David repeated, following her into the kitchen, a small, cosy room, with a good-going fire in the hearth. “I didn’t even know you could cook.”

  He sat on one of the mismatched chairs grouped round the table in the middle of the room. It was a rough-hewn old thing, but the edges of the wood were worn soft by years of use, and he eased into it thankfully, biting back the sigh of relief that wanted to emerge as he took the weight off his leg.

  “I couldn’t cook before,” Elizabeth admitted. “But of course, I’m having to learn. I’ve been making lots of mistakes, but I think I’m getting the hang of it now.” She dipped her hand into a can of flour and dusted the wooden table with her bounty. The gesture—ordinary, domestic—reminded David sharply of sitting at his mother’s table when he was a child, and he felt a sudden wave of nostalgia for those simple, uncomplicated times.

  “At any rate,” Elizabeth went on, blushing faintly, eyes fixed on the floury wood, “Euan thinks my apple pie is wonderful.”

  David watched her, touched by her quietly defiant embarrassment.

  “Is he working just now?” he asked, more to put her at ease than to ask a question to which he could already guess the answer.

  She looked up then and smiled gratefully. “Yes, but he’ll be back later, for dinner. You’ll stay for dinner, David? He’ll want to see you, of course.”

  “I’d love to,” he assured her. The longer he was away from Murdo right now, the better.

  “Good,” she said and bustled away to fetch something out of the larder.

  David knew that now was the time to speak, now the time to tell her about her father. He knew he ought not to delay further, but it was difficult to find the words, and he couldn’t say them to the back of her head.

  She emerged from the larder with a bowl of pastry dough in her hands and began rolling it into a wide, flat circle with a wooden pin, chattering about her cooking adventures. David smiled and nodded, watching her turn the pastry and flour it, all the while steeling himself to speak the words that wouldn’t come.

  Once Elizabeth was satisfied with the shape of her rolled-out dough, she curled the flattened disc round her wooden pin and carefully draped it over a dish of cut-up apples that was waiting on the table. The thin pastry settled over the bumpy fruit like a bed sheet, and she nicked a hole in the middle of it before trimming the excess pastry away and pinching the edges closed, her actions deft and sure.

  “You look quite the thing,” David said. “I’d’ve thought you’d been cooking for years if I didn’t know otherwise.”

  “Apple pie is simple,” Elizabeth said, taking the lid off a huge cast-iron pot and carefully placing the pie dish inside.

  David recognised the pot as being very like one his mother used for baking, and just as his mother did at home, Elizabeth used a stout stick to pick up the pot and hoist it onto the fire, covering the lid with a few shovelfuls of hot embers, so that the pie inside was surrounded by heat.

  “Let’s have a cup of tea while we wait,” she said, adding after a long pause, “It’s so very good to see you, David.”

  “It’s good to see you too,” he said honestly. All these months, he’d worried about her, haunted by the memory of how she’d changed following her marriage. And here she was—quite restored to her old self, wonderfully resilient. The only thing that weighed on him now was the knowledge of what he had to tell her. He took a deep breath.

  “Elizabeth. I’m afraid I—”

  “Wait—” she interrupted hastily. “Let me get the tea on, and then you can tell me anything you like.” She smiled, her voice almost too bright, and turned away to lift a kettle over the fire and fetch a teapot and small wooden box down from the mantel.

  “This is my luxury,” she confided, opening the box and carefully measuring out a small spoon of leaves. “Euan bought me half a pound of this as a little present because he knows I adore tea, and I’ve been eking it out for weeks. Tea’s so expensive!” She was so cheerful, yet so...brittle. He looked at her properly then and saw that she was afraid. She had guessed his purpose.

  “I’m honoured that you’re prepared to share your treasure with me.” He smiled.

 
It was a lighthearted comment, but it made her pause, and her voice was serious when she said, “I hope you know that there is nothing I would not share with you. How can I begin to thank you for what you did? You could have been”—her voice broke a little, and she swallowed hard—“you could have been killed. When I heard what had happened to you, I felt utterly wretched.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that. In truth, he hadn’t anticipated Elizabeth’s escape would have such violent consequences, and he felt a fraud to be showered with gratitude. It wasn’t as though he’d known how steep the price would be when he’d offered to help her.

  “There is no need to feel wretched,” he said. “I am all recovered. And now, coming here, seeing you happy and whole... Well, I am very glad to have seen that for myself.”

  She watched him for several long moments, and he could see she was wrestling with whatever she had to say next. When at last she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper.

  “Is that why you’re here? To see how I am?”

  The grief in her soft, brown gaze was terrible, but worse was the glimmer of hope.

  To David’s surprise, sudden tears welled in his eyes. He’d never been a man for public displays of emotion, but there was so much between them, and he’d never had to bear news like this before.

  “Elizabeth—”

  She sank into the chair opposite him and reached across the table for his hand. Her small fingers gripped his with surprising strength.

  “You are here about my father,” she said. “Is he dead?”

  David made himself speak, made himself say the impossible words. “When I left him a week ago, he was hanging on, but barely. You should expect the news any day now.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes grew glassy with tears that brimmed, trembling with the promise of their imminent fall as she absorbed David’s words.

  “That’s not why I’m here, though,” David went on. “I wasn’t sent to give you that news. I was sent here to make arrangements in relation to your trust. Your uncle wrote to your father after Kinnell appeared at his office—your father was worried.”