Taming the Heiress

by Susan King

  In Gaelic, the brog na cubhaig, or cuckoo's shoe, is a pretty blue bellflower commonly seen on the machair that covers Caransay, as well as throughout Scotland. Fairies are said to make their hats from the flowers, and the tiny bells will ring out a warning to hares and rabbits at the approach of danger.

  "Working on your Caransay journal?" Angela Shaw entered the library after knocking on the door.

  "Yes. I wanted to finish the pages that I did while on holiday," Meg said. She had arrived at Strathlin Castle a few days earlier, entering a whirlwind of demands on her time and attention. Craving the easier pace of life in the Isles, she found that working on her journals helped soothe and relax her in mind and soul. Re-creating Caransay's natural beauty also served as a remedy for the homesickness that she often felt so keenly after leaving Caransay.

  This time she had left behind not only her little son, her island, and her family, but she had left Dougal, too. The tug on her heartstrings was deep and enduring.

  In fact, she had not even seen him the day that Norrie had taken her and Mrs. Berry back to Tobermory to catch the steamer to the mainland. Dougal had been at the work site on Sgeir Caran. She remembered sailing past the great sea rock in Norrie's fishing boat, gazing up at its massive bulk, aware that Dougal stood somewhere on the rock—or he might have been under the sea in diving gear. Either way, she sailed past and out of his life without even a farewell.

  Although it nearly broke her heart to go, she had not known how to say goodbye.

  "Oh, harebells," Angela said, looking down at the open page. She smiled. "What a pretty drawing, and it captures them exactly. I remember how beautiful they looked spreading over the meadows on Caransay in spring and summer, like a soft, blue-purple mist."

  Meg nodded, remembering it, too, and smiled sadly. She picked up her pencil to add some refining strokes to a drawing of wild oat grass and meadowsweet.

  "Madam, I came to tell you that I had a letter from Mr. Charles Worth just before your return. He is sending a skilled dressmaker from his shop at the Rue de la Paix to fit your gown here. She will arrive next week. The coachman will fetch her at the train station in Edinburgh."

  "Good. Ask him to bring her to the house on Charlotte Square, rather than out here to Strathlin," Meg answered, looking up. "Since I'll be wearing the gown at Number Twelve Charlotte Square the night of the concert and soiree, the seamstress should fit it there. Ask Mrs. Larrimore to prepare a room for her where she can stay and work in comfort."

  Angela Shaw nodded. "I thought you might say that, so I sent a note to Mrs. Larrimore this morning to notify her. I can hardly wait to see this gown," she added, smiling. "Mr. Worth writes that he has outdone even himself with this creation."

  Glad to see the joy in Angela's delicate oval face, Meg smiled. Her friend often appeared wan, but Meg attributed some of that to Angela's translucent ivory skin, pale blond hair, and light blue eyes. Together with Angela's preference for mourning colors, the contrast was striking. Today she wore a day gown in a black-on-black stripe trimmed in purple cording, and her black lace head covering hid the gleaming smoothness of her finely textured blond hair.

  Although still in her twenties, Mrs. Shaw had been a widow for eight years. Newly bereaved and in need of employment, she had arrived at Strathlin Castle on the recommendation of Sir John Shaw, her deceased husband's uncle. Engaged to advise Meg in social matters just after Lord Strathlin's death, Angela had proven an invaluable aid and a loyal, gentle friend. Long after Meg had adjusted to her new life, Angela Shaw had stayed on as a lady's companion. Even years later, Angela had rarely spoken of her late husband. Meg knew only that they had been devoted young newlyweds and that shy, reserved Angela had loved him so deeply that she still wore mourning.

  "The gown will be lovely," Meg said, "and you deserve some of the credit for that, Angel. Mr. Worth very much appreciated your suggestions for color and fabric." Meg continued to smile, though her delight in a beautiful gown and her anticipation of the event was now clouded by thoughts of Dougal. In fact, each time the party was mentioned to her—daily, and often—she dreaded the evening even more and felt a dull, deep ache in her stomach. She placed a hand to her snugly corseted waistline, beneath her day dress of blue plaid satin.

  She wondered if Dougal would even attend her soiree on September first. Since her return to the mainland nearly ten days ago, she had not reviewed the final guest list as yet with Guy Hamilton and Angela Shaw, who had been busy with the arrangements.

  "Angel, I was wondering if we have received answers to all of our invitations. For example, would you know if Mr. Dougal Stewart has accepted?" Meg asked the question casually, while she angled her open journal and used a soft pencil to refine some small studies of the flowers of the machair.

  "Ah, the engineer?" Angela tilted her head, thinking, her slim fingers woven together. "I believe so, madam. Mr. Hamilton has the final list. But I can check that myself, if you are curious. A moment." She walked toward a secretary desk against the wall, opened it, and retrieved a packet of envelopes from a niche. Flipping through them, she turned with one in her hand. "Yes, it's here. Would you like to see it?" She came forward.

  Meg's heart surged. "I... well, I suppose so." Her fingers shook as she accepted the cream stock envelope and took out the single reply card. Dear Lady Strathlin, I am pleased to accept your invitation, he had written, signing his name.

  His familiar script, resolute and masculine, brought him back to her so sharply that she caught her breath. Looking at the envelope, she realized that it had been sent from Caransay.

  He would hardly be pleased about accepting, she thought, once he discovered that Meg MacNeill was in fact the Baroness of Strathlin. Oh, dear God, she thought, with a spinning of dread in her stomach. What have I done?

  She set the note aside. "Thank you, Angela."

  A knock sounded on the door, and the little maid, Hester, looked in. "Mr. Hamilton, ma leddy," she announced, and Meg nodded as Guy entered. He had met with Meg earlier that day to go over preparations for the soiree. The event now dominated her household and seemed to loom in her future as inescapable as a tidal wave. She wished she had never agreed to it.

  "Madam, the post has arrived. Ah, good afternoon, Mrs. Shaw," he added, his voice dropping to a murmur.

  Meg was accustomed to seeing a bit of a flush on Guy Hamilton's cheeks whenever he was around the young widow, but she had not expected to see the pink color that brightened Angela Shaw's pale cheeks. Looking at her companion and her secretary with new interest, Meg felt intuitively certain, suddenly, that they had begun to feel mutual affection. She wondered if either of them knew. Both were reserved and private in character, each accustomed to guarding their feelings and thoughts carefully.

  Perhaps falling in love herself had sharpened her awareness of it in others.

  "Good day, Mr. Hamilton," Angela replied quietly, looking at him with what Meg was sure was a tiny, private smile. "Lady Strathlin inquired after the final guest list for the party."

  "Aye," he said quickly, turning his attention to Meg. "It's done. I have it here." He set down the pile of mail and reached into his coat pocket, extracting a folded sheet, which he opened for her and smoothed out. "As you can see, nearly everyone has accepted. Our only refusals are from those who are traveling and thus unable to attend. Even Mr. Stewart will be there."

  "Yes. Angela showed me his reply."

  "Shall I have the targes and Jedburgh axes taken down from the walls and polished up?" Guy grinned.

  "That is hardly amusing," Meg said primly, as she studied the list. Dougal Robertson Stewart. She forced herself to look at the entire list and comment on the guests. "It promises to be an interesting evening," she managed to say, stomach tightening.

  "A private assembly hosted by Lady Strathlin herself, at her town home on Charlotte Square, following a concert by the most renowned songstress of our age," Guy said, looking at Angela, "and she thinks it will be interesting."

  "If th
is Mr. Stewart comes, it will certainly be more than interesting," Angela said.

  "Indeed," Guy agreed. "Baroness, I meant to ask if you met him while you were out in the Isles. You never mentioned him, so I assume you managed to avoid him."

  "I... I did meet Mr. Stewart," she said curtly, and picked up her pencil to add some shading lines to a carefully drawn posy of harebells and buttercups.

  "Did you leave the poor fellow and his lighthouse still standing?" Guy asked.

  "Well, of course," Meg said tightly.

  "So, you found it impossible to avoid the fellow after all," Guy said. "Did you discuss the lighthouse situation with him?"

  "A little," Meg said. "Well, to be honest, I never quite told Mr. Stewart that I was Lady Strathlin."

  "You what?" Guy looked at her incredulously.

  "Whoever did he think you were?" Angela asked.

  "He believed I was simply a girl from Caransay. I had reasons for keeping my identity a secret."

  "Surely he knows now," Angela said.

  Meg shook her head mutely, frowning over her drawing.

  Guy huffed. "Dougal Stewart is neither a simple nor a stupid man. He will be furious when he finds out."

  "I realize that," Meg said. "I know that the truth would have been best before I left Caransay. I planned to tell him, but I had no chance before I left the island. He will know the truth as soon as he sees me. I am not... sure what to do," she confessed.

  "So that is why you seem preoccupied and distracted since your return," Angela said.

  "In part," Meg admitted.

  "Poor Mr. Stewart will be staggered when he realizes who you are," Angela said.

  "Staggered? He will be furious," Guy said. Meg flinched. "He may never forgive her. Stewart has a great deal of stubborn pride and cast-iron integrity, I guarantee it."

  "He is in Edinburgh now," Meg said. "Perhaps I should try to see him before the party. That might be best."

  "Send a servant with a note asking him to call on Lady Strathlin," Angela suggested.

  "Or send the man a written apology and explanation," Guy said. "He may decide then not to attend the soiree, or he may be forgiving and have a sense of humor about it."

  "He deserves an apology in person," Angela said.

  Knowing they were both disappointed in her, and equally disappointed in herself, Meg sighed. "I need to think about it," she said. "Was there anything of note in the mail?" she asked, eager to change the subject.

  "Just the tickets for Miss Lind's Grand Full Dress Concert on the Monday evening of your soiree. And Mr. Worth sent his bill for the balance owed for the new gown," Guy said. "I meant to ask—would you like the amount paid by bank draft or deposited to an account? It is... well, a considerable sum."

  "I believe Sir John deposited the first payment in Mr. Worth's London account, and we can do so again. No doubt you think it a huge sum to pay for a single gown." She saw his frown.

  "That did cross my mind," Guy admitted, and then he shrugged. "But I will leave such choices to you, madam. I am merely willing to be dazzled. I'm sure every penny is well spent."

  "You will be more than dazzled, I assure you," Angela Shaw said. "She will look divine."

  "I am sure of it. And I am sure that milady's companion will look stunning, as well," he added quietly, gazing at Angela. A soft, sudden blush made her blue eyes sparkle.

  Wishing to give them a private moment, Meg picked up her pencil to add some hatched shading to the sketch of the posy of flowers, tinted earlier with water-color. She heard Guy and Angela murmuring quietly as she worked. After a few moments, hearing silence, she looked up to see them not gazing raptly at each other, as she expected, but at her.

  "Madam," Guy said, frowning, "may we inquire what exactly happened when you were out in the Isles this last time?"

  "I... Mrs. Berry and I had a lovely holiday," she said. "Nothing more. Why do you ask?"

  "Mr. Hamilton and I wondered if something occurred of a more profound nature, madam," Angela said. "Ever since your return, you seem... changed."

  "Profound?" Meg stared at them. She did not know what to say. Tempted to confide in them, she knew that she must keep her secrets to herself, to protect Dougal and Iain. Soon she would have to answer Sir Frederick, and it hung over her like a sword.

  "You sigh overmuch, and look wistfully into the distance," Angela said. "You do not apply your attention to the matter at hand, to either your correspondence or your conversations. All of us are somewhat bewildered, madam, about what ails you. My guess is that there is no illness, but rather a preoccupation of thought and heart."

  "Nothing troubles me, if that is what you think," Meg said.

  "I think something troubles you very much, dear," Guy murmured. "Something consumes your every thought."

  "We decided to mention this only in order to offer our help." Angela glanced at Guy. "As your very dear friends."

  They were too perceptive, Meg thought, looking away. Through the window, blue hills spread into the misty distance. Far beyond, where she could not see but could still feel its presence, lay the sea and the island where her heart existed with Iain and the rest. A mile past that was the sea rock. She could almost feel the wind and the salt spray. She wondered if Dougal was still in the Hebrides, and she wondered, too, if he thought of her.

  "I am just preoccupied by the plans for the party," she answered then. "I will feel relieved when the evening is finally over."

  "Mrs. Berry," Angela said gently, "says it is not that. It is her impression that you are in love."

  Meg ducked her head and took up her pencil again. "Mrs. Berry is a romantic and likes it overly much when people fall in love." She glanced pointedly at them, but their attention was fastened unwaveringly on her.

  "Berry adores this Mr. Stewart and thinks he is not the least bit an ogre, but a brave and kind man who seemed quite taken with you," Angela said.

  "Taken? Really?" Guy said, folding his arms. "The odious Mr. Stewart? Was he what you expected, madam?"

  "Not at all," Meg said, her cheeks heating fiercely.

  "Berry also mentioned that Sir Frederick Matheson came to Caransay," Guy said. "That must have been a surprise."

  "There is no need to nudge me, either of you," Meg said bluntly. "I have nothing to tell you."

  Guy shrugged and looked at Angela. "Well, I hope it was a pleasant enough meeting with Sir Frederick," he told Meg.

  "He is always pleasant in manner," she said carefully. "And it was quite a surprise." A shock, she corrected silently.

  "If ever he is not, I want to hear about it. I do not trust the man," Guy said. "Mr. Stewart seems infinitely more trustworthy, in my opinion. Just keep cautious, dear Baroness, and remember that your friends are here to help you, should you ever need it."

  Tears stinging, Meg ducked her head to apply her attention to her drawing, though the page blurred before her. "Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. I shall keep it in mind."

  Chapter 16

  "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Logan." Seated in a wooden chair beside a wide, polished mahogany desk, Dougal reached into his pocket and pulled out a small linen-wrapped package. He laid it on the desk surface.

  Samuel Logan, a heavyset gentleman with gray side-whiskers, a leonine head of dark hair, and a preference for tobacco, for his clothing reeked of it, nodded. "I always have time for a kinsman of Sir Hugh MacBride. Chambers Street Publishers was honored to produce the great poet's work." He gestured toward the bookcases that lined his walls, where Dougal noticed that his uncle's volumes of poetry and other writings were prominently displayed. "And we have published something of yours, as well."

  Dougal laughed softly. "Nothing quite as memorable. A series of my articles about lighthouse design appeared in the Edinburgh Review a few years ago, and your firm published them in book form. Principles of Pharological Design with Respect to the Forces of Nature is hardly exciting reading."

  "On the contrary, it must be fascinatin' stuff,"
Logan said. "We have respectable orders every autumn for Pharological Design from engineering classes at several universities in Scotland and England both. That must give you a wee income, eh?" He smiled, folded his hands. "What brings you here, sir? Have you another treatise on lighthouses for us to consider?"

  "Actually, I did bring something, though I am not the author," Dougal said, sliding the package forward. "I hoped you might find it interesting. A dear friend who lives on a Hebridean isle wrote this little journal. Although I do not have your talent for judging the best in books, I think it worth a moment of your time."

  Logan reached over an untidy pile of papers and a scattering of leather-bound books and picked up Meg's journal. Setting a pair of gold-wire glasses on his nose, he flipped through the book for a minute or so, nodding to himself thoughtfully as he turned the pages.

  After a while, he looked up. "Did the author appoint you to be messenger, sir? Or is it authoress? I detect a distinctly feminine sensibility to this anonymous journal." He peered over his spectacles.

  "It was my idea to bring it here. Miss MacNeill gave me her journal as a gift, but I believe she would not mind my showing it to you. In her modesty, she does not think her work worthy of publication. As you can see, it is not a personal diary, but rather a chronicle of nature on the Isle of Caransay."

  "Aye. Fascinatin'." Logan slowly turned pages, murmuring. "Remarkable. Your friend is quite talented, sir." He continued to read, nodding. "Her drawings are skillful and pleasing, and very precise. Yet her descriptions are poetic. Exquisite thing, this wee book. It's as if we're peeking into a lady's diary while she shares her love for her home." He turned a few more pages. "She brings the island to life, and she seems very much a part of it... yet she remains mysterious throughout, giving no clue to her identity. Marvelous, actually. Unique."