The Highlanders: A Smitten Historical Romance Collection
Page 26
But Rose, bustling around gathering dishes and spoons, barely heard a word she said.
Each Saturday after that, Callan took special care to turn up for his lesson well-dressed, well-groomed, and armed with additional ammunition: a pint of chocolate mint ice cream. And each week Daisy accepted the gift with cool politeness. “Thank you, Mr. MacTavish. You shouldn’t have.” But by the look on her face, he could tell she was pleased.
He wished Daisy could move past her prejudice against loggers and see him for who he really was. One hour a week spent in Rose’s company was not nearly enough. He longed to treat her as a proper suitor should, the way that skinny fellow had—to invite her to dinner and concerts and picture-shows, to spend not just an hour with her, but all of Saturday, and Sunday too. But such a development would be impossible without Daisy’s approval. One sultry August day, between passages of a Bach concerto, Rose and Callan’s hushed conversation turned to his memories of Scotland.
“When do you plan to go back?” she asked.
Never, he thought, but such a response would only raise more questions he didn’t feel ready to answer. He shifted his weight on the hard wooden chair. “Takes many a dollar to cross the ocean, lass. Perhaps I’m savin up.” That was true as far as it went, but it didn’t touch on the heart of the matter.
“Well, I hope you get to go soon. I’m sure your father must miss you terribly.”
Before he could reply, there was a rap on the door, and Daisy poked her head into the room.
Startled, Rose sprang into action. She plucked at a violin string and proclaimed, “So you see, Mr. MacTavish, by plucking the string instead of bowing, you achieve the effect of—Yes, Daisy? What is it?” She frowned as if Daisy were intruding upon a pivotal moment in Callan’s musical education.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Daisy said. “I just wanted to ask if Mr. MacTavish will do us the honor of having Sunday dinner with us tomorrow.”
“Surely that could have waited ’til we were finished,” Rose snapped.
But Callan couldn’t hide his grin. Daisy had invited him to Sunday dinner. Perhaps the skinny bloke with the fancy automobile was now out of the picture.
Later that evening, after Callan left, Rose sought out Daisy on a back-porch rocker, savoring the dark, sultry summer evening.
“Come and sit awhile, Rose. Get a breath of fresh air. It’s so stuffy inside.”
Rose drew up a chair and sat beside her, listening to the crickets chirping in the bushes. A cat paced across the yard, its eyes shining silver in the dark. Several blocks away, a train whistle blew. Finally, Daisy asked, “How did Mr. MacTavish’s lesson go tonight?”
“Fine.” In the dim light of the moon, she studied Daisy’s profile. Had her sister caught on to the sham music lessons that were, in reality, private recitals interspersed with conversation? Was she toying with Rose, waiting for her to confess? But Daisy’s expression betrayed no emotion.
Rose cleared her throat. “Speaking of lessons, I’ve heard from a few parents, inquiring about music instruction for their children. Two want piano, and another wants violin. All of them said they’re planning to sign up when school begins. That’s only a few weeks away.”
“That’s excellent news. See? I told you it would only take a little time. Maybe summer wasn’t the most opportune time to try to sign up new students. With the exception of Mr. MacTavish, of course.”
Rose worked up the nerve to say what was really on her mind. “Daisy, I’m pleased that you invited Mr. MacTavish to dinner tomorrow. But I must admit, I’m surprised as well. May I ask what made you change your mind about him?”
Daisy brought her rocking chair to a halt. “I haven’t changed my mind about him,” she said in a strained tone. “He’s still a logger, and I don’t approve of loggers calling on my sister.”
“So why did you invite him to dinner?”
“Because he has been a faithful student of yours for going on three months now. I just thought it was high time we showed the man a little hospitality. In gratitude for his loyalty. I assume he’s making progress, in spite of his disability?”
Rose nodded mutely, grateful that the darkness hid her blush. The Scotsman was making progress, all right, but not the musical kind. He was making progress on winning her heart.
“Well, then,” Daisy continued. “Seeing as how Mr. MacTavish has such a strong interest in classical music, I’ve invited Mr. Godfrey to dinner tomorrow as well.”
Rose’s shoulders drooped. “Oh, Daisy, you didn’t.”
Daisy’s eyes widened. “What’s the matter? I only thought the two gentlemen might enjoy getting to know one another. Mr. Godfrey is extremely knowledgeable about music.”
“He’s extremely opinionated about music. That’s not the same thing.”
Daisy resumed her rocking. “Now that the summer concert series has ended, I don’t understand why you refused his offer to continue your subscription into the fall.”
“I don’t want to go to concerts with him, nor anywhere else. He bores me to tears.” She felt a rush of guilt and sighed. “Truly, I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. The concerts have been a pleasant interval in the week. And Miles was always a perfect gentleman. It was a nice way to spend one afternoon a week, for six weeks. But honestly, if I have to continue going forever, I’ll simply shrivel up.”
Daisy looked troubled. “But he’s a good friend of Robert’s.”
“I can’t help that.”
“There are worse things in a relationship than being bored.” Daisy paused, and Rose wondered if she was thinking of her own marriage to the placid Robert.
“Mr. Godfrey is well established in his practice and would be a good provider. And you wouldn’t necessarily be bored with him, either. I’m sure he’d have no objection to your continuing to teach music after your marriage; thus, you’d have plenty to keep you occupied.”
“Our marriage?” Rose laughed. “Now you’re really jumping the gun, sister.” She stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get my beauty sleep. Goodnight.”
She swept up the stairs, indignant. How dare her sister try to plan her life! If that’s how it was going to be, she might as well go back to Chicago. She knew her mother, too, would press her to settle down, but at least Chicago’s pool of eligible suitors offered a wider selection of fish than Mr. Godfrey.
She changed into her nightgown of handkerchief linen, soft and thin, and washed her face. The smear of cold cream and splashes of cool water soothed her flushed skin. She removed her hairpins and combed her hair, then approached the bed. The August night being too hot for a blanket, she folded it and placed it neatly over the brass railing at the foot of the bed. Then she turned out the lamp, crawled between the sheets, and snapped up the shade covering the screened window beside her bed, which faced Mrs. Donovan’s next door. A lamp burned in an upstairs window. She pictured Callan lying there reading, waiting for his friends to stagger home from the bars. He’d finished Melville, he’d told her, and had moved on to Hawthorne. He was familiarizing himself with the whole canon of American literature, he’d explained, to further his understanding of his adopted homeland. As the Hawthorne had been her suggestion, she hoped he was enjoying it.
She lay back against the pillow and smiled into the darkness. Was there anything more appealing than a man who appreciated both classical music and good literature? Especially one who sought out a lady’s opinion, and then followed it?
She pictured him lying there, holding his book in the warm circle of lamplight. Just across the lawn. A few feet away, really. All alone in the empty rooming house on a Saturday night, reading. And she alone, too, when they could be out strolling together in the moonlight, or sitting on the front-porch swing, talking about Hawthorne.
She sighed. What a waste of a perfectly good moon.
She snuggled under the sheet and closed her eyes. But it was a long time before she slept.
Thoughts of dinner with Rose’s family kept Callan from following the sermon
the next morning, and he missed his chance to speak with her after the service. So when he arrived at their home, the shiny automobile parked in front took him by surprise. He was even more startled to find the skinny fellow with the spectacles standing in the front parlor like he owned it. Callan’s hopes crumbled to the floor.
Rose jumped up from the sofa with a wide smile as Callan entered the room. “I’m so glad you could make it.” Something in her tone made him feel as if he’d somehow come to her rescue.
Daisy stepped forward to perform her duty as hostess. “Mr. Godfrey, meet Mr. MacTavish. Mr. MacTavish, Mr. Godfrey.”
Godfrey acknowledged the introduction with a stiff nod, but Callan stepped forward and thrust out his hand. “How d’ye do,” he said with a grin. Rose should see he could be a good sport, even if his rival was a cold fish.
Godfrey returned a weak handshake, peering at Callan through his spectacles as if he were an insect to be flicked out of the way.
“Mr. Godfrey is an attorney with the railroad,” Daisy said. “And Mr. MacTavish is employed by a local lumber concern.”
“What she means to say is, I’m a lumberjack, workin up in the woods,” Callan clarified cheerfully.
Daisy’s face reddened.
Callan’s first impression of Miles Godfrey was that he had all the personality of a poached egg. Why would Rose’s family approve of a worm like that? Well, with any luck, Rose had a mind of her own.
Over roast chicken, potatoes, and green beans, he politely answered Daisy’s inquiries.
“Where in Scotland are you from?”
“I grew up in the countryside near Dunoon. Near Loch Lomond.”
“Ah, she of the bonny, bonny banks,” Godfrey drawled in a fake Scottish accent.
“Aye, that one.” Callan cast a suspicious glance at the interloper. Was he trying to make Callan look foolish?
“What does your family do there?” Daisy inquired.
“My father is a … a teacher.” He declined to specify “music teacher” to avoid further inquiries on that point. “My mother died when I was verra young.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“Nay.”
“It must be lonely for your father, then, back in Scotland all by himself.”
Rose interjected, “Daisy, I’m sure our guest must be tired of being grilled, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I dinna mind talkin about my homeland.” But the questions ceased, and the rest of the meal passed pleasantly if a little stiffly.
Over their dessert and coffee, Callan turned to Rose. “’Tis such a beautiful day out, Miss Marchmont. Can I entice ye to go for a walk before my ride leaves?”
Rose smiled at him. “I’d like that very much.”
Mr. Godfrey sat up straighter. “I’m sure Miss Marchmont would prefer to do something a little more out of the ordinary.”
Robert sat back in his chair, unbuttoned his vest, and patted his belly. “I propose that we all celebrate this perfect summer day by heading down to the city docks and taking a ride on an excursion boat. The Northern will be launching at three o’clock.”
“Oh, let’s!” Rose clapped her hands. “Doesn’t that sound fun, Mr. MacTavish?”
Callan’s palms grew clammy. “Nay. I’m—I’m afraid I’m prone to seasickness.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.” Her face registered disappointment, but she did not press the issue.
“I’d be more than delighted to accompany you on the boat, Rose,” Godfrey said. His satisfied look chafed worse than Callan’s stiff collar.
I’ll bet you would. He stabbed a fork into his slice of cake.
Rose regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then shook her head. “No, the rest of you can go on the boat. I accept your invitation for a walk, Mr. MacTavish.”
Daisy’s mouth opened, trout-like, but Robert said, “That sounds fine.” He smiled at his wife down the length of the table. “It’s been a long time since we went on a boat excursion, hasn’t it, dear?”
“I’d love to go, Robert,” Daisy said, folding her napkin. “But we wouldn’t want to leave our guest.”
Callan mentally filled in the rest of the sentence: We wouldn’t want to leave our guest alone with my sister. Disappointed but understanding the situation, he said, “Rose, there’s no reason ye canna join yer family and Mr. Godfrey.” He pushed back his chair. “I’ll need to be heading back up the mountain soon anyway.”
“No, I prefer to stay with you,” Rose said firmly. “We will enjoy our walk.”
“Verra well.”
Robert looked at Mr. Godfrey. “You’ll join us, won’t you, Godfrey?”
Mr. Godfrey looked irritated. For a moment Callan was afraid he’d invite himself to join him and Rose on their walk. But he said, “No, thank you. I have some other things to take care of this afternoon.”
He and Callan followed Robert onto the front porch while Rose and Daisy cleared the table and did the washing-up. They seated themselves in large wicker armchairs. Robert lit a pipe and offered the tobacco pouch to Miles, who accepted and filled his pipe and then to Callan, who declined. Callan could think of nothing to say, and Robert, as host, was of no help in that regard. The two of them puffed their pipe smoke in Callan’s face as they all three sat in awkward silence.
At last, the ladies appeared, and the men stood. Robert offered his arm to Daisy. Callan and Godfrey stood awkwardly on either side of Rose. They all walked together to the sidewalk, where Godfrey said his goodbyes, got into his fancy car and sped away. Daisy and Robert turned one way and headed toward the city docks while Rose and Callan proceeded the other way down First Avenue, the town’s principal street. They looked in the windows of the closed shops, then strolled along the residential streets, talking all the while.
As they walked, Callan drew one of her hands up through his arm and laid his other hand on hers. Was he imagining this, or did she really feel about him the way he did about her? He smiled into her sapphire eyes and kept his hand close over hers.
“That’s too bad about your getting seasick on boats,” Rose said. “You must have had a rough crossing when you came to America.”
“Aye,” Callan said quietly. “Ye could say that.”
“There must be some remedy you could take. Some medicine to settle your stomach.”
“Nay. There’s not a medicine to cure what ails me.”
“Well, you’ll have to do something when the time comes for you to go home to Scotland for a visit. You can’t spend the entire voyage lying ill in your cabin.”
He slowed his pace and glanced at her in surprise. “Who says I’m goin home to Scotland?”
“Why, no one. But you will need to eventually, won’t you?”
“Nay,” he said sadly. “I canna go back.”
“But your father …”
“Rose.” He stopped walking. “I’m never goin back to Scotland. Not now, not ever. Now, please, can we talk about something else?”
“Of course.” She looked stricken, and immediately he regretted his harsh tone. She continued in a soft voice, “I’m sorry, Callan. I didn’t realize it was a sore subject.”
“Never mind,” he said. “Let’s go back to First Avenue and see if we can find someplace open to get a Coca-Cola.”
They found a soda fountain and seated themselves at a table while a waiter bought them frosty glasses of cola. But the tense exchange had cast a pall over the lighthearted afternoon. Soon after, he escorted her home, and they said goodbye with promises to see each other the following Saturday.
Seated in the back of the rig heading up to the camp, while his mates boasted of their Saturday night exploits, Callan gazed at the mist-mantled mountains, his mind far away, thinking of the similar landscape surrounding the lochs of his beloved homeland. If he were going to keep growing closer to Rose—something he very much wanted to do—he’d eventually have to talk to her about Scotland. And America. And everything that had happened in between.
Chapter 8
On Saturdays, he rode down the mountain with his mates, then parted ways with them and went to see Rose. Daisy remained staunch in her opposition to Callan calling on Rose socially. But she allowed the music lessons to continue, and her disapproval of their friendship had lessened as she’d gotten to know him for who he really was instead of her idea of a lumberjack.
They had their music “lesson,” then they’d walk out, weather permitting. On Sundays, he’d see her again at church before heading back up the mountain. Callan and Rose were getting to know each other quite well, and Callan, at least, was falling in love. He wasn’t quite sure how she felt. Sometimes he was certain she returned his affections. But there was always the simpering Miles Godfrey, not to mention that disapproving sister of hers, hovering in the background. Even so, once in a while, Daisy invited him for Sunday dinner. That had to count for something.
One autumn Sunday, Rose and Callan went for a walk after lunch. The wind picked up and shook the crisp branches, rattling the dry leaves, and the pines whispered softly. He drew her arm through his as they walked.
“Rose, I’ve somethin to tell ye. A big order for lumber has come in, so we’ll be workin seven days for a while. I willna be able to come into town as often. And when the snow starts fallin heavy, well, I may not be able to come down at all.”