by Julia London
“He’s in his study,” Mrs. Wilke-Smythe said. “But he doesna wish to be disturbed.”
Catriona didn’t care. She walked out of the room and pretended she didn’t hear Mrs. Templeton’s muttering as she passed.
She found Uncle Knox in his cluttered study, in his favorite armchair, which he’d brought with him from England. He did not forbid her entry and in fact waved her forward. He wore his spectacles perched on the edge of his nose, his legs stretched onto the ottoman before him. He was reading Zelda’s letter—Catriona recognized the familiar handwriting. He carefully folded it and slipped it into his coat pocket as Catriona neared him.
He rubbed his face, then managed a smile for her.
Catriona knelt beside his chair and put her hand on his knee. “What happened between you and Auntie Zelda?” she asked.
He smiled. “That was a long time ago, darling.”
Zelda had never spoken to her about Uncle Knox, but Catriona knew something had happened between the two of them. She had asked about him through the years, and now Catriona had seen her uncle read Zelda’s letter more than once.
“Did you find something to amuse you in the village?” he asked.
“Nothing, really.” She rose up, walked to a settee and collapsed onto it. “I saw Montrose.”
“Did you?”
“Aye. I spoke to him, too. I asked what brought him to Aberfoyle today.”
Her uncle’s brows rose with his amusement. “And did he share the details with you?”
Catriona laughed. “No. He chastised me for asking.”
Uncle Knox grinned. “I think there is no one in all of Scotland who has gotten under the man’s skin as you have, my darling.”
She tried not to smile, but his comment pleased her. “Do you know where one might find a lady’s maid in need of work?”
“You’ve had a change of heart, have you?” he asked eagerly. “You swore you’d not need one for the short time you were here.”
“No’ for me, uncle. For Montrose’s ward.”
“Ah. Mrs. Templeton was eager to pass that along, was she?”
“Verra eager,” Catriona agreed. “I should like to introduce him to one.”
Uncle Knox cocked his head to one side. “Why?”
She shrugged. She didn’t know why, really, other than she wanted an excuse to see him again. “I am determined to discover what became of his wife. Perhaps I might gain entry to Blackthorn Hall were I to present him a lady’s maid for Miss Eula.”
“I see,” her uncle said. Catriona avoided his gaze in case he saw right through her. “Do you mean to help him? Or stir up a bit of trouble?”
“Well, that, I canna say, uncle. I donna know what I think of him, no’ yet. Or the Trossachs. Or Dungotty. Or any of your guests.” She sighed to the ceiling. “I donna know what I think of anything anymore, other than I must pass the time before I return to Balhaire and Kishorn or go mad.”
“There, there, girl, don’t be cross,” her uncle soothed her.
“I’m no’ cross, uncle. I’m...” What was she, really? Weary. So weary. Bored? Lethargic? But lethargy did not explain why she’d been so brazen with this duke, and, frankly, shameless. “They all think I’m bloody barmy, aye?” she said softly.
Her uncle smiled fondly at her. “You are a bit barmy, love. But that’s what makes you such a lively, interesting woman. You must be a bit mad to do the good work you’re doing at Kishorn, is that not so? Be proud, Cat. Take comfort in the knowledge that you aid those who are less fortunate than you, and don’t allow a lot of pampered English prey on your spirit. With a bit of salt, they’d devour it.”
Catriona smiled ruefully.
“I think you should stay the summer at Dungotty,” he said.
“Stay! With Mrs. Templeton determined to see me gone?” She shook her head. “The driver will return for me soon. I canna stay on, uncle. I’m needed at Kishorn.” She was suddenly reminded what Zelda had said to her, in those final hours as life slowly leaked out of her. “You must be strong for the others, aye, m’eudail,” she’d said, using an old term of endearment. “The women and children at the abbey, they’ll need you more than ever.” Her voice had been rough with pain, but she’d gripped Catriona’s hand with surprising strength. “Rhona is a fine abbess, that she is, but she doesna have entry into the world as you do. She’ll need you.”
“How will I ever carry on without you?” Catriona had asked tearfully.
“Och, well enough, you will. Life doesna end when I’m gone. It will begin again every morning, and they’ll need you, Cat. Donna weep for me, aye? Carry on for me.”
Uncle Knox must have guessed what Catriona was thinking, because he said, “Your mother’s letter informed me that the denizens of Kishorn Abbey are quite well at present, and that one Mrs. MacFarlane can manage without you for a month or two.”
Catriona rolled her eyes. “Mamma is determined to remove me from Kishorn.”
“She is determined that you not lose sight of your own destiny, darling. You’ve given the poor souls a place to reside. You need not give your life to them.”
“Auntie Zelda did.”
“And you are not Zelda, love. It’s been a long struggle for you and Zelda, what with her illness and the responsibility of seeing after your wards.”
That was true. As much as Catriona missed Zelda, there was some relief in her passing. The suffering had ended for them both.
“You should have a summer away,” Uncle Knox continued. “You ought to find your own desires again. Which is why I’ve instructed the driver not to return for a month.”
Catriona gasped and sat up. “What?”
“You’re young, Catriona, with your life ahead of you, and unless you’ve taken the vows of an abbess, you need not spend every moment at the abbey. They will survive well enough on their own. Your mother agrees with me. So does your father. And your brothers and sister.”
They had conspired against her again. Catriona thought about the women who arrived on foot or in mean wagons, in threadbare clothing and shoes so worn they could scarcely keep them on their feet. She thought about the way those poor women had looked with eyes wide as moons at that decaying abbey, an opulent comparison to their own lives. She thought about how they’d brought with them those few things that held some value to them—a tiny portrait of a loved one. A chipped teapot. A bit of lace. The last coins they had to their name.
They’ll need you, Cat.
But in the same breath she thought about the duke with the black eyes and piercing gaze, and the mysterious missing wife, and how he was the one thing that had captured her attention in a very long time. “I want to stay at Dungotty, I do,” she admitted weakly. “But I fear what might happen in my absence, aye? The English mean to take Kishorn.”
“Yes, I know. And you will be more use to me here than there, will you not? I can’t very well argue for Kishorn without your help, can I? Robert Dundas is a friend of mine. He’s the Lord Advocate, you know, and he’ll arrive in Edinburgh at month’s end. He comes every year during the summer months to tend to the Crown’s business. We make it a point to meet.”
Catriona’s mother was right—Uncle Knox knew everyone. The Lord Advocate was the top legal adviser to the Crown for both English and Scottish matters.
“We’ll plan a visit, shall we? We’ll see about this forfeiture.”
What her uncle said made sense. The women and their children would still be at Kishorn at the end of summer, and Rhona would look after them. In the meantime, she could help Uncle Knox press her case here. It was only a month or two—it wasn’t as if she was abandoning them, was it?
She thought again of the enigma, Montrose.
“Cat?”
Catriona shifted her gaze to her uncle. He had the same eyes as her mother. “I’ll no’ stand for a ball, uncle. Promise me tha
t no matter how badly Chasity begs, you’ll no’ attempt a ball.”
Uncle Knox laughed. “You have my word—no ball. At least not one that I will host.”
“And promise you will help me find a lady’s maid.”
He sighed and gave her a look of fond exasperation. “Why is it that all the women I love must play with fire?”
“I’m quite used to the flames. Will you help me, then?”
“If it will amuse you, darling, of course I will. God knows I’ve never been able to deny you the simplest thing.”
CHAPTER NINE
AFTER A LONG meeting in Glasgow with the Gentlemen of Science, at which Hamlin was forced to learn the complications of building a bridge across a body of water—one tended to take such things for granted—Hamlin arrived at Blackthorn Hall with the dust of the road covering his greatcoat, a dry throat, and a desire for nothing more than a meal, a bath and his bed. But as he strode into his ornate foyer, something black against the white marble caught his eye. A small valise had been carefully placed on the floor, wool gloves laid neatly across, and above it hung a worn lady’s coat.
A swell of panic filled Hamlin’s throat when he saw those trappings of a woman. He imagined the worst, particularly when he heard the feminine voices in the distance.
She’s come back. By some phenomenon, she’s come back.
He heard a sound and turned to his right; Stuart was closing the door to the green salon very quietly behind him, hurrying down the long corridor to the foyer. But as Stuart approached, the tension in Hamlin eased somewhat. His butler did not look unduly alarmed, which certainly he would have had the nightmare Hamlin feared actually occurred in his absence. “What is this, then?” Hamlin asked gruffly, gesturing with his gloves to the things tucked in a corner before handing them to his butler.
“A lady’s maid has come, your grace,” Stuart said. He took Hamlin’s hat.
“Pardon?” Hamlin repeated uncertainly as he removed his greatcoat. “From where?”
“Dungotty, your grace.”
Hamlin stilled in the straightening of his waistcoat and frock coat. He stared at his butler. And then he struck out for the room at the end of the hall, his pulse beginning to race with umbrage and something else that felt, strangely, like a wee bit of anticipation.
When he entered the room, he first saw Eula, speaking with a woman only an inch or two taller than her, and as homely a woman as Hamlin had ever seen in his life. She had a broad, flat nose, and eyes that were too far apart. She wore a gown of brown muslin, carefully patched in at least two places that he could see.
Then he saw Miss Mackenzie. She was across the room, looking quite pleased with herself, smiling at Eula and the woman with an air of approval, like one of the celestial angels that smiled down at them from the ceiling in the ballroom. The moment Miss Mackenzie saw Hamlin, she sank into a graceful courtesy.
So did the homely woman.
Eula was bouncing with excitement. “She’s a lady’s maid!”
Hamlin looked at the homely woman. “Good day, madam.” Then he slowly turned his full and unbridled attention to Miss Mackenzie. “A word, madam?”
“Aye, of course,” she said brightly, and came gliding forward like a vision from a dream. He marveled at it—how was it that this woman had no trepidation before him? He couldn’t step foot into Aberfoyle or Crieff without people hurrying to the other side of the street, and yet this woman, come down from the Highlands, had no such feelings. On the contrary—she seemed to challenge him at every turn.
It was maddening. And oddly refreshing.
When she reached him, her smile was shining in her eyes. “Your grace?”
“What is this about, then?” he asked.
“This?” She glanced over her shoulder at Eula and the woman. “Well, it seems I was right, your grace. Your business has spread far and wide across the Trossachs, and when I heard of it, I thought I might help you.”
“Far and wide, has it? How noble of you to want to help, madam, but alas, you were no’ invited to help,” he said, as if he needed to explain once again that one did not step into the business of a duke without invitation.
“Oh, aye, I know,” she readily agreed. “Only sometimes, I canna quite help myself.” Her smile broadened.
His breath shortened. “Is this, perchance, one of your wards?” he asked coolly.
She gasped with delight. “Would it no’ have been wonderful if she was? But alas, your grace, she is no’,” she said, and stepped back from him, turning toward Eula and the woman. “May I introduce Miss Jean Burns, from Glasgow. She comes with two letters of recommendation. Is that no’ so, Miss Burns?”
Hamlin looked at the homely woman.
“Aye,” she said, her voice soft.
“She was last in service to Mrs. Culpepper of Glasgow.”
Hamlin was speechless. What was wrong with Miss Mackenzie? What did she think, bringing this woman to him? “You are too presumptuous,” he said low.
“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “Perhaps we might think of it as helpful.”
What cheek! “I said presumptuous.”
“Neighborly,” she countered. “It’s impossible that I should be any other way, for that’s the way of it in the Highlands. We help those who canna help themselves.”
“Are you suggesting that I canna help myself?” he asked incredulously.
“Of course no’,” she said, quite unconvincingly.
The audacity of this woman was shocking. He looked again at the mouse who had been presented to him as a lady’s maid. “You’ve served a lady,” he said dubiously, looking at her worn clothing.
“Aye, milord. Nigh on fourtin years, that I did.”
Her voice was heavily accented with the Glaswegian dialect. “Why have you left her employ?” he asked.
The mouse blinked. “Why, she’s deid, milord,” she said. “Choked herself to deeth on a chicken boon, milord.”
“He prefers your grace,” Eula said. “And he doesna like to be called Montrose. Only the gentlemen may call him that, aye? I’ll teach you all the things he doesna like,” Eula said confidently.
It was bad enough to have one presumptuous woman in the room, but Hamlin had two, and it was almost his undoing. “Thank you, Eula. Perhaps we might discuss proper forms of address at another time, aye?”
“May I show her my rooms?” she asked excitedly.
Hamlin opened his mouth to speak, but Eula was already inching toward the door. “Please?”
Hamlin knew he was defeated. “Aye, go on,” he said. “But I’ve no’ made a decision.” It was useless to say more—Eula wasn’t paying him the slightest heed. She’d grabbed the mouse’s hand and was pulling her along, chattering about her rooms.
Miss Mackenzie, the cunning little bird, attempted to walk behind the pair, as if she, too, would see Eula’s rooms. But Hamlin put his hand on her arm and said, “No’ you.”
Miss Mackenzie looked at the two women as they went out of the room, and said, “Shall I wait in the foyer, then?”
“No.” He walked past her, shut the door, then turned and folded his arms tightly across his chest, braced his legs apart and demanded, “What in blazes do you think you are doing here?”
The slightest bit of color began to seep into her cheeks. “I told you, aye? I mean to help you.”
He moved forward until he towered above her and forced her to lift her chin to maintain eye contact. “I didna want your help, Miss Mackenzie. Had I wanted it, I would have asked for it, aye?”
“So you’ve said,” she agreed. “But I’d no’ mind if you did ask it of me.”
She was incorrigible. He shifted even closer. She tilted her head back even farther. She smiled pertly. She was not intimidated by him. Not the least bit cowed, which, admittedly, and perhaps to a wee bit of his shame, was his intent. Sh
e said, “Perhaps you ought to ask for help more often, aye? You could make do with a friend like me, particularly in light of your wretched reputation.”
He glared down at her. “Has anyone ever told you that you are too impudent by half?”
A tiny laugh escaped her throat. “Aye, of course,” she said.
His presence, his words, his title, his disapproval—none of it could fluster this woman. And Hamlin was utterly intrigued by it. She was smiling at him as he glared at her. She found him amusing in that way she found everything amusing. She was truly remarkable in a way he’d never known another person to be.
“Miss Burns comes highly recommended,” she said, her gaze falling to his mouth. “She needs a post, quite obviously, as her former employer choked on a chicken bone.” She winced. “Can you imagine a worse way to meet our Maker?”
“I can,” he said low.
Her lashes fluttered, and the bit of pink spread down her neck to her throat. But she did not step away from him, did not look away from his eyes, his mouth, his chest. “She has no one in this world. She’ll be loyal to Eula.”
Hamlin clenched his jaw against the knowledge that he’d been defeated in this. Miss Mackenzie had solved a problem for him and for that mouse of a woman. He resented the way she’d done it, but there was something in the back of his mind that was whispering he would not have accepted it had she presented it any other way. “She’s competent?”
“Verra competent.”
Hamlin sighed. He turned away from the heat he was beginning to feel radiating between them. He walked to the sideboard, poured two whiskies and held one out to her.
She looked at the glass, then at him, and slowly came forward to take it. “I thought you didna care for whisky.”
“I lied,” he said. “Did you?”
She gave him that strange little lopsided smile that made him feel as if she could read his thoughts. “No.” She touched her glass to his and sipped.
Hamlin tossed his whisky down his throat. “On my word, Miss Mackenzie, I donna understand you. You’re far too brazen for your own good, aye?”
