by Arnette Lamb
Envy filled her, but not because she wanted to take Lady Winfield’s place. Oh, she liked the Frenchman; he was gay and entertaining—too much so to be considered seriously as her lifelong mate. Sarah’s jealousy stemmed from her own romantic yearnings, which DuMonde did not inspire. She coveted the love shining in Lady Winfield’s eyes. DuMonde’s lover looked like a woman assured of a place in paradise with the man of her choice.
The Frenchman should marry his mistress, Sarah decided, and vowed to tell him so.
“We’re boring Lady Sarah,” Michael said pointedly. “I doubt she’s entertained by the king’s business.”
She had heard their conversation on the English rule in India; she could listen and observe at the same time. Should she expound upon the subject? Yes. A perfect way to distract him. With her thumbnail, she absently raked bread crumbs into a pile. “English expansion is a prickly subject to a Highland Scot.”
Michael set down his wineglass. “Are you a Jacobite?”
“No, not in the traditional way. The Bonnie Prince is too old now to take the throne, even should the populace want him, which they do not. He failed in his duty to continue the Stewart line.”
The mayor pushed his plate away. “He sired a daughter by another woman and legitimized her.”
A noble move, Sarah had to agree, but easily arranged when one’s brother is both a cardinal and the duke of York. “Since Lady Charlotte cannot take the throne from the Hanoverians, the point is moot. What’s troubling to me is that we looked to Hanover at all for our monarchs. Wouldn’t it have been better if our royal family were born of this land and spoke our language?”
“Interesting.” Resting his elbow on the table, Michael propped his chin in his palm. “What language would he speak? Scottish, Welsh, Irish, or English?”
He had a keen mind for issues, a trait she valued. “Touché. But I think once on the throne, he or she should have the courtesy to learn to converse intelligently with his or her subjects.”
Mayor Fordyce belched loudly. “Pardon. George the Third speaks the king’s English.”
“Three generations into Hanoverian rule? A bit tardy to my way of thinking.”
“She has a point, Fordyce. It’s not too much to expect in return for wealth beyond tallying and a place in the history of the greatest nation on earth.”
His area of interest engaged, the mayor scooted closer to the table. “Raising taxes and spending money are his watchwords. He should look elsewhere than Scotland to fill the royal coffers.”
“He has,” Michael was quick to say. “Since losing the American colonies, he’s determined to have India completely under his thumb.”
Sarah jumped in. “But he will not respect the culture of the people he chooses to rule in these isles. The Scots lost their plaids and bagpipes for thirty-six years, the Welsh lost everything, and the Irish lost the right to wear their green.”
Michael turned up his palm. “That’s how the English or any other ambitious country prevails. Subjugation is the first rule of conquest.”
Sarah knew only what she’d read in books and newspapers. “What has our government taken from India?”
“Her trade. Her wealth. Her singularity in the world.”
“Do you oppose the king?” Sarah asked.
“No, I support him fully. Objective governance is necessary in India to keep the many religious factions from destroying themselves.”
“You speak of religious freedom,” Sarah said, “an odd concept for the first officer of the Complement. Your benefactor, Henry the Eighth, made a mockery of our faith. Sir Thomas More stands as martyr to that.”
A teasing half-smile signaled his slight retreat. “Perhaps the crown has learned from past mistakes.”
Fordyce dropped his fork onto his plate. “Where did the server go for more of that wine? All the way to Burgundy?”
Michael winked at her. “We’re boring Mayor Fordyce with our talk of kings and chancery. I think he prefers the subject of collecting taxes.”
Not since leaving her family had Sarah enjoyed a livelier discussion. But she’d come here to further a cause, not to involve herself in a lengthy exchange of ideas with Michael Elliot. The other man was her foremost quarry for now. “My apologies, Mayor Fordyce.”
The innkeeper returned with the wine. Michael took the flagon and refilled the mayor’s glass himself.
Fordyce said, “Lady Sarah, didn’t you know that Elliot’s resigned from the Complement? They saluted him till moonset, or so the innkeeper said.”
He didn’t look the worse for a long night of merrymaking.
“That’s why they came here—to escort him home,” the mayor added.
She didn’t for a moment believe retirement was Michael’s sole mission. Her dowry was what he wanted. How far would he go to get it? “Truly?” she asked. “Is that why you’ve returned to Edinburgh at this particular time?”
“Yes, well . . .” With his thumb and forefinger on the stem, he twirled his glass. “I’ve done my duty to king and country.” Turning to Sarah, he added, “No matter on which continent his majesty’s interests lie.”
“Cleverly phrased,” she murmured.
“How delightful that you think so.”
She was tempted to rest her hand on his sleeve. Lady Winfield had touched DuMonde just so, and with great success, for the Frenchman appeared completely at her disposal. If Sarah could disarm Michael Elliot, she stood a better chance at winning over the mayor and the owner of the customs house. She had made progress, for they were conversing easily.
The servants cleared the dishes and returned with a plate of figs, cherries, and oranges. DuMonde and Lady Winfield quit the inn. From the adoring gaze in the woman’s eyes, Sarah knew where they would go.
“Do you care for fruit?” Michael asked.
She’d eaten more tonight than was proper for a lady in public, but the conversation had stimulated her appetite. She chose a plump fig and cut it into quarters while she prepared her first verbal attack. Both accomplished, she put down her knife and looked at Michael, who popped a cherry into his mouth.
“Are you aware, Michael, of our mayor’s concern for the growing number of children who are abandoned on the streets of Edinburgh?”
Around a mouthful of orange, the mayor said, “Any above one is a sorry number.”
Michael didn’t spare a glance at Fordyce. “An honorable concern.”
As the object of his curious gaze, Sarah felt the weight of her responsibility grow, but she would win this fight. “Most of the poor souls are under the age of ten. The church never provides more than twenty-five pairs of shoes in a given year.”
The unsuspecting mayor plucked an orange seed from his mouth. “There are other organizations to help. The Ladies’ Benevolent Society collects what they can.”
She knew the moment Michael sensed she was up to something other than idle chat, for his now-probing gaze darted from her to Fordyce. Suddenly doubtful, she placed her hand on his arm. “Our good mayor’s efforts are gallant, but unfortunately they fall short of the mark.”
Fordyce grasped her purpose, too, and his expression turned cool. The issue of turning the customs house into an orphanage was a sore matter with the mayor.
Suddenly defensive, he said, “I am a compassionate man.”
She charged ahead. “An understatement. Your charity knows no bounds.”
With finality, he said, “I beg to differ, my lady.” He dipped his hands into the water bowl and reached for a napkin. “Complaints from the window tax alone kept me busy the whole of yesterday. I’ll be a year straightening it all out. Yes, it is a priority.”
So what? her conscience grumbled. “If last year is any indication, ten children will be buried in the Penny Cairns by Christmas next. What will you have done to prevent it?”
“Penny Cairns?” Michael asked, staring at her hand.
The velvet of his sleeve felt soft and warm beneath her fingers, and the inquiry in his eyes gave her pa
use. Had she gone too far? No. She applied a gentle pressure. “Shallow graves topped with a pennyweight of stone rather than a proper cairn of rock.”
“But the ground is consecrated?”
Tears thickened her throat at the cruelty visited on the poor. “Not always.”
Fordyce put down the unfinished orange. “This is hardly the proper place to discuss the dead or the customs house.”
Sarah’s passion stirred; retreat was impossible. “Not the proper place? Even if one of the dead is most likely a child who’ll never know a third birthday? Don’t you see?” She looked from one man to the other. “A small part of the collected tax will buy the customs house.”
“Out of the question!” the mayor snapped. “Seek private subscriptions if you must. The city hasn’t the money. The lord provost told you so.”
Her preparation saved her. “I have collected other support. I’ve spoken to the carpenters’ guild. It offered to make some of the needed cots. The mercers in Bull Close will give the blankets and linens. Saint Margaret’s will donate the school desks we’re already using, and the stonemasons have promised new slates.”
“You’ll be decades getting enough money from common folks.”
Yes, thanks to the countess of Glenforth and her cruel vengeance, the titled families no longer included Sarah in their social events. The citizens at large had been Sarah’s source. “I never thought to do it alone,” she admitted. “But someone must give it a start.”
Into the fray, Michael said, “How much is the property worth?”
Sarah rejoiced; he did not know who owned the building, and he was sympathetic to her cause. “As is, three thousand pounds—an outrageous amount. It’s tumbledown from top to bottom. The plaster’s falling off the walls, and most of the floors are rotting. The back stairs are passable. The main staircase hasn’t a bannister.”
“How much will the renovations cost?”
The mayor looked justifiably puzzled.
“Nine thousand pounds,” Sarah said. “That includes food for a year. It’s not so much money, but just enough to do the job properly. Once the property is donated, I’ll even learn to hammer a nail myself if necessary.”
“You must understand, Elliot,” the mayor rushed to say. “ ’Tis a bad idea from the beginning. We ought not think about new furnishings and a staff to keep the place up—even if the building is handed over, which it will not be. Apprenticeships are good enough for the children. Imagine,” he scoffed, “orphans having servants and a house of their own.”
“Caretakers, my lord,” Sarah insisted, “women to clean and prepare the food, someone to tend the children’s cuts and bruises, adults to help wash their hair and dry their tears. They’re just babes turned into orphans by parents who did not care.”
Fordyce’s sarcasm knew no end. “What of the laundry and the darning of socks?”
“Laundry?” That injustice cut her to the bone. “Most of the children have only one set of clothing at a time. The apprenticeships you speak of are no more than forced labor.”
“The answer is no.” Fordyce carefully folded his napkin and addressed Michael. “ ’Tis too grand an effort. But even if it was done, there’d never be an end to it. Lady Sarah’d be coming to me every week begging for this or that. Next she’ll have us sending those urchins to Edinburgh University.” To her, he said, “Get Elliot here to release your dowry. Then you can buy the building.”
Stay calm, she told herself. Stand up for what is right and avoid the subject of the dowry, which the mayor obviously assumes is already in Elliot hands. “I did not turn those children out to steal and die in the cold.”
“Are you accusing me of—” He was flustered. “—of low behavior?”
Rumor had it that in his youth he had paid an occasional visit to the women in Pleasure Close, but reminding him of an old transgression was unfair. Sarah knew she must appeal to his Christian sense of duty. “Of course not, Mayor Fordyce. Your reputation is unblemished. You speak and act for the people of Edinburgh. You are their conscience and their voice. If you aid the orphans, you fulfill your promise to the citizens who elected you to make the streets safer for everyone. But you cannot think you do not have an obligation to the less fortunate, simply because the ballot is denied to them.”
He grumbled into his goblet. “I do not make the election laws.”
“Yet you entertain foreign dignitaries and oversee their interests, even though they do not participate in our elections or pay our taxes.”
At last she’d dented his stern opposition, for he sighed and said, “You’ve a passion for this orphanage.”
That was an easy criticism to defend. “Listen to your contradiction. If we are not passionate in the causes that count, such as assuring dignity for all of our people and regard for the future, we’re no better than animals in the forest.”
“Mayor Fordyce.” Michael’s commanding voice dropped like a stone into the conversation. “I’d be willing to buy the property and place it in Lady Sarah’s keeping—in the name of the Elliots.”
Sarah almost wilted in relief.
The mayor stared, mouth agape. “You cannot buy it.”
Michael sent the mayor a remarkable look. “I beg to differ.”
Now truly angry, the mayor glowered. “I thought you asked me here tonight to help me dissuade her from acquiring the customs house. I expected you to refuse her outright and put an end to this quest of hers. You cannot buy a property if the Elliots already own half of it.”
Sarah watched Michael closely, looking for a glimmer of deceit. He went very still and his eyes stayed fixed on the wine in his glass. “Who owns the other portion?”
“I do,” said the mayor.
“Then we’ll conclude the transfer when I return from a visit to my brother in London.”
“But Lord Henry manages the family properties, and the countess will never let that one fall into Lady Sarah’s hands. Unless your mother changes her mind.”
“She will. Good night, Mayor Fordyce.”
Like a treed fox given an escape, the mayor moved to leave. “Give our best to Lord Henry. Damn that Richmond. You’d think he’d play fair—a man with his good breeding.”
“Yes, well . . .” Michael looked at Sarah, but spoke to Fordyce. “I’ll tell him you asked about him.”
He could only stare at her, but he was distracted. Was he angry? Was he waiting to upbraid her?
“My congratulations, Lady Sarah.” The mayor gave her brief bow. “ ’Twas a pleasure.”
When they were alone, Sarah immediately felt a greater withdrawal in Michael. She moved the candle aside and said cheerfully, “A pity we cannot choose our family.”
He squinted, but not with poor vision. “Pardon my frankness, but had you not agreed to marry my brother, you and I wouldn’t be sitting here distrusting each other.”
Trusting Elliots had been her least successful venture. “You’re angry because the countess withheld information from you.”
“The subject of the customs house has not arisen between my mother and me.”
“You cannot truly be angry with me because I believe the citizens have a responsibility to Notch and the other unfortunates.”
“No, not for that. I’m unhappy because you could have told me that my family held an interest in the property. Instead, you chose to embarrass me, a practice you earlier condemned.”
Curse his memory. “Pardon me, but a nick to your pride is a small price to pay to save the orphans of Edinburgh. They have no one, Michael. No parents to love them and leave them an inheritance. No one tucks them in at night or soothes them when goblins visit their dreams. They struggle merely to survive.” She sniffed back a tear. “I’m sorry for deceiving you, but how could I know that you would be so generous?”
He looked at her then, and his face boded ill. “You might have taken the time to find out. ’Tis true I’m of Clan Elliot, but I am not my brother. I would not have wagered most of your dowry in a dice ga
me with the duke of Richmond.”
She believed him, but one high mark for philanthropy was not enough to forgive the sins of the Elliots. “Richmond was happenstance. Eventually Henry would have offended one peer or another. The timing was simply fortuitous for me, since I had not spoken vows to him.”
“You miss my meaning. It was his fall from grace,” Michael insisted. “Not mine, and by association, you blame me. It’s the same injustice as someone blaming you because Notch is an orphan. You had nothing to do with it, as I played no part in my brother’s activities in London.”
She did feel a twinge of guilt, until she remembered their first meeting. “You stormed into my home yesterday and demanded my dowry.”
“Without success. As I said, I had just arrived after a very long absence. All of what goes on here is new to me.”
An awful possibility occurred to her. “Your family did not write to you of the betrothal?”
When he grew even more distant, she had her answer. But another question arose. “Did you resign from the Complement at the request of Lady Emily?”
“Nay, ’twas my choice.”
Relieved, she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for donating the property. You won’t be sorry.”
He chuckled without humor. “I’m already sorry.”
He did look sad, and she hoped it was a trick of the dim lighting. “You’re also a poor liar.”
“Yes, well.” He slid her a wary glance. Wavering light from the hearth played over his face, and the reflection of the flames glittered in his eyes. “Having admitted that my brother is a wastrel, why did you agree to marry him?”
“I told you why. I thought I loved him.”
“Who’s the poor liar now, Sarah?”
She felt the pull of his gaze and knew an instant of weakness. She’d always been attracted to bold men, but after becoming better acquainted with them, they changed, and the brazenness that she found so appealing invariably hardened into a determination to dominate her. She liked a forceful man, but only until he took liberties with her personal beliefs and freedoms.
