by Fiona Faris
“Two, love,” Sally said, and Beatrice breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank God. I have one excuse left, then. I can’t bear him today, Sally. I really can’t,” Beatrice said. Sally nodded with understanding. She detested Frances, had ever since the month that Beatrice had come out of mourning, and he got so drunk at dinner that he spilled wine all over the new dress she’d gotten made for the occasion.
Both women had spent days trying to get the stain out of the beautiful emerald green silk, but to no avail. The new dress, arrived straight from a prominent seamstress in London, was ruined. Sally never forgave Frances for such an egregious sin, and now she visibly glared at the man whenever he entered the house. It was rather funny, Beatrice thought, and possibly the only positive thing about Frances’ visits.
“Send him your regrets later. For now, read this letter from Helena. I’m sure it’ll cheer you up some. If the rain holds off, I think we ought to go for a walk later. You’re looking a little pale, love. You need some fresh air,” Sally said, patting Beatrice’s thin, sallow cheek before straightening up and turning to leave the room.
On her way out, she shouted, “And I’m having Edward move that nest tomorrow!”
Beatrice shrugged, knowing better than to argue with her friend. Sally was both the kindest and most fearsome woman she had ever met. She knew better than to disagree with her.
I ought to stop punishing myself, really, Beatrice thought as she took the letter opener Sally had brought and slid it under the seal. Those birds don’t deserve my ire, after all. All they’re doing is living, and here I am, giving them looks hateful enough to shock even the hardest of men.
“Dearest Bea,” the letter began. Beatrice smiled at the nickname, which only Sally, Helena, and James called her by. “I cannot believe how quickly autumn has passed us by. In typical Scottish fashion, the season was short, and now the cold winds of winter have arrived, forcing me into my thickest plaid gowns. I must get as much use out of them as I can, for soon I will need to change my wardrobe again.
I am with child, unexpectedly, and seem to be growing larger by the day. Marcus is overjoyed, and tells Padraig every night that he will soon have a new brother or sister. Poor Padraig has no idea what his papa talks of, but he smiles and laughs all the same, so I have hope that the transition from a family of three to one of four will not be too hard on him.
Now, onto the real reason why I have written to you: I want you to come for a visit. In fact, I implore you to do so. I hate thinking of you all alone in Yorkshire, with only Sally and the rest of the house to keep you company. Please, come to me and let me entertain you. I miss my best friend so much. Please, say yes. It is bad luck to deny a woman in my condition, you know.
Plan to stay through the next month. Samhain is in a few weeks, and I am desperate for you to witness the celebrations. The Celts really are fascinating people. There will be bonfires and tales of ghosts and witches and other frightening characters. It is always such fun, and I do so wish to share the tradition with you at least once.
I await your answer with bated breath and bloated belly.
All my love,
Your friend Helena, Lady Paterson.”
Beatrice smiled at her friend’s joke and put the letter down, leaning back into her chair.
This was not the first invitation Helena had extended to her over the last year. It was, in fact, her fourth. The previous three times, Beatrice had used a variety of paltry excuses she knew her friend must have seen through immediately—though Helena, being a well-bred lady of nobility in both England and Scotland—knew better than to say such a thing. The truth was that Beatrice hadn’t wanted to leave Charleston House any of those times.
She had left only once since James died, to attend functions during the season in London. She was so miserable, she had left after a mere two weeks; the balls and dinners, seeing couples dancing, courting and falling in love, too much for her delicate emotions. It brought back too many painful memories that she only visited in private, when she had a handkerchief nearby to dry her tears.
But perhaps it was finally time to venture out of the house again. After all, if she did not go now, it could be another year before she saw Helena. She hadn’t visited the previous year, since Padraig had only just been born.
Beatrice was ashamed to admit that she had, in fact, avoided Padraig thus far. Though he was her godson, the idea of seeing her friend’s child filled her with grief. She had not seen any babies since losing her own, and she worried that the sight of Helena’s boy would send her back into the depressive despair that had accompanied the loss of her babies.
It was selfish, and she knew that she was hurting her friend with her absence.
Perhaps seeing Padraig will be cathartic, she thought. There was a chance that seeing the baby would excite rather than sadden her. After all, he was the product of his mother, Beatrice’s dearest friend, and Marcus, who Beatrice considered the kindest, most generous man in the world, now that James was gone. Surely a baby born of such parentage could do nothing but inspire awe and joy in his audience?
Yes, it’s time, she told herself, standing up and exiting the morning room. It was time to move the bird’s nest, and to move also. To seek out new life, in the form of godsons and adventures. Perhaps it would bring a smile back to her wan face, a flush to her ubiquitously pallid skin.
Beatrice walked purposefully toward her chamber, flinging open the door and going directly to her desk, where fresh paper, quills, and inks awaited her.
Though the idea of leaving the house made her shiver with fear and apprehension, she nevertheless wetted her quill with ink and scrawled a quick note to Helena telling her that yes, she would come. She would leave tomorrow in the carriage, and expected to be there within four days.
Ringing her bell, she gave the letter to one of the footmen and directed him to send it as soon as possible. That way, I can’t go renege on my decision, she thought as she heard the footmen’s quick steps descend down the stairs.
The trip would be good for her. After all, not only would Beatrice get to see her best friend in the world, meet Padraig, and finally see Scotland, but she would also have the perfect excuse to get out of dinner when Frances inevitably left his card in a few weeks. That alone was worth the effort of traveling north.
Chapter Two
October 15th, Eilean Castle, Dornie, Scottish Highlands
“I cannae stay, Marcus. Ye ken that. This meetin’ is tae important,” Laird Brodie Paterson told his brother, retreating backward on his left leg.
“Will ye make sure yer back by next week, at least? Helena wants ye tae meet her friend. I think it’ll be good fer ye. We can celebrate Samhain together, show another Sassenach how we Celts celebrate our holidays. Besides, yer spendin’ far too much time alone, Brodie. It cannae be good fer ye,” Marcus said, lunging forward on his right leg.
They continued to fence, the conversation petering out into silence interrupted only by grunts of effort as they both attacked and retreated, allowing Brodie to digest what his brother had just said.
This wasn’t the first time Marcus had brought up what he termed Brodie’s “destructive lonesome tendencies.” In fact, if Brodie was counting correctly, this was the fifth time that his brother had raised the issue in as many months.
It was a gentler way of telling Brodie that he needed to wake himself up and out of the cloud of depression that had been following him for the past five months.
This, however, was far easier said than done, in part because Brodie didn’t want to wake up. He thought he deserved this depression, this sadness that had settled so deep in his bones that it felt like a physical weight.
He knew, of course, that it was wrong. He was a Laird. They weren’t supposed to be broken down by setbacks such as this. Lairds were meant to be strong, hearty, able to weather any and all challenges, not fall down at first sight of hardship like Brodie had done.
“Cripes, Brodie! Watch what yer’re d
aein’!” Marcus yelled as Brodie lunged forward and delivered a particularly vicious attack. “I thought this was a non-scorin’ assault!” he said, waving his foil between them, no doubt in an attempt to remind Brodie of the supposed “relaxed” nature of their fencing match.
Retreating, Brodie dropped his foil and undid the first two buttons of the tight white fencing jacket he wore, suddenly desperate for air. “I’m sorry, Marcus. I was distracted.”
“Aye, well, if that’s how ye strike when yer distracted, I hae nae hope of ever beatin’ ye at this confoundin’ sport, nae matter how many years I practice,” Marcus said, throwing his sword down on the floor and collapsing into a seat next to it.
“Talk to me, Brodie. Ye’ve been barmy fer months now, an’ I’ve tried to mind me tongue, but I cannae stay silent any longer. Helena’s noticed as well, an’ she’s threatening tae take ye aside an’ nae let ye leave til ye’ve told her all yer sorrows. An’ I can promise ye she’ll succeed. That Sassenach has more force’n th’ Scottish winds in winter, brother. Yer far better off speakin’ tae me now.”
“Tha’ was ye bein’ silent? Droppin’ hints what feels like every damn day, an’ havin’ yer wife glare at me across th’ table at th’ evenin’ meal?” Brodie asked in bemused disbelief. He, too, collapsed onto the floor.
Marcus narrowed his eyes at him for a moment before letting the false expression of anger fall from his face. It was nearly impossible for Marcus to look angry. He was happy, always had been. He was born with a smile on his face that had hardly left in all his twenty-nine years on God’s earth. It was made him such a joy to be around most of the time. Except during times like now—when Brodie was sad and wanted to stay that way. Then Marcus was the biggest annoyance in the world.
“Tell me what’s on yer mind, brother,” Marcus implored, sliding toward Brodie on the floor. His trews made squeaking sounds on the freshly waxed wood, and Brodie couldn’t help a smile in response to the silly sound, so opposite to the weighted nature of the conversation.
Marcus stared at him, clearly waiting for his response; however, Brodie’s smile dropped, and he heaved a great sigh.
“It’s Gavin, o’ course,” Brodie said, scrubbing a hand over his face and letting it rest over his eyes. He didn’t want to see his brother’s reaction. He knew it would be full of a mixture of sympathy and pity, two reactions Brodie hated seeing above all others.
He didn’t want to be sympathized with, pitied. That was for weak men. He didn’t want to be weak.
And to his mind, Gavin’s death summoned emotions that made him weak, and therefore ashamed. It was half the reason he stayed away from people now. He was supposed to the strong one, the laird, the man looking after everyone and making sure they were happy and well looked after. He wasn’t supposed to fall under a black cloud of emotion just because some child from the village was dead.
“I suspected as much,” Marcus added.
“Well done then, brother,” Brodie snapped, dropping his hand from his face. “An’ I’m sure ye’ll tell me next that it’s pathetic, but I can assure ye I already ken that. After all, he wasnae me son, me child. I hardly knew him afore he died. It shouldnae be affectin’ me this way, but it is. Because it’s my fault he died, an’ I cannae get over th’ guilt o’ that. I cannae keep it from consumin’ me, all I dae, think, say. It’s… ” he trailed off, unable to explain precisely how much the blame he felt over Gavin’s death had taken over his life.
Marcus sighed, reaching out a hand and clasping Brodie’s arm. “It’s not that simple, though—is it, brother? He might not hae been your child in th’ truest sense of the word, but ye loved him. An’ that’s more than enough tae explain the heartbreak yer feelin’—though I’ll hasten tae add that th’ lad’s death wasnae yer fault, nor anyone else’s, exceptin’ perhaps God, an’ He can answer fer His own transgressions.”
Brodie didn’t want to listen to all the reasons why his emotions were understandable, natural. He just wanted them gone. And talking about them didn’t help that goal—not at all.
“But while I dinnae like ye blamin’ yerself, it is all right tae miss him, Brodie. Ye ken that, daenae ye?”
As laird of much of the land surrounding Eilean Castle, it was Brodie’s duty to check in with the neighboring families from time to time; not to collect rent or look at a hole in the roof, an injured animal or a problem with the harvest, but simply to see how they were doing. These goodwill visits were a tradition started by his great-grandfather, and Brodie’s father, the previous Laird Paterson, had instilled the importance of them in Brodie before he died.
“Ye must always look after yer people, son, an’ that means visitin’ them when there’s nae need other than tae see how they are. It builds trust, ye ken, an’ it’s only th’ great lairds who are trusted by their people. I want ye tae be one such laird like I hae been, an’ me father afore me,” his father had told him.
Brodie had honored that tradition, going from cottage to cottage over a week last March. Gavin’s family occupied by the last house in his list, and it was there that Brodie met the most miraculous person he’d encountered in all his life.
The little boy was sick as a dog, with a cough that rattled his weak little lungs and had him nearly bending over in pain, but when he wasn’t coughing, he was the light of his family’s life—and soon, Brodie’s as well.
Thanks to his mother—a former governess from England who had fallen in love with a Scottish farmer and given up her life for him—Gavin could read. Only eight years old, Gavin was also exceptional at mathematics, could recite whole passages of the Bible from memory, and had a knack for crafting stories that tickled the ear of everyone that heard them. He was a beautiful, intelligent child, and the minute they met, Brodie had known he would anything to make sure the lad survived and accomplished all that he was no doubt destined to do.
But despite sending for all the best doctors, despite seeking advice from healers and anyone with any medical knowledge, Brodie couldn’t make Gavin better. The little boy got sicker and sicker over the rest of the spring, not responding to any of the suggested treatments. By the time the flowers were blooming in May, he was gone. Just like that, the beautiful spirit that had made everyone around him smile and laugh was gone. Brodie hadn’t even been there to say goodbye. He’d been on a ride to the next town, seeking out a woman famed for her natural healing abilities.
“I shouldae done more for him, Marcus. I shouldae kept tryin’,” Brodie said, wincing at the memory of Gavin on his deathbed—his skin nearly grey, his formerly bright blue eyes barely open.
“Ye did all ye could, brother. Sometimes, these things are beyond our control. But ye cannae keep sequesterin’ yerself from th’ rest o’ us. Ye cannae keep spendin’ all yer time alone, beratin’ yerself fer somethin’ that wasnae your fault. I didnae ken th’ lad well, but I doubt he wouldae wanted ye tae act thus.”
Brodie nodded, knowing that his brother was right.
“I ken yer still doin’ all yer duties, actin’ fer yer people. But hae ye considered actin’ fer yerself, Brodie? Yer nae just a laird, yer a man as well, an’ a man needs his family. His friends. People who love him. Please, stop shyin’ away from us. Padraig misses ye, I miss ye, Helena miss ye. Come back tae us, an’ let us help ye heal.”
“All righ’,” Brodie conceded, placing his hand over his brother’s. “When I come back from me trip, I can promise ye, I’ll be better. Maybe not completely back to me old ways, but I’ll try tae talk more, confide more,” he said, saying “confide” with a snooty tone that made Marcus smile.
“I’ll the use the time on the road tae think. Mayhaps I’ll be able tae work through some of this guilt I’m carryin’ around like a heavy load.”
“That’s what I like tae hear,” Marcus said, squeezing Brodie’s arm before releasing his grip and standing up.
“An’ now that we hae all the emotional chatter out o’ th’ way, what say ye tae a wee dram o’ whiskey before supper?”
From now on, I’m sayin’ yes to it all, he promised himself. For Gavin, an’ for meself.
Chapter Three
Beatrice’s back was sore. In fact, her entire body was aching after two days in the carriage. She had decided—somewhat foolishly, she now realized—to ride through the first night and only stop on the second. Now, on the third day of the trip, however, she was regretting this decision very sorely indeed.
Still, she couldn’t deny being happy with the progress they had made thus far. They were just a day away from Castle Eilean, and Beatrice couldn’t wait to see her best friend.
