by Karen Ranney
In a few weeks they would sail for France again. Another message had come and he and Mary would sail into a secluded harbor, their potential cargo a few dozen terrified, exhausted people.
Every time Hamish looked at his reflection, the scars on his face and body brought back the recollection of his year of imprisonment. Every time he felt the twinge of a muscle ache or a bone, he remembered feeling as lost and alone as the French people they rescued. And for Mary, the fact that she couldn’t set foot on Scottish soil was an adequate reminder of her own days of terror.
They each did what they could to help, even though they each knew there was more to be done. A country was in peril, and they saw it on the faces of the men, women, and children who fled from France in desperation.
Hamish stepped forward, glancing at Peter and sending him a commiserating look. He’d been at the receiving end of Mary’s strict pronouncements himself.
“You’re better off just doing what she says,” he said in a low voice as the man passed him.
Peter grimaced, glanced at his bandaged hand and then back at Mary, evidently having already come to that conclusion on his own.
Hamish grinned as he reached Mary’s side. “You should let the man leave with his dignity, my love. Don’t chastise him so well that he crawls away.”
“I’ll leave him his hand, instead,” she said angrily, staring after Peter. “He almost let the wound putrefy, Hamish.”
Before she could continue with a gruesome litany of the man’s symptoms, Hamish grabbed her and kissed her soundly. A few minutes later, he pulled away, whispering a thoroughly decadent remedy for a wound of his own.
“It’s very swollen,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “And needs some tender care.”
“What kind of ministrations did you have in mind?” she asked, her face turning a delightful shade of pink.
“A touch of a hand, perhaps? A tender kiss?”
“I’ll have to see this grievous injury,” she said, taking his hand.
“And I’m more than willing to show it to you,” he said, grinning, letting her precede him to their cabin.
While Margaret was occupied with the dressmakers, Jeanne visited Douglas. She entered the library after receiving a summons to her knock.
“I believe Margaret needs some spectacles,” she said without preamble.
Douglas looked up from the papers he was signing and frowned at her. “What do you mean, she needs spectacles? She sees perfectly well.”
She wondered if he was going to be as obtuse about the subject as her own father. A du Marchand had no flaws, according to him; therefore she had no need for any device to assist her.
“She can’t see as well as you think,” she said firmly.
He put his quill down and sat back in the chair, surveying her. Instead of arguing further, he surprised her by remaining silent.
“I believe that I could contact someone who might be able to make her a pair. I’ve heard that there is a very good firm in London, but I’m certain that Edinburgh must have a company who can provide spectacles for her as well.”
“Why do you care?”
Taken aback, she could only stare at him. “She’s my charge. You’ve hired me to be her governess. Should I not care for her?”
Again he startled her by not doing what she expected. Instead of answering her, he asked another question, one even more disturbing than the first. “Who was here when I was at Gilmuir?”
“Who was here?” she repeated. Of course someone had told him. Some member of his loyal staff must have mentioned her visitor. “Why didn’t you ask before now?”
He smiled. “I told myself that you would volunteer the information. But you didn’t. Then I told myself it didn’t matter, but I find that it does. Who was it, Jeanne?”
“My father,” she said and had the unique pleasure of seeing Douglas MacRae at a loss for words.
“I thought he was dead,” he said finally.
“He did a credible imitation of being alive,” she said, her hand closing so tightly over the spectacles in her pocket that she nearly broke them. Carefully, she loosened her grip and withdrew her hand.
“What did he want? Shall I offer to employ another French émigré?”
“I doubt my father would take advantage of your offer, Douglas. He has yet to understand that France has changed, and with it, the world. He still sees himself as a grand man.”
“But you see it differently. Why is that?”
“My father would tell you it’s because I’m half English.”
“I don’t care what your father would say. What do you say?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps nine years in a convent altered my thinking, Douglas.”
“Then what did he want with you, Jeanne?”
She gave him the truth and wondered what he might do with it. “I don’t believe that my father cares anything about me. I ceased to be a true du Marchand many years ago.” She fingered the locket and smiled. “He wanted my mother’s necklace.”
“Why?”
Her smile broadened. “Not for any sentimental value. I thought at first that he might want to show it to the Somerville family, to prove his relationship to them. But they are as decimated as the du Marchands. A distant cousin to my mother has inherited the title.”
He frowned. “Still, you could have sought a home with him.”
“Perhaps,” she said, agreeing. “But I decided that it would better to seek my own life than to be indebted to anyone else. I’ve developed a certain obstinacy of will from the convent. No doubt the nuns would be horrified.”
He stood and rounded the desk and walked toward her. “As they would by your conduct, no doubt.”
Her smile was rueful agreement.
“You’re more beautiful now than you ever were as a girl,” he said softly, startling her. “Sometimes I can’t believe how truly beautiful you are and I tell myself that my eyes are playing tricks on me. Until I see you again and I’m captivated once more.”
He reached out and brushed the back of his hand against her heated cheek. “There is no one who has such creamy skin as yours, Jeanne. Or that faint flush that looks like the most delicate rose at dawn.”
He traced a finger over her upper lip and then her lower, as if he were memorizing the shape of her mouth. “Your lips are made for kissing. Every time you speak I have to force myself to listen to the words and not concentrate on the way your mouth moves.”
Bending down, he breathed against her lips. “As if you’re hinting for a kiss,” he said softly before he placed his lips on hers.
Her arms reached up and entwined around his neck. She was lost in the kiss for long moments before she deliberately stepped back and turned, walking to the window. Her composure had been destroyed with a kiss. Did he know how easily he had done it? Or how charmed she was by him? If he crooked his finger at her and bade her lie on the carpet and await him, she’d no doubt do it, and feel a thrill of anticipation.
“I have a present for you,” he said, his voice wrapping around her.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, surprised. “A present?”
He went to the bookcase behind his desk and withdrew something from the cabinet at the base of it. Returning, he handed the box to her.
Placing it on his desk, she carefully unwrapped it, glancing at him occasionally as she did so. The ribbon was a length of lavender gauze that she carefully laid aside before taking off the top of the box. Inside was a nightgown of diaphanous linen, the top and sleeves crafted of intricate lace.
Even in Paris she’d never seen such a beautiful garment.
“I destroyed yours, I believe.” A softly voiced confession, one that made her shiver to recall that moment.
“Do you not miss me, Jeanne?”
Oh, yes.
“I said that I wouldn’t come to you, but I’ve been waiting for you to say the word. Why have you remained silent?”
She glanced up at him to find him smiling.
&nb
sp; “I would think that you don’t enjoy our lovemaking,” he teased.
Enough to lose her mortal soul, but this, too, she didn’t say.
“Why did you stay with me?”
The question was so unexpected that she stared at him. “Why did I stay with you?” she repeated.
He nodded.
She wasn’t wise enough to lie. “Because those months in Paris were the most beautiful of my life,” she admitted. “Because I wanted to feel that way again.” But the greatest reason, the greatest secret, was one she kept hidden. Because I love you, and even after all this time I can’t turn my back on love.
Over the last ten years she’d come to realize that the flesh was nothing. She could be hurt and abused, and as long as her spirit was intact very little could truly affect her. But this man, with his sardonic smile and his intense blue eyes, had the power to wound her deeply without seeming to try.
Jeanne had realized his power over her the day she’d left Paris and he still had not appeared. She’d stared at the sky, at the brilliant yellow, blue, and purple colors of the dawn. The mist had risen from the river, obscuring the base of the hill of Montmartre. The church of St. Pierre de Montmartre stared out as if to send her on its way, its Gothic style a fitting last glimpse of Paris.
He never came. No one did, and when she was sent to the convent, no one ever rescued her. Circumstance alone had released her from her votary prison.
The question trembled on her lips now. Why had he never tried to find her? Why had he never left word?
Deliberately avoiding looking at him, she picked up the box, stepping back and away.
“Will you think about the spectacles?” she asked in a voice that quavered. With some force of will she turned and faced him again. He was studying her, his blue eyes narrowed. “Margaret loves to read,” she continued. “It’s a shame that she cannot because of her father’s pride.”
He strode across the room, but hesitated at the door and turned back to her.
“Of course I’ll get her the spectacles, Jeanne. She’s my daughter. But even without them Margaret can see better than her mother.”
He left her there staring after him.
Chapter 24
M argaret peered inside the schoolroom. “Cook promised to prepare us a lunch, if you’d like to eat outside, Miss du Marchand.”
“Outside?” Jeanne looked up from the slate in front of her.
Margaret walked to the window and pointed to the meadow beside the house. “Right there,” she said, pointing to the large and venerable oak Jeanne had noticed before. “It’s the perfect place for a meal.” She turned and smiled at Jeanne. “We have to eat, after all, do we not?”
In her smile was a hint of the charm her father had so often used to his advantage. Jeanne found herself no more successful in denying the daughter than she was in refusing the father.
“Yes, we do at that.”
As she descended the steps, Jeanne smiled at the young girl on the stairs industriously dusting the spools of the banister. Her employment at the Hartley home, however short-lived, had educated her about the life of servants. They were not often as concerned with the mistress and master of the house as they were with their own lives. Douglas’s staff, however, surprised her. They seemed to share a camaraderie, yet they worked as hard as any people she knew. She doubted that in the kitchens of Vallans there had been such a general enjoyment of life, or, for that matter, a liking for their employer.
When she shared a meal with the servants, she sat and listened, and when conversation did, occasionally, turn to Douglas, she was not aware of looks directed at her. She could only credit Lassiter for their discretion, or perhaps the staff simply liked Douglas enough not to comment upon his actions. For whatever reason, she was grateful for their restraint.
Betty stood at the bottom of the stairs holding a basket with both hands. Jeanne took it from her, nearly sagging from its weight. “It feels like a great deal more food than we need.”
“Cook is forever feeding Miss Margaret. Ever since she was a baby, people have been trying to get her to eat.”
At Jeanne’s questioning look, she added, “She was nearly starved as a baby.”
Before Jeanne could ask any further questions, Margaret called out to her. “Miss du Marchand?” The child stood at the door, obviously impatient to be out on a very fine Edinburgh day.
Thanking Betty for her assistance, she followed Margaret out the front door and then to the left, along the path to the meadow.
“Do you have your book?” she asked.
Margaret nodded, a copy of Praise of Folly in her hand. “Must we have Erasmus, Miss du Marchand? He seems very dour.”
“We must,” she said firmly.
Margaret sighed again, but didn’t demur.
Jeanne hid her smile. As much as she enjoyed teaching the girl, she was very conscious of Margaret’s will. In that, Margaret was not unlike Jeanne herself. She’d been a tyrant, of sorts, as a child, her arrogance partly a result of who she was—the daughter of the Comte du Marchand must be obeyed. What Jeanne had accomplished with her rank, however, Margaret achieved with a smile.
“You’ll find that he has a great deal of interest to say,” Jeanne said, refusing to give way.
“Most adults do,” Margaret said.
Surprised, Jeanne glanced at her.
“At least my uncles do,” Margaret amended. “And Papa, of course.” She looked at Jeanne and smiled, the expression impish. “And of course you, Miss du Marchand.”
She was being teased, and it was such a novel experience that Jeanne felt a surge of warmth. “I’m pleased that you think so, Margaret. That will make Erasmus much easier to bear.”
Margaret smiled back, conceding Jeanne the victor in this mild skirmish of wills.
They continued to follow a path through the dense overgrowth. The landscape had been transformed into a scene of wild beauty by the recent storms. Crimson wildflowers brushed against the brambles and saplings, vying for attention. Oak trees had budded early; their branches were now heavy with leaves. Somewhere, the longing call of a bird seeking its mate conveyed repose and tranquility, while the bright sky hinted at a warm and peaceful day.
Abruptly, the brambles and saplings disappeared and the land leveled out. The path they followed now was nothing more than a depression in the earth, but it was evident from the ease that Margaret took it that she’d come here often.
“Papa is having this area landscaped,” she said, glancing at Jeanne over her shoulder. “He has a layout of terraces he wants built, and hedges and flower beds.”
“It seems a shame to change it,” Jeanne responded. “Although the park you described is no doubt very attractive,” she hastened to add.
“You should see Gilmuir,” Margaret said. “It’s a truly lovely place. I wish Papa would live there, but of course he can’t. Not with his business at Leith.”
“I can’t help but wonder why he settled in Edinburgh,” Jeanne said.
“It’s because of me,” Margaret said, halting beneath the oak tree. Jeanne spread the blanket on the ground near the trunk.
“Why because of you?”
Margaret smiled. “Papa said that he wanted to create an empire for me to inherit. He said that I should be an heiress.” She giggled, instantly banishing any hint of autocracy from that statement. “I would much rather have remained aboard ship, but Papa says that he wanted to choose a place on land that would be safer for me.”
“So he picked Edinburgh?”
“Uncle James is in Ayleshire, Uncle Alisdair is at Gilmuir, Uncle Brendan is in Inverness, and Uncle Hamish is aboard ship.”
Jeanne smoothed the corners of the blanket. “In that case, I can see why he chose Edinburgh.”
“It was the only place left without a MacRae,” Margaret said, shrugging.
They ate lunch leisurely, a meal of meat pies followed by fruit tarts adorned with slices of apple. When they were finished, Jeanne handed Margaret her
own spectacles.
“We really should read Erasmus,” Jeanne said.
Sighing loudly, Margaret nevertheless placed the loops of ribbons over her ears, opened the book, and began to read from where she left off this morning.
“Nature, more of a stepmother than a mother in several ways, has sown a seed of evil in the hearts of mortals, especially in the more thoughtful men, which makes them dissatisfied with their own lot and envious of another’s.”
The recitation was so very close to her own feelings of late that Jeanne was startled.
“Do you think that’s true, Miss du Marchand?” Margaret asked, holding her finger at her place and closing the book. “I couldn’t imagine wanting someone else’s life.”
“Then you should consider yourself blessed,” Jeanne said.
Margaret seemed to consider that, and then nodded. “Papa says that life can be a blessing or a curse, and it’s a man’s attitude that decides the matter.”
Was Douglas to be considered a font of wisdom in all things? Margaret seemed to think so.
“There are circumstances that may occur to a person that have nothing to do with attitude,” Jeanne countered.
“Papa says that it’s not what happens to you that’s important, but how you react to it.” Margaret’s look was intent and thoughtful and too adult for Jeanne’s peace of mind.
“I can’t say that I totally agree,” she said carefully, realizing that she was treading on shaky ground. Margaret quite obviously adored her father. But Douglas wasn’t a god, and Jeanne had no intention of treating him like one. “Death happens, despite our wishes. For example, my mother died when I was about your age. Yet I didn’t encourage it with my thoughts. And my reaction was grief and loneliness.”
Margaret nodded, but didn’t say anything in response.
“There are some events in life that must simply be endured, Margaret. When they come, and they most certainly will, it’s not your ability to think of good thoughts that will sustain you, but faith.”
