Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Good morning, gentlemen!”

  He groaned—and heard David and Kilgorn echo him as they all struggled to come to their feet.

  “Good morning, Miss Smyth.” Fortunately David was able to locate his voice. Alex merely nodded, as did Kilgorn. Also fortunately, there was no livestock accompanying Motton’s demented aunt.

  “I’ll just join you, shall I?” Miss Smyth made a noise that might have been intended as a giggle. “Though I’m certain it’s not my company you’ve all been longing for.”

  Alex clenched his teeth to keep from agreeing aloud. David was stricken with a coughing fit; Kilgorn simply glared.

  “Be sure I will take the ladies to task for abandoning you.”

  All three men came down with coughs.

  “My, my, gentlemen. I’ll have to see if Edmund has any horehound tablets or licorice for your throats. Where is my nephew, by the by?”

  “He was here earlier,” Kilgorn said. “He left to attend to some estate business. Ye might find him in his study, if ye look.”

  Kilgorn sounded as hopeful as Alex felt. He looked at Miss Smyth’s plate—it was piled high with eggs, toast, sausage, kidneys, and ham. No, she wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

  “Thank you, my lord. I should have guessed. Edmund is very conscientious, you know. He would never let a little fun and frolic distract him from his duty.”

  Kilgorn snorted. “And speaking of fun and frolic, where’s your wee monkey this morning, Miss Smyth?”

  “Oh, that Edmund is still sleeping.” She tittered. “Edmund the monkey is nowhere near as industrious as his namesake. But don’t worry, I’ll bring him down later. He does enliven a party, does he not?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Kilgorn carefully arranged his knife and fork on his plate. “Have ye managed to find me proper accommodations yet, Miss Smyth?”

  “Oh, my lord, I am so sorry, but I haven’t. You’d think in a place this size, there would be rooms to spare, but…” She sighed. “Well, and you’d think I’d have remembered that you and your lovely wife have an…unusual domestic arrangement, but…well, I do apologize.”

  Alex could swear he heard Kilgorn’s teeth grinding across the table. The man did have dark circles under his eyes. Obviously he wasn’t getting much sleep—and not for the reasons a man would hope. Miss Smyth had put him in the same small bedroom as his estranged wife. A bedroom with only one bed.

  Frankly, it was hard to believe Miss Smyth was being completely honest about the situation. Even he, who hadn’t been to Town in twenty-three years, knew the Earl of Kilgorn and his countess had lived apart for the last decade. He’d never met Kilgorn before, though. The man was only David’s age—he must have married very young.

  “I sent word to the inn, Miss Smyth, but I was told it was full up.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s not a very large place, and I believe there’s some…some event or something going on. There is no space to be had.”

  “I could sleep in the stable.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Lord Kilgorn. You’d have all the stable boys in a dreadful pother. No, no. Please be patient just another day or two. Mrs. Gilbert, the housekeeper, is working on the problem. I’m sure she’ll have a solution as soon as may be.”

  Kilgorn shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “It is not very…comfortable for Lady Kilgorn, ye understand.”

  “Oh, yes, I understand completely. I have apologized to her most sincerely. As I say, I’m sure Mrs. Gilbert will have a solution shortly.” Miss Smyth smiled brightly and popped a forkful of eggs into her mouth.

  Lord Kilgorn nodded. He clearly had more to say on the subject, but just as clearly recognized any further discussion was futile.

  “I believe I’ll take a bit of a walk. If ye’ll excuse me?”

  “But have you looked outside, Lord Kilgorn? It’s rather nasty—damp and drizzly.”

  Kilgorn grinned. “Aye. It reminds me of Scotland.”

  “Oh, well, do enjoy yourself then.” Miss Smyth waited until Kilgorn was out of the room to shrug and say, “Those Scots. They are a bit different, aren’t they?”

  Alex felt Kilgorn had dealt with Miss Smyth in a remarkably restrained way. Having to share quarters with your estranged wife must be exceedingly awkward. He chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of kidneys.

  He’d give anything to be forced to share a room with Kate. To be forced to share a bed with Kate. All night, every night. To—

  “Now, Mr. Wilton, what is putting such a smile on your face?”

  David helpfully thumped him on the back as the kidneys tried to go down his windpipe. At least Miss Smyth must think his heightened color was due to his choking.

  “N-nothing,” he gasped. David stepped in to rescue him.

  “Miss Smyth,” David said, “I have an appointment this morning with Lady Wordham. Do you happen to know if she’s come down yet?”

  Miss Smyth clapped both hands to her cheeks. “Oh, dear, my dreadful memory. Yes, indeed, Lord Dawson, she came down when I did, and she particularly instructed me to tell you she’d be waiting for you in the yellow parlor. I’m so sorry. Please apologize to her for me and tell her it’s all my fault you didn’t appear sooner.”

  “I’m sure she’ll understand.” David stood. “I’m afraid I must leave you two alone.”

  Over his dead body. Alex leapt to his feet. “Regretfully, I, too, have to go.”

  “Oh? Where are you off to?”

  Trust Miss Smyth to ask awkward questions. He looked out the window for inspiration and saw a dog run by in the wet. Dogs. Wet.

  “I thought I’d see if I might be of assistance to Lady Oxbury. I might walk her dog for her, so she doesn’t have to go out into the damp.”

  Miss Smyth beamed at him. “How chivalrous. That is an excellent idea, Mr. Wilton. Don’t let me detain you.”

  Lady Wordham was on the settee staring out the window at the rain.

  David stepped into the yellow parlor. She didn’t turn. Did she not know he was there? Perhaps she was as hard of hearing as Grandmamma had been. She must be about the same age, though she looked very little like Grandmamma.

  Grandmamma. Damn. Thinking of her still opened a gaping emptiness in his chest. Ridiculous. He was a grown man. It had been a year. He should not still feel this…loss.

  She had been old; old people die.

  But not so suddenly, not when they were healthy—laughing and teasing and gossiping one day and gone the next, caught in the twisted mess of a wrecked carriage.

  For weeks—months—afterward, he’d expected to see her or Grandda every time he turned a corner at Riverview. Every time he entered the library or the breakfast parlor or passed their favorite bench in the garden.

  He sniffed and pulled out his handkerchief. He’d got a speck in his eye.

  “Lord Dawson.” Lady Wordham must have heard him then. Damnation. He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket.

  “My pardon. Got a bit of soot in my eye.” He cleared his throat. “It’s rather dark in here, isn’t it? I’ll just light a few candles.”

  Hell, she was watching him as if he were a bloody miracle or something.

  She had disowned her own daughter, for God’s sake, and her own grandchild. Him.

  Well, perhaps she had not done so, but she had allowed her husband to do so. She’d never written, never marked a single one of his birthdays, never given the slightest indication that she knew he was alive.

  “Thank you for consenting to meet with me, Lord Dawson.”

  “My, ahem, my pleasure, ma’am.” God, he wished Grace were here now. It was her fault he was facing this uncomfortable interview.

  Lady Wordham smiled slightly. She looked rather familiar all of a sudden, rather like…

  Like the person who stared back at him from the mirror every morning.

  No. There was no family resemblance whatsoever. He’d always been told he looked just like his father and just like Grandda’s younger brother who’d
died of smallpox.

  “Well, I know it can’t be a pleasure, but I do appreciate you doing so. I also know it must have been a very nasty surprise seeing me here. I told Winifred you would not like it, but I was desperate to meet you and I wasn’t certain you would agree to visit me if I extended the invitation. After all, you had not sought me out when you came to Town.”

  He cleared his throat again. Good God, this was worse than he’d imagined. He should feel righteous anger, but Lady Wordham just seemed so old and sad.

  She shook her head. “Do not prevaricate. I understand, I think, why you would not wish to see me. Well, why would you? I am a stranger to you—”

  “Not just a stranger—” He pressed his lips together. Surely he hadn’t sounded as hurt as he feared?

  Lady Wordham sighed. “Will you please sit down, my lord? I promise to be brief, and if you do not care to hear from me again—”

  Lady Wordham’s voice caught, and she had recourse to her handkerchief. Could this get any more awkward?

  “Lady Wordham, it isn’t necessary—”

  “Yes, it is.” Her voice was surprisingly firm. “I am seventy-five years old, my lord. My husband has recently died. It is very clear to me that I shall not live forever. It is time—past time—to address a few…regrets while I still can. Please, sit down.”

  He sat. This interview could not last forever, and then he could spend the rest of the house party avoiding Lady Wordham. If it was as embarrassing as he feared, she would probably wish to avoid him as well.

  He could manage it. She didn’t look much like Grandmamma. Grandmamma had been plump and soft, always smiling. Lady Wordham was almost gaunt and serious. Sad.

  Why should she be sad?

  He pushed the thought away. Her happiness or sadness was none of his concern.

  Lady Wordham sighed again. “This is harder than I expected.”

  “Don’t feel—”

  She held her hand up to stop him. “Hard, but necessary, Lord Dawson, if not for you, then for me. Please indulge an old woman.”

  “Of course.”

  She smiled at him. “Thank you.” She closed her eyes for a moment and then leaned forward. “Harriet, your mother, was our youngest and somewhat spoiled, I’m afraid. She was too much like her father—very strong-willed and stubborn. She was also a little wild.”

  He caught himself nodding and stopped. He had surmised as much, but he didn’t wish to give Lady Wordham the impression he was agreeing with her about anything.

  She studied her hands. “I’ve thought about this over and over, why Harold—my husband—insisted Harriet wed Lord Standen, when anyone with half a brain could see they were not well matched.” She looked up. “And yes, I saw it, too, and tried to reason with Harold, but he would not be swayed. I did say he was strong-willed and stubborn, didn’t I?”

  David smiled slightly. “Yes, I believe you did.”

  “I think Harold was of the opinion Standen would settle Harriet down. Harold had just celebrated his fiftieth birthday that Season, and it hit him hard. His father had died at fifty-one. I believe he was all too aware of his mortality and wanted to ensure that his baby, his pet, would be taken care of.”

  “His pet?” David swallowed. He would not shout at the old woman. “And so he disowned his pet and left her in an inn yard with her dying husband?”

  Lady Wordham gaped at him. “What? What do you mean?”

  What did she mean? This odd act was most distasteful. “You must know Lord Wordham tracked my parents to an inn.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And that he was dragging my mother away when my father came back from the village.”

  “I don’t believe he was dragging Harriet anywhere…”

  “When my father tried to defend my mother, he tripped and hit his head on a rock. He died after your husband left.”

  Lady Wordham frowned at him, anger clear in her eyes. “Who told you that? Surely not your other grandparents?”

  “They did…” Or had they? Had he actually heard that story from Grandda or Grandmamma? He’d grown up with it, but he might have heard it from Alex or even one of the villagers. Now that he thought about it, neither of his grandparents had talked much about his father’s death. Grandmamma had told him wonderful tales about how beautiful and spirited his mother was and how clever and bright his father was, but had she actually told him what had happened at the inn and what Lord Wordham had or hadn’t done?

  “No, I’m not certain…I don’t know where I heard that story. But if it isn’t true, why didn’t my mother go home to you? Why did she come to my father’s parents? And why didn’t you come to her funeral or ever visit or write me?”

  Damn. He sat back and took a breath. He sounded much too emotional.

  “I said Harriet was strong-willed and stubborn, and I’ve admitted my husband was as well.” Lady Wordham shook her head. “I don’t know exactly what did happen, only that when Harold came home, he was a broken man. He told me Harriet had disowned him—disowned us—that she’d said she wanted nothing more to do with us, that she held us responsible for your father’s death. And he felt responsible. No, he hadn’t laid a hand on the boy, but he knew if he hadn’t pursued them, Luke would not have fallen and died.”

  It was exactly what he’d thought, too, but now it seemed slightly unfair. If he ever had a daughter—he and Grace—he would damn well pursue her if she ran off with some man.

  “I do know Harold stayed away a week,” Lady Wordham said. “He told me he stayed near Harriet—she wouldn’t let him stay with her—until your parents arrived to take her and your father’s body to Riverview.”

  “All right, I suppose I believe that. At this point it is only hearsay.”

  “As is the story that Harold deserted Harriet.”

  “True.” He could stop now—he should stop now. A portion—a large portion—of the wound had been healed; he could part on cordial terms with Lady Wordham. But if Grace were here, she would not let him stop; he knew it. She would insist he try to heal the whole wound. And she would be right.

  “But why did you not come to my mother’s funeral?” He gripped his hands tightly together. “Why did you never come see me?”

  “I wanted to; dear God, I wanted to.” Lady Wordham reached forward as if to touch him, but stopped herself and dropped her hand back into her lap. “Emotions were raw then, Dav—Lord Dawson. I believe your grandparents did blame Harold for causing their son’s death and, as I said, we agreed they had some basis for that belief. And Harold and I—well, if your father had not gone off with Harriet, none of it would have happened. She would not have died, either.”

  David opened his mouth. How dare she lay any blame on his father?

  She rushed on. “Even though we knew Harriet was equally at fault—we never thought your father had taken her against her will. But we were not totally rational at the time.” She leaned forward again. “Can you understand at all, Lord Dawson? Can you imagine having a daughter, having her run away, having…”

  Lady Wordham used her handkerchief again.

  Yes, the damnable thing was he could imagine it—now that he had met Grace, he could imagine it very clearly.

  “As to why we did not visit you, we never felt we would be welcome. And we could understand that, too. Your grandfather had lost his son; you were now his heir. You needed to be at Riverview to learn to manage the estate. You were happy—we did ascertain that.”

  She paused and took a shuddery breath, glancing at him and then down to her lap where her fingers twisted in her skirt. They were so thin and fragile looking.

  She spoke very softly, her voice fragile as well.

  “Now, with Harold gone…I just had to see you. Ask you to forgive me; see if we could…We’ve both lost people special to us…”

  She was right. She’d lost a daughter and a husband; he’d lost parents and grandparents. What would be served by refusing to recognize that fact?

  He still had on
e grandparent left.

  He felt a burden shift, lighten. He smiled. “Well, Grandmother…should I call you Grandmother? I’m afraid I’ve already had a Grandmamma, but—”

  “Oh, yes. Oh, please. I would love it if you would—”

  His grandmother dissolved into tears. He hesitated a moment, then sat down beside her and gathered her into his arms.

  Grace sat on the window seat in her room and stared out at the wet lawn. A very tall figure with a short, moppy dog came into view. She smiled. Was that Mr. Wilton with Hermes? They made a very odd pair.

  Hermes took off across the grass after a squirrel. He chased it up a tree, barked vociferously for a few minutes, and then trotted back to Mr. Wilton.

  Aunt Kate should be with them. Why wasn’t she? Was she still feeling poorly?

  What was the matter with her? She’d been an early riser when they’d first got to London; now she didn’t get out of bed until almost noon and more times than not greeted the day clutching a basin, her stomach sadly unsettled.

  She must be ill. She should see a doctor, yet when Grace had suggested as much, she’d turned very pale and had refused, insisting it wasn’t necessary.

  What could Grace do? She’d been so certain the problem was somehow connected to Mr. Wilton. She’d thought once she got the two of them in the same place, everything would be resolved, but so far that plan hadn’t worked. Aunt Kate was still not in plump currant. Mr. Wilton must have had nothing to do with the problem.

  Well, they had only been here a short while. She might be too impatient. She needed to give it time—but not too much time. If Aunt Kate were not better by the house party’s end, Grace was going to insist a doctor be called. She would go and fetch one herself, if need be.

  Mr. Wilton and Hermes had moved out of sight. She should go downstairs. She would like to go for a walk herself, but it was too damp. She was not as intrepid as Lord Dawson’s uncle. Well, and the rain was starting to come down harder now.

  She would go out later, when the weather had cleared. Perhaps she would look for Lady Kilgorn. How tragic that she and her husband had been estranged so long. They had married very young…had they wed for love or for duty?