But the newspapers printed what they wanted, and angry Irishmen, not knowing what was in Hart’s head, had started making threats.
Hart sent his footmen to search the area and round up any passing policeman, then got into his coach with David, David imbibing heavily from his flask.
When Hart reached the house after depositing David at his flat, he told his footmen and coachman not to gossip about the shooting and upset Eleanor and her father with it. Hart had experienced assassination attempts several times in his career, with the same lack of marksmanship—someone was always angry at him. He’d have policemen try to find the shooter and watch the house, but the routine wasn’t to be disrupted. However, if his household guests went anywhere, they were never to be without at least two bodyguards to protect them, and never without the carriage. His men agreed, shaken themselves.
Irish separatists were not the only possible assassins. Hart wondered, as he entered his quiet house, whether the person sending Eleanor the photographs had any connection with this shooting. The letters hadn’t seemed threatening, and there might be no connection at all. However, Hart had a renewed desire to look at the photographs and letters Eleanor had collected.
The thought of leaning over the evidence side by side with Eleanor, her sweet breath touching his skin, made his heart pump faster than it had when the bullet had sailed past him. Best not to risk it.
Hart could demand that Eleanor bring him the photographs so he could look at them alone, but he immediately dismissed the idea. Eleanor would never agree. She’d become extremely proprietary about the photographs—why, Hart couldn’t imagine. But, no matter; he’d acquire them by stealth.
The next day, Hart waited until Eleanor and Isabella were ensconced in the downstairs drawing room, planning Hart’s next lavish entertainment, Mac safely in his studio, and the earl writing in the small study, before he quietly mounted the stairs to the floor above his study and entered Eleanor’s room.
Eleanor’s bedchamber was empty, as Hart knew it would be, the maids already finished there. Hart strode to Eleanor’s small writing table and began opening drawers.
He did not find the photographs. He found that Eleanor kept writing paper neatly in one drawer, envelopes in another, pens and pencils, separate from each other, in yet another. Letters she’d received from friends—Eleanor had many friends—were bundled in the fourth drawer. Hart leafed quickly through the letters, but none contained the photographs.
Where had she put the bloody things? He knew he had only a few minutes before Eleanor or Isabella would want to dash up here for something or other.
With mounting frustration, Hart searched the tables on either side of the bed, but she hadn’t tucked the pictures into either of them. Her armoire revealed garments neatly hung or folded—plain gowns in drab colors, and not many of them. The deep drawer beneath held a bustle encased in tissue and that was all.
The chest of drawers on the other side of the room was more of a lingerie chest—the top drawers held stockings and garters; the next, camisoles and knickers; then came a drawer with a corset made of plain lawn, well mended.
Hart made himself cease lingering to imagine Eleanor in the underwear and concentrate on searching. He was rewarded when, under the corset, he found a book.
The book was large and long, the kind in which ladies pasted mementos of special occasions or memorable outings. This particular book was fat, plumped out with whatever Eleanor had thought worth preserving. Hart pulled it out of the drawer, set it on her writing table, and opened it.
The book was all about him.
Every page had been covered with a chronology of Hart Mackenzie. Newspaper and magazine articles provided the text and photographs of Hart the businessman, Hart the politician, Hart the duke’s son, and then Hart the duke. Society pages showed Hart at gatherings hosted by the Prince of Wales, at charity banquets, at clan gatherings where he reproclaimed his loyalty to the leader of clan Mackenzie.
She’d pasted in newspaper photographs of Hart speaking with the queen, with various prime ministers, and with dignitaries from around the world. The story about Hart becoming Duke of Kilmorgan and taking his seat in the House of Lords was here, including a history of the dukes of Kilmorgan back to the 1300s.
Eleanor Ramsay had collected Hart Mackenzie’s entire life and pasted it into a memory book. She’d carried the book down here from Scotland and kept it hidden like a treasure.
The announcement of Hart’s marriage to Lady Sarah Graham in 1875 occupied its own page. Eleanor had written in colored pencil next to a newspaper drawing of Hart and Sarah in their wedding finery: It is done.
The rest of that page was blank, as though Eleanor had meant to stop the book there. But Hart turned the page and found more articles about his burgeoning political career, about the festivities he and his new wife hosted both in London and at Kilmorgan.
The announcement of Sarah’s death and the death of baby Hart Graham Mackenzie was surrounded by a wreath of flowers cut from a card. Eleanor had written next to it: My heart is heavy for him.
More articles followed about Hart coming out of mourning to pursue his career even more obsessively than before. He means to be prime minister, one journalist wrote. England will tremble under this Scottish invasion.
On the page after the last article, Hart found his photographs.
Eleanor had collected fifteen so far. She’d pasted each carefully into the book and outlined them in colored pencil—red, blue, green, yellow—she’d chosen arbitrarily. Notes appeared under each: Received by hand February 1, 1884, or Found in Strand shop, February 18, 1884.
There were photos of Hart facing the camera, or with his back to the camera, or in profile; Hart in only a kilt, Hart naked, Hart smiling, Hart trying to give the camera an arrogant Highland sneer. The one of Hart in his kilt, laughing, telling Angelina not to close the shutter, had been surrounded by curlicues. The best, Eleanor had written.
Hart turned the last few pages, which were blank, ready for more photographs. He started to close the book but noticed that the back cover itself bulged. Investigating, he found that something had been slid behind the endpaper and the cover, the endpaper carefully pasted back into place. It did not take Hart long to peel the black paper down, and behind it, he found the letters.
There weren’t many, perhaps a dozen in all, but when Hart unfolded one, his own handwriting stared back up at him.
Eleanor had kept every letter Hart had ever written to her.
Hart sank into a chair as he leafed through them. He saw that she’d even kept his first stiff missive, sent to her the day after he’d contrived his initial meeting with her:
Lord Hart Mackenzie requests the pleasure of Lady Eleanor Ramsay’s company for a boating party and picnic on August 20th, below the grounds of Kilmorgan Castle. Please respond to my messenger, but don’t give him a tip, because he’s already gouged me extra for carrying this to you, as well as using it as an excuse to visit his mother.
Your servant,
Hart Mackenzie
He remembered clearly every word of her written reply.
To my mere acquaintance, Lord Hart Mackenzie:
A gentleman does not write to a lady to whom he is not related or betrothed. Kissing me at the ball is hardly the same thing. I think that our shocking enjoyment of said kiss should not be repeated on the riverbank below Kilmorgan, no matter how idyllic the setting, as I believe there is a rather public view of it from the house. Add to that, a gentleman should not invite a lady to a boating party himself. A maiden aunt or some such should pen the letter for him and assure the young lady that said maiden aunt will be there to chaperone. I will instead invite you to take tea here at Glenarden; however, by the same rules, I cannot properly ask an unrelated gentleman to take tea with me, so I will have my father write you a letter. Do not be alarmed if this invitation wanders off into the medicinal properties of blue fungus or whatever has taken his interest by then. That is his way, and I will endeavo
r to keep him to the point.
Hart had laughed loudly over the charming letter, and responded.
A lady does not write to a gentleman either, bold minx. Bring your father to the boating party, if you please, and he can root around in all the fungi he wants. My brothers will be there, along with neighbors, which include a pack of society matrons, so your virtue will be well guarded from me. I promise I have no intention of kissing you on the riverbank—I will take you deeper into the woods for that.
Your servant and much more than mere acquaintance,
Hart Mackenzie
Hart folded the letter, remembering the joy of the boating party. Eleanor had come with Earl Ramsay, and then driven Hart insane by planting herself in the middle of the matrons, flirting with Mac and Cameron, and daring Hart to try to get anywhere near her.
She’d carefully not let him corner her until she’d gone back to the boathouse to fetch an elderly woman’s forgotten walking stick. Being kind had been her downfall, because Hart had caught her alone in the boathouse.
Eleanor had given him a wide smile and said, “Not fair. This isn’t the woods,” before Hart had kissed her.
The walking stick had fallen from Eleanor’s hands as her head went back, her eyes drifted closed, and Hart opened her lips. He’d tasted every corner of her mouth, let his hand rove until it cupped her breast through the thick fabric of her bodice.
When she’d tried to step away in weak protest, Hart had given her a wicked smile and told her he would leave her the second she told him to. Forever, if she wished it.
Eleanor had met his gaze with her very blue eyes and said, “You’re right, I am a bold minx,” and pulled him down for another kiss.
Hart had lifted her onto a workman’s bench and hooked one arm under her knee, showing her how to twine her leg around his. As Eleanor had stared up at him, he’d seen it dawn on her that whatever relations she had with Hart Mackenzie would not be conventional. He saw her desire ignite, saw her decide that she would allow herself to enjoy whatever he intended to show her.
That tiny moment of surrender had made his heart—and other parts of him—swell. Hart had thought, at that moment, that he’d caught her, but he’d been a fool.
The next letter was full of teasing by Hart about their brief moment in the boating house, with some inane innuendo about the walking stick. Eleanor had written him a saucy letter back, which had heated Hart’s blood and made him wild to see her again.
He found the letter he’d written after she’d accepted his proposal, made in the summerhouse at Kilmorgan.
Seeing you bare in the sunshine, with the Scottish wind in your hair, sent all my tactics for winning you to the devil. I knew that if I asked you then, your answer would be final. No going back. I knew I should leave it alone, but I went ahead and asked the foolish question anyway. Lucky man that I am, you gave me the answer I longed to hear. And so, as promised, you will have everything you ever wanted.
Young and arrogant, Hart had thought that if he offered Eleanor riches on a silver platter, she would fall at his feet and be his forever. He’d read her very wrong.
The next letter, written after Hart had taken Eleanor to meet Ian when Ian had been living at the asylum, was evidence that Eleanor was nothing less than extraordinary.
I bless you a thousand times over, Eleanor Ramsay. I do not know what you did, but Ian responded to you. Sometimes he doesn’t speak at all, not for days or weeks. On some of my visits to him, he’s only stared out the window or worked on blasted mathematics equations without looking at me, no matter how much I try to get him to acknowledge that I’m there. He’s locked in that world of his, in a place where I can’t go. I long to open the door and let him out, and I do not know how.
But Ian looked at you, El, he talked to you, and he asked me, when I went back to see him today, when you and I would marry. Ian said that he wanted us to marry, because once I am safe with you, he can stop worrying about me.
He broke my heart. I pretend to be a strong man, my love, but when I’m with Ian, I know how very weak I am.
Subdued, Hart leafed through the remaining letters. There were not many, because once his engagement with Eleanor had been made official, she and he had been together quite a lot. The few letters written when he’d been detained in London or Paris or Edinburgh without her were filled with praises to her beauty and to her body, her laughter and her warmth. He found the letter he’d written her telling her with eagerness that he’d come to Glenarden when he was finished with business in Edinburgh, the fateful visit when Eleanor had waited for him in the garden and given him back the ring.
The last two letters had been written several years after the engagement ended. Hart opened them, numbly surprised that Eleanor had kept them at all. He read them out of order, the first telling Eleanor of Ian’s return to the family after their father’s death:
He is still Ian, and he isn’t. He sits in silence, not answering when we speak to him, not even looking around when we address him. He is somewhere inside, trapped by years of pain, frustration, and out-and-out torture. I do not know if he resents me for not helping him sooner, or if he is grateful to me for bringing him home—or if he even knows he’s home. Curry, Ian’s valet, says he behaves no differently here as he had there. Ian eats, dresses, and sleeps without prodding and without help, but it’s as though he’s an automaton taught the motions of living as a human being, with no real knowledge of it.
I try to reach him, I truly try. And I can’t. I’ve brought home a shell of my brother, and it’s killing me.
Hart folded that letter and opened the last with slow fingers. This one was dated 1874, a month or so before the letter about Ian. The pages were still crisp, the ink black, and he knew every word of it by heart.
My dearest El,
My father is dead. You will have heard of his death already, but the rest of it I must confess or go mad. You are the only one I can think to tell, the only one I can trust to keep my secrets.
I will deliver this by my most trusted messenger into your hands alone. I urge you to burn it after reading—that is if your unshakable curiosity makes you open a letter from the hated Hart at all, instead of putting it straight into the fire.
I shot him, El.
I had to. He was going to kill Ian.
You once asked me why I let Ian live in that asylum, where doctors paraded him like a trained dog or used him for their strange experiments. I let him stay because, in spite of it all, he was safer there than he could be anywhere. Safe from my father. Whatever they did to him at the asylum is nothing compared to what my father could have done. I’ve long known that if I managed to talk Father into taking Ian out of it, Ian would only end up in a worse place, perhaps entirely out of my reach and at my father’s mercy.
Thank God the Kilmorgan servants are more loyal to me than they were to Father. Our majordomo approached me one day with what a housemaid had told him—that she’d overheard my father whispering to a man that he would pay him to slip into the asylum and kill Ian, by whatever quiet method the man chose.
As I listened to the majordomo report this horror, I realized that I could no longer wait to act.
I believed the truth of what the housemaid had overheard, because I knew that my father was capable of such a thing. It was nothing to do with Ian’s madness. You see, Ian witnessed my father commit a crime.
Ian told me about it in bits and pieces over the years, until I finally put together the entire truth. What Ian saw was my father killing my mother.
The way Ian described the incident, I don’t believe Father intended to kill her, but his violence certainly caused her death. He grabbed my mother and shook her by her neck, until that neck snapped.
Father found Ian crouched behind the desk and knew he’d seen it all. The next day Ian was hauled to London to sit before a commission for lunacy. Ian had always been half mad, but facing the commission was beyond him, and of course, they declared him insane. The action saved my father—
if Ian were declared mad by a commission, then whatever story Ian told about my mother’s death would likely not be believed.
At the time, I had no idea of any of this, but I fought my father’s decision. In vain—Ian was taken straight to the asylum, where my father had prepared a place for him in advance by paying them an obscene amount of money. I wasn’t yet old enough or experienced enough to know how to defeat him. I simply did all I could to make Ian comfortable where he was, as did Mac and Cam.
Of late, for some reason, Father began to believe that Ian was going to expose him. Perhaps Ian had grown more coherent about the incident, perhaps one of the doctors reported to my father that Ian was talking about his mother’s death—I never learned. In the end, I assume that my father feared someone at last believing Ian’s words and investigating. So he set his plan in motion.
I stopped that plan; I stopped it dead in its tracks. I found the men in my father’s pay, and I paid them to go far away. I sent my own people to guard Ian and had all missives from the asylum waylaid and passed to me.
My father found out and raged at me, but I knew he would try again. And again. My father was a ruthless man, as you know, selfish to the point of madness. I started proceedings to release Ian from the asylum into my guardianship, but the process was slow, and I feared my father would find a way around me before Ian was safe.
I knew I had to confront my father, to stop him for good.
One evening, two weeks ago, I went to his study at Kilmorgan. Father was well drunk, which was nothing unusual for that time of day. I told him that Ian had confided the story of our mother’s death to me and that I believed it. I told him that I was perfectly willing to testify to the truth of it, and I told him that I had put plans in motion to get Ian’s commission of lunacy reversed.
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