by Julia London
“It’s quite all right, sir. I understand completely, I assure you—I’m afraid we haven’t had much luck keeping a cook in our employ,” she said, stooping to retrieve the poker. “Fortunately, Miss Agatha has taken pity on my daughter and brings us a complete supper every now and again to spare us the awful rot we are served. I assume the scent of her roasted beef wafted its way down to you?”
“Beef?” he asked in a reverent tone.
“Mother, he must have some!” Natalie insisted, coming to Ellen’s side to tug on her gown. “Please say he might!”
Ellen looked at the captain, who was now staring at the poker she held as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. It occurred to her that even with that rather jagged scar, he was really a handsome man, in a rough, Highland sort of way. In fact, in spite of his rather mean looks and his frank manner of speech, she had the sense that he was really a gentle giant. She rather liked this Scot, and it was no secret that Natalie certainly did.
This Scot, on the other hand, seemed to be growing more uncomfortable by the moment, and abruptly put a hand on the nape of his neck and stepped back. “I beg yer pardon, I do—”
“Please stay, Captain!” Natalie pleaded. “I drew a picture. Would you like to see my picture?” Naturally, she didn’t wait for a response, but turned and ran for her picture so fast that Ellen could hardly stop her.
She smiled at the captain, silently debating whether or not she dared invite him in, for Farnsworth would surely toss them out in the street if he discovered the captain here. But then again, Farnsworth was gone for the evening. How would he know? Follifoot would not come up again tonight. And the captain was a rather intriguing fellow. But he must have sensed her debate, for he stepped back. “You mustn’t mind her, of course,” Ellen said quickly.
“No, no, I…”
“I would invite you to try some of the beef, but you look dressed to go out.”
That drew a suspicious glance from the captain, but when she merely lifted a curious brow, he looked down at his clothes, as if he had no idea what he was wearing until that very moment. “Oh. Aye, aye…”
“Ah. Well, then.” It was a foolish idea to begin with. Deadly, really. “Perhaps the next time Agatha—”
“But I’m no’ expected for a time yet,” he quickly interjected, and glanced up at her again. “The beef…ach, the truth is, the beef, it smells heavenly.”
Ellen smiled broadly. Damn Farnsworth after all. “Then you simply must come in and have a plate of it.”
“Oh, no, I really shouldna—are ye certain, then? I’d no’ be intruding on yer family supper?”
“Of course not! It’s only Natalie and me, and I think you know how she feels,” Ellen said, laughing, and if he had any doubts, Natalie came bursting through the opposite door at that moment, her drawing clutched tightly in her hand. She rushed to stand in front of the captain and thrust the picture up to him, stopping just short of actually punching him in the nose with it.
“It’s a princess,” she said breathlessly.
The captain reared back, took the drawing, and squinted to carefully consider it. He nodded thoughtfully, said, “A fine princess she is, lass. None bonnier.” He handed the drawing back to Natalie, who clutched it against her chest and looked up at her mother, beaming with pleasure.
It was so rare to see such a smile from Natalie that Ellen’s heart tipped a little.
She gently pushed Natalie toward her chair. “Please do come in, Captain. We’d be very much honored to share our supper with you.” She stood aside to give him entry. “And please do make yourself quite comfortable. But I must warn you,” she said with a grimace, as he dipped his head and stepped across the threshold, “I’m afraid we’ve a small rodent who visits the dining room almost as frequently as we do.”
“A mouse, eh?”
“I can’t seem to catch the wretched creature and be rid of it,” Ellen said apologetically, shutting the door behind him. “Natalie, will you make a place setting for our guest?” She gestured toward a chair directly across from where Natalie was sitting. The captain looked at it, then at Ellen, and hesitantly shrugged out of his coat.
Ellen immediately took the heavy garment and draped it across the nearest chair, then walked to the head of the table. From the corner of her eye, she watched as the captain moved woodenly toward the chair she had indicated, then sat gingerly, managing to wedge his large frame between the table and the small seat. Natalie skipped around the table to where he sat, bringing his plate and spoon, which she set directly in front of him. And then, without warning, she threw her arms around him and gave him a big hug.
“Natalie!” Ellen cried.
The captain smiled thinly, reached up, and patted her arm. “There now, lass,” he said, “Suithad.”
Much to Ellen’s great surprise, Natalie let go and walked to her seat, as if she understood what the captain had said.
Baffled, she leaned across the table and ladled some beef onto his plate. “What was that you said…what language?” she asked as she set the plate in front of him.
“Gàidhlig… and a little Scots, I suppose,” he said with a shrug, watching her, his hands folded tightly in his lap.
Ellen sat, put her napkin in her lap. The captain picked up the one Natalie had lain next to his plate and did the same.
“That’s very interesting.”
He nodded absently as he stared at her plate. Rather odd behavior, she thought, and picked up her spoon. The captain instantly picked his up. “Please,” she said, nodding toward his plate, and dipped her spoon into her beef.
The captain did exactly the same, carefully took a bite of the beef, then closed his eyes, savoring it.
Natalie laughed.
The captain opened his eyes and looked at her. “Laugh if you will, wee one, but ye donna understand a man’s hunger.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he glanced at Ellen.
Ooh, he had not meant that, she told herself, but felt herself color nonetheless, and focused on her food. “So…are you in London for long, sir?”
The captain dug his spoon in the beef again and took a healthy bite of it. “Canna say, exactly.”
She waited for him to say more, but he kept eating, as if he hadn’t done so for days. She poured him a glass of wine and remarked, “You said you hailed from Aberfoyle. I was wondering, where is that, exactly?”
“Ah, she’s north of Glasgow.”
“Is it very pretty there?” Natalie asked.
The captain stopped in his devouring of the soup to consider her question. “Not as bonny as Laria, I’d wager, but a lovely hamlet all the same.”
“And what did you do in Aberfoyle?” Ellen continued.
The captain blinked. “Do?”
“Did you have an occupation, sir? I mean, of course, before your military career?”
“No,” he said, quickly shaking his head. “The family…me father, he’s the laird. We live on the land. On the old Lockhart estate, that is, north of Aberfoyle, on the banks of Loch Chon.” At Ellen’s blank look, he put down his spoon. “Loch Chon. She’s a wee bit north of Loch Ard.” Ellen had no idea what he was saying and shook her head. “You donna know?” he asked, incredulous. “Mi Diah, The Trossachs is the most beautiful place on God’s earth!”
“Is it really? Natalie and I have not traveled much. Perhaps you could tell us?”
The captain rolled his eyes, placed his spoon carefully next to his plate, then braced his hands against the edge of the table. For a long moment, he looked at the ceiling, as if uncertain quite where to start.
“’Tis truly beautiful, on me life. I will no’ do her justice, I know. But the hills, they bleed into Loch Chon, with trees so thick they look like the sweep of a lady’s ball gown, all purple and green and gold. And the water, ’tis very clear, like crystal, yet so dark a man canna see his own arm. And the hills, with the winter snows, stand majestic above the loch.” He lowered his gaze and looked at Natalie. “At Loch Chon,
where me family lives, ye can smell the green and the grass when the rains come. It’s fresh, then, like the world has been washed and come round to a new beginning. And then ye look up, and ye see a sky as blue as yer eyes, lass, and a night as black as India ink, with stars that sparkle like gems against it. And just when ye think it could no’ be more beautiful than that, the moon, she rises like the Lady of the Loch, hangs full and ripe above yer head, just waiting to be plucked.” As he spoke, he lifted his hand upward, as if the moon were indeed within his grasp.
Entranced, Natalie followed his gaze up.
But the captain lowered his hand and casually picked up his spoon. “’Tis a bonny place, then,” he said matter-of-factly, and shoved another hearty spoonful of beef into his mouth.
Neither Ellen nor Natalie spoke for a moment, until Natalie murmured sincerely, “It sounds like Laria. Pretty and green and clean…”
The captain suddenly looked up, turned his head toward the door.
“…and there is lots of sunshine—much more than here in London,” Natalie blithely continued as the captain suddenly came to his feet.
Ellen put her spoon down. “Captain? Is something wrong?”
He put a finger to his lips, moved quickly and gracefully for a man his size, then stopped again, his head cocked, listening.
“Actually, it never rains in Laria. Except in the spring before the flowers bloom. But that’s really all,” Natalie continued, staring off into space as her mind conjured up her imaginary kingdom.
The captain moved again, toward the door, then froze. Ellen’s heart seized—she imagined Farnsworth on the other side of the door and felt a jolt of panic.
“And the summers are nice and warm and the birds sing all the time and—”
The captain moved so quickly that Ellen scarcely realized what he was doing before the sound of a loud whap startled Natalie out of her recitation and propelled Ellen to her feet with a gasp. The captain bent over, scooped something up, then turned around, his fist closed. “Mouse,” he announced, obviously pleased with himself.
Natalie shrieked, clamped her hand over her mouth in horror.
“You stomped the mouse to death?” Ellen exclaimed, just as horrified.
The captain looked at Natalie, then Ellen, his expression confused. “Aye,” he drawled, then looked at Natalie again. “What, then? Ye wanted to keep it?” he asked, incredulous, and groaned loudly when Natalie began to wail.
Nine
With the dead mouse quickly put out of sight in his pocket, two females gaping at him in raw disbelief, and really, being quite stuffed to the gills on goose and beef, it seemed as good a time as any to take his leave, so Liam grabbed up his overcoat.
Natalie was looking up at him as he shrugged into his coat, both hands clamped across her mouth, her eyes wide with shock, which, he thought irritably, begged the question of why exactly they should go around complaining about the radan if they didn’t want it removed from the premises? And how did they propose he do that, if not by the boot?
“I beg yer pardon, Natalie, lass. I didna understand ye were so attached to the, er…mouse.”
Still wide-eyed, Natalie looked at her mother, who, regrettably, looked almost as horrified. Bloody hell, then, he’d made quite a blunder, had he not? Just proved that he should never have climbed those stairs, damn fool that he was.
“I, ah…I should thank you,” Natalie’s mother said uncertainly, but she didn’t sound as if she really wanted to thank him at all.
“Aye,” Liam grunted as he took a giant step backward, toward the door. “I should be on me way, then.”
“But…but you didn’t finish your meal, Captain,” she said, looking at his plate, which was, by anyone’s standard, near to empty.
“I thank ye kindly for the hospitality, and in particular, the most excellent beef,” he said, bowing sharply. “But I regret to say I am expected elsewhere.”
Natalie’s mother nodded, folded her hands in front of her. Knuckles white as snow, he noticed. “Thank you for joining us. It was quite, ah…lovely. And thank you for…well…you know. That,” she said, glancing at his pocket.
But he had thought she had wanted it gone! “Ye’ve been too kind, truly ye have,” he said, groping for the door behind his back and swinging it open.
“Please. Think nothing of it.”
Would that he were so fortunate. Would that he could forget ever setting foot on those stairs, but something told him this little impromptu supper and his slaying of the mouse would be on his mind for quite some time to come. “Well, then, I wish ye a good evening,” he said, and backed out the door, shutting it quickly in case she thought to say more. Then he turned and strode quickly to the curving staircase, feeling like a wayward school lad as he paused on the top step to listen for any sound below. When he was convinced there was none, he hurried down the faded carpet of the steps, across the landing of what seemed to be an empty first floor, and down to the main foyer. He paused there, cocking his head first to one side, then the other, listening carefully. Quiet as a kirk on Monday.
Assured that no one saw him sneaking down from the floors above, Liam straightened the lapels of his coat and strode outside, pausing to toss the mouse carcass into the shrubs that lined the front of the house before jogging down the steps to the street and square below.
He marched across the square and wandered up the few streets to Hyde Park, where several hacks were gathered, but opted for the more austere and prudent form of travel (his feet), and hied himself across Mayfair to St. James. There, he slowed to the lazier, English pace as he looked for his cousin among the dozens of men who went in and out of the gentlemen’s clubs along St. James and Pall Mall.
There was no sign of Nigel as yet. Liam checked his pocket watch, saw that it was still early—he might still catch the old sot before he drank his weight in ale. With his hands clasped nonchalantly behind his back, he strolled up St. James Street like all the Englishmen, peering into different windows, trying to appear interested. But in truth his mind was on Ellie (as he had named her in his imagination). Diah, she was beautiful, as beautiful as any woman he’d ever seen…or dreamed of, which actually constituted a much larger group of women. She reminded him of the French actress he had once seen in Rouen. That woman had long blond hair, skin as fair as a new bairn’s, eyes as blue as a robin’s egg. He’d only seen her for a moment as she crossed the cobblestones in the company of a high-ranking British officer, but she had glanced over her shoulder and smiled, and for many nights after that, Liam had dreamed that she smiled at him.
He had thought there was no one bonnier. Until he’d seen Ellie, of course, with her smile as bright as a thousand stars, her skin as smooth and rich as butter cream, and her eyes as crystal blue as an early morning sky. Unfortunately, each time he looked at her, his brain shriveled up to a bean and he lost the ability to use his tongue. It was one of those rare moments in life he wished he had a wee bit of Griffin in him. Grif knew how to charm a lady—not he. No, he’d never been a ladies’ man, had never been in the company of ladies long enough to know what to do. Aye, but he was a soldier, a man who made his living in the pursuit and destruction of the enemy, spending days and weeks in trenches and camps. He was not some parlor Paddy who had spent years on the settee learning how to make ladies laugh.
Then perhaps, he sternly reminded himself, he’d do best to stay out of the parlor to begin with instead of lurking about and practically inviting himself in for supper.
Liam turned and crossed the street, strolled down the walk past Brook’s and White’s, looking at the gentlemen who came out of the clubs in twos and threes, trying very hard not to scowl. Englishmen, really! While he’d known several good, courageous Englishmen in the course of his military career, and could honestly avow to admiring a handful of them, it seemed that in London they were all a bunch of fops, dandies, and coxcombs. There wasn’t a one of them who hadn’t curled his hair or cinched his waist or padded his shoulder. It wasn’t right,
to Liam’s way of thinking, went against the grain and the natural way of things. Men should be men and leave the cosmetics to women.
He paused at the corner of St. James and Pall Mall, propping himself against the corner of one building, and observed a group of young men sauntering across the street, laughing with one another. A carriage careened around the corner and sent the young men scrambling in different directions. It hardly surprised Liam to discover that the reckless carriage transported his cousin—the body of the vehicle surged toward the walkway, and out tumbled his rotund cousin, followed by a new pair of male companions.
One of the young men, who had come very close to being splattered on the street by his cousin’s reckless driving, said something that caught Nigel’s attention. He pirouetted on his heel, pitched toward the upstart, his finger wagging, and responded with something that caused the young men to laugh uproariously. As they regrouped and walked away, more than one turned his head to have a look at Nigel and laugh again.
Nigel attempted to straighten his waistcoat, but one hand wouldn’t function properly, so he quit trying and pivoted around and let one of his companions push him in the direction of the door of the Darden Gentleman’s Club.
“Ach, ye blasted sot,” Liam muttered underneath his breath. “Ye leave me no option, do ye?” With his jaw clamped tightly shut, Liam pushed away from the building and marched to Darden’s.
The inside of the club looked like most the others he had visited—dark paneling, thick leather chairs around small tables, the golden glow of wall sconces, the cloudy drift of smoke that burned his eyes. Liam walked deeper into the club, shrugging out of his coat. A man appeared on his right, offering to take it. “No, I’ll keep it,” he said, jerking it back from the man’s helpful hand. One never knew when one might have to make a hasty exit.
He paid the required fee for gracing this club—a bloody two pounds, he noted with disdain—and the man pointed him toward the common room. Liam walked across the thick carpet toward a small table in the center of the room. It was hot as blazes in here, with twin hearths on opposite walls stoked to infernos. Thin-blooded bastards, the English Quality. With a humph, Liam dropped into a thickly padded leather seat and tossed his coat onto the chair next to him. When the footman arrived, he asked, “Have ye good Scotch whiskey?”
