His Aunt Eve nodded her agreement. “Yes. Not only has Miss Hughes the look of the ladies in her family but their resolute spirit as well.”
Aye, that she did. The more they talked over the past week, the more the intrigue which had drawn him to her in the beginning continued to grow. She was a progressive thinker on most issues, and did remind him of his step-aunt, Prim, as well. Not simply in her desire for more than the traditional role of women, but in her vision of the future. Others spoke of the possibilities of reform. She phrased things as if they’d already become reality. He loved that conviction.
Mr. Wyndom, on the other hand, did not admire such radical notions and scoffed at Eve’s compliment. “There’s only spirit until the reality of failure strikes. This equality Miss Hughes speaks of will never come to fruition.” Everyone turned to look at him with varying levels of incredulity from mild to extreme. Hannah nudged him with her elbow, and he cleared his throat. “What I mean to say, is that as long as a gentleman can support his family in the manner they deserve, there is no reason a lady would need to seek out employment.”
“Some ladies are not as fortunate as we, Mr. Wyndom,” Hazel scolded before Brontë could speak up. Tris could see her biting her tongue. Wyndom didn’t know the power behind it as yet. Nor would he like to.
Hazel wasn’t the only one to speak out. Hannah’s reprisal while softer was no less firm. “I’m surprised you would be so narrow minded, Mr. Wyndom. I agree with Hazel. There are many women desperate for work. Not only should they have the same opportunities as a man but access to the training to do jobs otherwise reserved for men.”
“With so many men leaving their positions to join the war effort, there may come a time when the work force needs women to fill them,” Tris’s mother added.
“Yes,” Brontë leapt back into the fray. “Once the draft kicks in, there will be a desperate need for skilled workers.”
Tris shared a look with his uncle who’d been standing on the fringes of the argument for some time now. They’d had a discussion on that very subject recently and the possibility of it happening. Dorian frowned then cocked his head at her. “There’s been no official mention of conscription, Miss Hughes.”
Brontë bit her lip, a gesture Tris was becoming more and more familiar with. Forcing herself to refrain from comment. From saying something more than she should.
Because she knew more than they?
Who was Brontë Hughes really?
“This is all charming nonsense.” Wyndom stuck his foot in his mouth once more. “Why you ladies haven’t even the right to vote. Best focus on that before you think you can change a man’s world. Am I right, gentlemen?”
Not another man so much as coughed.
Tris wasn’t related to a pack of fools.
Wyndom cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. “Enough of this drivel. This fine day has kept the rain at bay after all. I say a spirited shinty match is just what we all need. Aye, chaps?”
An enthusiast of the sport, Henry heartily agreed and called out to the other men in the drawing room to join him. Brontë watched them leave with a wry look on her face. “Too much estrogen going on here for him, you think?” she asked. “He probably needed to compensate.”
The ladies around her exchanged confused glances, not understanding her meaning any more than Tris did.
“I’m afraid Mr. Wyndom is quite set in his ways,” Hannah said to excuse him.
“No, he’s an asshole.” Everyone stared at Brontë in varying stages of shock and dismay. Brontë herself looked around them and flushed scarlet. “Did I say that out loud?”
A strangled giggle sounded from someone, then another until all of them were smiling once again.
“What do you say we go and watch the match, aye?” Tris suggested.
Everyone agreed and made their way from the room. He waited for Brontë who lingered at the rear of the pack with Hannah and Hazel. “I think you could do better,” she was saying to Hannah. “You’re beautiful, smart and kind. You deserve someone who’ll appreciate how amazing you are and respect your opinion.”
Hannah blushed at the compliment and Hazel hugged her shoulders. “I’ve been telling her the same for some time now. Yes, Hannah dearest, you could do far better than Mr. Wyndom. You should find someone,” — the other two ladies both groaned, heartfelt yet sardonic. As did Tris, as they all knew what was to follow — “like my Henry.”
“There will never be a man born who can match him in her eyes,” Hannah teased. “Yet I’m supposed to find another exactly like him?”
“There may be one or two up to the task.” Brontë’s gaze slid to him, a hint of a smile turning her lips that set Tris’s pulse racing. “It might take a hundred years to find him though.”
Chapter 25
“Ye ken nothing of the sport, lass.”
“I’m just saying it’s a brutal game,” Brontë responded lifting her hands expressively. “Where are the rules?”
Fact of the matter, she knew from attending a few shinty games in her life, there weren’t many rules. As ancient as the Highlands, shinty was like lacrosse and rugby got together and had a bad-tempered baby. Tackling and full-body contact were mainstays of the game, which created the least of its violence. The ball used in the game was smaller and harder than an American baseball, and the stick called the caman, though similar in shape to a hockey stick, was shorter and sported a thick, wedge on the blade. While hitting another caman with it, or hacking, was one of the few enforced rules, there were no issues with using it to hit, trip or tackle other players.
The game was popular in the Highlands even in her time. Kids played it like they did soccer in the US from a young age. There were leagues and a national shinty club.
Tris grinned at her, broad and humor-filled, before he ran back into the fray on the field. He’d been lured by the excitement of the match to play and had only come out to berate her for yelling at one of his younger cousins for “some wee infraction” in his words. Swinging wide and hitting someone upside the head with a wooden stick was more than wee in her opinion. Like rugby, there were no pads or helmets involved. Injuries occurred on a regular basis.
Brontë watched as Tris hollered at Henry, who hit the ball in his direction. Tris hit it with his caman to stop it. Hands weren’t allowed. The ball angled down as he probably intended since he scooped it up on the end of his stick and balanced it there. A move called the keepy-uppy in her time. He ran with it toward their goal. His hair was shaggy and windblown around his face. Jacket, waistcoat and tie removed, his once white shirt was crusted with mud and plastered to his chest with sweat.
All the men looked about the same. None of the ladies seemed to mind at all.
He’d never looked sexier in her eyes.
Forgetting the year and the proper etiquette of spectatorship, she jumped up and down and screamed mindless words of encouragement at him as he ran. Opponents closed in from all sides. Seeing them, he popped the ball into the air, swung his stick, and whacked it like he was Joe DiMaggio.
He was tackled at full speed anyway. Laurie Ashley-Cooper shedding some of his British posh to grin down at his friend. “Sorry, old chum.”
He wasn’t, obviously.
With a smirk, Tris leapt up and chased after his friend, shouldering him roughly along the way. “’Mon then, old chum.”
Boys, ugh, Brontë grimaced. They really never changed.
The ball got passed back and forth among the members of their team as they worked their way downfield to where a goal had been marked with stakes. Someone was caught around the neck with a caman and went down. Grunt after groan, they pushed, shoved and vied for the ball.
Henry came up with it again.
“Go, Henry. Yes, yes, yes!” Hazel clapped her hands over her mouth in mortification for her outburst.
Brontë grinned at her then spun back to watch as they neared the stakes. Henry hit it on the ground to Tris, who batted it to Sandy Merrill when a stick slashed down
on his shoulder. Sandy hurled forward and slapped it at Henry who waited mere feet from the goal. He lifted his stick with a triumphant howl…
A howl that abruptly turned to a sickening moan. A dull thwack reverberated across the field as a stick caught Henry on the side of the head. He went down without another sound.
The pounding of her heart was all Brontë could hear. It rang in her ears. Drumming of disbelief escalated. Icy fingers of shock snaked down her limbs and a shiver wracked her so hard she stumbled to the side with the force of it. Her legs wobbled and the cold, wet grass added to her chill as she fell to her knees. Hazel’s distressed scream broke the silence on the field. She ran into the melee crying out her husband’s name. There were shouts for Sung-Li to help. Brontë could do nothing more than stare, stupefied by what she’d seen.
Henry being taken down yet again.
Not another tragedy.
Not an accident.
Heath Wyndom had swung at Henry with all the focus and intention of a golfer swinging at a ball on a tee. He’d lined up the shot and teed off a line drive.
She staggered to her feet and stepped forward. Her focus centered on him. He gathered around with the others, all consolation and caring, and professed his distress over the unfortunate mishap. But it was there on his face. Triumph. Wyndom looked up, saw her and froze. Guilt came and went in a blink.
Hazel was wailing now. The words blood and dead piercing the chaos.
Not an accident.
He’d done it on purpose.
She hastened her pace, intent on doing a bit of murder herself, and ran straight into a broad chest. Powerful hands gripped her shoulders and shook her hard. Harder still until her neck snapped back and she stared up at Tris.
“What is this?” he yelled at her. “How could ye let this happen?”
Betrayal was written on his face. As if it were her treachery that had caused this rather than another’s.
“Ye were supposed to stop it!” he yelled. “I trusted ye!”
Oh, she was going to stop it all right.
Stop it all.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Brontë still stood in front of a mirror in the ladies retiring room between the front hall and drawing room. Her face ashen, her eyes almost black. Round with shock as she sought to regain enough self-possession to turn back time and undo this madness. However, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking as she smoothed back the strands of hair that had come loose while she cheered her team on moments ago.
A lifetime ago.
There was more at play here than met the eye. More than she’d anticipated. More than she was confident she could overcome.
How much more?
The car speeding through an otherwise peaceful neighborhood at exactly the right moment. And that bee sting? It had seemed off from the beginning. Piercing through Henry’s linen suit jacket and shirt took a determined insect. An angry one. And Hazel had told her Henry hadn’t swatted it or even seen it. Hannah had mentioned Wyndom was the one closest to him at the time and saw it. Had he?
That well-placed blow to the head today had been no accident.
She’d known the coincidence of continued tragedy had been improbable. Were any of them accidents at all?
If not, was it all the work of Heath Wyndom?
Why would he want Henry dead? Everyone loved Henry, it wasn’t simply her. He was one of the rare people in the world who inspired trust in everyone he knew. He cared for others with sincerity. Made them laugh in good times. Commiserated with them in bad. He’d never harmed anyone in his life. So why?
It made no sense.
“It doesn’t need to make sense,” Brontë berated herself in the mirror. “You just need to fix it.”
Taking a deep breath, she dug into her pocket and withdrew the device she’d run to her room to retrieve. Ran to get while Tris hollered at her. Blamed her for letting this happen.
That had hurt. As if she’d ever allow any harm to come to her ancestor if she could help it. It had been grief prompting the accusation. Anger and pain in need of an outlet. She understood that. Forgave it, despite the biting words.
Running her thumb over the illuminated ring, she tried to estimate the time that had passed and determine her best course for interference. How was she supposed to waylay Henry without being seen? Displacing herself as she’d done before wasn’t going to do the trick. She’d been surrounded by people all day.
An idea sprung to mind. Tenuous and weak. Hopefully it would be enough.
* * *
An hour earlier
“You want me to deliver this note to you, miss?”
Maddie looked from the folded piece of paper back to Brontë with blatant confusion clouding her features. Brontë couldn’t blame her. It hardly made an ounce of sense to her when she’d explained it to the maid, and it had been her idea.
“In about five minutes, yes.” She nodded. “I’m going to go ahead to the drawing room. You wait then follow me, then simply give me the note. I know it seems silly.”
The maid clearly agreed.
Desperate times…
“I think it will help me win Mr. MacKintosh’s affections, you see?” She closed her eyes inwardly mocking the reason yet knowing it would work. Maddie had made no secret of her opinion that Tris was a fine catch. More of a romantic than Brontë herself, she’d probably do anything to encourage the courtship. In fact, Brontë was counting on it.
Indeed, the maid’s eyes shone with anticipation now, eager to help. “Five minutes then?”
“Less,” she corrected thinking of the time she’d used thus far. “I’ll leave now. You wait a full minute then follow. Long enough for me to get to there and get settled before you come. So it doesn’t appear too obvious, you see?”
Long enough for me to hide out of sight until history corrects itself.
It had better.
Chapter 26
About that same time…
“You ask a lot.”
“There’s no reason not to if we’re ever going to have a truly equal society.”
A few of the ladies seated around Brontë murmured their approval of her statement. She heard them though her focus was on Tris. For a guy who seemed to blithefully disparage a woman’s capabilities with annoying frequency and of late delight in poking a sleeping bear on the subject, there was a light of approval and admiration in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
It had been there a few hours. Since their creative exploration of the winter garden, in fact. He’d been most approving then, though more vocal about it.
Some of the other men nearby weren’t nearly as appreciative of her arguments. Most refrained from being too vocal about it, however. Dissent to her opinions muted. Funny, she didn’t care so much what they thought.
“That’s rather radical thinking.”
Heath Wyndom again. She wouldn’t be sad to see the last of him when she left this place. From the look on Hannah’s face, she was beginning to think less of her beau as well. Good, she deserved better and Brontë would make sure she knew it. The only reason she considered his suit was because, at twenty-five, she considered herself an old maid without choices. Being the same age and from a time where there were so many more, Brontë knew she had at least one more mission to complete before going back home.
At some point. Perhaps sooner than she’d thought. Even a few hours ago would have been optimal. Unfortunately, while she could turn back time and make these incidents vanish from the memories of others, she couldn’t do the same for herself. Those moments with Tris in the conservatory had shaken her to the core. First his care and consideration for her feelings, then taking her to the edge of oblivion when she’d thought they’d already scaled the highest peaks of rapture.
Her casual fling with Tris had flung itself back in her face, leaving her exposed and vulnerable ever since.
“She reminds me of Mama. Don’t you think so?”
Hazel slid her hand into Brontë’s and squeez
ed in a display of support she dearly appreciated, not merely in regard to the debate at hand.
The countess of Glenrothes — Eve, she’d asked Brontë to call her — nodded. “Yes. Not only has Miss Hughes the look of the ladies in her family but their fierce spirit as well.”
The unified show of support from these ladies, the last she might have expected to offer it, brought a tear to her eye. She’d engaged in similar rebates with her mother over the years without a single gesture of encouragement like this.
Even in the face of overwhelming opposition, Wyndom sneered. “There’s only spirit until the reality of failure strikes. This equality Miss Hughes speaks of will never come to fruition. What I mean to say,” he said when Hannah ribbed him hard with her elbow, “is that as long as a gentleman can support his family in the manner they deserve, there is no reason a lady would need to seek out employment.”
Brontë bit her tongue to refrain from laying him low with a few well-chosen words that probably wouldn’t go over well in this particular environment. Thankfully, Hazel was once again ready to speak up for her, pouncing like a tigress.
“Some ladies are not as fortunate as we, Mr. Wyndom.”
“I’m surprised you would be so narrow minded, Mr. Wyndom,” Hannah said with a steel edge to her normally sweet voice. “I agree with Hazel. There are many women desperate for work. Not only should they have the same opportunities as a man but the training to do jobs otherwise reserved for men.”
These ladies were her new spirit animals.
“Excuse me, Miss Hughes.”
Brontë turned to see her maid at the door, dancing back and forth across the threshold as if drawing room carpet were hot lava instead of knotted wool. “Yes, Maddie?”
The maid looked frightfully excited, even anxious. “I’ve a note to deliver to you, miss.”
So that’s what she was strangling to death in her wringing hands. A note for her, though? From whom? It wasn’t like she knew a great many people here. “Thank you. You can put it in my room.”
Maddie’s face fell with evident confusion and disappointment. “I was told it was most urgent and to see you get it straight away, miss.”
A Scot to Remember (Something About a Highlander Book 1) Page 23
