Sleepless in Scotland

by May McGoldrick

  “You’re very perceptive. Millie’s advice is always thoughtful and well-intended.” She tossed her reticule onto the seat beside her. “She was only trying to help me with a problem that I brought to her, and I was entirely too harsh.”

  Phoebe was privileged, but she was not shallow or spoiled. She was volatile, but she was also deeply affectionate.

  She touched his knee and immediately drew her hand back. “I must sound like an ungrateful harpy. I should be thankful I have a sister like Millie. I should never have given vent to such silly complaining as this.” She paused. “Especially in front of you. I am sorry.”

  Her compassion regarding his loss touched him once again.

  Ian was attracted to her beauty, her fire, and her wit. As he looked across at her now, he knew his heart was opening to her in a way that he’d never allowed with any other woman.

  But there was so much more about her that he wanted to know. There were questions that he’d never asked. To start with, he was curious about the story she was writing now. She never talked about it. Ian had friends who were writers, and you couldn’t stop them from explaining in elaborate detail the work they were penning, all the while moaning about their lack of progress.

  Two days ago near the Grassmarket, she’d been anxiously awaiting whatever it was that Duncan Turner was collecting for her in the kirkyard. But she’d kept her own counsel about it and hadn’t even offered him a clue. The Vaults. The kirkyard. Where would she go to next? He’d promised himself he wouldn’t ask her. He’d wait for her to offer information voluntarily. But that didn’t stop him from worrying.

  “I’m quite happy that you share your tales of family with me. I feel privileged, in fact,” he said. “I am also curious to know what two sisters might argue about with such passion.”

  He could tell by the way she picked up her reticule and began toying with it that she wasn’t too keen on sharing any details. But he waited.

  “To be honest, the argument was fairly one-sided.” She looked out the window again. “But it was about nothing of importance.”

  Phoebe was not a very good actress, however. The blush rising in her fair complexion immediately gave her away. Ian had a strong feeling he’d been the topic of their discussion. Perhaps the wisdom of today’s outing was questioned by the younger sister.

  He had no strong impression of Millie. He knew her but didn’t think of her in any certain manner. He had no idea what she thought of him either. Like Phoebe, the youngest Pennington was still unattached, though she was of marriageable age. Still, from what he was hearing, he could imagine her providing the voice of reason to her older sister’s passionate nature.

  “Have you ever before made the walk up to Arthur’s Seat?” he asked, trying to draw her back.

  She shook her head. “It’s surprising that we haven’t, I suppose. Millie and I talked about it dozens of times.”

  They’d passed the gates of the palace and were drawing near the walking path leading up to the Crags and then to Arthur’s Seat itself.

  “What is that smell?” she exclaimed.

  “That’s coming from the bogs.” He looked out and pointed. “You can see the top of the dykes. The rain washes the waste of the Old Town right into the low area and it collects here. You won’t smell it once we’ve been climbing a while.”

  Troubled blue eyes met his. “Like everything else in life, unpleasantness is hardly noticed once we separate ourselves from it.”

  “I have a feeling we’re no longer speaking of the bogs.”

  Their hours together had been few, but Ian was already beginning to feel he knew her well. Phoebe’s face was a window into her mind. Right now, he could see an argument simmering inside of her, but she was fighting the urge to voice it.

  “You’re far better company when you say what you’re thinking.”

  She sent him an incredulous look. “You want me to speak my mind.”

  “I insist on it.”

  “And how will you react, I wonder, if you don’t like what you hear?”

  “Why should that worry you?” He shrugged. “I’ve always enjoyed a lively discussion.”

  “But I just told you I sometimes get carried away in an argument. I say things that can be hurtful.”

  “My skin is fairly thick. Besides, how can we understand another person’s views on any topic unless we listen to them? Isn’t that how we learn?”

  She gnawed at her bottom lip as she considered his words. “You’re honestly interested in learning my views?”

  He nodded. “I am indeed. And I hope you might be interested in learning mine in return.”

  “What happens if our perspectives put us at odds with each other?”

  “I’ve never known two people to agree on everything,” he replied. “And if we do disagree, then perhaps one of us will convince the other. Even if we don’t, we both walk away from the discussion with a clearer perspective, having heard the other’s reasoning.”

  She was squeezing the life out of that reticule. “Do you mean what you say or are you trying to be accommodating because this is our first outing together?”

  “I’ve know you . . . let me see . . . for how many years?”

  “Seven years this autumn. But the years of my friendship with Sarah have nothing to do with this conversation.”

  Ian stopped himself from laughing. “Fine, then I consider the first night when I carried you out of the Vaults to be our first outing. Then there was our walk in the gardens at Baronsford. My brief visit with you in your carriage in the Grassmarket could be counted as our third time together. So this is clearly our fourth outing. However, I would be happy to cede the point, if that is our first argument.”

  She didn’t smile, her face as solemn as a gravedigger’s.

  “But yes,” he continued, “I meant what I said. I should very much like to know your opinions about things.”

  She hesitated only long enough to draw breath.

  “These bogs accumulate waste water from the town. But we choose not to notice the foulness of the situation. We hold our noses and pass by as quickly as we can.” She paused and looked out at the folk walking on the road before turning her attention back to him. “It seems to me this is the same as when those who can help the sick or the destitute ignore them. Or worse, to decide that only the strongest of the unfortunates deserve our assistance.”

  “We have no disagreement on that account.”

  Ian didn’t parade it about in public, but his patronage of the Orphan Hospital in Canongate was no secret. He wondered if she knew this, for her words certainly had an accusatory tone to them. He was no idler, no vapid fop, no gambler, no womanizer who frittered away his family’s fortune. But he was not a fool either, and she was directing her comments at him for a reason.

  “It sounds as if you’re suggesting I’m unaware of something that I’ve failed to do. Or worse,” Ian said, feeling the heat rising beneath his collar. “Are you being critical of my character? Or my lack of civic responsibility?”

  The carriage came to a stop, and the groom immediately appeared and opened the door.

  Rather than correcting Ian, she began to get out. He put a hand on her arm.

  “Whatever you’re accusing me of, don’t you think I deserve to know what it is? Don’t I get a chance to speak in my own defense?”

  “Outside,” she said, turning a pleading glance his way. “If you please, let’s speak outside.”

  Ian would have preferred they sit in the privacy of his carriage until he understood what she was implying, but he wasn’t about to force her.

  Stepping out, he offered her a hand and she took it. Telling his driver where to wait, he turned around to find Phoebe already moving at a good pace up the incline. Before Ian could wonder if he was going to have to run after her, she stopped abruptly and stood looking across the fields out at the palace.

  “The Abbey,” she said when he caught up to her. She motioned toward the roofless ruins of Holyrood Abbey, vi
sible just beyond the royal residence.

  Trying to keep up with her was a challenge, but he was determined to understand her.

  “I think I should have taken sanctuary within those walls.”

  For centuries the abbey and surrounding grounds had provided a place of protection for petty criminals and debtors. These so-called “Abbey-lairds” could live in modest housing unmolested by authorities and creditors within the boundaries of church land.

  “Why?” he asked. “Are you afraid of being prosecuted for some offence?”

  She bent down and pulled a bluebell from a patch growing along the path. “I’m afraid that you will prosecute me for the things I say.”

  He smiled and shook his head.

  “There will be no hiding for you,” he warned. “I believe tradition holds that you will be free to leave the grounds on Sundays, but I’ll be waiting right here, demanding answers.”

  Ian was surprised when she tossed away the flower, looped her arm into his, and started along the path.

  “Could you please forget what I said?”

  He walked with her. “No, I think not. I want you to finish what you began.”

  She raised her face to the sky and as she increased their pace, her foot slipped on the path. He took her hand and Phoebe’s long fingers fit perfectly into his.

  “My words were not an attack on you as a person. I was speaking against the establishment.”

  “I’m relieved, but I’m still not clear what establishment you’re referring to.”

  The warm day and the bright sun had brought out other walkers. A group of young men were moving up the steady incline ahead of them. Her hurried steps and the grip of her hand indicated a battle she was fighting with herself. Ian walked along in silence, knowing that sooner or later she’d tell him what was on her mind.

  Suddenly aware that they would soon catch up to the group ahead, she drew him to the side of the path and stopped.

  “You were the reason for my argument with Millie this morning.”

  “I see. She disapproves of me?”

  “Hardly.” Phoebe freed her hand and took a deep breath. “She feels I should be completely open with you and hold nothing back.”

  He approved of Millie’s advice. “I agree.”

  Another painful sigh. She was certainly not acting. He couldn’t imagine what could be causing her such agony. She paused as two couples passed them on their way down from the summit.

  “Gaius Gracchus,” she said finally when they were alone.

  He stared at her, not fathoming how an ancient politician was connected with their discussion. Perhaps she was testing his knowledge of Roman history.

  “Wait. I hope you’re not fleeing to the temple of Diana to commit your life to her service.”

  She stepped toward him, her face tilted up. “That is the assumed name I use for my newspaper articles,” she said in a low voice.

  “I thought you were a novelist.”

  “I never said so. You only assumed it.”

  He thought back to their conversation in the garden. “I asked you if you were a novelist like your aunt Gwyneth,” Ian reminded her. “You didn’t deny it. That’s the same to me.”

  In truth he didn’t care if she wrote novels or articles or epic poetry. Anything undertaken by a woman that smacked of intellectual prowess was frowned upon by society. Dr. Johnson famously said, after hearing of a Quaker woman speaking on a religious topic, that “a woman’s preaching is like a dog’s walking on his hind legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.” Unfortunately, many among the ton agreed with him. Ian himself thought it was perhaps the most foolish thing the man ever said.

  “Well, now you know the truth,” she said, throwing her hands up. “I write articles under the name Gaius Gracchus that are published by the Edinburgh Review.”

  Ian was impressed. He knew Archibald Constable very well. He was also aware of the high standards the publisher and his editors adhered to. He decided not to share his congratulations quite yet, however, for there seemed to be more that she was anxious to share.

  “Do you read that newspaper?” she asked.

  “I do, fairly regularly.”

  “Have you read any of my articles?”

  “I don’t recall the name, but what were the topics?” he asked. “How long have you been writing for the paper?”

  Phoebe turned around and paced a few steps away and came back. “Almost a year. I’ve written four pieces for them. And I think you would have recognized the name if you’d read them.”

  “Then perhaps not,” he told her. “But tell me, what have you written about?”

  Her restless nature wouldn’t allow her to stand still. She turned her steps up the path, and he fell in beside her.

  “I was quite deliberate in the name I chose.”

  “Then you must concern yourself with reform and the redistribution of the wealth.”

  “I expose corruption in those holding positions of power,” she told him. “In the column I’m preparing now, I plan to address the conditions of the sickest of the poor in Edinburgh, and the ruthless way they’re being treated in advance of the imminent arrival from London of the Select Committee on Poorhouses.”

  Ian put a hand on her arm and made her stop walking. This was a topic close to his heart. “I don’t understand. Explain to me how our poor are being treated ruthlessly when we do things better here than they do in England. That’s what this commission is about. They’re trying to learn from us.”

  “And they can, but only if we allow them to see we are not perfect. We have flaws too. Not everyone is healthy in our poorhouses. Not everyone is capable of working. Many are sick and dying. Many have spirits that have been crushed by their poverty.”

  Phoebe was an idealist. He could respect that. But there was more to what she was saying that he didn’t understand.

  “I do not disagree, but are you saying that our institutions are treating people worse because of this visit?”

  She looked to her right and left. A group of noisy schoolboys was moving past them. There was nowhere for her go.

  “That is exactly what I’m saying. They’re expelling the old and very sick. They’re putting them on the streets rather than be seen as inefficient.”

  Arguments arose in him, but he decided to find out what she knew.

  “What institutions are doing this?” he asked. “And by what authority?”

  “I believe it is happening in every poorhouse and institution in the city that is to be visited. The Edinburgh Parish has already been meeting with individual charities and giving the instructions.”

  Ian’s first thought was that she was mistaken. The Scottish people cared for their poor voluntarily. There was no compulsory tax or church tithe to help them. That was why it was essential for property owners and wealthy to be involved and contribute. In Edinburgh, only the legal responsibility for the poor fell to the City Parish.

  After Sarah’s death, Ian searched for a worthwhile cause to which he could devote time and money. He wanted a way that he could make a difference in the lives of at least a few unfortunate children. He’d not done enough for his sister, but perhaps he could make a positive change for some other young person. That was when his involvement with the Orphan Hospital began.

  “How do you know this?” he asked.

  “I cannot tell you the names of my sources.”

  He recalled the attack on Phoebe was near an opium den. And she’d been waiting in her carriage in the Grassmarket for Duncan to return. It all made sense. Desperate men would say anything. Do anything.

  “Reliable sources?” His tone was sharp.

  She nodded, her eyes flashing at him.

  “And they have proof that all the institutions that are to be visited are following this same policy?”

  “The directions from the Parish are alleged to be consistent across the city. But so far, I have proof for only one charity house,” she told him. “Th
e Orphan Hospital in Bailie Fife’s Close.”

  “It’s a lie,” he said flatly.

  “You are a director and a benefactor. You are not involved with the daily operations.” She put a hand on his arm. “I know you’re blameless in this.”

  “I don’t believe it. This is either a terrible mistake or a horrible slander.”

  “I have seen the—”

  “Have you been there?” he demanded. “Do you know what the inside of those charity institutions looks like? Do you have any comprehension of what it takes to manage one? Or who makes the decisions?”

  “I’ve spent plenty of time in my sister’s shelters, both in the Borders and here in the city.”

  “I give Lady Jo a great deal of credit for what she has accomplished. But her homes shelter how many?”

  She struggled to come up with a number quickly.

  “A hundred?” he asked, his impatience unleashed. “Two hundred?”

  “I don’t think this is relevant.”

  There was no explaining it to her. No point in trying to impress her with numbers. It was equally futile to describe the accomplishments of those children who’d lost their parents and had grown up inside these institutions. They’d been given skills and training that would prepare them for the world, and many had then gone on to live successful lives.

  No, there was only one way to do this.

  He took her arm and started down the hill. Ian was angry enough to drag her there if need be, but he was relieved when she didn’t protest but went along willingly. If she wanted to pursue a career with her pen, then it was time someone taught her the importance of proper research.

  “I see this is the end of our outing.”

  “Not at all,” he said tersely. “We’re only getting started. We’re going to the Orphan Hospital.”

  Chapter 8

  Phoebe knew how to respond to loudly delivered lectures. She was a competent debater, when she retained her composure. But Ian’s unwavering silence after he’d given instructions to his driver, his refusal to speak to her or even acknowledge her, made his feelings clear. He was disappointed with her.