An American in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  Perhaps he was just average. Neither ugly nor with the looks to make a woman swoon. Did they do that when thinking about men? He wasn’t about to ask any of the females in his life. They’d laugh their heads off.

  He was only in his thirties, which didn’t make him a doddering old fool. Granted, perhaps his interests had narrowed in the past years to making the mill prosperous again. Even when he couldn’t sleep his mind had been on the mill. In the wee hours of the morning he’d taken to designing a new loom he’d like to build.

  He was hardly as interesting a figure as a dozen other men he could name.

  What could he offer a wife? He wasn’t wealthy like his brother-­in-­law and best friend, Lennox. He didn’t have a fortune tucked away to use when things got difficult financially. He’d always worked and if he ever brought home a wife it would be to share in that uncertainty.

  Why the hell was he thinking of marriage now?

  He had a decision to make and he’d considered it long and carefully.

  A few short months ago he’d had himself convinced to run the blockade, acquire a hold of cotton in the Raven and sail back to Scotland a hero of sorts. Then the dearth of cotton made such a venture foolish. He’d talked himself out of it in favor of restructuring the mill itself.

  He had ideas about scaling back production, using Indian cotton to produce not high quality cloth as they’d always done but particular pieces, items that were specifically ordered. It would mean changing their business model from a volume producer to one that was deliberately targeted to certain applications. He could see MacIain Mills producing patterned cotton to be used in a variety of industries.

  He’d have to invest in several new pieces of equipment that he didn’t have now, but he had the money if he spent it wisely and didn’t go off on an adventure he’d once considered the only way to save the mill.

  Yet in the past two days that’s all he’d thought about, pushing his ideas about reorganizing the mill to the back of his mind, accepting Rose’s challenge, whether she knew it to be one or not. She’d dared him with her proposition.

  The parlor was empty, which meant she was in the garden.

  He found himself outside before he consciously thought of seeking her out. Or perhaps that was a lie he told himself, one of many when it came to Rose.

  He was too interested in her. A warning bell sounded deep inside his mind.

  She sat on the bench, the last of the sunlight filtering through the newly born leaves of the oak above her. Everything around her was green, lush, a promise of spring, but in her mourning she was a warning that even in the midst of life, there was death. Her hair was uncovered, a bright flame against the black of her dress. A contradiction, but Rose MacIain was a study in contradictions.

  She was both young and worldly, possessing an aura of maidenly reserve yet was a widow. She espoused the abolitionist cause, but married a man who proudly owned slaves.

  Rose MacIain was spirited and courageous, daunting, and the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. She was also his American cousin’s widow, a point he’d do well to remember.

  He stood there waiting for her to acknowledge him, not making a sound or announcing himself. Her head was bent, her eyes intent on the page of the book she held in both hands.

  What was she reading? What words kept her so intent on their meaning that she was lost to the world, to him?

  The leaves above her, kissed by the breeze, were more mobile than she. Her hands didn’t move to turn the page. Her eyes didn’t look up to see who had disturbed her solitude.

  For a moment he wondered if she was ignoring him on purpose. Should he simply turn and walk away? Should he apologize for intruding on her? Would she understand that, despite himself, he was almost compelled to see her?

  She’d been in his home for a week, and in that time she’d altered his life. He was coming home sooner from the mill and leaving later in the morning. He found himself returning for his noon meal every day. He spent more time in the small parlor where he knew she and his mother took tea and discussed books, New York, and embroidery, of all things.

  What the hell did he know about embroidery? Even less than he wanted to learn.

  Now she sat only ten feet away from him with a breeze blowing the scent of newly birthed flowers around her, encapsulating her and confusing the hell out of him.

  He had never once been tongue-­tied. Never been devoid of words, especially in his own garden, yet here he was, wanting to stretch out his hand, take those few steps between them and touch her in some manner. Perhaps on the shoulder. Or her hand, always gloved, always shielded from prying eyes.

  That was another mystery.

  Rose, a contradiction and a delight, someone who reduced him to boyhood.

  He should banish her as quickly as possible, before she made him stand before her and babble about the weather, the smell of the Clyde, and anything else that floated through his fevered brain.

  No, one woman could not do this to him, yet she did, sitting there so silently.

  When she looked up, tears swimming in her green eyes, he almost surrendered there and then. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find himself falling to his knees before her.

  Take pity on me, he might have said, had his brain being able to form the words. Leave this place. Leave Glasgow. Go somewhere safe, where I’ll know you’re protected, but don’t do this to me.

  He never said those words, of course.

  Instead, he went to the bench, sat beside her and said, “Rose, what’s wrong?”

  She smiled a watery smile that had the effect of a spear straight into his heart.

  “The words. They’re so very beautiful. And heartfelt, don’t you think?”

  She held out the volume of Robert Burns to him.

  He would call Burns a great many things: bawdy, filled with life, amusing, but he wouldn’t have called his poetry beautiful.

  “I’ll buy your cotton, Rose.” He heard himself saying the words before he consciously thought them.

  Her eyes widened.

  “I didn’t think you would,” she said. “I thought my coming here was a terrible mistake.”

  He stretched his hand across the book and she put hers atop it.

  They weren’t being entirely proper at the moment. Nor, as he looked into her eyes, was he sure he ever would be again. She touched something inside him, some wish, perhaps, to be a hero or some need to be a protector. Something even greater than wanting to keep the mill alive. The mill was a creation, an enterprise, an entity, and Rose was so much more.

  Was he being a fool for deciding to sail to America? He was taking a chance, that was certain. He was taking a gamble.

  A long time ago his ancestors had left the Highlands after the ’45, looking for a way to make a name for themselves, seeking their own fortune away from a section of Scotland that was being punished and put to the yoke. Had they hesitated as well or simply shrugged aside their misgivings and gone on with their adventure?

  Who was he to do less?

  He had the feeling that his bargain with his American cousin would benefit her more than him. Still, it wasn’t a decision he would reverse.

  Like it or not, he was off to America.

  ROSE MADE her way back to the lovely guest room she’d been given, grateful that she didn’t see any of the MacIains or Mabel and Lily. She needed to be alone right now, to rinse off her conscience.

  She’d done what she came to Scotland to do. She’d made arrangements to sell Glengarden’s cotton to Duncan MacIain. It was a very fair bargain. Anyone would agree, yet in doing so, she’d manipulated and outright lied.

  Everything she’d said about Glengarden cotton had been true. It was the finest in South Carolina, perhaps in the entire South. Their factor had always been able to command the best price.

  Everything else was a
lie, though.

  She was not the widow MacIain. Nor did she represent Bruce, away at war.

  How much more glorious to fight for the Cause than to make provisions to protect the ­people at home. A wife who was slavishly devoted to him, a mother who could hear nothing bad ever said about him, a daughter who was being shown her father’s daguerrotype each day in the hopes that she would recall the man who Maisie told her hadn’t even bothered to be home for her birth and, when he first saw her, made no pretense of being pleased that his first child was a girl.

  Bruce had evidently thought everything would remain the same while he was away at war.

  Duncan MacIain’s terms had been fair. He’d been honorable in their talks. He’d done nothing to indicate he was willing to take advantage of the situation.

  A weight had dropped from her heart, leaving her feeling almost buoyant. Her gamble had paid off. She had saved them, at least until the war ended. Perhaps, by that time, Bruce would have returned. Or news would reach them that he would never be coming back.

  Before she’d left Glengarden, Claire had accused her of wishing for the latter. She’d been so surprised, she wasn’t able to respond. She hadn’t known what to say because, God forgive her, it was true.

  Life at Glengarden would be almost bearable without Bruce’s tyrannies and cruelty.

  She’d liked Bruce when he was her brother’s friend at the Military Academy. When he’d been their guest in New York, he impressed her father and was friendly to her. At his marriage to Claire, her only sister, she’d felt the first tinges of unease, but had only grown to know the real Bruce MacIain while living in South Carolina.

  At Glengarden, Bruce was the scion of the MacIains, feted and praised from the day of his birth, never corrected, never criticized, never given boundaries. In a way, he was Caesar. He could, and did, order the whipping of a slave for an imposed infraction without seeming to give a care. He sold off young children, ignoring the silent tears of their parents.

  She was certain that some of the children born in the slave cabins were his, but she’d not once voiced her suspicions to anyone.

  Thankfully, Bruce finally marched off to war, aglow in Claire’s worship, telling anyone who would listen that he and his regiment of friends were certain to bring those Yankees under control within a fortnight. He’d never made mention of the fact that his once best friend would probably meet him across the field of battle. Or that his wife was from New York. Claire was somehow absolved, but Rose’s identical heritage was suspect. She was one of those Yankees Bruce now hated.

  She’d watched him ride down the road beneath the tall oaks with his friends and prayed he’d never return. Yet here she was, pretending to be Bruce’s widow. Of all the uncomfortable, hideous masquerades to perform.

  Had she let the MacIains think Bruce dead because that’s what she wished? How horrible was she? Even a tyrant no doubt had good qualities. She’d spent time looking for Bruce’s. Perhaps, in the privacy of their marital chamber, he was gentle with Claire. He modulated his words and never spoke with sarcasm.

  Perhaps, in the dark of night, he crept into his daughter’s room, stood over her cradle and spoke to her in tender tones that revealed his joy at her presence. Maybe he sat beside her as she slept and told her about the history of Glengarden, how she would be its princess one day.

  No, Bruce would rather be present at the whipping of a slave, or raping one.

  Now she closed the door and leaned against it, saying a series of prayers: thanks that Duncan had agreed to buy their cotton. Secondly, that she’d be forgiven for the lie she was living, and third, that God would understand her unremitting hatred of Bruce MacIain.

  Chapter 7

  “I knew it. I knew it. I told Lennox this morning that I had a feeling you were going to do this thing.”

  “How did you find out?” Duncan asked. A moment later he shook his head. “Do Mabel and Lily listen at keyholes?”

  “Rose told me. She’s overjoyed, but you and I both know this is foolhardy,” Glynis said. “This is probably the most foolhardy thing you’ve ever done, Duncan.”

  Standing, he went to the window overlooking the mill. Once, each of those buildings had been filled with ­people industriously working. Now only a few of the looms were operating while the others sat idle, waiting for cotton.

  He’d taken a loan from Lennox and it had gotten them through the last months, but he wasn’t about to allow his brother-­in-­law and friend to continue to give him charity.

  What would his father have done in a similar situation? He didn’t know, despite the fact he’d asked himself that question daily for the past two years. What he did know was that his father wasn’t the type of man to simply pretend the situation would resolve itself. He would have gone out and done what he needed to do to care for his family and those in his keeping.

  “We can keep the mill going with Indian cotton, Glynis, but not like it has been. The price is too dear and there’s not enough of it.”

  “Then send someone else to America.”

  He glanced back at his sister. “If Rose can run the blockade, I certainly can. Besides, I’m not going to send someone else into danger, Glynis, just because you’re afraid for me.”

  She sighed. “I like her, truly I do, Duncan, but I wish Rose had never come.”

  The comment surprised him. Glynis was exceedingly kind, especially to someone in an unfamiliar situation. She’d been in similar circumstances when married to her first husband, a career diplomat.

  “You’d changed your mind before she came. You weren’t going to continue with this foolhardy plan. It’s her red hair.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Red hair,” she said, waving one hand in the air. “Men love red hair, for some reason. They do idiotic things for women with red hair.”

  “I haven’t,” he said.

  “Then it’s her green eyes. You have to admit they’re striking.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “See?” she said. “I knew it was because she’s beautiful.”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled it.

  “It’s not because of Rose, Glynis,” he said, coming back and sitting on the chair beside her. “It’s not even for me. I could do with Indian cotton. We’d have to change direction, perhaps eliminate even more jobs, but it would keep the mill alive. This might be a last resort, but I can’t afford to ignore it.”

  “How long would a few hundred bales of cotton last?”

  “Not just a few hundred, Rose. Nearly a thousand.”

  She frowned at him. “You are going to do it, aren’t you? You’ve always been stubborn.”

  “I’m not the stubborn MacIain. You are.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe once, but I’m a Cameron now, and you’ve taken up the trait.”

  “I don’t know what you’d call it, Glynis. Stubbornness, pride, determination. But it’s not just my life. It’s the hundreds of ­people we still employ.”

  He grabbed her hand. When they were children they had a game of trying to grab each other’s thumbs, but now she let her hand rest in his.

  “How am I to tell a mother that she won’t have the money to feed her children? Or that she can’t pay her rent? What’s a little danger compared to that?”

  What’s a little danger compared to that?

  The words circled in his mind, a caution floating on bat wings. He could leave Scotland and go to his death. He’d never see any of them again. They’d be ghosts in his mind until he, too, became nothing more than a specter.

  “Are you sure you’re not doing this just because you want to look like a hero in her eyes?”

  He dropped her hand, surprised.

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you sure? I’ve seen the way you look at her. As if you’ve never seen a woman with red hair before. You need
to take another trip to Edinburgh, I think.”

  What the hell did she know about his trips to Edinburgh?

  He felt the back of his neck warm. He was not about to discuss Edinburgh with his sister.

  “I appreciate your concern,” he said, nearly desperate to change the subject. “But I’ve decided.”

  She sighed, then pressed her hand against her waist. “Then you’d better do everything in your power to keep yourself safe, Duncan. I want my child to know his uncle.”

  Startled, he stared at her.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m going to have a baby, and I hadn’t intended to tell anyone other than Lennox just yet. But it’s a bribe to make you come home, safe and sound.”

  “I can promise you that,” he said. “If you’ll keep yourself the same.”

  She nodded, tears filling her eyes.

  He knew better than to say something foolish, such as her condition was making her irrational, so all he did was hug her and remain silent.

  Glengarden Plantation

  South Carolina

  MAISIE SAT at the rocking chair on the edge of Glengarden’s veranda, catching the best of the afternoon light. Her eyes weren’t what they had once been. The brighter the day, the easier it was to thread a needle.

  She was almost finished hemming a dress for Miss Susanna. Age had done taken its toll with her mistress just as it did with everyone. Miss Susanna still liked to think of herself as young, even though decades had passed since that word could be rightfully used.

  As Maisie aged, she’d begun to think of getting older like the Holy Trinity. Not the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, but Time, Age, and Death.

  Age brought with it the need to shorten dresses, let out waists, dispense with such fripperies as extra wide hoops and shoes with heels. Instead, Miss Susanna had added a walking stick to her wardrobe, pretending that she didn’t need it. When she walked through her room and held onto the backs of chairs, she tilted her chin up in a way that dared anyone to forget she’d once been a young beauty. That was a lifetime ago, but Miss Susanna would likely always be vain, even up to the day she died.