In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams

by Karen Ranney

  The pity of it was, he didn’t realize that had he been less obsequious, he might’ve advanced further. People he admired called him names behind his back.

  At home was a different matter, however. He wasn’t the same person. Yet even there he wore a cloak around his true nature. Richard was an onion, never revealing himself completely to anyone.

  Would his bosses have been impressed by how well he’d fooled them all?

  Until she’d gone to Baumann, she, too, had been deceived.

  Was that why he insisted on her being perfect, because he knew he wasn’t? Did he regret who he was and what he was doing? Or did he even consider his own behavior?

  As for being perfect, she was most definitely not. Look what she’d done last night; she’d humiliated herself in front of Lennox again. Warmth traveled up her spine to settle at the base of her neck, the better to fuel the flush she knew showed on her cheeks. Even her ears felt red.

  She was adrift in embarrassment. She was scared about the future and frustrated at her inability to do anything to change it. A part of her wanted to be a child again. She wanted to be cradled in her mother’s arms, rocked back and forth and told there were no monsters under the bed, her future was bright, and everything would be fine.

  But she knew that wasn’t right, didn’t she? She’d been married to a monster. Her future stretched out before her, uncertain and unformed, and everything would be fine as long as she studiously avoided Lennox Cameron.

  Somehow, she was going to have to gather up the dented, scattered bits of her pride, glue enough pieces together so that when she saw him again she’d smile, ask about his father and Mary, all without turning crimson.

  She was not a young girl anymore but a widow with some experience of the world. Instead of fleeing for London she was going to remain here in Glasgow and take the advice of a seventeenth-century Englishman: living well was the best revenge.

  She would simply settle into a hermitlike Glasgow life for a few months. Then perhaps she’d cast her eyes for a man with black hair and shining eyes, with a mouth that made her think wicked thoughts. She’d flirt and smile and dance and charm in the hopes that he might turn her attention away from the one man on the face of the earth who could reduce her to idiocy.

  “Charlotte’s dinner is this evening,” her mother said, the comment pulling her out of her reverie.

  She nodded, wishing she could find an excuse for declining the invitation at the last moment. Why on earth had she accepted it?

  “I would give you a caution, if I may.” Eleanor glanced away, then back at her. “I know she’s a dear friend of yours, but she tells tales.”

  “She always has,” Glynis said. “Ever since we were girls I knew not to say anything to Charlotte unless I wanted it spread through the whole of Glasgow by morning.”

  “I had no idea,” Eleanor said.

  “Most of the women in Washington were like Charlotte. On the outside they were very proper and rigidly polite, but they couldn’t wait to spread the latest story about some mischief or faux pas. They’d ruin you with a smile.”

  “What a dreadful group of women.”

  “When I first arrived, I felt like a baby rabbit among hungry eagles. Each one of them was ready to tear me apart.”

  Eleanor’s eyes widened. “You never said. Your letters were only filled with what you were doing, who you’d met. Was it so terrible?”

  “Instructive,” she said, sparing her mother the whole truth.

  Washington had proven to be educational. She’d always be grateful for the lessons she learned there, not only about other people but also herself.

  “After the women of Washington, I can face Charlotte.”

  Glasgow was her home and she was not going to hide or retreat again—ever.

  Chapter 15

  “Oh, I’ve anticipated this dinner for so very long. I’m so glad you’re here.” Closing the door behind her, Charlotte stood smiling toothily at her.

  Glynis wondered if the dark blue dress with its silver buttons was too festive. Her mother had reassured her it was perfectly acceptable for a woman coming out of mourning. Although a little more formal than what she’d wear during the day, the garment revealed less than a ball gown. Fabric covered her shoulders and décolletage until she looked as proper as a woman attending church.

  “This is Archibald,” Charlotte said, pushing forward a portly middle-aged man. “He didn’t get a chance to meet you at Hillshead.”

  “We’ve met before,” Archibald said, bowing. “You were sixteen. My uncle had the confectioners on the corner of Trongate,” he said. “I’ve taken it over.”

  “And made a success of it,” Charlotte said, grabbing his arm and leaning close to her husband.

  Charlotte’s round face plumped with her smile. Only the unkind would ever mention her rotund figure.

  “Archie has three more stores besides and is thinking of opening one in Edinburgh.”

  “I imagine people will always want something sweet,” Glynis said.

  Charlotte nodded vigorously. “Exactly that. Even in bad times, people will want to buy a bit of chocolate.”

  If bad times had come to Glasgow, they weren’t evident in Charlotte’s West End home. Furniture crowded into every room she passed, and an excess of curios on the tables in the hall made movement almost impossible. Glynis kept her hands pressed against her skirt, hoping to minimize the size of her hoop as she walked into the crowded parlor.

  She stopped on the threshold, causing Archibald to walk into her. He apologized as she stared at the group facing her.

  The two men in the room stood at her entrance.

  “You know Lennox, of course,” Charlotte said, glancing coyly at her.

  She formed some kind of smile and nodded at him.

  “And his houseguests, Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker.”

  She bit back her sigh and smiled at the couple.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” Mr. Whittaker said, grinning at her.

  “You are from Georgia, Mr. Whittaker?” she asked.

  “I am, Mrs. Smythe,” he said. “But how would you know something like that?”

  “I lived in Washington for a time, but I had many acquaintances from the South,” she said, moving to the corner of the settee, and as far away from Lucy as she could. “It became a game to tell a Mississippi accent from a Georgian one.”

  He tilted his head. “Then let me congratulate you on your ear, Mrs. Smythe. Many of my own countrymen can’t tell us apart.”

  “I think all of you sound very odd,” Lucy Whittaker said. “Especially you Scots.”

  Glynis’s smile trembled but she pulled it back into place, remembering the innumerable rules she’d learned. One must always allow for the idiosyncratic behavior of those who do not share our culture. Of course, Richard had been talking about representatives from the African continent, not an Englishwoman, but she decided to use the advice anyway.

  Lucy’s air of superiority reminded her of the haughtiest of grande dames of Washington, none of whom she’d kowtowed to.

  She folded her hands around her reticule, ignored Lucy’s frown, and complimented Charlotte on the decor. A lie of politeness, but one pleasing Charlotte, if her smile was any indication.

  A green patterned upholstery covered the many chairs and settee, but the color was not quite the same as the bright emerald silk wallpaper. The three ottomans were upholstered in a green stripe, yet another shade of the color. She felt trapped inside a bilious plant, one growing smaller and more compressed as the minutes ticked by.

  Charlotte’s green gown clashed horribly with her furnishings.

  Bric-a-brac filled every available flat surface along with potpourri jars, each giving off a scent of sandalwood and something pungent, making her want to scratch her nose.

  She glanced at Lennox. He was dressed in black, his snowy white shirt decorated with pin tucks and silver buttons.

  She clenched her hands in the folds of her skirt, rele
ased them, and stared at the painting of Charlotte and her husband mounted over the fireplace. Paintings of all the MacNamara children were arranged on the wall opposite her, and she focused on them. Each child bore a resemblance to their parents, especially in their round faces and pursed mouths.

  “Will you be returning to Washington, Mrs. Smythe?”

  She turned her head to address Mr. Whittaker again. The warm look in his eyes matched his boyish and charming smile. She had the impression that while Mr. Whittaker might appear to be disarming and unsophisticated, he should not be underestimated.

  “I won’t be leaving Scotland again, Mr. Whittaker,” she said. “I find I’ve less tolerance for travel than I once had. And you? Will you be returning to America soon?”

  “Soon, Mrs. Smythe,” he said, his smiling glance including Lennox. “I like Scotland well enough but I’ve things to do at home.”

  Such as being a Confederate captain.

  Mr. MacNamara chose the moment to ask a question of his own. “Have you been troubled by the fires along the Clyde, Lennox?”

  Lennox shook his head.

  “Fires?” she asked.

  “Arson,” he said in a clipped voice. “An attempt to destroy the ships we’re building.”

  “Two of them were destroyed, I understand,” Mr. MacNamara said. “Burned right down to the waterline.”

  Lennox’s face was stone, his eyes flat. He didn’t comment. If she didn’t know him so well she would have thought him unaffected.

  Lennox, however, was angry. Why, because Mr. MacNamara had shared the news? Or because he was worried about the ships Cameron and Company were building?

  “There’s been talk of murders, too,” Charlotte added in a shocked whisper, her eyes shining with excitement. Charlotte had always had a bloodthirsty nature. She loved gossip and tales of misadventure.

  “It’s why I’m so grateful for my walking stick,” Gavin said. By pushing a small, concealed button, the handle came free, revealing a long knife.

  “You don’t think to need to use that, surely, Mr. Whittaker?” Archibald said.

  “You never know, sir. We live in dangerous times.”

  But murder wasn’t a subject for a dinner party, so the topic changed a moment later, leaving Glynis to consider the subject silently.

  Was Baumann desperate enough to be an arsonist? Or a murderer, if Charlotte had been correct?

  She looked up to find Lennox staring at her.

  His gaze had always been piercing. Although she’d been stared at by some daunting people in the last seven years, something about Lennox’s look made her glance away.

  Her cheeks felt warm. Even the tips of her ears felt hot. She massaged her earlobe, caught herself, and placed her hands back in her lap.

  “Have you been in Scotland long?” she asked of Mr. Whittaker.

  “A matter of months,” he said, glancing at his wife. “I met my wife in London,” he added, “just before coming here.”

  “How do you find Glasgow?” she asked, wondering if he would launch into a diatribe similar to his wife’s.

  To her surprise, he smiled at her. “I like it just fine, Mrs. Smythe, once I figured out how y’all talk.”

  She smiled back at him, wondering if he knew how odd he probably sounded to her fellow Glaswegians.

  Her ear was attuned to accents, especially since Richard had tried to expunge any tinge of Scotland in her voice. Only when she was tired did her R’s start to roll or a hint of her native tongue emerge. Normally she sounded English, as proper as an attaché’s wife should be.

  “The weather here is horrid,” Lucy said. “It’s always raining.”

  “In Washington it was very soggy,” she said, annoyed by the woman’s constant complaints. “Humid in the summer and too wet in spring.”

  “While London has its share of fog,” Lennox offered.

  She glanced at him. Was he goading Lucy or her?

  Charlotte came and joined them on the settee.

  “How long has it been since we were all together like this? Too long I say.” She spared a grin for Mr. Whittaker. “We were all the best of friends as children.”

  Lucy’s mouth twisted downward as her gaze flitted around the room. Lennox’s mouth curved in a half smile. Mr. Whittaker adopted an interested air, leaning forward and addressing his hostess.

  “Surely not that long ago, Mrs. MacNamara.”

  Charlotte pinkened, her hands fluttering in the air.

  Men from the South had the ability to flatter outrageously, a skill they were probably taught from the cradle.

  She caught Lennox’s eye again and looked away. She was not going to let him know she still remembered their kiss.

  She’d grown adept at ignoring the difficult or uncomfortable.

  When a maid appeared in the doorway, Charlotte stood, waving her hands toward another part of the house.

  “Now then, let’s away to the dining room, shall we?”

  If the rest of Charlotte’s house could be considered cluttered, the dining room was even more so. Two breakfronts occupied a space designed for one, both pieces of furniture chock full of silver and crystal showing through their glass doors. The rose marble mantel on the fireplace at the end of the room was filled with a selection of porcelain shepherdesses and sheep. Glynis counted nine figurines before being led to her seat opposite Lennox.

  The dining table, the largest she’d ever seen in a private home, was a long rectangle with curlicues, flowers, and animals carved on the enormous legs, each taking up the same room as one of the thronelike chairs.

  Mr. Whittaker murmured something complimentary about the table, and Charlotte said, “My Archibald had it made especially for me.”

  The top of the table could have been the same rich mahogany as the legs, but Glynis couldn’t see it for the lace table runner and the accumulation of silver from the three candelabra, bowls, pitchers, and individual salt and pepper cellars. Each place setting had a charger, a bread and butter plate, and another dish she assumed was a dessert plate, although she had never seen one set out before the dinner began. In addition, each place setting had three goblets, a spoon rest, a fork rest, a cup, saucer, and finger bowl.

  She’d never seen anything like it, short of a royal dinner.

  The windows no doubt looked out over the front of the house, but the crimson draperies—at least they weren’t green—were closed against the night. The carpet beneath her feet was red as well, and woven with the same type of flowers carved into the table legs.

  Charlotte stood at the end of the table, her quick glance at each of her guests almost expectant, as if she were waiting for compliments.

  For the sake of their childhood friendship, if not empathy, Glynis provided them to her.

  “It’s an exquisite table, Charlotte,” she said.

  To her relief, the rest of the guests joined in with compliments, even Lucy.

  Mr. MacNamara sat to her right at the head of the table and proved to be a voluble conversationalist. She needn’t contribute more than a nod from time to time.

  Dinner started with a fish soup, followed by a pork chop stuffed with Stornoway black pudding and sage.

  She concentrated on her meal, ignoring everyone at the table, in violation of all the rules of etiquette she’d learned. When she did speak, she complimented Charlotte on her cook. After a while, however, one could only say so much about wilted greens and mustard cream sauce. To her surprise, the maids served two more courses, the last haggis with clapshot and onion gravy.

  She let the conversation flow over her, trying not to respond to Lennox’s glances or Lucy’s petulant silence. The woman pushed her food around on her plate in an insulting manner. Even if she disliked the menu, she could have eaten a few bites to salve Charlotte’s feelings.

  Gavin Whittaker appeared to be enjoying himself. Not only did he comment heartily about the meal, but he engaged Mr. MacNamara in a spirited discussion of Scottish history versus that of America.
r />   The dinner reminded her of Washington from a linguistic perspective. Mr. Whittaker had the broad vowels of his southern United States origin, while his wife sounded like a Londoner. The MacNamaras were Glaswegians. She was a hybrid, a Glasgow native trained to speak with a British accent. Even Lennox might be considered the same, enunciating some words with a Russian flair and some with French, since he spoke both languages.

  He didn’t talk much, however, being content to stare at her.

  Had she something between her teeth? Had she suddenly grown a wart at the end of her nose?

  The meal was taking on an almost humorous bent. Lennox was staring at her, while Lucy was glowering at the two of them. Mr. Whittaker was alternately conversing with Charlotte or her husband, the three of them blissfully unaware of any undercurrents at the table.

  She hadn’t been so uncomfortable in a long time. At least Baumann wasn’t there giving her significant glances. Wouldn’t that be a horror?

  Why was Lucy frowning at her in such an off-putting fashion? What had she done to the woman other than endure her rudeness?

  Weren’t they due to leave Scotland soon?

  She should ask Lennox, but if she did he’d probably join Lucy in frowning at her. He was remarkably reticent when it came to his ship, but she could understand why.

  Was he in any danger? Would he take care? He’d always been a little foolhardy. Or maybe not foolhardy as much as determined. If he truly thought he could do something or achieve some milestone, he went after it with an intensity that was awe-inspiring.

  She had a sudden disturbing thought. His glance hadn’t left her all evening. He smiled when their eyes met and the expression was one of daring.

  Taking a sip of her punch, she tried to calm her heartbeat.

  She had the feeling she was witnessing Lennox in the midst of pursuing a goal: her.

  Chapter 16

  Lennox didn’t have any idea what he was eating. Nor did he care. He tried to maintain some interest in the conversations swirling around him, but what he really wanted to do was sit and watch Glynis.