No longer able to sit for another moment, Tasara stood. “And then what happens?”
“They’ll confirm or disprove your identity.” He leveled her father a telling glance.
She frowned slightly. Something else went on here.
Her whole life had turned topsy-turvy—so blasted confusing—which agitated her all the more. She’d never been this lost and unsure, not even when held prisoner those three weeks. Yet, at least at Dounnich House she’d known who she was.
Inhaling a soothing breath, she resolutely squelched her dismay. She must put her emotions aside and face this situation with logic and reason. “And if I am this Alexandra Atterberry?”
“Well, I suppose that depends on you.” Laird McTavish tucked the letter into a drawer. “Although, turning your back on a title and fortune seems ill-advised, particularly since your father has given me to understand the Scottish travellers would prefer you resume your prior life.”
If he’d struck her, Tasara wouldn’t have been more wounded or astounded. She whirled to face Father.
Chagrin darkened his swarthy features.
“Is that true? Is that why Jamie and the others made me leave?” Her voice caught, and she spoke past the painful lump in her throat. “Have I somehow brought shame to the travellers? I was an innocent child. How am I to blame?”
Dat opened his mouth, but before he answered, a series of short, sharp raps sounded upon the stout door. An instant later, it flew open, banging against the armor behind it and sending a jarring clang throughout the chamber.
Seonaid, Lady McTavish, a young woman, and a middling-aged couple surged into the room.
Hugo and Bridget Needham, Tasara would wager.
“Where is she? Where’s my niece?” The woman spun to search the room, her violet pelisse swirling in her haste. Upon spotting Tasara, she froze and blanched, her hand at her throat.
The young woman released a chirrupy shriek and slapped a gloved palm to her mouth. Her eyes wide with excitement, she hopped on her half-boot clad toes and pointed at Tasara, emitting happy little squeaks.
At any other time, the man’s flabbergasted expression, sagging jaw, and bulging eyes would have been comical. However, Tasara couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.
An older version of herself gaped at Tasara from across the stone floor as if glancing into a time-forwarded looking glass.
“Oh, my God.” Bridget Needham sent the austere man an exuberant glance. “Hugo, do you see? It’s her. It’s Alexandra.”
No.
Tightness seized Lucan’s chest, and his heart faltered for a beat. Mother couldn’t die, not so young. He hadn’t married nor fathered children yet. Mother was as much a doting grandmamma to Genny’s daughters as she’d been a loving mother to him, his sister, and their brother. Lucan’s children couldn’t miss knowing their grandmother.
Except—he hadn’t planned to marry in the near future. And had no plans to marry in the intermediate future either. Several years from now—perhaps a decade or more—seemed reasonable. Maybe he’d seek Genny’s and Mother’s counsel on suitable prospective brides when the day finally came.
Certainly, he desired love, but he didn’t require the emotion for a good match. In fact, he might be better off without the encumbrance. Father’s perfidy had left Lucan jaded and pessimistic toward the institution of marriage altogether. Apparently, even the most perfect unions held dark, painful secrets.
So, why hope?
A few weeks, months, maybe a year or two of contentment—if God blessed him with exceptional good fortune—before he descended into a hellish state for the remainder of his life.
Besides, any woman he wed must accept Jeremy. Too many denizens of High Society whispered and pointed at his unfortunate brother, one reason Mother stopped venturing from Chattsworth Park.
And, by all that’s holy, Father seized the opportunity like a stag in the rut.
What had Father imagined? Had he thought if Mother didn’t know of his unfaithfulness, that it exonerated him? Or perhaps, his father encouraged Mother’s over-protectiveness and took advantage of her reluctance to expose Jeremy to ridicule by sequestering him at Chattsworth Park House.
Lucan would never know.
Moments later, he stood outside Mother’s chamber. Funny, how he still felt the miniscule rush of anticipation he experienced as a child when summoned to her room.
Forcing a tranquil mien to his appearance, he rapped lightly upon the door. It wouldn’t do for her to detect his concern. She’d fret and work herself into a nervous state. Easily done when in good health and not to be considered with a fragile heart.
The carved panel swung open almost as though someone waited on the other side.
Genny glided to the immense bed straightaway and after kissing their mother’s cheek, straightened the already tidy bedclothes.
Always a fusser, Gen needed something to do with her hands. She’d knitted enough blankets to keep the children of The Foundling Hospital he sponsored in bedding for a good while.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.” Mrs. Wells dipped into an arthritic curtsy, a grimace tightening the abigail’s mouth when she bent.
He’d bet his forgone bath his mother’s lady’s maid had hovered near the door waiting for his knock.
“Thank you, Wells. No need to curtsy as I’ve told you many times before.” Grasping her elbow, he helped her upright. “After all, you used to catch me hiding in the wardrobes and beneath the beds.”
Before I locked myself in that infernal trunk, that is.
“Don’t forget behind the curtains where you snuck bonbons and biscuits.” She chuckled, her cheeks balling like miniature twin plum puddings, and pointed a plump finger at him. “You were quite the little rapscallion.”
Lucan had always possessed a particular fondness for sweets.
He sought his mother and nodded toward the bed. “How is she?”
“Resting comfortably, but she’s excited you’re home.” Mrs. Wells motioned him onward, murmuring out the side of her mouth, “Try to keep her calm.”
“Lucan, darling?” His mother, a pale form in a swath of rose, cream, and lace, attempted to rise.
“No, Mama. You mustn’t exert yourself.” Genny stilled their mother with a hand to her shoulder. “Wells and I shall prop you with pillows if you wish to sit up.”
“Indeed, we shall.” Like a protective mother hen, Wells charged to the bedside, tsking and clucking the whole while. “You let us assist you, Your Grace.” She wedged a pair of pillows behind his mother. “Remember what the doctor said.”
“Pshaw, that old windbag. Doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Her voice thin and reedy, Mother gave a weak wave of her hand. Only a few strands of silver tinted the lank flaxen hair hanging about her shoulder and splayed across the light pink satin pillow. “With his dire predictions, he’d have me selecting my funeral gown. How’s a patient supposed to recover with such a gloomy bat scowling at them?”
“Nonetheless, you must do as Doctor Philpott says.” Genny offered a tense smile and moved aside when Lucan reached the bed. She fidgeted about the room, straightening this and that while casting them furtive looks. She turned to Wells. “Would you please check on Mama’s dinner? Her tray should have been brought by now. Oh, and send a maid to the nursery to ask Nurse how the girls are. It’s almost Sarah’s feeding time.”
The lady’s maid nodded as she waddled to the door. “Yes, I want to make sure Cook prepared the liver the way I requested.”
“Liver. Phah.” Mother pulled a face and gave a dainty shudder. “Why should an invalid be forced to eat liver?”
Wells paused at the entrance. “Because the doctor advised you to. To strengthen your heart.”
“He also wanted to bleed me, to draw out my ill
humors. I cannot think that’s too beneficial to my heart.” Mother closed her eyes, her fair lashes dark against her cheeks’ pallor. “A warm, creamy custard would have me mending much quicker.”
Wells grinned, her chins folding like a well-used fan. “Perchance, that’s dessert.”
She winked and pulled the door closed.
Lucan sat upon the mattress’s edge. He bent to kiss Mother’s forehead then took her hand. So frail and cold. He gave her thin fingers a gentle squeeze. “What mischief are you embroiled in now, young lady?”
“It seems my heart has been damaged from my spasms and will weaken as time passes.” She opened her light slate eyes, so like his, and tipped her mouth into a wan smile. “Doctor Death and Gloom says I might only have a few months to live.”
Alarm knotted Lucan’s stomach, and he curled his toes in his boots to keep his distress from showing.
Genny came to stand beside the bed. She placed a comforting hand on Lucan’s shoulder. She’d had days to digest this news. He’d had but minutes.
“He also said with proper care and attention to your health, you might very well live much longer.” She gave Lucan’s shoulder a brief squeeze. “Many years, in fact.”
Always the optimist, thank God. If Genny disintegrated into a blubbering mess, he’d be hard-pressed to retain his composure, male stoicism be damned.
Lucan rubbed his thumb across the back of Mother’s blue-veined hand. Not yet fifty. Too soon. “I shall consult with Europe’s finest physicians. We’ll not let one antiquated country doctor determine your future.”
“Your eye is bruised. Later you must tell me why.” She patted his cheek before letting her hand flop across her middle. Her eyes drifted shut again. “You need a shave, dear, and you smell of cabbage and corned beef.” Her delicate nostrils quivered. “And onions.”
His midday meal.
Her breathing shallow, Mother winced and covered her heart.
Lucan exchanged a worried look with his sister. Did Genny’s eyes glisten? What exactly had the doctor said? First thing tomorrow he would discover for himself.
“Lucan?” Mother’s hand twitched within his.
He turned his attention back to her. “Yes, Mama?”
“Promise me you’ll find a wife before I die.” She gripped his hand with surprising strength, determination replacing the resigned look in her weary gaze.
“Mama, I—”
“Genevieve has Montgomery and the girls, and they’ve already said they want Jeremy to live with them.” She drew in a shallow breath. “I want to know you have someone, too. That when I die, you’re not alone.”
“Let’s not talk of this now.” Or ever.
Lucan sent Genny a desperate glance.
Turning her head, she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with her bent forefinger.
He patted his mother’s hand. “We can discuss my future when you are stronger.”
Egad, he couldn’t promise to seek a wife. Not now. No eligible women lived nearby, and only the need to find a knowledgeable physician would force him from Chattsworth Park House. Besides, rushing into—
“Mama?” Alarm sharpened Genny’s voice.
Mother went deathly still and just as ashen, except for a bluish tinge edging her lips.
“Promise me, Lucan.” Her pain-glazed eyes fluttered open. “Promise me. By Christmastide.”
Genny gasped when their mother’s eyes rolled back in her head. “Mama!”
Hell.
Lucan closed his eyes. “I promise.”
Chapter 8
Wedderford Abbey, Scotland
Late September, 1818
Tasara—no—Alexandra Bridget Clarisse Atterberry, The Right Honorable Lady Atterberry, settled against the claret-colored squabs of the Needhams’ plush carriage. That title business still flummoxed her. For God’s sake, why did a female baroness hold a Laird, Lord, of Parliament title?
What nincompoop came up with that?
She shifted, unused to the stays practically thrusting her breasts to her chin. More on point, what pea-wit decided a woman needed all the trappings she now wore?
Aunt Bridget had insisted upon a frenetic shopping excursion in Edinburgh to outfit Alexandra with clothing befitting her new station. Unaccustomed to the smooth fabric of her primrose pelisse or the fine kid gloves encasing her fingers, Alexandra idly brushed a hand across her lap.
I shall always be Tasara Faas, a simple gypsy lass.
She veered a glance out the window, finding the quiet within the carriage taxing.
Her gypsy family sang as they traveled, the tinkers laughing and joking, calling to one another along the caravan’s length. Such a simple life she’d lived till now. Nonetheless, Edeena’s words to Father echoed worryingly in her mind.
Ye must consider Lala and György, and the rest of the clan too.
A bruised heart and heavy spirit weighed heavily upon Alexandra. Father hadn’t even remained at Craiglocky Keep long enough to meet her aunt and uncle. When Aunt Bridget at last released her from an exuberant hug, he had already slipped from the study.
Before journeying to Wedderford Abbey, Alexandra had wanted to stop by the encampment one last time, but Laird McTavish dashed that hope.
“The travellers have moved on, Alexandra.” He kindly broke the unpleasant news to her. “Balcomb thought it best. To give you a fresh start.”
The excuse didn’t satisfy in the least. The tinkers hadn’t wanted to say farewell. Precious Lala and György wouldn’t know what to think, wouldn’t understand why Alexandra had left them.
Betrayal lanced her, creating a wound that wouldn’t soon heal. Still, she couldn’t bear the guilt if the folk or Father suffered for helping her, and deep inside, she understood their reasons for fleeing.
“Laird Sethwick assured me no one would think to bring charges against my father.” She searched her new uncle’s face. “Do you think he’s right? I’m concerned my disappearance as a toddler might be blamed on him.”
Across from her, Uncle Hugo adjusted his position, no doubt as stiff as she from days of traveling. “I see no reason for anyone to do anything of the kind. After all, Mr. Faas didn’t abduct you, and he likely saved your life.”
“All these years he cared for you, my dear.” Aunt Bridget’s eyes grew glassy. “And he went to his lordship straightaway when he suspected who you might be.”
The latter wasn’t altogether true, but Alexandra and Dat thought it prudent to keep silent regarding what Balcomb had overheard in Edinburgh.
And about her thumping a duke in his handsome face.
Laird Sethwick had swiftly reassured Alexandra the Duke of Harcourt held no grievance against her, and she’d nothing to fear from him.
Easy for his lordship to say. He was rich and powerful.
Her heart gave a curious wobble.
So am I now.
“I must say, however, I am a trifle surprised at Mr. Faas’s eagerness to claim the reward for your return.” Aunt Bridget fiddled with a loose thread in her cuff’s lace.
Uncle Hugo turned from watching the passing scenery and smiled at Alexandra. “Yes, took me aback a mite as well.”
“But I imagine the life of a Highland traveller is fraught with hardship and a sizable sum will go far to ease their discomfort.” Katrina, Alexandra’s cousin, offered the sensible reassurance.
“Reward?” Alexandra licked her lips, suddenly feeling sick. “You paid it?”
“Of course, dear.” Aunt Bridget cast her a fleeting glance before resuming her perusal of the delicate tatting. “We didn’t hesitate, did we, Hugo?”
“Indeed, not.” He gave Aunt Bridget an indulgent smile. “I would have gladly paid more.”
At another time, their devotion to one an
other would have charmed Alexandra. However, at present, she fought not to be ill about what she’d just learned. She swallowed. “How much?”
No wonder the clan, Dat, and Edeena eagerly toddled her off to Craiglocky.
“One thousand pounds.” Uncle Hugo nodded sagely. “That should tide them over nicely for a long while.”
A veritable fortune to a humble traveller.
The crack in her heart grew wider. She’d been betrayed and deceived for profit by those she trusted the most. What was it about money that caused people to throw aside common decency as easily as hearth ash?
A crazed Scot mistook Isobel Ferguson for another woman, and to gain valuable lands, had intended to force her into marriage. To coerce the travellers into helping the Blackhalls with their land-grabbing scheme, she, Lala, and György were captured. Angus Blackhall planned on selling Tasara’s virginity to some debauched knave, and now, her clan and family had deserted her.
All for wealth.
Integrity and honesty disintegrated in the face of a bulging purse, it seemed.
Shutting her eyes against the pain of the travellers’ perfidy, she found the carriage swaying strangely lulling. The rocking reminded her of her gypsy family’s wagon.
When would she see them again? Did she want to after the nasty revelation of a moment ago?
Of course.
György and Lala had played no part in the deception.
The duke’s noble features pushed their way into her mawkish musings. The bothersome man continued to plague her conscience and dreams. How could one unfortunate encounter leave such a lasting impact? An unnerving thought smacked Alexandra.
Would she see his grace in London?
Undoubtedly.
Heartbreak and Honor Page 6
