The Virgin Of Clan Sinclair

by Karen Ranney

  The distant rumble of thunder warned her. She didn’t care. She’d go to the cottage even in the pouring rain and remain there while the windowsills wept and the floor grew muddy.

  She skittered to a halt at Macrath’s voice, ducking around the corner just as he and a stranger appeared.

  “I’m grateful you decided to call,” Macrath said. “I’ve had questions about your father and the original architect for years.”

  “I’ve often thought of Drumvagen,” the stranger said. “It’s featured prominently in my childhood memories, especially the grotto.”

  She peered around the corner.

  A man stood there, his back to her. As tall as Macrath, with black hair to match, he was attired in a dark blue suit. She wished he’d turn so she could see his face. His voice alone was intriguing.

  Scottish English varied even within Drumvagen. Brianag’s manner of speaking was vastly different from that of the maids. Nor did the maids sound like Jack, Hannah’s husband.

  This stranger’s accent was Scottish in certain words and very English in others.

  “Had your father planned to incorporate the entrance into the house?”

  “I was hoping he would,” the man said. “It’s a wondrous place for a boy with an imagination.”

  “My own son considers the grotto his.”

  The man laughed. Ellice’s toes curled, the first time they’d ever done that at a simple sound. Oh, if he would only turn.

  Perhaps he had a misshapen nose. She’d consider a scar to be dashing, but crooked, black teeth would be very off-putting.

  “I’m surprised we haven’t met before now,” Macrath said. “With you being Logan’s friend and the distance not that far from Edinburgh.”

  The stranger lived in Edinburgh?

  An hour earlier she wouldn’t have given the thought an iota of life. An hour earlier, before her mother announced her new plans, Ellice would have pushed aside the notion and laughed at herself.

  She might write of a daring, shocking woman, but it was quite another thing to be that person. But was she simply to wait until circumstances happened to her? Was she never to act on her own?

  Ellice looked down at herself. This morning she’d worn a blue dress with bone buttons, white cuffs, and collar. She and her mother had instituted so many economies over the years that it was difficult to relinquish the habit now. The dress was like most of those in her wardrobe, constructed for long wear and serviceability, able to withstand the laundry and fade only a little over time.

  Because of the bustle her mother insisted on—after all, just because they lived in Scotland was no reason to be fashion heathens—the dress was a little shorter than it should have been, revealing a glimpse of her ankles. At any other time, she would have been embarrassed to be seen in such old clothing. Right now, however, it was perfect for the plan that was bubbling up in her mind.

  The stranger might be persuaded to think her a maid at Drumvagen.

  If she waylaid him, would he take her to Edinburgh? She wasn’t above begging. Would she need to tell a story? Would he believe she needed to visit a sick mother in the city? Or that she was pining for an errant lover?

  If she must, she’d tell a tale, something that wouldn’t cast Drumvagen or Macrath into disfavor but would appeal to the stranger’s better impulses.

  If he had any better impulses.

  Perhaps he was a slaver, or a smuggler wishing to purchase Drumvagen for his evil uses. Had he come to scope out the land before leading his flotilla of ships to fire on the great house?

  No, Macrath seemed to like him, and Macrath was a good judge of character. Besides, the stranger knew Logan. Any friend of Mairi’s husband had to be a decent man.

  Clutching the manuscript to her chest, she crept to the front of the house—the better to avoid Brianag—and slipped out the massive double doors.

  The minute Ellice saw the carriage, she changed her plans.

  The visitor to Drumvagen didn’t travel in a normal equipage. Instead, his team of four horses pulled a brougham, a massive carriage similar to a mail coach.

  She would not have to flag down his driver after all. She wouldn’t have to throw herself on the visitor’s mercy. She would not have to grovel.

  Instead, she was simply going to hide in the carriage.

  To her relief, the driver was nowhere in sight. She neared the carriage with a nonchalant walk, glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching her from Drumvagen.

  Virginia was in the Rose Parlor. Brianag was no doubt giving orders to the maids. Macrath was escorting his visitor around the house, which only left her mother and the children, both of whom she adored. Whenever Alistair saw her, he ran toward her, arms spread wide as he screamed, “Leese!” His sister, Fiona, was only a year old, but she was already beginning to emulate her brother in not only her affection, but her shouts of glee.

  But she didn’t see any childish face pressed against a windowpane. Nor was her mother standing there admonishing her with a look.

  She couldn’t hide in the rear of the carriage. Two trunks were stored behind the brougham and secured with a leather flap from the top of the vehicle to the fender.

  She could only wonder about Macrath’s visitor. Was he a world traveler? Where had the visitor gone before coming here? Was he truly returning to Edinburgh? What if he wasn’t? What if he was going to Kinloch Village and from there to America or an even more exotic location? What if he was traveling on to Inverness instead?

  She didn’t want to get trapped in a city with no funds or friends, but if she returned to her room to get some money from her strongbox, there was every possibility the stranger would leave before she got back.

  Worse, she might be seen by Brianag or her mother before she could return to the carriage.

  No, she was simply going to assume that what she’d heard was correct. The visitor was returning to Edinburgh. Once in the city, she’d find a conveyance to take her to Mairi’s house, where the driver would be paid.

  She glanced back at Drumvagen.

  The darkness on the horizon, as well as the swelling wind, gave evidence of a fierce storm to come. Drumvagen stood up to the elements well, a house buttressed against all types of weather. The snows of winter melted from the edifice as if in apology for marring the perfect beauty of the twin staircases or four towers. The winds that came off the ocean pressed against the brick and the rows of windows without effect.

  Every time Macrath returned to the house, he had the driver stop just before the curved approach and simply stared at his home. Anyone could tell how much he loved Drumvagen and how proud he was of the house he’d finished building.

  By leaving, Virginia and Macrath would probably think she’d rejected their kindness. They’d both effortlessly enfolded her into their family. She didn’t want to hurt either of them, but her mother wouldn’t be stopped.

  Either she took this opportunity or she ended up being married to someone her mother chose.

  In one of Macrath’s carriages, the seat lifted up, revealing a storage area. This carriage was easily the size of Macrath’s. Would it also boast a secret compartment?

  Entering the carriage, she ducked down beneath the window. The carriage smelled of leather, which was understandable because of the leather seats. But why should it smell of lemons?

  To her wholehearted relief there was a compartment beneath the seat. Only she was very sure she wasn’t going to fit, not with the bustle her mother insisted she wear. Every morning Ellice tied on the garment that looked like a fishtail hanging over her backside.

  No one at Drumvagen, except her mother, cared if her dresses hung correctly, plumped from the rear.

  In order to fit into the compartment she was going to have to remove the hated thing.

  She put the manuscript into the compartment, then hurriedly reached beneath her skirts, finding the ties to the bustle and slipping it off. Folding it into as compact a size as she could, she pushed it, too, into the
compartment.

  In a normal carriage the journey to Edinburgh would take four hours. It was altogether possible they might reach the city in less time in such a vehicle as this.

  Ellice entered the compartment, kneeling before wedging herself in sideways. The space smelled of wet boots and horse.

  She was more than willing to be a little uncomfortable in the short run. After all, her freedom was at stake.

  Telling herself to be as brave as Lady Pamela, she closed the seat on top of her.

  In minutes she’d be on her way to Edinburgh. She’d take her own life in her hands and determine her own future.

  Along the way, perhaps she’d get to see the stranger’s face.

  Chapter 2

  Ross Forster wished he’d not made this sudden stop at Drumvagen. Being here was the result of a foolish impulse, one that had appealed to him at the time.

  The house Macrath Sinclair had rescued was only an hour or so out of his way on a fine spring morning.

  Seeing the magnificence Sinclair had created didn’t ease his life in one whit. Nor had the sight of Drumvagen made him feel better about what was a series of poor memories. He had satisfied his curiosity, that was all.

  His father had sold the place to Sinclair without a qualm.

  “What do I care?” he said. “I’ll never return to that monstrosity.”

  He wondered what his father would have said to see the finished house, the four towers each topped with a cupola, the twin staircases curving out toward the drive as if to welcome each visitor to Drumvagen.

  During one of his dozen or so attempts to get in good graces with his wife, Thomas Forster had determined that what his family needed was a change of scene. A house near the ocean, perhaps, where they could retire when needing to escape the vastness of Huntly. He’d selected the land, acquired an architect, and played gentleman builder long enough to instill a dream in his son.

  They would all move to Drumvagen and live a life of familial warmth and affection. His parents would never argue about his father’s behavior. His mother would never scowl or weep at night. He would be their darling child, not ignored but celebrated. He was adept at rowing? Great job, son. He was brilliant in his studies? Congratulations, boy, you’ve worked hard.

  Such a bucolic existence was never to be, but the dream had died hard.

  Eventually, he’d gone away from school, creating his own life as far away from his parents as he could manage. He’d been clever at mathematics, which amused him. What skill he’d acquired had gone into doubling the fortune he’d eventually inherited.

  “Would you like to see the grotto?” Sinclair asked.

  He hesitated only a minute, the eight-year-old boy within him nearly quivering with excitement.

  He followed Sinclair to his library, startled to discover that the entrance to the grotto was cleverly concealed behind a bookcase in the man’s library.

  The last time he’d been here he’d trailed behind his father like an appendage or fashionable accessory, an heir Thomas had created to satisfy the dictates of his rank and family but little more.

  As a child Ross had been terrified to speak up or do anything to call attention to himself. The grotto, however, with its echoing sounds and sheer beauty had brought him out of himself.

  “Is it a miracle, Father?” he remembered asking.

  The round stone room with its window view of the ocean and the hole in the ceiling, almost like a chimney, had seemed a special place to the boy he’d been.

  “Perhaps it’s that, Ross,” his father had said, looking around. “A magnificent place for a party.”

  His father had never seen the beauty of the place, only that it was a location to drink himself into a stupor.

  “It’s not changed,” he said now, the air heavy and salty. Frothy swells danced on top of the ocean as if waving to him. The seabirds’ cries echoed through the grotto, called his attention to where the sea and sky met like long-lost friends.

  “I doubt it would,” Sinclair said, striding to the door on the other side of the grotto. “Not after thousands of years.”

  He followed Sinclair, curious because he’d not been allowed to come this far on his previous expeditions. Nor had he been permitted in the grotto by himself. Not because he was too precious to lose or that people worried about his welfare. He was simply a commodity, a fait accompli, the heir, and it would be a chore to make another one of him.

  He walked out on the beach, the wind buffeting him. Why had he come here today? His father had been dead for years. Why was he suddenly compelled to face his ghost?

  His anniversary was tomorrow.

  The blow was strong enough that he nearly reeled. Was that why he was here?

  He wanted to run until the sudden constriction in his chest was eased and the feathery memories in his mind blew away.

  “Beg pardon?” he asked, realizing Sinclair had asked him a question.

  “I asked at what stage you’d last seen the house.”

  “The foundations had been done,” he said. “And some of the interior planned out. Not the library, of course, or the entrance to the grotto. If you like, I’ll send you the plans for the house.”

  Sinclair’s smile was one of boyish eagerness. “I’d be very happy to see them. I’ve often wondered about the original details of Drumvagen.”

  He was glad the man had kept the name.

  His father had sworn that he was going to change it as soon as he could get the locals to understand. It didn’t matter that a castle had once sat on this very ground, or that history had bled into the very earth here. He’d wanted, Ross remembered, to call the structure Forster House.

  Perhaps it was a good thing his plan never came to fruition.

  Two years into the project Thomas proved to be as bored with Drumvagen as anything decent he attempted. He and the architect had argued over money and more. The architect hadn’t liked his father’s vision for the house, or perhaps he’d simply seen Drumvagen as more, something along the lines of what Macrath Sinclair had envisioned.

  “I always wondered what happened to Drumvagen. I like what you’ve done with it.”

  Sinclair smiled. “At first, it was a showplace,” he said. “A way of proclaiming that I was successful. Now it’s my home.”

  His father would never have transformed the house in such a way. Drumvagen—or Forster House—would have been a hedonist’s paradise, not a place where running feet and childish laughter punctuated the conversation of adults.

  “Thank you for this,” he said, turning to Sinclair. “I’ve come unannounced and uninvited, but you’ve been very kind.”

  His host scanned the skies. Despite the early afternoon hour, it was becoming as dark as night.

  “Stay,” Sinclair said. “A storm is coming, and a storm off the ocean is no small thing.”

  Dark clouds were merging with an equally inky sea. Lightning speared from the boiling clouds, accentuating Sinclair’s words.

  “I couldn’t put you out.”

  “I’ve seen ships almost come to ground when their captains thought to outrun one of these beasts,” he said. “I can’t send you away in this.”

  As swiftly as the storm was moving, he might not make it to an inn.

  “If you’re certain,” Ross said, unwilling to expose his coachman to the danger of a lightning filled storm.

  “My only regret is that you won’t get a chance to meet my wife.” Sinclair turned and led the way back through the grotto. “She isn’t very visible nowadays.” Here the other man seemed to fumble. “She’s near to term with our third child,” he finally said.

  Ross nodded, understanding.

  Slowly, he followed his host back through the grotto and up the passage to the library.

  Here at Drumvagen he’d been young, naive, and filled with hope. Perhaps his willingness to stay overnight was because today, of all days, he needed some memory of happiness.

  Ellice wasn’t afraid of the dark. A good thing, since
the compartment was as black as a winter night at Drumvagen.

  She never knew, until this exact minute, how much she disliked being confined in a small area. Closing her eyes didn’t seem to help, either.

  Had Eudora, in her coffin, felt the same? Oh, don’t be nonsensical, Ellice. Eudora was dead. She couldn’t have felt confined.

  The space, however, was most definitely coffinlike.

  A scream slid up her throat. She bit it back and took several deep breaths, admonishing herself to be calm. When she felt the carriage rock, as if someone had entered, she sighed in relief.

  They would be on their way shortly and Edinburgh was just a few hours away. She could bear anything for four hours.

  She lay there with her arms crossed over her chest, wondering if her hands would begin to tingle because of the constriction. The pose reminded her of how Eudora had been buried.

  Even in death Eudora had been beautiful and poised.

  Tall and statuesque, with a regal looking face and demeanor, Eudora was everything she was not, elegant, graceful, and attuned to people. Eudora knew, immediately, if someone was out of sorts, sad, or happy. She exerted herself to please others and they rewarded her with praise and admiration.

  Ellice knew she was only granted confused glances.

  When she was younger and living in London, she was guilty of a great many societal faux pas. She spoke without thinking and she fidgeted endlessly. Now, after years of training herself, she remained silent for the most part and tried very hard to remain outwardly calm.

  However, she wasn’t feeling excessively calm at the moment.

  Her poor sister had been relegated to a hurried funeral and burial surrounded only by her immediate family because of the way she died. Everyone had been afraid of smallpox. Fear of the contagion seemed to cling even to the dead.

  She’d stood there at Eudora’s grave, knowing that nothing would ever be the same. Nor had it been.

  At the moment, she could almost imagine herself dead as well.

  What if someone locked the compartment? Would this carriage prove to be her last resting place? Would she lie here forever, the spiders casting their webs around her decaying body?