The Virgin Of Clan Sinclair

by Karen Ranney

  Four separate gardens were accessible through various rooms. The Flower Room, so called because of its mural of endless rows of flowers, was adjacent to a magnificent rose garden. The Tiger Room, a bit horrifying since it held the heads of various beasts mounted on its walls, led to the spice garden. A walled garden, accessible through the magnificent Red Drawing Room, was so secluded and silent it felt like the interior of a cloister. The fourth garden was a maze of hedges. When she entered it from the Receiving Room, she immediately felt small and insignificant next to the six-foot-high greenery.

  Huntly’s ballroom was the largest room she’d ever seen, even considering the British Museum. What looked like an acre of polished wood floor stretched between walls either covered with tall windows or plastered with gilt and ivory. Six crystal chandeliers hung over the space, sunlight bouncing off the prisms and hurling fractured rainbows over the walls.

  The State Dining Room was five times as large as the smaller Family Dining Room, but that room was not intimate by any means. Thirty people could sit at the table.

  Everywhere she looked there was something to marvel at, from the gold cupids holding bouquets of flowers in the corner of the conservatory or the Viewing Platform located at the very top of the house. After climbing the hundred steps, she and Pegeen stood against the railing, marveling at the view of the river and beyond.

  She could even see to Edinburgh and the castle sitting atop the highest rock.

  Huntly’s setting reminded her of Drumvagen, since it was adjacent to a river and set amidst woodland. But Huntly was set on a rise, making it appear even more majestic than its size alone would dictate.

  Although the view of Huntly was easily accessible to anyone traveling to Edinburgh, she’d never seen the house. If she had, she would probably have wondered at the inhabitants. Who were they, that they could live amidst such splendor?

  An ordinary person, as it turned out.

  She toured the kitchen, so cavernous that voices echoed against the vaulted ceiling. The laundry operated every day instead of just a day or two during the week, with vats kept boiling to accommodate the vast number of sheets, towels, aprons, and napkins used at Huntly. Uniforms were laundered twice weekly, and delicate clothing, such as her dresses, would be done on an as needed basis by a woman skilled in such a task.

  “Unless you take on a lady’s maid, your ladyship,” Pegeen said. “Someone from London or Edinburgh.”

  “I see no reason to do that,” she said. “Together we’ll muddle on.”

  “About that, your ladyship,” Pegeen said. “I’m to tell you about all your appointments. You have to see the dressmaker, to add to your wardrobe. The housekeeper has asked for time. So has the majordomo, the head gardener, and the stable master.”

  “Why do I have to meet with the stable master?”

  Pegeen’s eyes widened at the question. “To arrange for your mount, your ladyship. Surely you want to pick your own horse.”

  “I don’t want a horse.”

  “Then you need to tell him that, begging your pardon, your ladyship. He’ll be disappointed, though. He’s been looking through the mares, trying to pick the best one for you.”

  She pushed that thought to the back of her mind. But the dressmaker? When she asked about that appointment, Pegeen’s mouth firmed.

  “Yes, your ladyship, I took it upon myself to summon her. You’ve only ten dresses. The Countess of Gadsden needs a substantial wardrobe. The earl concurs,” she added, as if knowing that Ross’s agreement would be the trump card.

  From the look on Pegeen’s face, half triumph, half determination, Ellice suspected she wasn’t going to win that war.

  But there was really no need for her to meet with the gardener and the majordomo. When she said as much, Pegeen laughed gaily.

  “But you’re in charge, your ladyship. They look to you for guidance.”

  “Surely they look to the earl.”

  The maid shook her head. “Not since he married, your ladyship. Everyone assumes you’re responsible for the house.”

  As well as the hundred sixty-seven staff?

  She was suddenly grateful for her mother’s tutelage. From the time she was a little girl she’d been taught how to manage a household. Granted, she doubted her mother had ever envisioned her managing a house the size of Huntley. Surely the lessons were the same, only on a grander scale.

  Still, the idea of managing Huntly was overwhelming.

  “Why doesn’t the Dowager Countess handle all this?” she asked weakly.

  “Oh, she did,” Pegeen said, guiding Ellice to another corridor. This one was floored with delicate blue and white marble.

  A perfect floor on which to roller-skate. What a pity she’d left her skates behind in London. Whatever would the staff say to see her sailing through the corridor, squealing with glee?

  Perhaps she could order a pair.

  “Until the earl died,” Pegeen explained. “Then the countess moved to the East Building and there she’s been ever since. She’s as far removed from Huntly as she can be and still be in the house.”

  “The East Building?”

  Pegeen nodded. “It’s the main building on the right when you enter Huntly’s courtyard.”

  “Across from the library,” she said, nodding.

  “You’ve seen the library, your ladyship? Is it as glorious as I’ve heard?”

  “You’ve never seen it?”

  Pegeen shook her head. “Oh, no, your ladyship. It’s forbidden to enter the library. The earl doesn’t even allow anyone to clean in there.”

  “I’ve only seen one part of it,” she said, praying a blush wouldn’t appear on her cheeks.

  She described the tower to Pegeen, the view of the lake, and the shelves and shelves of books, along with the wondrous curving stair.

  As they were exploring, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the paneled mirrors of the room in which they were standing. The Reception Room? The Greeting Room? How was she ever to memorize all the rooms, let alone manage their care?

  Dark circles beneath her eyes revealed her problem sleeping. She was remaining awake until all hours, anticipating Ross’s arrival, only to fall into an uneasy sleep. In the morning she awoke feeling curiously ashamed, certainly lonely, and most definitely uneasy.

  Was this going to be the pattern of her days?

  Her face looked sad, and nothing she did, from practicing a silly smile to making faces at herself, would alter the look.

  Perhaps it was simply the expression in her eyes.

  At least at Drumvagen she hadn’t known what she was missing. She hadn’t been kissed into delirium, coaxed to surrender, and given delight as a reward.

  She thought to remain awake at his side, watching him as he slept. She wanted to know more about his library. She wanted to ask him more about his childhood or the future he’d envisioned for himself.

  Instead, he ignored her.

  For all his neglect, he had the mirrors in her dressing room removed. He replaced the delicate secretary with a massive desk equal to the one in Huntly’s library.

  What had she done?

  She scoured her mind for anything she might have said to offend him. Something had happened and she didn’t have any idea what it was.

  She needed to ask him, straight out. She needed to discover what she’d done and then she would correct it if she could.

  What if he was simply missing Cassandra? What if he was regretting marrying her and not remaining a widower?

  What could she do about that?

  Virginia wanted to throw something at her husband.

  She’d adored Macrath from the instant she met him, but he was annoying in the extreme lately.

  Two months had passed since Carlton’s birth, yet he still had barely kissed her. They’d never gone so long without being close to each other.

  After Fiona was born, he didn’t miss a night cradling her in his arms. Sleeping together was one of the most comforting aspect
s of being married, especially sleeping in Macrath’s arms.

  Yet for the last two months he’d studiously avoided her. During the first month, he’d slept in the sitting room, even going so far as to have a cot moved in and kept behind the settee.

  She’d come out on many a morning to find him hunched into nearly a ball, trying to keep his feet from hanging over the end of the cot. Nothing could make it wide enough for his shoulders, however.

  “This is ridiculous, Macrath,” she’d said, standing over him one morning. “You’ll come back to our bed now. I’m fine and I’ll be even better with my husband sleeping beside me.”

  But just because he was sleeping beside her didn’t mean he was touching her.

  When she cuddled next to him, he stiffened, moved to the edge of the bed and remained there until she rolled over.

  “It’s not another woman,” she said, frowning at him now. “You’d not do something so foolish.”

  He turned in the act of stropping his razor and looked at her. The lower half of his face was covered in foam, but she could see his look of incredulity well enough.

  “Are you daft?”

  She nodded. “Over you? Most definitely.”

  He smiled, then continued with his shaving. She loved watching him shave. She loved watching him doing anything. Each of his movements was deliberate, as if he thought about every action before performing it.

  “Have I lost my looks, then?” she asked, deliberately trying to sound Scottish. She amused him, mixing her American and English accent with her adopted homeland.

  He didn’t smile. He didn’t even look at her.

  A woman knows when she’s desired, and she didn’t feel that way at all.

  She wanted to touch him. The need to do so was so strong she reached for him in the night. Each time it was the same. He moved away.

  He finished shaving, rinsed his face and blotted it dry. In a moment he’d put his shirt on, say something conciliatory, and kiss her on the forehead, placing his hands on her shoulders to restrain her if she tried for a deeper kiss.

  She wasn’t going to tolerate it.

  “If you don’t want me, Macrath, I’m afraid you’re going to have to say it to my face. I want the words.”

  He looked at her over the towel.

  “Yes, Carlton’s birth was difficult, but it’s over and done.”

  The midwife—and Brianag, the traitor—had been insistent that she not bear another child. She was not satisfied with their opinions. She was going to see Dr. Thorburn when she was next in Edinburgh.

  Even so, there was no reason her husband couldn’t touch her.

  She cinched the belt on her robe tighter, went to stand behind Macrath and wrapped her arms around him. She turned her head, resting her cheek against his back, ignoring his rigid posture.

  “I won’t break, my darling,” she said. “A kiss, that’s all I want.”

  “Virginia.”

  “Macrath.”

  He slowly turned. “I almost lost you once, and I told myself it would never happen again.”

  At first she thought he was referring to childbirth, but when he touched the small scars on the corner of her eyes she understood he meant the smallpox epidemic that had swept through London years ago. She’d nearly died, but Macrath hadn’t been responsible. Nor could he have done anything to save her since he’d been in Australia at the time.

  “I nearly lost you again, my love,” he said softly.

  She shook her head. He’d always been able to bring her to tears with his words. “You think it’s your fault?”

  “If you hadn’t been with child, you wouldn’t have nearly died in childbirth. If I hadn’t bedded you, you wouldn’t have been with child.”

  He was such an intelligent man that when he uttered a stupid comment it was a surprise.

  She didn’t quite know what to say to him so she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his head down for a kiss.

  This time, however, he stepped back, removing her arms, smiling gently at her.

  “I love you too much,” he said.

  When he left their bedroom she could only stare after him.

  Something must be done.

  Chapter 26

  She took the shorter way around to the library by cutting across the courtyard. Halfway to the building she wondered if Ross would reject her. Would the scene of such initial joy also be the place where he rebuffed her?

  She halted halfway there, turning and staring at Huntly’s edifice, once again reminded of the British Museum. Perhaps she was just one more exhibit. Statue of Lonely Countess, circa 1875. Mark the female’s lost look, the distance in her eyes, the frozen tears on her cheeks.

  Lady Pamela wouldn’t tolerate such treatment. Lady Pamela would demand her rights as a wife. She would seduce Ross until he was captivated. He’d come crawling back to her on his knees, begging for one more chance.

  “Please Ellice, forgive me, but smile at me, I beg you.”

  She would turn and look at him, groveling at her feet. Perhaps she’d pity him for the sincerity of his apology. Perhaps she wouldn’t because of all the despair he’d caused her in the last week.

  The sad and unchangeable fact, however, was that while she might yearn to be Lady Pamela, she wasn’t. She was simply Ellice Traylor Forster, the Countess of Gadsden, and a more miserable creature she couldn’t imagine.

  Changing her mind about the library, she turned and was heading back across the courtyard when a wagon pulled out from behind the East Building. Her mother-in-law stood atop the back steps, a gauzy shawl around her shoulders, her hair coming loose from its bun. A bright smile wreathed her mouth and made her blue eyes sparkle as she waved with the tips of her fingers at a departing wagon. The Dowager Countess turned on the steps then, looked down and saw Ellice. “My dear,” she said, “you’ve come to visit. How lovely!”

  She was well and truly trapped.

  Rather than explain that she was feeling abjectly sorry for herself and not wishing any company, she pasted a smile on her face.

  “I haven’t come at a bad time?” she asked, grabbing her skirts with both hands and mounting the wide steps behind the building.

  She concentrated on her footing. When she looked up as she was climbing steps she sometimes grew dizzy. Her mother said it was because she’d ruined her eyes reading so much. Ellice had bitten back a comment that she’d rather read than concentrate on the infinitesimal stitches in needlework. That was a truly eye-ruining exercise.

  However, needlework was more proper than writing, wasn’t it?

  Why was the world divided into what she should do and what she most wished to do?

  “Did you have some more wool delivered?” she asked the older woman at the top of the steps, remembering when the countess couldn’t say good-bye to her family because she was expecting a shipment. Was she involved in trade?

  “Oh, no,” the countess said, laughing gently. “That was a shipment of brass pots. Quite lovely things from India. Do you want one?”

  “Um, no, but thank you.”

  “Mr. McMahon brought them. He’d just acquired a few and thought I would like them.”

  “Did he?”

  “He’s the most wonderful merchant,” the older woman said, leading her into the house.

  As her mother-in-law was extolling the virtues of Mr. McMahon—more than any merchant surely deserved—Ellice looked around, eyes wide. What had Ross said about it? She couldn’t remember, only that he didn’t like coming here. She could well imagine why.

  She wondered if she looked as surprised as she felt. She tried, very hard, to rearrange her features so they wouldn’t give anything away, but it was so difficult, given the cluttered condition of her mother-in-law’s home.

  Had the older woman taken up residence in the East Building because of all her possessions?

  She could barely navigate the hallway because of the crates and baskets stacked there. When she followed her mother-in-law into the parlo
r, she couldn’t help but stare.

  Where another person might have had a few tables and lamps, her mother-in-law had ten. Bird cages hung from the ceiling and were stacked in the corner, each and every one of them filled with a canary or budgie. Three carpets, one atop the other, stretched over the wood floor, and wherever there might have been a spare inch of space there was instead a copper or brass pot filled with ferns.

  Upholstered chairs were stacked on top of each other in the corner.

  “There’s no room to set them out,” her mother-in-law said. “I need another two parlors, I’m afraid.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Four in all. This part of Huntly was designed to hold different branches of the family. Wasn’t that clever of Ross’s ancestors? Unfortunately, however, the family has died out in the meantime. All that’s left is Ross.” She smiled brightly. “And you, of course. You may be the answer to a mother’s prayer.”

  Was she supposed to fill Huntly with children? Would any one woman be up to that task?

  “Ross says I have too many things,” the countess said, looking around her.

  Ellice fervently agreed with her husband. She grabbed her skirts with both hands and made her way to the settee. Grabbing an armful of pillows, she deposited them on a facing chair, cleared off the space of small brass cups, and sat on the green velvet.

  Dust and feathers floated in the air. Didn’t the countess find it difficult to breathe? The smell wasn’t obnoxious, though, because of the potpourri containers on the table, pierced brass fixtures emitting something that smelled heavily of cinnamon.

  The first question that came to mind was why the countess owned so many things. The second thought was that it was none of her concern. Still, she was curious. Did the woman really like all those birds? She counted to thirty before giving up.

  “Who feeds them?” she asked, looking at all the cages.

  “I do,” the countess cheerily said. “Every morning. I do need help cleaning the little darlings’ cages. That is a chore in itself. But I take great pride in their health. I think how a person treats an animal to be a mark of character, don’t you?”