Chapter Fifteen
The current Lord Halsey lived on his estate in Lincolnshire, and Ian purchased tickets for himself and Ackerley on the next train going that direction. Curry came running as the train pulled out of the station at Kilmorgan Halt, and jumped on at the last minute.
Curry swung into the compartment where Ian and John were settling, and scolded Ian for leaving him behind and buying the train tickets himself. A gentleman didn’t purchase things, Curry declared, but had his man do it for him. This was an ongoing argument. Ian was glad to see Curry, however, and Curry, after he said his fill, went and ordered tea for them.
Ackerley was entranced by the first-class carriage. He marveled at the marquetry and gleaming brass, the velvet cushions, the draperies, the wide windows that framed the vast Scottish scenery rushing by.
“I’ve taken many a train in my life,” he said as Curry returned with tea and brandy, carried on a silver tray, with porcelain cups for the tea and crystal goblets for the brandy. “I’ve trundled up and down the entire world in a train, it seems. In India, the roof is as good a seat as any, you know, in all weather. Cars rumble down the tracks, teeming with people clinging on for dear life to the sides and top. It is quite a sight. But, needs must.” Ackerley shrugged and downed his tea.
“I would like to see that,” Ian said. He gazed out at the familiar Highlands, the mountains he knew every foot of, the glens of lush green and thick trees, lochs that stretched wide and blue under the sky. “And the rest of the world.”
At one time, Ian hadn’t liked to travel. He’d gone to Paris and as far as Rome with his brothers and Daniel, but he’d preferred the circle of what he knew. He’d become well acquainted with Paris and was comfortable there, but the thought of venturing farther had daunted him.
Now, as he listened to Ackerley paint pictures of hot skies and dry grasslands, green jungles and days of rain, his interest quickened. His brother-in-law, Elliot McBride, had told Ian stories of the Punjab and its beauties, intriguing him. Ian had read about these places in books, and remembered every word of every description. At one time, that would have been enough for him. Now, he wanted more.
“When my children are more grown,” Ian said, “Beth and I will visit the world. The children can come with us.”
Curry, clearing the tea things, stopped and gave a dramatic groan. “Never say it. I can see me trying to keep you out of trouble in foreign parts, you wandering about the ’eart of the Suk, trying to look at everything, drawing down eight different vendettas on yourself without even knowing it.”
Ian flicked a glance at him. “Stay home, then.”
“Oh, not bleeding likely. I made a vow a long time ago, didn’t I? To look after you. Her ladyship needs all the help she can get, and don’t think because children are grown that they won’t need looking after as well.”
Curry clattered the porcelain onto the tray, scowled at Ian, and banged out again.
Ackerley chuckled. “I believe he’d be offended if you left him behind. He certainly ran hard to catch this train.”
“Curry is a good friend,” Ian said, and went back to looking out the window.
Of course Ian would bring Curry with him when he and Beth, Jamie, Belle, and Megan set off to circle the globe. He couldn’t imagine life without him. Curry fussed, cursed, and complained, but he’d always protected Ian from the most terrible things. He was part of the fabric of Ian’s life.
In due course, after changing trains in Edinburgh and then hiring a carriage in Lincolnshire, they reached the Halsey estate. The drive to the house rambled for a mile under beech trees, likely planted for the purpose a century ago. The house surrounded a huge courtyard, the front gates opening to let them into the tall enclosure flanked by four wings. The front door of the residence lay opposite the gates, and a run of stairs swept from courtyard to door. The coachman stopped them directly in front of the steps, and a footman hurried down to the carriage to inquire their business.
Ackerley scrambled down, asked to speak to the master of the house, and then glanced back into the coach in alarm when Ian didn’t follow.
“Are you not coming in with me?” Ackerley asked. “I know you don’t wish to speak to him, but your presence outside whatever room in which he receives me would be most comforting.”
Ian shook his head. “I’m a Mackenzie. You need to go in.”
“Yes, yes, I take your point.” Ackerley looked agitated, but he followed the footman up the flight of steps. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin before he went into the house, as though steeling himself to face a warrior tribe on a South Sea island.
Ackerley was admitted without impediment, as Ian had suspected he would be. A so-respectable gentleman, a member of the clergy, would be able to gain access to an enemy that Ian could not.
Ian knew his theory about the current Lord Halsey could be entirely wrong, but the thought didn’t bother him. He would examine each possibility until one proved to be the correct solution. If he had to tear up and down England, recruiting Ackerley to go where a large, mad Scotsman could not, then he would.
Whenever Ian was forced to sit and wait, one of two things happened. Either Ian would become absorbed in a problem inside his head and not realize the time had passed, or impatience would seize him and not let him keep still.
Today, impatience won. Ian tried to focus his mind on all he’d done with Beth last night, the best thing he could think about, but the details slipped away into a misty stream. Remembering Beth was not nearly as pleasurable as actually being with her.
Ian managed to wait fifteen minutes before restlessness got the better of him. He glared at the watch his children had given him for his last birthday—engraved To Papa with Much Love, 1891—and willed the hands to move.
After five more minutes, Ian shoved the watch back into his waistcoat pocket, slammed the carriage door open, leapt down, and ran up the steps to the house. He heard Curry, who was conversing with the coachman, cry after him, but Ian did not stop.
The door was shut. Ian banged on it with his fists until the haughty footman yanked it open.
“Sir?”
Ian strode inside, forcing the footman out of his way. “Where did you take him?”
“The missionary gentleman, sir? He’s with his lordship.”
Ian leaned to the footman. He didn’t want to touch him—he disliked touch with anyone outside the family—but he’d shake the answer out of the lad if he had to.
The footman swallowed, looking Ian fearfully up and down. “Are you . . . with him?”
Ian had arrived with Ackerley—why wouldn’t he be with him? “Where are they?”
The footman pointed upward. “Library, sir.”
Ian considered for one second asking the footman to lead him there, then discarded the thought. How difficult could it be to find a library?
He raced up the creaky grand staircase, which swayed under his weight. The upper floor, unfortunately, became a maze once Ian left the gallery at the top of the stairs. The house was very old and had been modernized by throwing in a wall here, blocking a door there, until the earls of Halsey lived in a jumble. Ian ran down corridors, ended up back at the stairs, and still couldn’t find the blasted library.
Finally, he stood in the middle of the gallery and roared, “Halsey! Where are ye?”
A door slammed open in the distance. “Lord Ian?” Ackerley’s voice floated to him. “What is it? Is everything all right?”
Ian followed the sound of his voice. Ackerley waited uncertainly in a corridor outside an open door, and Ian pushed past him and into the library.
The room rose in dark walnut panels and was lined with shelves upon shelves of books. They momentarily distracted Ian—he loved books, and had the sudden desire to start at one end of the room and read his way to the other. Perhaps after he had Halsey arrested Ian could return to this library and peruse it as he liked.
Halsey, a middle-aged man, rose from behind a giant of a desk and pe
ered at Ian. “Who the devil are you, sir? An ill-mannered Scotsman, obviously.”
Halsey stood the same height as Ackerley, but where Ackerley was on the stout side, Halsey was spindly. Halsey’s brown hair was a fine down on his head, and though he’d made an effort to grow side whiskers, the result was hair that straggled down his cheeks. His body was a bit androgynous, no real shape to fill out his expensive clothes. Only his eyes, hard and blue, told Ian he came from a long line of arrogant men who believed themselves superior to all around them.
Ian opened his mouth to shout at him, but strangely, no sound emerged. This happened sometimes when Ian worked himself into a state of rage—he either bellowed or was rendered mute.
Ackerley turned to Halsey. “This is Lord Ian Mackenzie, my lord. He’s come to help me petition for—”
“Mackenzie?” Halsey fixed his gaze on Ian with a sparkle of delight. “Not one of the notorious Mackenzies of Kilmorgan?”
“Indeed,” Ackerley went on. “He has come to—”
“No, let him speak. Why has the ancient enemy of my family descended upon me? I am most intrigued.”
Ian forced himself to unclench his fists. Beth had made him realize that when he couldn’t speak, it was because every one of his muscles had tensed, including those in his throat. His body would tighten until he made himself a wall against the world.
Ian took a long breath, and then another. If he could ease out of the stiffness, his voice would open up, and his mouth work.
“Ye ruined my distillery, ye bugger.”
Halsey’s brows climbed high in his sallow face. “Such language. But so-called Scottish aristocrats are only barbarians someone once bestowed a title upon at knifepoint. Or was it claymore-point? Why on earth should I care about your distillery, Mackenzie? Sell your muddy whiskies wherever you like—I won’t drink them.”
At that moment, though Ian had no evidence whatsoever, he knew that Halsey was responsible for the destruction at Kilmorgan. He knew. The conviction took root in Ian’s heart, filling every cell in him with certainty.
The certainty relaxed him the rest of the way. Ian had no more need to threaten Halsey or search for the right words to accuse him. It was only a matter of time before Ian proved it, and then the Mackenzies would win and Halsey would lose.
Ian took a step toward Halsey. Halsey edged away, putting himself behind his desk.
Ackerley lifted his hands. “Now, my lords, we can settled this amicably, I’m certain.”
Ian, ignoring Ackerley, moved to the desk and leaned his fists on it. “What did ye do with the paintings ye didn’t dump in the tunnels?”
Halsey blinked at him across the solid piece of furniture. “Pardon?”
“I saw what was in the tunnel under Kilmorgan. I know what was taken from Hart’s gallery. Not all of them were there. Where are the others?” Ian knew exactly which paintings were missing, from the robust angels in the Rubens to the odd pair illuminated by a lightning strike in the Giorgione.
Halsey’s laugh was thin. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Mackenzie. First it’s your whisky, now it’s artwork. It’s rumored you are quite mad, and now I believe it.” He turned to Ackerley with a look of false sorrow. “I pity you, sir. Do you have the keeping of him? Perhaps I will make a donation to your charitable works, if you are trying to help poor idiots like him.”
Ian only pinned Halsey with a stare worthy of Hart. “I know what ye’ve done,” he said quietly. “And I know why.”
The flicker in Halsey’s eyes told Ian he was right. “You are a pathetic form of humanity,” Halsey said, his arrogance undimmed. “Your entire family is and always has been. Mr. Ackerley, will you, a sensible Englishman, please take him away?”
Ackerley gave Halsey a thoughtful look. “Do you know, Lord Halsey, that I have traveled quite a bit of the world? I have met men from the basest savages to rulers of kingdoms holding extraordinary riches. I have seen incredible goodness and vast evil—both of which exist under the same sun. Thus, I have learned to judge a man, not from what he has or in what circumstance he was born, but from his character. Believe it or not, the native living in the crudest hut can be as gracious and full of goodness as any highborn Englishman. More so, perhaps, depending on the man.” Ackerley drew a breath. “In this room, at this moment, I know who is the better, sir, and I am proud to call him friend. Good day to you, my lord, and thank you for receiving me. Perhaps we should go, Lord Ian. A pint in a local brewery would be just the thing for driving away the taste of this bad business.”
Ian wanted to laugh. Ackerley’s tone was as haughty as Halsey’s, and he spoke with no deference, and no fear that he was wrong.
Halsey was nearly green with anger, his eyes glittering. Ian doubted anyone in his life had ever disagreed with him or challenged him in any way.
Did the fool think he could get away with poking at the Mackenzies? And for such a ridiculous reason?
Ian lifted himself from the desk. He had nothing more to say to Halsey, so he kept silent, turned his back on the man, and strolled from the room.
Ian remembered the way out, now that he’d found the route once, and he descended through the house without hesitation. Ackerley followed swiftly, neither man speaking.
Curry was nearly dancing with worry outside the front door, kept from charging inside by the harassed footman. “You’ll send me to an early grave, ye will,” Curry said. “What th’ devil did ye mean by it?”
“No harm done,” Ackerley said, when Ian said nothing. “I think we should go, and quickly.”
Once the carriage rolled out through the gates, leaving the high-walled courtyard that cut off the world, Ian felt a weight lifting from him. His quest was over. He’d done what he’d set out to do, and now he could go home and leave the burden behind.
He cast his eye over Ackerley on the opposite seat. Ackerley was mopping his face with a handkerchief, red and sweating, though the September air was cool.
“Did ye convert many?” Ian asked him after a time. “In your missions?”
“Beg pardon?” Ackerley said, folding his damp handkerchief. “Of course not, not everyone. But we were quite successful. Though I ceased believing after a time that a man was damned for following his own beliefs. God has a place for everyone.”
“Mm.” Ian’s spirits rose as they left the avenue of trees for brighter sunshine. “Ye mentioned a pint.”
Ackerley laughed. “I did indeed, Lord Ian. Shall we ask our coachman to take us to the nearest pub? One friendly to strangers, that is.”
* * *
An ordinary wife would have been furious at her husband for abruptly departing the house, absconding with a visitor, going who-knew-where, and returning the next day in a hungover state.
But Beth, Ian reflected when he and Ackerley, followed by Curry, dragged themselves from the coach and into the house at Kilmorgan the next morning, was not an ordinary wife at all.
She stood poised on the bottom step of the staircase, obviously having rushed from wherever she’d been when alerted to their arrival.
Curry spoke first. “I did me best, my lady. They missed the train out of Edinburgh last night because they lingered at every pub between Halsey’s estate and Lincoln. By the time we finally reached Edinburgh, the last train north had gone. A pair of reprobates, they are.”
Ackerley, his eyes red, his movements slow because of the headache he’d complained of all morning, gave Beth a feeble smile. “My fault, I’m afraid. I suggested we enjoy the local brew, and Lord Ian took me at my word.”
Ian, with his iron constitution, had only a slight headache, but he wanted a nap. One with Beth.
Ignoring the others, he started up the stairs. The children would be having lessons at this hour, and he’d learned not to disturb them. For now, he turned his steps to his porcelain collection. Beth would know to look for him there once she’d seen Ackerley settled.
The bowls were in place, each one nestled against its velvet cloth, shining so
ftly in the sunlight.
Ian got lost in the perfection of the first bowl he’d ever purchased, years ago, when he’d finally emerged from Kilmorgan after his time in the asylum. He’d found it in a shop in Paris that Isabella had taken him to, and had become mesmerized by its beauty, the stark blue on white, the patterns of the chrysanthemums and dragons.
Ian reached into the shelf and lifted the bowl out.
He knew Beth stood behind him, even though he’d been concentrating on the bowls. Beth remained quiet, waiting for him to notice her. She wouldn’t risk startling him with a loud noise or a sharp word, lest he drop a precious bowl.
Indeed, she was no ordinary wife.
Ian set the bowl into its place and turned to her.
Beth did not look angry. Ian had learned to read the signs of that. Her mouth was turned up at the corners, and her blue eyes shone with interest.
“Well?” she asked. “Did you see Lord Halsey? What was he like?”
Chapter Sixteen
Ian did not answer at once, but this didn’t worry Beth. Ian was like that.
He’d remain silent while he considered the question and its many possible answers. He’d also be deciding whether the question needed a response at all, and then, out of all the answers he could give, which was the most important.
“He had a portrait of the old Lord Halsey in his library,” Ian said after a time. “The one Lady Mary was betrothed to. He was strong. This Lord Halsey is not. Too much inbreeding has weakened the strain.”
“Not something Mackenzies need to worry about.” Beth felt a smile come. Mackenzies down the ages had married whomever they pleased, no matter what the lady’s pedigree.
“Aye, ye breed a horse too close to its line, and it can be weak and sickly,” Ian said. “The same goes for people.”
“That’s all very well.” Beth knew Ian could take up a topic and pursue it while the original question went unanswered. “Do you think he did it, Ian? Did Lord Halsey steal the paintings?”
A Mackenzie Clan Christmas Page 22
