by Karen Ranney
“Look.” She was staring in the opposite direction, where the other corridor led away into the rock.
“What is it, Charlotte?”
“There. Look.” She raised her arm and pointed.
He didn’t see what she was looking at right away. But as the dust began to settle even more, he realized that it wasn’t an outcropping of rock he was seeing. He took a few steps toward the shape, his mind reeling with the knowledge even as he approached the skeleton. The skeleton of a man, his dark hair thinning and long, half covering the head.
At the skeleton’s side was a cask of coins and small nugget-sized pieces of gold. Beside his hand was a large onyx ring, the stone carved with the first earl’s crest, a ring Dixon had seen often enough on his uncle’s hand.
George.
A surge of grief nearly sent him to his knees.
“Who is it?”
Shouldn’t she know? Shouldn’t something have alerted her? He looked up at the cloudless blue sky as if to see the laughing face of God.
Dixon turned and faced her, naked and defenseless. “It’s George.”
He watched as her eyes changed, watched as confusion filled her face, and her features smoothed in protection.
She stared at her husband, and then looked back at him.
“I don’t understand.” Her mind’s last attempt to refute the obvious. Her inability to believe was temporary and as swift as his own recognition had been.
“If that’s George, then who are you?” Her voice was so faint that he could barely hear her, but he didn’t need her words.
“Who are you?” This time, she nearly shouted the question.
“My name is Dixon Robert MacKinnon. I’m George’s cousin. Some say I’m ruthless; few would say I’m kind. I’m the chairman of the MacKinnon Trading Company, and I’m the largest landowner in Penang. I have over forty ships in my fleet. I’m wealthy beyond my boyhood expectations and yet at this moment, I’m greedy and envious and damned.”
She pulled her cloak tighter around her in a gesture more revealing than if she screamed.
“Why?” she asked, staring at him with wide eyes and a stricken expression on her face.
He knew what she was feeling, the clarity of his empathy startling. She couldn’t speak because the words wouldn’t come, but her mind was filled with questions, protests, and arguments. She was in turn angry and hurt. But all she’d asked was a simple, one-word question. An impossible question: why?.
She didn’t speak, didn’t move. She might have been a statue hewn from unforgiving rock.
“You thought I was George. I allowed myself to continue the pretense.”
“A word was all you needed. A simple explanation.”
“Nothing about this entire situation has been simple from its inception, Charlotte.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Perhaps I was curious,” he said. “Perhaps I wanted to find out what happened to George. You were a stranger; I didn’t know you.”
“Didn’t trust me.”
He nodded.
“Is that why you came to Balfurin? To find George?”
Silence stretched between them.
“No.” The whole truth had to come out, didn’t it? Every scar, every hidden secret. “I didn’t know George was missing until I arrived.”
All he really wanted to do was protect her, to keep her from being lonely. He wanted to be there in the middle of the night when she woke and couldn’t sleep. He wanted to pull her into his embrace and love her, hold her until dawn stretched across the horizon.
He wanted to laugh with her, and marvel at the complexity of her mind. He wanted to reassure her, complement her, and simply be in the same room so that she could look up and find him there.
Instead, he’d hurt her, and he was going to hurt her more.
“I came to Balfurin to hide, I think. I came to find my roots, to understand myself. Matthew thinks it’s part of my grief.”
If anything, she grew more still.
“I was married. To a beautiful woman whom I no doubt used as George did you. I had more money, but her father was a high-ranking member of the English East India Company. I wanted his influence more than I wanted her.”
She took a step back as if poisoned by proximity. Very well, she might as well have it all, every chunk and morsel of it.
“Annabelle was an excessively tiresome woman,” he said, realizing exactly how he sounded. Cruel and uncompromising. But better Charlotte see him as he had been. Perhaps as he still was.
“She complained about the weather, about my absences, about Malay. She refused to learn the language, or adapt. She wanted to go home to England.”
Charlotte remained silent.
“She also complained about her health. Endlessly. She broke a nail and it was a tragedy. She acquired a bruise and the world must stop. I learned to ignore her to my shame and endless guilt. I had a choice to summon the physician for her stomach pain or attend a meeting. I chose the meeting.”
“She died,” Charlotte said.
He nodded. “She died.”
He turned to face George’s skeleton. “Matthew thinks I’m grieving. I’m not. I didn’t love her. I’m ashamed. Ashamed that greed made me marry her, ashamed that greed kept me from insisting upon proper treatment for her. Who is more guilty of the two of us for that sin, I wonder? George or me?”
She didn’t speak.
George had been trapped here in the darkness. Dixon’s mind shied away from the thought of that death, and he turned to face Charlotte again.
She’d not changed her stance, nor had her gaze veered from him. He’d never felt so exposed in his life, or as vulnerable in his nakedness as he did at that moment.
“I didn’t want to tell you who I was. Perhaps, in some way, I thought that I could simply go on as I was, pretending to be George, becoming the husband you deserved.”
She shook her head and he held up one hand to halt her words.
“I didn’t want to feel what I did for you. I didn’t want to envy George. I didn’t want to resent him. But I did, and the longer I knew you, the more I knew I wouldn’t be able to simply walk away from you. But the one thing I did, and it was the most difficult task I’ve ever set for myself, was staying away from your bed.”
She looked away, her gaze fastened on the far wall. Very well, let her avoid the sight of him, but let her have the truth at least.
“I’ve wanted you from the moment I first saw you, Charlotte. If that’s a sin, then I’m a sinner.”
She took a deep breath before speaking. “I have to get out of here,” she said. “I will scream if I don’t, and I’m not given to screaming.” She finally looked at him.
“You can stand on my shoulders. You should be able to pull yourself to safety.”
She nodded.
He bent down in front of her, a gesture that spoke to him of allegory. He was a supplicant, she the grantor of his wishes. But she wasn’t in a generous mood, and only mounted his back, her knees on his shoulders. When he stood, slowly, balancing her as if she were the most precious of burdens, she wavered a little, clutching at his hands. He could feel her tremble and wondered if it was because of her precarious post or the discovery they’d made, only minutes old.
Slowly, she gained her balance, stepping onto his shoulders. The resulting pain felt like torture. He moved his hands to her legs as she steadied herself.
He moved a little closer to the edge. She stood on tiptoe on his shoulders and he bore the agony without a sound. He was not a martyr by inclination or choice, but he probably deserved whatever pain she inflicted on him.
His hands still rested on her calves, feeling her tremble. He wanted to say something to comfort her, to strengthen her, but the gulf that stretched between them was too wide and too deep to cross with words.
“There’s a rock here,” she said. “I think I can reach it.”
He remained motionless as she reached up, and then she was gone, the pressure on his shoul
ders abruptly lighter. He stepped back and looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun.
She knelt on the edge and threw his clothes down to him.
“Will you send help for me?”
She looked past him to where George sat against the wall.
“I’ll send help,” she said. “My husband must be properly buried. Although I’d prefer to let you rot.”
There was nothing but silence as she left him. He donned his clothes before returning to George.
What had his cousin’s last hours been like? Had they been filled with regret? Anger? One of a myriad of questions to which he would never know the answer.
“Ever since your father drummed it into me that I would never ascend to the title, I’ve been doing my damnedest to be better than you in every way. I learned to shoot better, to be a better horseman. I made a fortune, George, not by winning it or finding it, but earning it. And I discovered something that I wish to God you’d learned. Greed isn’t enough. Not nearly enough.”
He plucked a gold coin from the cask and watched as it gleamed in the sunlight. “All in all, George, everything I fought to acquire doesn’t mean very much right now.”
He tossed the coin back into the chest. “I feel as though I’ve fallen into hell. You’ve heard me confess all my sins, cousin. Is it practice, do you think, for my ultimate interview with Satan?”
How odd that George seemed to smile at him.
Chapter 22
N o more than an hour later, rescue arrived in the form of a ladder and a rope. Two young footmen, possessing more brawn than curiosity, assisted Dixon out of the cave, then in raising and carrying George home.
When they arrived at Balfurin, Charlotte stepped out of the shadows and motioned the footmen into the parlor. A bier had been set aside for George’s remains, and they carefully placed him there.
Only then did she turn and address Dixon, looking at the floor as she did so.
“You’re the Earl of Marne now,” she said.
He nodded.
“Despite that, I hope you’ll respect my request.”
“Charlotte,” he began, but she held her hand up as if to stop his speech with her fingers.
“Please leave,” she said softly. “Our solicitors can work out the arrangements of my surrendering Balfurin to you, but in the meantime, I just want you gone.”
“Forgive me.”
She didn’t respond, didn’t say another word, just stood in front of him with her head bowed. It was the sight of her tears that silenced him.
Dixon turned without another word, heading for his room where Matthew relocated his shoulder and helped him improvise a sling for his arm. Although he was still in pain, he refused Matthew’s potion, intent on a final errand.
At the door, he turned and addressed the other man. “You’ll be pleased to know we’re leaving Balfurin.”
Matthew was as silent as Charlotte had been.
Dixon left the Laird’s Chamber, intent on the tower room. When he knocked, the door was opened by a young maid.
“I’m sorry, your lordship,” she said, “but Nan is not feeling well today.”
“Nevertheless, I have to speak with her.” Nan was ancient; it was very possible that she would not last to see another dawn. Before she died, he wanted the truth. “I’m afraid it can’t wait,” he said, and gently pushed the door open.
The girl stepped back, reluctantly allowing him entrance.
He’d thought Nan diminutive before, but in her wide and deep bed, she looked little larger than a child. Her white hair was wispy upon the pillow, her face so lined that it resembled wrinkled cloth. She turned her head when he entered her chamber, but she didn’t smile in greeting. Instead, her gaze locked on his and she nodded slightly.
“You’ve found him.”
“Yes. But then, I think you knew I would.”
“I hoped for it. I wanted him to find peace before I did,” she said, her voice so low and raspy that he had difficulty hearing her. He pulled up the chair to sit at her bedside.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
She smiled. “So autocratic, young sir. Very well. He came home, just like you thought, to find the treasure. I think he was ashamed that his wife had more money than he. It is the way of the world sometimes, when a man has more pride than sense.
“I gave him the first verse, like I was supposed to. When he found the rest of the poem he asked me if I knew where the treasure was buried. I told him no more than I told you, but he was hungrier for it, I think, and every day he went out with his shovel, determined to find it.”
“But one day he didn’t come back,” Dixon said.
She nodded weakly. “One day he didn’t come back. And we waited. The next day passed, and the next, and then a full week. We knew he never would come back.” She raised her shaking hand and pointed at the floor. “The third board,” she said.
He stood and walked to where she pointed, pushing back the rug. One of the boards wasn’t nailed down completely, and he lifted it easily. Inside the hole was a leather valise and inside the valise were a few clothes. At the bottom were George’s brush and shaving gear, all inscribed with the Marne crest.
“Why did you hide his things?”
“I didn’t hide them,” she said faintly. “I kept them safe. Especially from the English. Some of the money he brought we used to feed ourselves for a time. The rest is in there.”
Now was not the time to try to reason her out of her lifelong hatred of the English. She was dying, and making her peace, such as it was, with what had happened.
“Jeffrey knows, doesn’t he?”
She nodded. “Aye,” she said faintly, her voice fading.
Dixon didn’t answer, just came to sit beside her again. He knew she wasn’t going to live long. Despite her actions, he didn’t want her to be alone, especially not after witnessing how George had died.
“You’re named for him, you know. My Robbie.”
“I know,” he said softly. “My grandfather was a great man.”
“Not great,” she corrected. “Sometimes foolish, sometimes wise. He knew how to live, however, and that’s a gift most people don’t have. Do you, Dixon?”
He thought of the vision of Charlotte, naked beneath her cloak, her smile tremulous yet daring. “I thought I did,” he said, knowing that there would forever be a hole in his life where she should be.
“Don’t be a fool, boy.” Her eyes closed.
He smiled, and reached out to hold her hand.
Less than an hour later, she opened her eyes. “Robbie,” she said, and smiled. In that instant, he knew that she no longer saw him, but another man, the companion of her youth, and the love of her life.
He sat by her bedside for an hour, maybe more, drawing a curious kind of peace there. When it was time, he left the tower room, seeking out the elderly retainer who’d been her friend all these years.
Jeffrey didn’t say anything to the news, only bowed his head for a moment. “She was old when I came here, your lordship, and I’m no youth. It’s to be expected.” He shook his head. “But it won’t be the same without her.”
As he left, Dixon turned and studied the elderly retainer. “You weren’t confused that night, were you?”
Jeffrey looked at him from under his bushy white eyebrows. “What night would that be, my lord?”
“When I first arrived at Balfurin. You called me the Earl of Marne.”
“I’m not so feeble that I didn’t recognize you, your lordship.”
“You already knew what had happened to George.”
Jeffrey inclined his head. “I only suspected.”
“Is that why you wanted me to look for the treasure?”
For a moment, he didn’t think Jeffrey would answer him. When the old man finally spoke, his voice was low and raspy, as if he were holding back emotion. “We weren’t all that sure he’d come back to Balfurin if he found the treasure. He’d never shown any loyalty to the place before. I reasoned
that if you couldn’t find the treasure, then he was alive somewhere. If you found him, then I had my answer.”
“Didn’t you look for him?” Dixon asked.
“I was too old to go traipsing over the countryside.”
“George might have survived if you’d found him in time,” Dixon said.
There was a pause, and then Jeffrey looked up at him, his eyes rheumy and sunken. “You can’t make me feel more guilty than I already do, your lordship. Why do you think no one came out and told you the story from the first? Nan and me were aching for our actions. Shamed. We’ve got to go to our Maker knowing we’re partly responsible. You saying it’s so doesn’t make it more of a burden.”
They exchanged a long look.
“It would have been better if you’d told me,” Dixon finally said.
Jeffrey nodded. “But it’s a sight easier to look backward than it is to face the future, your lordship.”
Dixon could only agree. He retreated to the Laird’s Chamber and began packing. In an odd way, it was fitting that his departure from Balfurin be so precipitous and without fanfare. He’d come home without warning and he was leaving in the same manner.
Charlotte arranged for George’s body to be placed in the Green Parlor prior to the service that would inter him in the chapel. She sent word to the minister in Inverness, and had notices delivered to those who should be informed, and proceeded to become the widow of the Earl of Marne. Only a few days later, when thanking the guests for attending George’s funeral, did Charlotte realize that it was possible that a few of them believed the man who’d attended the ball had also been the one they buried.
She didn’t correct them.
When it was over, and the guests had left Balfurin, Charlotte gave instructions that the floor was not to be reset after George’s interment. Instead, she wanted Nan to be buried beside George’s grandfather, a decision that probably confused most of the staff and no doubt would anger a few of the MacKinnon ancestors had they been present to voice their disapproval.
They would simply have to haunt her.
Future generations would no doubt look on the three names inscribed on the plaques on the floor and try to reason out the triangle, George’s grandfather, his wife, and his mistress. Let them wonder. Or perhaps they would stand on the stones as she did now, and reflect on a life that had spanned ninety-two years.
