by Karen Ranney
Robert walked into the foyer and stood there with his eyes closed, willing to hear the sounds that would label him a madman. But there was nothing but silence, and so he was sane after all. Sane and bereft.
He’d forgotten to ask the Dalrousie woman why she was shooting. He could have told her the noise was disruptive to his mood. But she would probably have curled that very large mouth of hers into a sneer and told him what he might do with his mood. He’d never thought to have someone like Miss Margaret Dalrousie as a neighbor.
She wanted Tom and Janet. Very well, he would consult with them himself to ensure they were not being asked to do too much. After all, they had been loyal to Glengarrow; it was up to him to ensure the loyalty was not one-sided.
If they decided it would be too much for their advancing years to work at Glengarrow during the day and work for Miss Margaret Dalrousie in the evening, he would deliver the news to her himself.
No, he would send her a note. A note on the stationery he’d used at Parliament. That should give her some inkling of whom she addressed so rudely. Not once had she made any concession to his rank. Not that he normally required it. He was considered egalitarian in most circles. However, something about her irritated him and made him want to impress upon her the exact nature of his status.
Who did she think she was?
Chapter 4
Margaret heard laughter and looked around the edge of the high-backed armchair to see Janet and Tom entering the parlor.
“Will you look, Miss Margaret, at what the earl gave me?”
The voice was not young; it held a slight tremor. Janet’s face was furrowed like newly turned earth. The hand directing Margaret’s eyes to the cameo brooch pinned at her throat was riddled with veins and marked with a pattern of small brown spots. Her frame was slightly bent, as if Janet were forever intent upon a pot cooking on the stove, or coaxing a fire to become hotter. Her diminutive stature would no doubt become even smaller as the years passed.
Only her eyes were young, bright blue, clear, and accepting, they measured others with interest and intelligence—the eyes of a woman well pleased with life and deeply happy.
Janet’s husband, Tom, stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, support even in this innocuous conversation. Tom was often there, to offer comfort to Janet or wise counsel should she require it, an ever-present vigilance borne not from duty but from affection.
Janet bent down so Margaret could look closely at the newly acquired piece of jewelry. Margaret surrendered her embroidery, a mundane rendition of pale pink roses whose bloom seemed already to have faded, and prepared herself to be suitably impressed by not only the earl’s generosity but the object itself.
She’d grown fond of this sweet and generous couple, had learned Janet’s graciousness was more than surface deep, but bred in the bone. Tom’s infatuation with his wife of sixteen years continued unabated, as if he were in the first flush of youth.
They genuinely loved each other, a fact obvious even to strangers.
Margaret reached out her fingers to touch the coral of the cameo. The brooch was old, the edges of the carving had softened as the features of a face is aged by life itself. The setting was gold; it too was mellow, less bright although no less beautiful for its rich patina.
She sighed. “Does this mean you’re going back to Glengarrow?” As an inducement, it was a lovely one.
“We wouldn’t do that to you, Miss Margaret.” Janet glanced over her shoulder at her husband. “The earl needs us, though. That’s what we think. So, we’ll stay here at night and work at Glengarrow during the day, if it’s all right with you.
“Perfectly all right, Janet,” she said, picking up her embroidery again. “Do you think the earl will agree?”
Janet nodded. “It was his idea, Miss Margaret.”
Not quite his idea, but Margaret didn’t comment. She’d won this skirmish with the earl; she should be content. Still, it wasn’t fair of him to pass her idea off as his.
Tom kissed his wife’s cheek and murmured something as he left the room.
Janet glanced after him, as if she was afraid they wouldn’t see each other for a while.
“You love Tom very much, don’t you?”
At Janet’s look of surprise, she realized how rude she’d sounded.
“Forgive me, Janet. The question was intrusive.”
Janet didn’t respond, and in the silence, Margaret found herself explaining far more than the occasion warranted. “It’s just that I’ve never felt that way for anyone.”
“Never?”
She was familiar with Janet’s look.
Margaret shook her head.
The desire for love had simply faded beneath all of those other wishes and wants she’d had.
“You’ve never wished to marry, Miss Margaret?”
“Never. I never met a man who was as worthy of my attention as my painting.”
“And children?”
“Is being a mother the true goal of every woman? It seems a great deal of bother.”
She’d had a friend in Russia to whom she’d confessed that very thought, and Therese had been appalled at her honesty.
“Motherhood is the highest calling to which a woman can aspire,” Therese had said.
Margaret didn’t bother to point out Therese had a nanny and a score of servants to care for her children, both of whom were more familiar with their servants than their mother. Therese saw her son and daughter for a scant hour per day, just long enough to check on their growth, perhaps, and remark upon their attractiveness.
“You haven’t painted since you’ve been here, Miss Margaret.”
Was that a condemnation? She glanced up from her needlework. No, the other woman’s expression was kind, not censorious. Janet simply stated a fact.
“No, I haven’t.”
She concentrated on the needlework in her lap, waiting for the question. What would she say when Janet asked her why the trunks in the storage room went unopened? Why there were leather cases gathering dust and not attention?
Janet, however, declined to pursue the subject, in favor of another one.
“You are too young, Miss Margaret, to be a spinster.”
Margaret stared straight ahead, wondering how many times in her life she’d been called that. A hundred? A thousand?
She’d never allowed herself to compromise for anyone. Not once had she succumbed to tears over a man. On no occasion had she ever considered giving up her vocation because a man wished it of her. And so, when people spoke of love, she saw the word sacrifice, and it didn’t interest her at all.
Tom and Janet, however, might be considered exceptions to the rule. When Tom looked at Janet, he couldn’t help but smile, and when Janet responded, there was a warmth in her eyes not there for anyone else.
Still, this discussion had proven to Margaret that it wasn’t wise to comment about personal matters. The arrow always came full circle to aim for her.
“I am perfectly happy the way I am.”
A look of speculation came into Janet’s eyes then, and it wasn’t difficult to figure out what the older woman was thinking.
Margaret decided to end this conversation about her private matters once and for all.
“But other than giving you the brooch, Janet, the earl made no other comment?” Margaret asked.
“He just wanted to know if the arrangement would be too much for Tom and me. But then, he’s always cared for those who worked for him.” Janet fingered the brooch and smiled brightly.
Except for paying them. Janet and Tom had been visibly grateful when Margaret had hired them.
How could he have forgotten? How could he have neglected to care for those in his employ? Was it because he was an earl and such details were beneath him?
Margaret wasn’t overwhelmed by the fact that the man living at Glengarrow was an earl. She’d been surrounded by titles in Russia. The Grand Duchess of this and the Grand Duke of that, the Prince of this palace and the Pr
incess of that hovel. The Russian court was glutted with royalty. And at one time, perhaps, she had been as fascinated with them as Janet expected her to be with the earl.
Being a noble was an accident of birth, nothing else, and a great many men who held a title deserved to be addressed more as “Bastard” than “Your Lordship” or “Your Grace.”
“I think, just between you and me, that it was a present to make up for forgetting about us,” Janet said.
“It’s the least of what he should do,” Margaret said, annoyed at the older woman’s demonstration of faith in the earl. She didn’t think she could tolerate this conversation about the Earl of all Saints one more moment. She put down her embroidery and picked up a book on the table in front of her.
“You don’t know what happened to the earl in France, do you, Miss Margaret?”
“A carriage accident, wasn’t it?” Margaret said. “People become injured, Janet. It doesn’t make him a better person. It’s difficult, true, but he will eventually heal.”
Janet placed both hands against her midriff and stared at Margaret as if she’d suddenly turned blue. After a moment, she sighed deeply and shook her head.
“It was more than that, Miss Margaret. He lost his family in the accident. His wife, Amelia, sweet Amelia, was killed. And so was little Penelope. Only five years old, she was.”
Margaret stared at the page in front of her, wondering what she was reading. Poetry. How very odd. She disliked poetry, thought it too maudlin or too romantic. Russians loved it, but then they were given to extreme bouts of emotionality.
Give me heaven and I’ll ask no more of you.
Give me heaven and I’ll not protest
When twilight greets me anon.
Give me heaven and I will die of bliss.
How utterly nauseating.
Yet staring at the page was preferable to looking up at Janet again.
She didn’t like pain, actively avoided it, in fact, and she especially didn’t like the ache in her chest Janet’s words incited. No wonder the Earl of Linnet was such a dour Scot. He had reason to be, did he not?
She didn’t want to recall the look in his eyes, the measure of pain visible to anyone. If that much pain was evident, what did he hold back?
“When did it happen?” Margaret asked, for want of anything else to say.
“Three years ago,” Janet said. “It’s beyond time for him to come home, I’m thinking. He’d be better at home than in France.”
If she’d wanted to discuss her past, Margaret might have told her France was a lovely country, that she’d spent several years there herself. Her greatest career boost had come in France. Instead, she remained silent, understanding that while Janet was fiercely loyal to the Earl of Linnet, she was just as fiercely Scot.
No country could be as wonderful to a Scot as Scotland.
“Still, it can’t be easy for him, Miss Margaret, three years or no. To come home and be faced with all those memories.”
Now she understood the look in his eyes, his impatience—even anger—with the world. The Earl of Linnet was not so much aristocrat as he was torn apart by circumstance, what other people called Fate, or even God.
Did the Earl of Linnet loathe Fate as much as she?
Chapter 5
The next morning, Janet and Tom were both gone when Margaret awakened after a night filled with troubling dreams. She made herself breakfast, and then, despite her fatigue, dressed for her morning walk.
For a long moment she stood in front of the armoire before selecting one of her three good day dresses. This one was of blue silk, embroidered with a delicate climbing red rose pattern down the front of the bodice and replicated on the full sleeves. She wore two petticoats beneath her full skirts, one of them of wool.
Slipping on her cape, she tightened it securely at the collar and buttoned the front. Her hat came next, a puffy thing made of feathers from the belly of a swan. She pulled it on her head and tucked her ears beneath the brim. The snowy white hat with its red band had been a present from a duchess, a member of the royal house who’d been grateful because Margaret had rendered her quite handsome in her portrait.
True, she’d made the duchess’s cheekbones a little sharper, and her teeth a little whiter and more even. In addition, she’d slimmed a sagging jowl and eliminated the flesh on her throat. The woman deserved to be rendered a little more attractive. In fact, the duchess deserved to be made a saint for putting up with the duke’s philandering, but she hadn’t made that comment aloud. Nonetheless, she quite liked the hat. She pulled on her gloves and left the cottage, securing the door behind her.
The path to Glengarrow was a well-trod one, long before she’d come to the Highlands. She gave a thought to all those people who must have come this way over the years, wondering who they were. Servants employed but not sleeping at Glengarrow? Merchants from the nearby village? Or lovers creeping through the forest?
She dared herself to take the path around Glengarrow instead of continuing to walk down the tree-flanked lane once again. She told herself she was simply tired of walking in a straight line up and down like a child being exercised by her nanny.
Let the earl chastise her. Let him yell at her. Let him look down his aristocratic nose at her. She might even ball up her fist and hit him in the stomach. No, that wouldn’t be fair, would it? The man had been injured. Perhaps she wouldn’t hit him after all, but she would certainly let him know by her own officious look that he’d not found favor with her.
She would walk through the grounds of Glengarrow this morning, and perhaps she would even stop and sit upon the bench and stare at the urn recessed in the wall. She would look to her left and to her right, where the poor rosebushes were buried in the snow and dream of spring. Spring only lasted a matter of weeks in the Highlands. Summer was as quickly done, then autumn arrived, filled with its gorgeous colors and scent of winter.
First, however, she would have to endure the snow and the ice. She’d done so for years, though, hadn’t she? Yes, but she’d had her own troika and well-paid servants to ensure that she was warm even when the snowdrifts were higher than her sleigh.
She walked through the gates, nodding first to the lion on her right, then to the lion on her left, feeling as if she’d neglected them in the past week. Had it only been a week since the earl had returned home? She gripped her hands on the outside of her cape and looked to the right, where a dozen windows faced her. The curtains had not been opened. No one was watching her.
The wind was blustery, as if it wished to toss her around like a leaf. Snow was coming again, and the air seemed to welcome it, chilling until it was almost brittle. Her eyes began to water, and she pulled the scarf close around her neck, trying not to think of how cold she was. These morning and afternoon constitutionals were for her health, but they were even more salubrious for her character. Truly, the very last thing she wanted to do was to go for a trek in the snow, but doing so demonstrated her discipline.
She continued on her way, walking steadily on the path curving left into the forest, feeling grateful she’d taken the chance to walk here today. It was a lovely vista even with all the snow that had fallen last night. Another reason for taking the path around Glengarrow—the lane was nearly a foot deep in snow.
She hesitated at the bench before the urn and, as if daring herself again, brushed off the bench and sat. The silence of the morning enveloped her, bringing her a sense of calm she hadn’t felt since the night before when she’d been awakened from another nightmare. She took several deep breaths, unclenched her hands, and stared down at the tips of her serviceable shoes.
In Russia, she found it difficult to carve any time for herself. She was either in demand at a sitting or an audience with a member of the royal family or returning home to change clothes at midday, only to attend an audience with another member of the Russian royal family. Every single hour had been occupied with either painting or the inevitable social obligations needed to acquire another commission
.
Over the last nine months, she’d gradually become accustomed to solitude. Still, if she had to paint a portrait of herself, the canvas would be blank, left white and untouched. Granted, she was a fully grown woman with experiences and a past. But who she had become was so entwined with her art, it was difficult to separate the woman from the painter. Without her talent, she didn’t know who Margaret Dalrousie was.
She glanced up at Glengarrow. The house should not have been there, especially perched as it was beneath a mountain, approached like a sedate country manse. Glengarrow was strangely out of place in this rugged landscape, and yet in another sense, it was perfectly positioned.
“Are you feeling courageous, Miss Dalrousie?”
She glanced to her left, and there he was, standing in front of a magnificent-looking horse, holding the reins loosely in his left hand.
“I came to thank you,” she said, knowing it was true the moment she said it. She’d wanted to encounter him, unwise as it might be. “For allowing Janet and Tom to stay with me.”
“You were kind to them when I was not. It was only fair.”
“A unique attitude to take. It’s been my experience that few people care about fairness.”
“Then you have been associating with the wrong people, Miss Dalrousie.”
“I would agree wholeheartedly,” she said.
His expression changed, became less rigid, softer somehow. He was more adept than she at hiding his emotions, however, because she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“I spoke with Tom and Janet,” he said. “They expressed no reluctance about the arrangement.”
“They have not,” she said, wishing she knew what he had said to them. She certainly didn’t want him to have elicited pity for her. She didn’t want pity, she wanted companionship. And if she had to pay for it, then very well. She’d not yet acquired the ability to stay alone at night. Her nightmares came too furiously. How much worse would they be if she were alone in the cottage.
