by Karen Ranney
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and for a moment didn’t speak. When she did, it was not to address Amelia and Penelope’s loss, but a complaint he might have heard at any time in his life.
“You have not been sleeping well,” she said sternly.
She was correct, but agreeing to her diagnosis wouldn’t solve the dilemma of his sleeplessness.
“And you have been spending too much money.”
She looked at him with narrowed eyes, but sat on the sofa facing him, and waved to an adjoining chair. He remained standing in front of the fireplace.
“Is that why you’ve come? To berate me for my spending? To upbraid me for my audacity? Dearest Robert, I simply don’t care if I’ve angered you. It got you out of France, which was my aim.”
He frowned at her, an expression that just made her smile grow brighter.
“You didn’t answer my letters, dearest, and you wouldn’t have taken kindly to my arriving in France to kidnap you and bring you home. What else was I to do? I knew coming back to Glengarrow would be difficult. Has it been?”
“It’s just a house, Mother. Nothing more.”
Thankfully, his mother didn’t call him on that statement. She only slanted an intense look in his direction and swallowed whatever comment she was about to make in favor of a motherly smile.
Memories happened anywhere. They simply were, a part of him so real and so deep they might be his skin or his heart or his soul. He didn’t need to be somewhere in particular to hear Amelia’s voice, or the soft, lilting laughter of his daughter.
“I gave instructions to my solicitor to pay all necessary bills,” Robert said. “There was no reason to return.”
“Except you’re a Scot, and the Earl of Linnet.” She frowned at him. “Your solicitor has been an old and dear friend for years. He knows how desperately I worried for you. It was time you came home. Time to face life again. I told him to stop paying everything.”
Right at the moment, Robert felt as if he were in the middle of a play, the sole performer in a huge amphitheater, the patrons of which expected a tale of tragedy and pathos.
He wasn’t about to be an object of pity.
“There was no need to allow Glengarrow to fall into rack or ruin.”
She shook her head. “Is Glengarrow truly so damaged? Tom would never allow it.”
“We’re fortunate Tom is still with us since he went unpaid for a year.”
A shadow flitted over her face. “Oh dear, that was not well-done of me,” she admitted. “May I claim ignorance on that part, at least? But I knew you would never come home for less than Glengarrow. Never mind there are people starving in the Highlands. Never mind a man can purchase a farm in Canada for what he pays in rent here. Never mind you have ignored your birthright for three years.”
He was so startled by the attack he couldn’t think for a moment.
“What do I have to do with starving Highlanders, Mother?” he finally said, “Or the fact a man can choose to emigrate to Canada?”
“Nothing,” she said triumphantly. “Absolutely nothing, Robert. And you should. We’re losing our countrymen, Robert, every day. By death or departure. We need men like you in Parliament again. Men who could at least vocalize what’s happening.”
“And you made sure I came back to Scotland for that?”
She made a face. “Dear heavens, no. But as long as you’re here, you might as well find a purpose for your life.” She frowned at him. “Or are you going to tell me you’ve found one? I daresay you’re flailing, Robert, but you needn’t.”
“Since when have you become political, Mother?”
“Since you spent three years in France. With very infrequent letters, I might add.” She frowned at him again. “And never answering mine.”
“I have enough to do at Glengarrow.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “You have nothing but ghosts there. No friends, no acquaintances. No neighbors.”
“I have a neighbor,” he said, unwilling to continue with the subject of his future. “A very annoying neighbor.”
At her sudden look of interest, he realized he should have remained silent.
“Who?”
“A woman by the name of Margaret Dalrousie.”
To his utter amazement, his mother looked delighted.
“Do you know her?”
“Of course I know her, Robert. Anyone with an interest in art knows Margaret Dalrousie.”
He removed his foot from the fireplace fender and turned and stared at his mother. “Who is she?”
“A very famous painter, of course. She spent some years with the Russians, I understand. A court darling, evidently. But you say she’s back in Scotland? I suspect a mystery there. Does she appear brokenhearted? Perhaps she fell in love with a prince.”
His mother looked entirely too happy about the prospect of unrequited love.
“I haven’t the slightest idea if she’s brokenhearted. Nor do I have any interest in her romantic entanglements.”
She sighed. “What a pity. Her paintings are phenomenal. I, myself, am enamored of more than one.” Her mouth twisted into a moue of discontent. “I should have had her paint my portrait. The cost alone would have summoned you from France.” She looked up at him. “She’s been exhibited in Edinburgh, at the Royal Society of the Arts, you know.”
“No,” he said “I didn’t know.”
“I can invite two or three members of the Society for dinner if you like. I’m certain they have additional information about Miss Dalrousie. But surely you do as well, Robert, being such a close neighbor of hers.”
“I can assure you, Mother, I know nothing about Margaret Dalrousie.” Save for the fact she is an irritating woman.
“Her portraits are beautiful. I understand she’s an attractive woman herself.” Was it his imagination, or was his mother eyeing him speculatively?
“Your information is incorrect. The Dalrousie woman is not the least attractive.” Which was a bit of a prevarication, perhaps. “Her mouth is entirely too large.” That, certainly was not a falsehood.
His mother didn’t say anything in response. She had a habit of remaining silent and allowing him to trip himself in his own words. He’d learned the tactic at a very young age and used it with some success on his political opponents.
“I shall have to arrange a visit to Glengarrow, Robert, if only for the chance of meeting her. She has a way with fabrics. I’ve wanted to reach out and touch a painting, so perfectly did she depict the silk of a dress. I know that more than once I’ve had to peer very closely to see if those weren’t real pearls on the painting. She’s a very talented woman, Robert.”
“I don’t care about Margaret Dalrousie, Mother. I find I don’t care about very many things.”
There was the look again.
“Why did you sell the cottage?” he asked abruptly.
She looked startled at the question.
“Why?” she asked. “There was no reason not to, was there? I was not under the impression you had some sort of attachment to the place.”
“It was part of Glengarrow.”
“Glengarrow is not entailed, Robert,” she said. “But you know that quite well. Are you simply annoyed that Miss Dalrousie has moved so close? The offer I got for the cottage was quite generous.”
He decided that he didn’t want to discuss the cottage any more than he did Amelia, or grieving, or Margaret Dalrousie, for that matter. He wanted to be left alone, and in France he’d had his privacy. He had a feeling Scotland was going to pull him inexorably back into life, and he wasn’t certain he was ready.
Was he expected to feel charitable about his fellowman? He didn’t want to care about his starving countrymen, or about those who emigrated, or even mundane matters such as the state of Glengarrow’s roof.
How did he possibly explain that to his mother? Lauren McDermott was a great believer in getting on with life. Barely a year after his father had died, she’d begun attending dinners and other entertainments wi
th a series of men. She no doubt thought that the same behavior would benefit him.
“I truly wish you had an opportunity to see some of her work, Robert. Perhaps you would have more charity for your neighbor if you knew how tremendously blessed in talent she is. I understand artistic types are not easy to live with.”
He didn’t want to live with her—he wanted to coexist in a neighborly fashion, distant but polite. Beyond that, he wanted nothing to do with Margaret Dalrousie.
The majordomo appeared in the doorway, and Robert nodded at him before the man could intone a summons to lunch. He bent down to the sofa and offered his arm, and even though his mother shook her head at him, she took it nonetheless. As they walked into the dining room, Robert couldn’t dispel the feeling his mother wasn’t done with Miss Dalrousie. Or meddling in his life, for that matter.
Chapter 7
“You might as well come inside, Miss Margaret,” Janet said, peering from the door. “Otherwise, I’ll be treating you for the next month for a cold in your chest. The Scottish winter is not to be taken lightly.” She fixed a stern look on Margaret, but there was a twinkle in her eyes.
It had been so long since anyone had cared for her that Margaret was momentarily speechless. Nevertheless, she felt a spurt of warmth for the older woman. Perhaps if her mother had not had so many children, and been so tired when Margaret was born, she might have been the same.
Why was it women who were nurturing didn’t have children while women who thought children a nuisance bore too many? One of a series of questions she could never ask anyone.
“I’ll be fine,” she protested, but the words sounded unconvincing even to her own ears. In actuality, she felt a little guilty roaming through the grounds of Glengarrow and a little ashamed at being caught. Since the earl had been in Inverness for over a week, she felt free to walk where she wanted, and she didn’t lose the opportunity to do just that. Never mind that her conscience troubled her even so.
“We’ve a pot brewing for tea,” Janet said, holding the door open. “Come on, then.”
Margaret shrugged and allowed Janet to lead her into the kitchen.
She unwrapped the scarf from around her neck and unbuttoned her cape with fingers that felt frozen beneath her leather gloves. She made a mental note to purchase some heavier ones as soon as practical. Perhaps some with fur inside, if she could afford those.
She’d simply have to resign herself to the fact that every single one of her purchases would have to be accompanied by a great deal of thought beforehand. There would be none of the extravagant, impromptu purchases she’d once made in Russia.
That time was gone, three years of being cosseted and privileged. Three years of choosing whom she wanted to paint among the leaders of Russian society. She spoke to those who entertained her, and attended events she wished or didn’t, according to her whim.
Margaret stared at Janet as a memory occurred to her. Of course, how could she have forgotten? She’d seen the Earl of Linnet at a ball given in honor of the British Ambassador. And his wife? Margaret strained to remember, but couldn’t recall a woman with him. He’d been standing by himself, slightly apart from the rest of the crowd, a handsome man with his face lit, surprisingly enough, by laughter. He’d not been so dour then, but that was before he’d lost his wife and child.
Had she spoken to him? Or had she avoided the British delegation on purpose as she so often did with visitors? Their questions about the nature of her stay in Russia were intrusive. Her career dictated the length of her visit, a fact none of the men were able to understand.
“Is the Earl of Linnet in the diplomatic service?” she asked Janet now.
To her surprise, Janet shook her head. “Oh no, Miss Margaret, he was with the House of Lords. That’s Parliament, in London. A very great honor it was. But, get out of your wet things, and I’ll put them near the stove to warm. Why would you be walking about on a day like this?” Janet asked, her face twisted into a knot of wrinkles. “I think you should find something a bit more healthy,” Janet said. “I can teach you to crochet. I’ve noticed at night you act as though you don’t know what to do with your fingers. A crochet hook, that’s the trick. Or knitting. My grandma would always sit there in the corner and knit until the day she died.”
“I have my embroidery,” Margaret said, hoping Janet wouldn’t comment on the ineptitude of her work.
All Janet did was nod, however, tactful in her silence.
The warmth from the stove was a singularly wonderful sensation. Margaret moved to stand as close as her full skirts would allow, smiling at the two maids as she did so. The radiant heat felt warmer than standing before a fire, although that would not be amiss either. Perhaps she had been out in the weather too long.
Winter in Scotland was colder, more bone-chilling. Or perhaps it was simply that when she lived in Russia, she’d been whisked from salon to palace to troika so quickly she really didn’t have time to become chilled.
There was also the fact of her wardrobe. All she’d been able to afford was this thin wool cape. She’d been able to sell fifteen of her dresses, but she’d had to leave most of her wardrobe—over thirty dresses—hanging in her Russian apartment.
“I’ll fix you something to eat, Miss Margaret. It’s near lunchtime anyway. If you don’t mind sharing what we’re having.”
She looked at the maids, at the scarred kitchen table, then over at Janet.
“I would be very pleased to share your lunch,” she said, smiling. “Is there something I can do to help?”
The two maids looked surprised at the offer, but Janet only smiled. “No. There’s a fire in the family parlor, Miss Margaret. Come along with you.”
Since she’d been curious about Glengarrow from the moment she’d seen the house, Margaret didn’t hesitate. She followed Janet down a long hallway, past the servants’ stairs, to a carved white door with a brass handle.
Janet reached out with her left hand and pulled the handle inward.
“This is Glengarrow,” she said softly, almost as if she were introducing the house to Margaret. She stepped to the left and allowed Margaret to precede her.
Here the wainscoting changed from painted white to polished mahogany. The smell of beeswax was in the air, as well as a strange acrid odor emanating from the oil lamps.
She walked a dozen more feet and found herself in a large open area.
The foyer was tiled in golden brown and white squares. Soaring high above her was a domed roof, a sight she’d not expected to see. Snow accumulated in spots, creating a lacy pattern of sunlight filtering down through the three floors of Glengarrow.
The staircase curved like the shell of a snail winding upward gracefully. The banister was wide polished mahogany. Each of the balusters was turned wood, adorned with a shiny band of gold at both the bottom and top. The treads of the stairs were carpeted with a crimson runner, caught at the base of each stair with gold clips.
To her right was an open doorway and after a questioning look at Janet, she entered the room.
A wood fire blazed profligately in the fireplace on the far wall, offering comfort to anyone who passed by or came to sit for a while. The pale yellow curtains were open, allowing sunlight to stream into the room. Outside, the cold day with its snow and ice seemed so very far away, the only hint of the difference in temperature the fog at the bottom of the windowpanes.
Two overstuffed divans sat facing each other perpendicular to the fireplace. On the other side of the room, in front of the window, sat two large straight-backed armchairs and a footstool, evidently designed to be shared by the occupants of the chairs. All of the furniture was upholstered in the same fabric, a small blue-and-yellow-flowered pattern. The walls were covered in a soft yellow silk matching the draperies. The arms of the divans and the chairs were heavily carved mahogany, as was the table between the chairs and in front of the divans. All of the wood was so brightly polished, Margaret didn’t doubt she could see her reflection in it.
&nbs
p; If the rest of Glengarrow was like this room, then Janet and her helpers had been extraordinarily busy.
“It’s lovely,” she said, meaning it. It was a family room, a room where a couple and their children might gather in the evening, where they might sit and discuss their day. A mother would encourage her child to sit beside her while she read him a story. This was a room crafted for laughter and joy, for the small daily matter of living.
Obvious, too, was the wealth of the Earls of Linnet, evident in the French silk on the walls, and the quality of the furniture. There was nothing threadbare in this room, and there were other touches indicating wealth, such as the coat of arms inscribed on the brass fireplace tools, and the golden frames for the miniatures on the mantel. Nothing was ostentatious or out of place, but everything in the room revealed the extent of Robert McDermott’s financial security.
She walked closer to the coat of arms mounted in a frame near the fireplace.
“McDermott? That’s the family name?”
“Aye,” Janet said. “A proud name it is. There’s been a McDermott at Glengarrow since the place was built.”
She, herself, had no such antecedents. She doubted her family could trace their heritage back more than a generation or two. The poor didn’t care about the past. They lived in the day, in the now, and sometimes—barely—in the future. Where was the next meal to come from, or the money to pay the rent?
She’d been wealthy beyond her wildest dreams, and near destitution. All in all, she’d had more enjoyment from wealth, from the sheer freedom from fear, an experience allowing her to concentrate on her work.
Because of some anonymous benefactor, she had the freedom to paint again, only she couldn’t. What was that? Irony? Or the simple humor of malicious Fate?
“Take a chair by the fire, Miss Margaret. Lunch will be ready soon.”
She turned and looked around the room, almost afraid to choose a place to sit. This room was so different from her, from her life. Did it reflect the Earl of Linnet? Or had it been a creation of his wife?
“Are you certain the earl won’t mind?”
