by Karen Ranney
But she’d entered Amelia’s room. She’d violated Amelia’s privacy.
He stood and walked away from his desk to stand in front of the fire. Absently, he held his hands out as if to warm himself. He doubted he would rid himself of the cold filling his body so easily.
She had no right. She had no right to enter Amelia’s room, to sample her scent, to look on those belongings that had been his wife’s. Had she sat on the bed, testing the mattress’s resiliency?
Stiff-legged, Robert walked up the back stairs and into his suite, to find he’d left the door ajar. Solemnly, he pushed it open all the way and entered the room again.
Slowly, he bent and picked up the dress he’d tossed to the floor, returning it to the armoire. Placing both hands on the doors, he closed his eyes for a moment. In the two drawers below, he knew what he would find—four nightgowns, and in the very bottom drawer, the comfortable slippers Amelia liked to put beside the bed. Tattered and worn, they’d not been fine enough for the visit to her family.
He was surrounded by the scent of her perfume, something light and flowery—roses or lilies? He’d never been good at discerning flowers.
What had happened to the clothes she’d taken with her? He realized he didn’t know, any more than he knew what had happened to Penelope’s belongings. Or to Teresa, that silly little doll she carried everywhere. Where did Teresa go? Dear God, he didn’t know.
He closed the doors, too hard perhaps, before turning and walking from the room.
The essence of Amelia was no longer in this chamber despite her perfume and her dresses. She was not at Glengarrow. Neither was she at her grave, a realization coming to him after hours of standing there and praying not so much to God as his wife.
No, Miss Dalrousie should not have trespassed, but she had not invaded a sanctuary. Nor had she violated Amelia’s privacy. Amelia was not there.
He shouldn’t have terrified her. He should not have allowed rage to overwhelm him. Please don’t hurt me. As he took the grand stairs back down to his office, he could see her face too easily. Terror had rooted her to the spot, the kind of terror that turns the limbs to jelly. And he’d done it to her.
Damnation!
At the moment, he wasn’t certain exactly who he was angrier at—himself or Margaret Dalrousie.
Chapter 9
The trees were stripped of their leaves, the naked branches scratching and clawing at the sky. Nature had compensated for their starkness by gifting the trees with a mantle of sparkling ice, but after witnessing three years of Russian ice storms, Margaret was no longer awed by the sight of crystal stalactites glittering in the morning light.
The day was gray, the air even colder than the day before. If she were in Russia, she would have anticipated a blizzard by evening. But she was still too uncertain about Scotland’s weather to gauge it with any certainty.
Tom and Janet had been gone when she awakened this morning. Every morning just past dawn they left for Glengarrow and every evening at five they returned to Blackthorne Cottage. Janet would go about making dinner, while Tom sat in the parlor and lit his pipe, staring at the fire and otherwise ruminating on his day. Margaret would join him, a book in hand, and together they would spend an hour or so in quiet companionship.
Occasionally, they spoke of commonsense things like weather or foxes or the colors of the sunset streaking across the sky. But they never spoke of anything more, certainly not her painting or her past. Nor did they ever mention, either one of them, the Earl of Linnet.
He might have been a ghost himself this last week. She never saw him riding or encountered him on her walks, for which she was eternally thankful.
Curiosity, however, forever a bane of her character, was surfacing again. Unwise though it might be, she couldn’t help but wonder if he were ill or had taken himself off to Inverness again.
“Oh no, miss,” Janet said when she finally broached the question. “I doubt the earl could stand a visit again this soon.” She looked stricken at her own words and hurried to explain.
“It’s just his mother can be a little trying,” she said. “Always patting his cheek or straightening his coat. You can tell it annoys him even though he doesn’t say anything.”
She smiled. “Tom always said that he thought the Dowager Countess liked the earl the best of her three children.”
“Did the two of you work together?”
Janet dusted off the corner of the table with her apron and looked at Margaret. “Oh no, Miss. Tom worked for the Dowager Countess. He was her coachman. I was in service to a dear friend of hers. That’s how we met.” She smiled. “And courted. The two women were great friends, always at one another’s homes. It was nothing to see Tom five times a week. Then, when we married, I left my employer and came to work at Glengarrow with Tom.”
If he wasn’t in Inverness, then where was he? What could be occupying his time? She was surprised to find herself so curious about a man she barely knew. Perhaps it was because small gestures of kindness were sometimes the most memorable, and in his agreement to share Tom’s and Janet’s services, the Earl of Linnet had proved very amenable indeed.
She’d repaid him in the worst way possible.
“You’ll be wrapping up snugly,” Janet said now, glancing out at the falling snow highlighted against the darkening sky.
“I will. I won’t be gone long,” Margaret said. The days were short, and she’d been intrigued with a book she was reading. She had just enough time to walk down the lane and back again before full night was upon them.
She left the warm cottage with a wave and a smile.
This snowfall was gentle, covering up the signs of human visitation on the land. Footfalls, wagon tracks, horseshoe prints were blanketed like a light dusting of castor sugar.
Glengarrow and its environs felt as if it had been carved out of the rugged Highland scenery, lined with velvet and tucked into a small wooden box. Here they felt protected from the worst of the winter weather, shielded by the mountain towering behind them. Glengarrow was a burrow to hide in when the outside world became too much. Almost enchanted, if she believed in such things.
How very strange that she was a Scot, and yet she’d traveled more outside her country than within it. She’d never seen the Lowlands, and she’d never thought to live in the Highlands. Until she’d come to this place, she’d never truly felt like Scotland was home. Perhaps because she’d never truly belonged to anything other than her painting.
Over the last ten years, she’d become a person without a country, without relatives or close friends. And in the last nine months, she’d become even more insular, with nothing more substantial than these two walks a day to measure the passing of time.
While it was true that in Russia she’d often risen early in the morning to paint, she’d occasionally danced until dawn. She’d played as hard as she had worked. But she’d worked damnably hard, which is why she felt such betrayal when, one by one, the members of the royal family had turned their backs on her.
Penniless and emotionally drained, she’d returned to Edinburgh in order to solicit a commission or two. She hadn’t realized, then, that she’d never be able to paint again. And so, she’d no choice but to come to Blackthorne Cottage, to live out the rest of her days, immersed in books she’d never had a chance to read, and the study of nature, in the hopes that one day, perhaps, she might be able to paint a tree, or a leaf, or a snow-encrusted landscape.
She was nothing without those she painted. She did not truly exist without a brush in her hand, which meant she had been barely alive lately.
Or perhaps she’d never be able to paint again. The more she had that thought, the less she was able to tolerate it.
She pushed thoughts of Russia and painting from her mind, determined to focus on one thing at a time. What mattered was the present moment. If she were too immersed in thoughts of the past, today would slip away entirely.
The only sound on her walk was the occasional crack of an icicle
falling to the ground. Winter had encapsulated her in a frozen scene. Nothing moved, and the cries of the fox and the owl would be silent as the night chilled to bitter cold. Was the earl cozy in his snug house?
She’d never thought to wonder if he was lonely at night.
As she walked slowly past Glengarrow, she looked up at the windows, not yet lit against the darkness. She wished he was looking out from the window above. She would wave and smile politely, and the greeting would confuse him. Or perhaps he would simply close the draperies in her face, giving her fair warning his mood had not warmed toward her.
This walk with its double line of sentinel trees on either side of the lane was not as scenic as the one around Glengarrow. She missed the wall with its little niche and urn, and the bench where she might sit and reflect if she wished.
Her feet were cold; her nose was cold. The tips of her ears were cold beneath her hat. The Scots seemed to endure winter with no complaints at all, as if it were simply part of their lives and nothing important to be remarked upon. Sleet and ice? Why, this is the Highlands! What else would you expect?
She was going to walk all the way to the road, and once there, she’d turn around and walk all the way back. At least the Earl of Linnet could not say she was trespassing.
The gravel of the drive was barely visible through the snow. She began to count her steps, her arms wrapped around her waist below her cape. She spent a moment longing for all those warm, rich, fur-lined coats sold to pay her creditors.
She’d had offers from more than one titled gentleman to be installed in a home with an annual stipend, with a promise of a carriage and carte blanche whenever she wished to order clothing. Each and every one of these titled gentlemen had appeared remarkably surprised when she’d answered in the same manner to each invitation: “Why should I allow you to care for me, Your Lordship, when I can care very well for myself?”
What a proud, arrogant fool she’d been. But she’d never believed she would remain unpaid for her work, that her commissions would suddenly stop, or that each member of the Imperial Court would turn his back on her.
She’d barely survived those three months in Edinburgh when her talent had abruptly left her. She’d not been able to stand in front of a canvas, let alone put a brush to it without trembling.
Would her solicitor ever be able to get payment for the last of her court paintings? Either that, or the paintings themselves returned. If not, she’d have to spend the rest of her life grateful to a stranger for the gift of Blackthorne Cottage.
Who was her benefactor? She’d spent hours speculating on the answer, only to narrow the possibilities down to three likely candidates, all titled, all men she’d met in Russia. Yet none of them were capable of being beneficent and anonymous. No, each would want credit for his good deed.
A twig snapped, and she stopped suddenly, a sensation that she was being watched sending a wave of cold rushing through her.
She forced herself to turn, to see the Earl of Linnet sitting there on his horse. For a long moment, they simply stared at each other.
If she could paint, she’d paint him standing beside an open window, his gaze fixed on a point on the horizon. Only then would his expression be tolerable for her to endure. She would paint him not with anguish in his glance but wanderlust, as if he could not wait until the moment he could escape. The seas were calling him, or the mountains with their rugged peaks and impossible angles. He was feeling the lure of faraway lands, the hint of far-off treasure.
His face was stern, his gaze steady on hers. He was wearing his black greatcoat, muffled and protected against the weather, once again hatless against the cold. His head was dusted with snow, as were his shoulders, but he appeared impervious to winter itself.
His mount moved forward, but she stood her ground. She’d wanted to encounter him, and here he was.
What did she say? How did she apologize?
“If it’s your intention to walk a trench around Glengarrow, then may I say that it appears you are well on your way to achieving that aim.”
“I am nowhere near Glengarrow property unless, of course, you count this lane yours as well.”
“Actually,” he said, “it is. Glengarrow land extends to where the trees end. Each morning and each night you’ve trespassed.”
“Next, you will be telling me that my cottage is on your land as well.”
“It used to be,” he said.
For a long moment, she stood there with her arms at her sides, regarding him as dispassionately as he stared back at her.
Did he not have other, more pressing duties to assume? What about all the work he’d neglected in the last three years? Surely there were estates to look over—factors to meet, stewards to address, books to examine? If nothing else, perhaps he could occupy himself in good works.
“I’ll buy the cottage from you,” he said abruptly. “Give you enough money to go anywhere you wish.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Well, you bloody well can’t stay here.”
“Why, because you decree it so?”
He slowly walked his horse closer. “Take the money, Miss Dalrousie. Live your life somewhere far from here.”
“Leave you to your ghosts?”
“Yes, damn it.”
He glanced toward Glengarrow, breaking their gaze. Then, without a word, he turned and rode in the other direction.
Robert had discounted the feeling on their first meeting, and he’d been too incensed during their second encounter to care, but he couldn’t ignore it this time. Margaret Dalrousie reminded him of someone, and the fact he couldn’t remember who niggled at him. He was good with faces, and good with names—any politician had to be. But he was also good at dates and extraneous facts, a talent that had made him a good speaker in Parliament.
Instead of leaving his horse in the stables, Robert cared for the animal himself. There were still only four people at Glengarrow, a house where two dozen servants used to be employed. Tom and Janet still returned to Blackthorne Cottage in the evenings. The two maids from Inverness were giggling chits, but he was grateful to see they’d struck up a friendship between them. At least they wouldn’t be lonely here.
What about his loneliness? It could strike at any time and have nothing to do with the number of people surrounding him. He fought it back as adeptly as he could, and surrendered when he could no longer combat it.
The Dalrousie woman appeared wholly autonomous, alone, carrying herself like a queen as she regally paraded down the approach to Glengarrow. The Dalrousie woman was an annoyance. Her mouth was too large for her face.
He finished his chore and settled the horse down for the night. As he left the stable, he studied the sky. The snow looked as if it would last for days. He’d been overly cautious in purchasing supplies, ensuring he had everything he needed at Glengarrow. He hadn’t wanted to have to leave his home or have the intrusion of tradesme. Consequently, they had enough supplies to withstand a siege.
Snow would simply ensure he was cut off from the world, and that state of affairs didn’t disturb him one whit.
Was Miss Dalrousie similarly supplied? He’d have to ask Tom. What did a woman like Miss Dalrousie require? Bath salts? Perfume? Swan’s down powder puffs from Paris? Or was she more inclined to read, perhaps? Perhaps he should offer her the contents of Glengarrow’s library.
If he wanted to apologize for the brutality of his behavior.
If he wanted to behave as befitted his station and his heritage.
He didn’t like irritating women, a fact Amelia had teased him about on more than one occasion. The Tory party leader’s wife had been a grating sort, with a high, whiny voice and the laugh of a braying donkey. On those occasions when he’d been forced to be around her, Amelia’s soft look and gently chiding smile was enough to keep him polite when he’d just as soon have escaped.
There was no one to stop him from explaining to Miss Dalrousie that her mouth was grotesque and that she was annoy
ing him with her constant parading around his property.
All in all, I’d rather dance than walk, but I have no music and no partner.
She was too tall. She would look odd twirling around a ballroom performing a waltz. Amelia had been diminutive and delicate. Amelia had been a pony to Miss Dalrousie’s draft horse. A bark of laughter escaped him at the thought of such an equine comparison.
He’d laughed. Dear God, he’d laughed. Not at one of Delmont’s crafted jests, or bawdy attempts at humor. No, he’d created this laughter himself, out of nothing more than a thought. He’d laughed, and somehow Amelia had been involved.
His hand shook as he opened the door to the kitchen and stepped inside, feeling the heat from the room instantly. He unwrapped his scarf and hung it on the peg beside the door, took off his greatcoat and hung it in the adjoining room. It felt good to be doing things for himself. When he was a guest in Delmont’s home, an ever-present valet had been there to assist him. He thought the man would have breathed for him if given those orders. Here at Glengarrow, though, he’d not thought to employ a valet.
Maybe he should suggest the post to Tom, just to see how the older man would react. His lips curved in a smile, the expression evidently startling the maid sitting at the kitchen table, because she suddenly jumped up and curtsied. It was such an unlikely combination of gestures he almost asked her to repeat it so he could study it more carefully. How odd she hadn’t tipped over the chair, or scattered onions all over the floor.
He waved her back in place, wishing he could remember her name. Something pleasing, as he recalled. A flower? Petunia? Gladiola? Rose.
“What are you cooking, Rose?” he asked, almost surprised to find he was hungry.
“Mulligatawny stew,” the girl answered, thankfully taking her place at the table again.
He nodded, resigning himself to the fact that food was one of the many things he would always miss from France.
He left the kitchen, intent on his office. There were still a great many files and documents needing to be sent back to Parliament. Going through all those files was a cumbersome task, but there was no one better suited to it than he. The young man who’d been his secretary had left his employ prior to Robert’s traveling to France. The parting had been amicable, because Malcolm had received another offer of employment and didn’t want to be away from the hub of political activities. Traveling to France with Robert and his family hadn’t intrigued him, and Robert couldn’t blame him. Politics was better suited to single men, those who had no difficulties with the hours or the demands on their time.
