by Karen Ranney
Despite the coldness of the day, the congregation huddled outside the church steps in small groups. People conversed, and more than a few looked in their direction. Little children tugged at their mothers’ skirts, a group of men walked off together to light their pipes. Life in North Linten Village was marching on without their participation, but not without curiosity from its inhabitants.
“I would like to know what is it about me that inspires your disappearance?”
Slowly, she turned and faced him, wishing in the intervening days that he’d grown uglier somehow.
Silence stretched between them. His gaze encompassed her hair, her face, her dress, and even her ugly boots before sweeping back up to rest on her face again.
“You haven’t been sleeping,” he said.
She shook her head.
“You haven’t been painting, either.”
“How do you know?”
“There’s a look of contentment on your face when you’re working. I’ve come to watch for it.”
No one had ever said anything like that to her before, and she was flummoxed by his knowledge of her.
“Do you study me, then?”
He only smiled, the question remaining unanswered. Could true honesty exist between them? And if it could? What would she ask of him? What would she tell him?
Take me to your bed. For as long as circumstances warrant it or we wish it, we shall be lovers. Apologetic to no one, explaining our actions to no other soul.
But life was not that easy, was it? Not for painters, and certainly not for earls. There were too many people to gauge and weigh and measure and judge.
Twice now, they had lain together. Twice and it wasn’t enough.
There, a little bit of honesty to give him, forbidden and inappropriate in this place of God and recompense.
“Have your ships arrived yet?”
His face darkened and his eyes glittered and if they had been anywhere else, she would have placed her hands on either side of his face and brought his head down so that she could press her lips against his. But they were in a churchyard, being observed by dozens of people.
Dear God, she didn’t care. It did not make one whit of difference to her. The world had judged her for years and years, and all she had ever done was pursue her art and her ambition. Let them judge her for something she wanted, something forbidden and delicious. Let each person who stood there talking enrobed in their scarves, and their best hats and coats look at her in her threadbare woolen cape and wonder at the look of hunger in her eyes. Let them judge her and know that she was a harlot, a fallen woman.
She might well be that, but she was also deliciously intoxicated with the touch of his fingers on her flesh, and the promise of his kiss, and the soft, low words he murmured against her skin. She was drunk with it, sotted with passion, and she wanted more.
She turned away. “People shouldn’t starve. Not in Scotland, at any rate. Not if they’re free.”
“Did you care for the plight of the serfs with such diligence, Margaret?”
“No,” she said, wishing she could give him another answer. “I barely noticed them. I was entranced with the canals, the view of the palaces, the balls and entertainments.”
“Yes, my ships have arrived. Will they be enough? I don’t know.”
“And if they aren’t? What will you do?”
He looked startled by the question, and well he might be. Who was she to demand he change the world?
Instead of answering her, however, he asked, “Did you come to church to ask forgiveness from God?” he asked.
Startled, she stared at him, wondering if he had the power to deduce thoughts.
“Or to petition God for the courage to carry out your plan?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, confused.
“Your plan to kill another human being. Or have you given up your plans for revenge?”
She didn’t answer.
“Will you be satisfied, once he’s dead? Will everything be made right? The attack will not have happened; you won’t have the scar? You’ll be back in Russia and still the darling of the court, the magnificent Margaret Dalrousie?”
“A man should not be able to rape with impunity,” she said. “Not in Russia. Not anywhere. A woman should not be attacked simply because she is a woman.”
“A man should not be killed, simply because he’s a bastard. Nor should a woman be given the power of life and death simply because she’s filled with a sense of injustice.”
“A sense of injustice? That’s all you would call it?”
She turned her head and stared at him. “He branded me, McDermott. He laughed when he did it. He bragged of it.”
“Death is final, Maggie. There is no return.” His glance encompassed the churchyard as if to prove his point. “There is no second chance, no change of heart. You cannot wish a person back into existence or make a bargain with God to alter time itself so you can make a better choice. Dead is forever dead.”
He should not have the ability to tear her heart from her chest with only words.
“You don’t understand.”
“Enlighten me.”
“I can’t.” Words wouldn’t be able to express the depth of her horror, the extent of her humiliation. He’d taken her talent, and her sense of self, and the future she’d struggled for years to create for herself. He’d used her body without her assent, and uncaring about her pain. She’d been weak and incapable of protecting herself, and the awareness of her vulnerability frightened her.
She had to find Janet and Tom. She had to leave.
Janet was standing in front of the small gravestone, Tom standing beside her. Both of them had their heads bowed.
McDermott reached out and cupped her elbow with his palm. “Give them a moment,” he said.
She glanced up at him. His attention was on the couple.
“We used to have services at Glengarrow. It was more convenient in winter, especially. But Janet and Tom always came here to the village church, and it wasn’t until several years ago that I discovered why.”
She glanced at him, waiting.
“It’s their child, there. The only one they were able to have. And every week, Janet and Tom stand just as they are right now. No one disturbs them, because everyone knows.”
The two leaned into each other, slightly, as if braced against the wind. Their bodies met at arm, hip, and hand. Tom’s head bent solicitously toward Janet, and she curved toward him as if seeking his greater strength. They seemed to need no one, bulwarked against the world itself.
Margaret dropped her arm, and McDermott’s hand slid to her wrist, remaining there, poised.
Were they, too, linked? Not by emotion or loss or by the simple act of sharing memory. If she and McDermott were joined, it was by shedding the restraints binding them to civility.
“Do you not have your own visit to make?” she asked, the words constrained and difficult to speak.
He glanced at her. “Amelia isn’t here, Margaret.” He turned back to look at Janet and Tom. “She’s buried in France, along with my daughter.”
Why did it feel as if she’d been spiked through with a hundred different lengths of splinters? She focused on her breathing, taking several deep breaths.
“It must have been difficult to leave them,” she said finally.
“Yes.”
Moments passed, during which they didn’t speak at all. How did she retract the comment? How could she wish back her curiosity?
“It is not an easy thing they do,” he said slowly, still looking at Janet and Tom. “To visit those you love. I admire their courage.”
She took a step closer to him, wishing she had the freedom to touch him.
“The first time I stood over Amelia’s and Penelope’s graves, I thought the pain would break me.”
If not for their being watched, she would have placed her hand on her arm, wordless comfort. She might have stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips against his
wind-chafed cheek, the better to banish his memories. She did nothing, holding tight to propriety, not by the wish to be viewed as virtuous so much as a desire not to be rebuffed. The moment, like it or not, belonged to Amelia and Penelope, and she remained silent and motionless in deference to them.
The wish, however, and the wanting were there, strong, resilient, and intrusive as they always had been.
“It did not get easier the more often I went. Life does not acknowledge death with any comfort, and like it or not, I was alive.”
She knew that he was remembering the last time he’d stood over his wife’s and child’s graves. How did she call such a memory back?
“How do you bear it?” she asked softly. She turned away, staring at the majestic tree in the corner of the churchyard.
“Margaret.” He placed his hand on her arm, attempted to turn her, but she wouldn’t move. Not to be deterred, he peered around her bonnet. “Are you crying?”
“No,” she said, brushing her gloved hand against her cheek. “It’s the cold. It’s making my eyes water.”
“Do not grieve,” he said. “There has been enough of that. Amelia loved laughter, and Penelope was the embodiment of it. She found joy in each moment.” He smiled. “That’s how I bear it,” he said. “By remembering who they were more than the fact they are no longer here. No longer with me.”
She wanted to put her hand on his cheek, reach up, and place a kiss there. Or pull his head down to rest against her shoulder. A gesture of nurturing, one that she’d rarely felt before, and never as fiercely.
He placed his hand on her shoulder as if to offer her comfort. She stepped away.
“You mustn’t single me out in public, McDermott,” she said. “You’ll only cause people to talk.”
He studied her. “They will talk regardless.”
She nodded. “True. But at least they will not talk about me. I am heartily tired of the world talking about me.”
“Have you always been an object of speculation, Margaret?”
“Yes. I was unmarried, unaccompanied, and different.”
“An artist.”
“A woman,” she corrected, “who refused to do what was expected of her.”
“If you hadn’t been an artist, would you have been the same?”
She glanced at him, startled by the question. “You mean, which came first, my rebellious nature? Or my art?” She considered it. “Art,” she answered after a moment. “I was forever scribbling in the dirt, drawing pictures of my brothers and sisters. I wasn’t rebellious back then. I was merely trying to survive, and to protect what I’d done.”
“But you never could.”
She glanced at him again. “How did you know that?”
“It’s why you’re so protective of your paintings now. I suspect your reputation is secondary to your art, but tied to it. Without a good reputation, you cannot garner commissions, and without commissions, there is no one to pay you for your work.”
She smiled. “I would still work,” she said.
He took another step closer.
She pressed both hands against her waist at the front, a swift and stern admonition to herself not to show any reaction. He seemed to know how she responded to him if his smile was any indication.
“Go away, Your Lordship.”
“Does it help?”
“Does what help?”
She turned, deciding that it was easier to converse with him if she didn’t have to look at him. He was an extraordinarily handsome man, and even bundled up in his greatcoat, she was only too aware of his physique. Her body, traitorous and abandoned, seemed to know that he was standing close. Her hand ached to reach out and touch him. Her body chilled, as if requiring his to warm it. Even her lips felt lonely, as if longing for his to be pillowed against them.
“To call me Your Lordship? Does it distance me in your mind?”
“No,” she said softly.
How foolish a woman she was to give him the truth. She felt his hand suddenly on her shoulder, and almost sagged in relief. In the next instant, she made herself stand tall, shoulders back as if not needing his touch, or craving it. Still, it seemed as if she could feel the warmth of his palm within his glove.
Margaret turned and began to walk, her hearing acute for his footsteps behind her. But he didn’t follow her, remaining instead in the churchyard as she resolutely made her way to the carriage.
She didn’t look back, even though she wanted to, even though she was desperate to do so. Instead, she faced forward and wished herself back in her snug little cottage, drawing comfort from her memories of him.
Chapter 24
The parlor was warm, the fire blazing. The wind had died down, and it hadn’t snowed for three days. In the distance, spring was poised like a young girl, skirts gathered up in her hands, a blush on her cheek, and flowers in her hair, waiting for the demise of the hag of winter.
Margaret sat in a comfortable chair, near the fire, the oil lamp a constant and glowing friend. She could not, however much she wished it, become interested in the words of this Scottish poet.
Thence, countra wives wi ’toil an ’pain
May plunge an ’plunge the kirn in vain;
For oh! the yellow treasure’s taen
By witchin skill;
An ’dawtet, twal-pint hawkie’s gaen
As yell’s the bill.
She set the book aside, staring through the windows, her gaze captured by the night. She didn’t hear Janet until the woman spoke.
“Are you certain you are well, Miss Margaret?” Janet asked, standing at the door to the parlor. “Can I get you some tea? A posset? I make mine with a little yarrow, mixed with slippery elm, and a half a glass of vinegar with crushed basil leaves. Mix in a little honey, more than a little pepper, some garlic, and you’ll be feeling better in no time.”
“You mustn’t go to any bother,” Margaret said hurriedly. “I’m feeling fine, Janet, truly.” She brandished her book as if it were a flag, but Janet still looked doubtful.
“I can sit with you a while, if you’d like.”
“It’s not necessary, Janet,” Margaret said. “Tom is waiting for you. Why don’t you retire for the night? I know it’s been a long day for you.”
“No longer than any other,” Janet stubbornly said. “And if you’re ailing…”
“I can assure you, Janet, that I’m feeling fine.”
Janet came to stand in front of her, gripping her shawl with both hands. “I would never call you a liar, Miss Margaret, but I think, perhaps, you haven’t looked in the mirror in a while. Your face has gone all pale-like. You look as bad as you did when you first came to Blackthorne Cottage.”
Margaret smiled, surprised at the comment. “You’ve never mentioned those days before.”
“And why should I mention them?” Janet asked. “It does no good to bring up the past if all you can find there is sadness. I knew you were hurting the very first moment I saw you, and it took months for that look on your face to disappear.”
“And it’s back, is it?” Margaret asked.
Janet shook her head. “No, not so I can see. But another look is there in its place, Miss Margaret. Something a little sadder, perhaps. But there’s no fear in your eyes.”
Margaret smiled. “You’re the only one who would have had the courage to say that to me, Janet.”
“And who better? I’ve known you near a year, haven’t I? Besides, you’re all bluster but no bite. You may scowl and look fierce, Miss Margaret, but you’ve a warm heart, all the same.”
“I doubt many people would have agreed with you over the years,” Margaret said. “I was quite the termagant in Russia.”
“Why ever did you go to that place?” Janet asked, hesitating at the door.
“Because I could, I suppose. I’d become quite sophisticated, you see. I’d learned to talk correctly, to dress appropriately, to comport myself in a variety of social situations. I was Margaret Dalrousie, painter of important person
ages.” Her smile held a touch of mockery.
“Deep in my heart, however, I’ve always been the lonely little girl growing up in Fife, the strange one who painted pictures and talked about colors and shapes as if they were a foreign language.”
“I think I like that Margaret best,” Janet said.
Margaret forced a smile. “Go to bed, Janet. I’m not ailing, and I think only time will banish the look on my face.”
“I don’t think time has anything to do with it, Miss Margaret,” Janet said.
What on earth did she say to that? Thankfully, Janet didn’t require a response.
“If you want me, you know where Tom and I are.”
“Thank you for your care of me, Janet. I truly do appreciate it.”
Janet only nodded and left the room. Margaret leaned her head back against the chair, listening for Janet’s soft footfalls as she climbed the first set of stairs, then the smaller steps leading to her and Tom’s garret room. Despite the fact the room was beneath the eaves, it was a spacious chamber. The construction of the cottage was such that she rarely heard the couple in the evening.
She couldn’t help but wonder now if Tom sat in a comfortable chair reading and Janet sat beside him crocheting as she sometimes did in the parlor. Sharing lives, sharing their days, sharing the experience of living.
Three years ago, she wouldn’t have thought about Tom and Janet. She wouldn’t have envied them their shared looks of amusement, the casual touches in the morning as they passed in the hall, the glance Tom gave his wife as he left for Glengarrow. She wouldn’t have thought about their shared grief and how it linked them together.
A few years ago, she wouldn’t have considered Tom and Janet fortunate. After all, they’d hired themselves out as servants to other people, forever to be reminded of the differences in station. Yet they never saw the divisions, never acted as if McDermott was better. Although he was their employer, he was also a member of their family, in an odd and touching way.
Margaret waited until she was certain Janet had settled herself in and wouldn’t return to the parlor. Only then did she stand and leave the room, ducking her head beneath the lintel. The door at the back of the cottage was framed by two windows. Both had been shuttered against the night.
