by Karen Ranney
If he left, what would she do?
She pushed the thought away, finding it surprisingly painful. She was simply feeling a little sad today, that was all. How suddenly it had come upon her. In a blink of an eye, a spark, the time it took a snowflake to melt, she had become almost bereft.
Another sign, perhaps, of how mindless she’d become about the Earl of Linnet.
Two wagons were trundling up the lane, one filled with sacks of what looked to be sand, the other holding huge panes of glass between layers of batting.
What was he doing? It was none of her concern. McDermott could set Glengarrow on fire, and it would be none of her concern. Was he bringing a wife home? A new countess?
She couldn’t bear this; she really couldn’t.
Stopping between the gates, she bid both hello and farewell to the lions. Clasping her hands around the box, she resolutely walked to the front of the house, circling the fountain, and taking the steps slowly, all the while daring herself to do this. She had done so many difficult things in her life; this was just one more task.
At the top of the steps, the door opened, and he was there, almost as if he’d been waiting for her arrival.
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to refuse the opportunity to give me my comeuppance,” he said, smiling down at the box.
She frowned at him.
“You planned for me to return it?”
“I knew you would,” he said. “You’re a very prideful woman, Maggie.”
“If you wanted to see me, you should have sent me a note.”
“You would have ignored it.”
“You could have sent word through Janet.”
“You would have told her to tell me no.”
He leaned back against the frame of the door and crossed his arms over his chest.
“I was forced to be a little devious,” he said. “The condition of my leg makes it impossible to bodily carry you to Glengarrow, but I did give some thought to it.”
“Janet conspired with you?” She couldn’t help but feel a little hurt at the thought.
“In more than one way,” he said obliquely.
He really shouldn’t look that handsome. Not smiling the way he was, almost boyishly, as if he was thoroughly delighted with himself.
Foolish man, he was attired only in a white shirt and black trousers. Despite the fact spring was only weeks away, it was cold.
He held out his hand and she stared at it for a moment, then slowly gave him the box. He dropped it on the floor behind him and extended his hand again. This time, she placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, his touch warm.
Turning, he entered the house, pulling her after him. He was a force of nature, and she had no choice but to keep up with him.
He stopped abruptly, turned, and faced her.
“Do you know you have the unlikely ability to make me angrier than any human being I’ve ever known? I’ve been irritated before, but nothing comes close to the emotions I feel around you, Maggie.”
“The feeling is mutual, McDermott. And are you going to insist upon calling me Maggie?”
He started walking again. “You can be Margaret Dalrousie to anyone in the world. But to me, you’ll always be Maggie. It isn’t a subject open for discussion.”
“You’re acting exceedingly uncivil today, McDermott.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “That’s another thing. Stop calling me by my surname.”
“Stop calling me Maggie.”
He began to smile. “I guess I can live with McDermott, then.”
Once more, he turned and began leading her up the grand staircase and to the second floor. They walked down the corridor to the Winter Parlor in silence, but she doubted they would have been able to hear themselves talk if they had conversed. The room was swarming with workmen, men removing the windows, and knocking down walls. The door to the Winter Parlor wasn’t there anymore. Nor was the suite McDermott had shared with Amelia. All the furniture was gone, and so were the doors. All that was left were the outer walls.
Janet hadn’t said anything about this.
He held her hand tightly, but Margaret didn’t try to pull away. Instead, she stood there in absolute astonishment.
“What have you done? What are you doing?”
He began to smile again.
“I’m making a life,” he said. “Not the same one I had, but another one.”
The dust in the air was making it difficult to breathe, and was probably the reason for her sudden wish to cry.
She pulled her hand free, finally, and wrapped her arms around her waist.
“I think if I went back to Inverness or to Edinburgh, I could find my share of polite, beautiful, accomplished women. Charming women, who would insist upon being personable.”
“No doubt,” she said. She frowned at him. “And no doubt their mouths would not be too big,” she said.
“Oh, Maggie, your mouth was never too big. It’s just right. It just needs kissing often.”
She felt herself warm as several of the workers glanced at him curiously.
“I need your advice,” he said. “On a building matter.”
“I’m leaving for London,” she said. “As quickly as I can pack my trunks.”
He ignored that comment as he took her hand again, leading her down the hallway and to a smaller set of stairs to the third floor.
She’d never seen this part of Glengarrow, but it was not unlike the second floor—the plasterwork on the ceiling and the carvings on the wainscoting were just as beautiful.
At the end of the hall, directly above the Earl’s suite on the second floor, there was more activity. Three men were removing a section of wall. Another man was standing slightly aside, sketching on a large pad. He glanced at them, smiled at McDermott, and nodded politely to her.
“Show Miss Dalrousie your plan, Franklin.”
Robert turned to her. “Franklin is an eminent architect, Maggie. I managed to convince him to oversee the changes at Glengarrow. If you like what he’s done, we can always have him come to London to do the same with that house.”
She glanced at him curiously but still didn’t understand.
Franklin, a young man with sandy brown hair and an engaging grin, came to her side.
“May I say what a pleasure it is to meet you, Miss Dalrousie. I consider it an honor to work on this room for you.”
She glanced at McDermott, who smiled.
“She’s extraordinarily talented, Franklin. Probably the greatest artist of her age.”
She really did not understand, but the hope, the excitement, the sheer terror of what she was thinking was bubbling up and vying with tears for dominance.
Franklin turned his sketch pad so she could see.
“You’ll have both an east and west vista, which will give you a good play of light most of the day. Because the room faces south, it shouldn’t be too warm or too cold, but we have plans to enlarge the fireplace just in case.”
She stared at the drawing and looked over at McDermott.
“It’s a studio,” she said.
In the middle of the expanse, along the sides of the walls were places to store canvases in the process of being prepared. In the middle of the room, Franklin had sketched a small platform where a subject might sit in comfort. Beside the fireplace were two comfortable chairs, for when she grew weary or needed to sit.
The third floor was above the top of the trees, and sunlight would stream into the room, making it possible for her to work for hours.
“It’s a studio,” she repeated.
McDermott nodded to Franklin, and the other man folded his sketchbook and left them.
One more time, McDermott held out his hand, and this time when she placed hers in his larger one, her fingers trembled. She followed him without question, and he led her down the steps to the second floor once again, but instead of retracing their path, he led the way to the other wing, to a series of rooms she’d never seen.
“Am
I to be your mistress?”
He stopped and turned, facing her. She’d evidently managed to surprise him.
“I’ve been proposing, haven’t you noticed?”
When he would have pulled her along again, she refused to budge. She began to shake her head, too distraught to speak for a moment. Thankfully, words came to her aid soon enough.
“I was elected an honorary member of the Scottish Academy when I was twenty-five, one of the first women ever to receive that distinction. When I was twenty-seven, McDermott, I began participating in exhibitions of the Royal Academy and the Society of British Artists.”
Dear God, she couldn’t breathe, and all he did was smile.
“Shall I begin a litany of my accomplishments, then? I’m the Earl of Linnet, after all.”
“Exactly.” She threw up her hands. “I cannot marry you. Acres of differences stand between us: upbringing, parents, friends, and the past itself.”
“Haven’t you figured it out, Maggie?” he asked gently. “None of that matters, least of all the past. I’ve tried to show you, but if that’s not enough, what will you have from me? The words? I love you, Margaret Dalrousie, for reasons that are not easily understood. I love you because you gave me back myself. I love you because I become a better person when I’m around you. I love you because I’m alive when I’m with you. I love your passion and your ambition, and the fact you’re afraid most of the time and yet have the courage not to show it. Shall I go on?”
She couldn’t speak again.
He took her in his arms. Both hands moved down her back, pressing her gently closer. She turned her head until her cheek was resting against his chest.
A moment later, he pulled away, strode to a door set midway into the corridor, and opened it. He stood aside, waiting for her to precede him. She did so, to find herself in a small sitting room darkened by deep emerald green draperies closed against the sun.
In the middle of the room, resting on her easel was the portrait she had just finished a few days earlier and left in the cottage less than an hour ago.
“Janet again?” she asked. She would have to have a long talk with Janet, one in which Margaret attempted to express her thanks.
“I do not believe that any painting I have ever endeavored has traveled quite as much as this one.”
She moved to stand in front of the portrait.
“I should scold you, you know. You promised not to look.”
“I can’t say I’m sorry,” he said.
“I knew I couldn’t paint Amelia,” she said softly. “I don’t care how beautifully you described her.”
Instead, she’d painted him, sitting by the window, his bearing erect, his hands along the arms of the chair, his gaze fixed on something in the middle of the room. In his eyes was love, the pain of longing, grief itself. Yet the expression on his face was stoic and closed.
He spoke again, his voice low and earnest. “I don’t want to be the man in that portrait, Maggie. Instead, I want to be alive, to live with passion and curiosity. I want to love you until Fate decrees we can’t love anymore. I want you to love me with the same ferocity.”
She clasped her hands in front of her. Had she laced her corset too tightly this morning? In the future, she should take care not to do so again, especially if McDermott was going to take her breath away with his words.
“What do you mean, Franklin can come to London?”
He smiled, as if he knew she couldn’t address the subject of love right at this moment. She was trembling inside, and she wasn’t entirely certain she was going to be able to continue this conversation without bursting into tears. She wasn’t an overly emotional female, but she was coming close to the boundaries of her own restraint.
“I’m going to stand for MP again. I’ve been told there’s a good chance I’ll be elected. It’s the one way I can help the plight of the Highlanders.”
She turned and walked to the other side of the room and sat in a chair beside a small table. The room was dim, but the afternoon outside was sunny so the atmosphere was gray. Not entire darkness, only an illusion of it, almost like gloaming.
Margaret abruptly stood and opened the curtains, almost defiantly banishing the gloom. This view was of the lane, and the trees standing guard on either side.
She turned back to him, then the painting. Slowly, she approached the easel again, and reached to the side of it where a small table stood. On the table, until now shrouded in darkness, was a small drawstring green velvet bag. She picked it up, and heard the clink of coins.
“Gold sovereigns,” he said. “I could have had it changed to notes, but I like the clink of the coins.”
“For me?” she asked. “Another inducement to marry you?”
“It’s your money from Russia. What was owed to you.”
How much more was she supposed to endure without bursting into tears? She carefully replaced the bag back on the table.
“You’ve been busy,” she said.
“I have.”
He was standing there watching her. She could tell, because the blush was radiating up from her bosom to encompass her neck and her cheeks.
She looked at the painting rather than at him. In the corner of the canvas, barely seen, was a flounce of her skirt. A casual watcher might think it a part of the drapery or a backdrop of sorts. In her mind, however, she saw herself slightly off to the side, watching him intently and being unprepared to do anything else, captivated by his appearance, his sadness, and his character.
He came and stood behind her, his hands gripping her shoulders, pulling her back against him. His breath on her temple nearly weakened her resolve to remain strong.
“I cannot be the wife of a Member of the House of Lords. You cannot have a wife who’s an artist. I cannot marry an earl. I can’t be a countess.” Despite her resolve to appear calm, her voice sounded panicked.
“You asked me once if I was only defined by my title. And I’m answering you. I’m Robert McDermott. Can you marry me?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him.
“That isn’t fair, McDermott, using my own words as weapons.”
He smiled. “I’ll use any weapon at my disposal, Maggie. You aren’t to be wooed with soft words but with cannon fire.”
She shook her head. “I can’t stop being who I am, not even for you. Painting is something that’s part of me. It is me.”
“Have I asked you to give up anything of yourself, Maggie? Have I asked you to stop being an artist?”
“No.”
“All I ask is that you love me, that you share your life with me. More than that, I don’t have the right to ask. Nor shall I.”
She held herself tight, feeling as if she would shatter into a hundred pieces if she didn’t.
“The woman I fell in love with is an artist. Why should I ask you to alter that which makes you unique? Why should I ask you to give up your talent as payment for love?”
“You need a wife who would be pleased to be nothing more than a wife,” she said, pushing the words past lips that felt numb. “Someone who would want nothing more than to care for you.”
Silence stretched between them. “I don’t ask you to be Amelia, Maggie.”
“Even if I insist on painting all night? Even if I grow sad, and you don’t know why? Even if there are times when I need to be alone, with nothing else but my brushes and a blank canvas?”
“Only if you know there are times when I, too, need the same. When I need to be reading or just lost in my thoughts.”
She could almost see it, the complicity of two people intent upon their individual desires. When the day was done or when one of them was bored or needed the other, they could come together to hold a hand, share a kiss or a thought.
What would her life be like if she were loved?
“Are you going to lie and say you don’t feel the same for me as I do for you, Maggie?”
She shook her head.
“Then are you going to say something fool
ish like you don’t deserve me?”
“It’s probably closer to the truth that you don’t deserve me,” she said.
She felt, rather than heard, him chuckle.
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her temple. “I want to feel alive, Maggie, for as long as I have life. I’m alive with you. For a very long time I didn’t feel that way.”
“Perhaps it took those years to say farewell,” she said. “To say farewell to Amelia.”
“Amelia’s my past, Maggie,” he said. “You’re my future.”
She turned and regarded him steadily.
“You do love me.”
It was more a statement than a question, and one he responded to by folding his arms in front of him and smiling.
“Of course I do. And you love me.”
“Of course I do,” she said.
She’d come to Blackthorne Cottage wrapped in misery, seeking a reason to live, and a miracle. The miracle had happened, but it wasn’t solely that she’d begun to paint again. She’d begun to feel again. She’d learned to laugh, to marvel at the seasons. Her curiosity had been aroused, and her heart touched. She’d gained two friends in Janet and Tom.
When she’d first come to this part of the Highlands, she’d been like an encased seed, buried beneath the frozen earth. She’d been enraged at the world, unable fully to understand what had happened to her, and singlemindedly protective of herself to the exclusion of all other emotions.
Somehow, spring had come to her soul. She’d put down roots and begun to sprout, tiny shoots appearing first before she began to flower. She’d allowed McDermott to touch her in passion and heat and felt only pleasure from it. She had held him in her arms and wanted to protect him, wanted to give something of herself that might aid in healing his wounds as ably as he’d healed hers.
She’d wanted to become better than she was, less selfish, less pragmatic, more giving. She’d been brought to tears by his pain and his loss, even as she envied him his capacity to love.
Once she hadn’t known anything about love, other than what she’d heard from her maid, who fancied herself in love with a footman, or from the court females expounding on their bed sport. She wasn’t certain what love was for anyone else, but she knew only too well what it meant for her.
