by Karen Ranney
“You don’t want to hear what I’m thinking, Davina. It’s better if I remain silent.”
She welcomed the surge of anger.
“You’ve made a prisoner of yourself, Marshall. It’s not the Chinese who are doing it to you this time.”
His gaze fixed on her.
“What would you have me do, Davina? Inflict myself on the world? Run howling through the streets of Edinburgh, a madman for all to point at?”
“I don’t know how to answer that,” she said, giving him the whole truth. “In all actuality, Marshall, I don’t know how to answer most of your inquiries. All I know is that—”
She halted. He was not in the mood for undying avowals of affection.
“You haven’t left China at all,” she said gently. “Oh, the location of the prison might be different, but you’re still there.”
He stared at her unblinking. She couldn’t help but wonder if, at this moment, he hated her. Sometimes, messengers of the truth were reviled.
In the end, however, she stepped back, knowing there was nothing between her and the door. Nothing between her and Edinburgh.
She left before he could see her cry.
Chapter 22
“It’s all very well, Nora, but you needn’t glower at me that way. I’m quite aware of your sentiments in the matter.”
“No, Your Ladyship,” Nora said meekly, but Davina wasn’t fooled. The maid was obviously annoyed.
“I would prefer it, once we reach Edinburgh, if you did not tell anyone what transpired at Ambrose,” Davina said.
“No, Your Ladyship.”
“After all it’s no one’s concern but mine.”
“No, Your Ladyship.”
She sent an irritated look toward Nora, but Nora only smiled in response. A particularly annoying smile, as it turned out.
Davina stifled her sigh and looked out the window, wishing that the journey was done. On the other hand, she was in no hurry to explain to her aunt why she’d returned to Edinburgh barely a month after her marriage. With her husband’s blessing, no less. No, with his encouragement. Perhaps that wasn’t altogether correct, but Marshall certainly hadn’t done anything to prevent her departure. She’d waited for him to appear in the doorway to her room, but he never came.
How very odd that the carriage wheels replicated those words, as if taunting her about Marshall’s inattentiveness. He never came…he never came…he never came.
She closed her eyes before the tears began to fall.
Please—and she addressed her imploration to a higher power with more sympathy than He’d advanced over the last several weeks. Please, do not let Nora tell tales. It was one thing to be a scandal because of her own actions. Quite another for scandal to be attached to Marshall. Nor did she want to be known as an unwanted bride. That was another refrain the wheels echoed. No one wants you…no one wants you…no one wants you.
If she didn’t do something quickly, she’d lapse into a decidedly morose period. She’d begin to feel sorry for herself, an attitude that never accomplished anything. She’d become a pitiful creature, not unlike Mary Beth Cahil, a woman of advancing years who would stop anyone on the street and regale him with tales of her once handsome and attentive suitor. The man had proven false, however, a fact that Mary Beth reminded anyone who wasn’t quick enough to avoid her. She was a lone, pitiful creature, with unkempt hair and her dress often askew, dragging her shawl behind her.
Davina’s world had crumbled as well, but her husband hadn’t proven false. Instead, Marshall was imbued with too much nobility, perhaps.
She wanted the world back the way it was a day ago. She wanted the time back so that she could hold herself a little more in reserve, not be as silly or revelatory. How foolish she was to speak everything in her heart. She most especially wanted those times when she’d held him close and thought about how much she was coming to love him.
“If anyone asks, Nora,” she said, keeping her eyes shut, “I am here for some shopping. Nothing more.”
“Yes, Your Ladyship.”
She sent another irritated glance in Nora’s direction, but just as earlier, the maid didn’t appear the least bit discomfited by her growing annoyance. If anything, Nora seemed almost pleased to have elicited some reaction from Davina.
“You know, Nora, that an aggressive female is not attractive. This time apart might be an asset. Perhaps Michael will begin to miss you.”
“I haven’t an interest in Michael, Your Ladyship. But thank you for your counsel.” She glanced at Davina and smiled. “Is that what this is, Your Ladyship? A chance to make the earl miss you?”
“Don’t be spiteful, Nora. Or too familiar.”
Nora didn’t bother to respond this time, but she raised one eyebrow rather imperiously, as if she were not a maid at all but some sort of regal creature. How very odd that the gesture reminded Davina instantly of her aunt.
Davina closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. It didn’t make the journey go faster, especially since she was reminded of Marshall with each passing moment.
She’d never before considered that love might render her an absolute idiot. She was no longer a creature of reason or logic or curiosity. She was simply a woman who was thoroughly, completely, and absolutely miserable.
Perhaps it wasn’t exactly true to say that her logic had departed; the fact was, rational thinking simply didn’t matter. Her curiosity, her restless mind, brought her nothing in return—no satisfaction, no joy at learning something new, no answer when curiosity was satisfied.
Yet a smile from Marshall would ease her pain. The sight of him standing there, his hand outstretched, would have eliminated every dark corner of her soul.
Perhaps she truly was an idiot after all.
What if he was guilty of the hideous acts he’d confessed to doing? What if he indeed had been a coward, sacrificing his men for his own survival?
How did she stop loving him?
If it was true that a person could not be loved unless he was without sin, then the world would be a cold and loveless place. At what point was a man rendered unlovable? What deeds must he commit before he was deemed unworthy?
There were no answers, only questions, and the farther they traveled away from Ambrose, the less certain Davina was that she was making the right decision.
By the time their journey was over, Davina was ready for the confrontation with her aunt. Theresa was going to make her opinion known, simply because she had an opinion about everything. Most of those opinions would not allow for Davina’s fallibility. She was always to be a little better, a little more learned, a little more charming, but not overtly so. Her father had been a well-respected scholar, and her family was related to a duke. They were not rabble.
However, Davina needed to find a tactful way to tell her aunt that her life and marriage was none of her concern. Her relationship with Marshall was not going to be muddied with the interference of another. There were enough people in her marriage—ghosts and goblins and demons; Davina was not about to willingly invite anyone else into the union.
“Good evening, Mrs. McAdams,” she said to her aunt’s housekeeper. The woman was as old as God, and she shuffled around with an old wooden cane, but Theresa would never have dismissed her—nor would Mrs. McAdams have willingly gone. No doubt one day they would find the poor dear dead in her bed with her cane beside her pillow, ready to answer a summons at a moment’s warning.
“Would you send word to my aunt that I am here, please?”
The best thing to do was to simply address the issue immediately. Get the worst out of the way, although in this case the worst had already happened—leaving Marshall.
Mrs. McAdams, bless the old dear, just blinked at Davina, her surprise evident even though she didn’t say a word.
“Mrs. McAdams,” Davina gently reminded her.
Mrs. McAdams finally shook her head. “She’s not here. Off to London, she is. I don’t expect her for a fortnight. She gave the staff a week off
, she did. There’s no one here but me.”
“Well, we can certainly manage,” Davina said, feeling relief seep through her that the confrontation wouldn’t be coming today.
She gestured to the coachman and sent instructions via Nora that her trunks were to be brought to her room. Her unmarried room. Her room with its narrow little bed and its view of the square. The room she’d seen last on the day of her wedding.
Dear God, but she felt horrible.
She’d left him. Without a backward glance, she’d simply driven away. Her silhouette had been stony, determination aging her face.
Was this what he’d done to her? When she’d first arrived at Ambrose, surprise, concern, delight, and even fear had shown so quickly over her delicate features. Now, however, she looked as if she felt nothing. Either that or she was determined not to reveal her emotions to him.
What had he done?
He’d kept her safe from him, but the effort of doing so left him feeling almost bereft.
He wanted her back. As he watched the carriage descend into the wooded area surrounding Ambrose and out of his sight, he could nearly feel his heart being wrenched from his chest. Even his stomach lurched as if he knew what the next day, the following weeks and months without her would be like.
What utter rot.
He’d survived well enough without her; he would learn to do so now. Her incursion into his life had been a serendipitous miracle, something he’d not expected and a time he’d always remember. He’d learned in China to segregate the memories that were precious and keep them isolated lest they be tainted by the reality of the rest of his life. This month with her would remain just like that, a bubble within his memory, a special time never to be replicated but always to be cherished.
He turned and walked from the edge of the parapet down the circular stairs that led to the top floor of Ambrose. From there he turned to the left and headed for his suite. Right at this moment, he didn’t want comfort of an intellectual sort. Instead he craved solitude, perhaps sleep. If that wouldn’t come, he’d steep himself in wine, at least until the memories faded. Memories, not of China or his dead men, but of Davina, precious and rare, courageous and stubborn.
His wife. His love.
He pushed thoughts of her away in a gesture of self-preservation. He could not think of her now. He would not think of her now. He would banish all thoughts of her, and if they stole into his mind errantly, he would simply be disciplined enough to push them away.
The wound was still too raw.
Jacobs was in his chamber, and Marshall waved him away. Even the presence of his valet, normally unobtrusive, was an irritant right now.
Jacobs, however, refused to be banished. He followed Marshall into his study. When Marshall turned to reprimand the man, it was to witness the most surprising expression on the older man’s face, an expression that Marshall had seen only once—when he’d told him about Daniel.
“You look as if you’re about to cry, man,” Marshall said.
“Your Lordship, I feel that way, begging your pardon.”
Jacobs thrust something toward him, and Marshall was too surprised to do anything but react. He grabbed the package and stared down at it in confusion.
“What is this?”
“Something Her Ladyship wished me to give you, Your Lordship,” Jacobs said, his round face appearing like that of a dejected chipmunk.
“And that is what has you nearly in tears?”
“No, Your Lordship. It’s what’s inside the package. I knew your mother well, you see. I came to know her in the last days. A more warmhearted and kind person I could not hope to meet. She inspired great loyalty, Your Lordship, and great love.”
“My mother?”
Jacob nodded. “Your mother’s journals, I believe. That’s what Her Ladyship said. She wanted you to read them, especially the last one.”
Marshall didn’t respond, merely turned and walked toward his chair. He dropped the package on the seat, and without looking at Jacobs, addressed his valet.
“That will be all,” he said, and waited for the sound of the man leaving the room. He braced himself for some sort of confrontation, more poignant comments about his long-dead mother, but Jacobs left the room without speaking again.
Marshall glanced over his shoulder to see the door being slowly shut. He suddenly felt as if he’d been walled into this room. He looked down at the seat cushion, and the books wrapped in brown paper and twine. She’d not written his name anywhere. She had not left him a last message. Or perhaps she had somehow, by providing his mother’s journals.
He hadn’t even known his mother had written in a journal. She’d never mentioned that fact to him.
What the hell. The day had been melancholy enough—he might as well suffuse himself in emotion.
He broke the string and pulled the paper off the journals and then sat on the chair holding the books in his arms. There were ten of them, and they stretched from before his birth to the year of her death.
As a boy, he’d adored his mother. As an adolescent, he’d been confused about his parents’ estrangement. It was nothing they ever spoke about, and he did not doubt that they would have corrected him had he ever mentioned it.
His father was simply allowed to pursue his ambitions and his dreams, even if they led him to a country thousands of miles away. His mother, in turn, had been patient and waiting, never complaining, simply remaining in Scotland, the perfect wife.
He pulled open the last book. There were at least two-thirds of the pages untouched. As if daring himself, he scanned the last few written pages.
I have thought about life a great deal lately. I have wondered at it, tenuous, fleeting, and such a blessing. Why is it that we never realize what a true blessing life is until such time as it is nearly taken from us? Wouldn’t it be better if we knew the exact moment of our deaths? If we knew how many more months or weeks or days we had on this earth? Would we be tempted to waste them, then? Or would we spend each one in joyful contemplation of the sight of a sunset, a butterfly, or marvel at the sweet lilting laugh of those whom we cherish?
My companion is finding it hard to write these words. I don’t wish to make her sad, so I will stop for a while. She has readied my medicine, and I, the grateful patient, will dutifully take what she offers. Death should not be so painful, I think.
His mother’s words were a knife slicing through his composure. He flipped a couple of pages, and settled on a less painful paragraph, one that surprisingly mentioned him.
I worry about Marshall. He has learned lessons from his father and me, lessons that I am not proud of teaching. He has learned to be independent, and that is a fine thing, in moderation. He has learned to need no one, and that disturbs me. He will be a fine earl, this I know, even though he has had little training at it. He has a well-developed sense of propriety and responsibility, and those traits will serve him well.
Marshall skipped ahead a few pages.
My life has been like sand, dry and arid. It could have been so much more. I could have had so much more joy. I like laughter, and there was never enough of it. I like to smile and please people, and there were never enough people in my life to make happy. I love the touch of another’s hand on mine or a kind hand upon my shoulder, and there were never enough people in my life to touch me or for me to touch.
I would have Marshall’s life be different. I would have him live completely, not as his father did. Nor as I did, but wholly, fully.
Leanne is looking at me with some concern. I do believe that it is a sign that I must rest. I wonder if my journals shall ever be read? I hope in one sense that they are. Someone will know who I was, and perhaps remember me. I shall have no obelisk to mark my presence in the world. Only the gardens, and my journals.
Marshall put down the book and poured himself a glass of wine. Oblivion was a fine goal. Oblivion, and forgetfulness, and nothingness, perhaps.
A knock on the door preceded Jacobs’s entrance. His val
et carried a tray on which sat a full carafe of wine. What a perfect servant Jacobs was—prescient and perceptive. He was once more composed, a genial chipmunk again.
“Mrs. Murray sent this, Your Lordship.”
Marshall nodded, watching as the man transferred the full vessel for the one he’d just emptied.
Had he made arrangements for Jacobs? The man was aging, and couldn’t continue with his duties that much longer. There was gray in his brown hair, and lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago. In the event of his death, Jacobs must be compensated for his years of loyalty to the Ross family.
If only he could remember that thought in the morning.
He had the odd and unwelcome sensation of being poised upon the brink of madness, so feathery light and without substance that a gust of wind could decide his fate. The time since China had only illuminated the acute aloneness of his existence. Now he found himself even more conscious of his hermitage. Because of his mother’s words or because Davina had left him?
“Do you know the Wisdom of Hamenup, Jacobs?”
“I do not believe so, Your Lordship.”
“In Egypt, it was the tradition that an experienced scribe wrote down instructions on life, what you might call the literature of wisdom for the younger scribes. Hamenup was considered one of the wisest of the old men. One of his passages read:
‘The heart is not hardened by using it
For it is a vessel meant to be filled.
It is only the pot left empty
That cracks in the heat of the sun.’”
Jacobs only bowed low and left the room without a word. What, after all, could he have said?
Chapter 23
“You need to eat something, Your Ladyship.”
Nora stood at the entrance of the room, holding a tray. Davina waved her to a nearby table. “Go ahead and put it there, Nora.”
“Will you eat, Your Ladyship?”
It hardly seemed proper to be called Your Ladyship, especially since she had left His Lordship, but that was not a comment she’d make to Nora. Or to anyone else, for that matter.
