“Not the words a man wants to hear when he’s leaving on a voyage, Brianag.”
“You’ll be taking care, then?”
“I will,” he said.
“Then go on with you. We’ll be fine. But you should worry about us a little and come home quickly.”
“A Scotsman’s never as much a Scotsman as when he’s abroad, Brianag.”
“I’ve no knowledge of that. All I do know is Drumvagen will not be the same without you. Aince awa, aye awa.”
He wasn’t given to demonstrations of affection, but he leaned forward and put his arms around Brianag, who stiffened first, then reached up and patted his cheek.
A strong woman of long bones and firm muscles, she smelled of spices. And maybe Scotland, with hints of fresh wind and heather. Damn if he wasn’t going to miss their confrontations.
Drawing back, he said, “I’ll be back before you start to miss me.”
“You’re a good man, Macrath Sinclair. It’s guid ti hae yir cog out whan it rains kail.” When he looked at her, she translated: “You go, make the most of your opportunities. We’ll be here, waiting for you.”
He said farewell to the rest of the staff and found Mairi and Fenella standing by the carriage. Glancing back at his home, he marveled, once again, at the beauty of Drumvagen.
When he’d first seen the house, half done and abandoned, he couldn’t imagine how anyone could have walked away from the majesty being built. Yet here he was, doing the same. Not for the sake of his purse as much as his well-being. Perhaps once aboard the Princess, he’d be able to sleep at night. He’d be about creating his future and living his life.
Perhaps he’d even forget about a certain countess.
Chapter 15
London
March, 1870
If the weather were better, Virginia could have escaped to the garden. But the March morning was cold and wet, hinting that spring would be delayed this year. She settled for retreating to the conservatory.
Over the last year, Eudora had ordered topiary bushes to be placed around the fence, and they hid the carriage house and drying yard from sight. The honeysuckle vines were just starting to flourish after the winter, further shielding Virginia from the curious looks of her neighbors.
She was, after all, in the last stages of her pregnancy and not to be seen.
In her condition, she was expected to be invisible. Hardly possible since she was so large she could barely walk or lever herself out of a chair. But she didn’t want to be confined to her bedroom. Nor was she going to sit in the parlor and be conversed to death.
She’d never realized how much her in-laws liked to talk.
Laying her hand on the protruding mound of her stomach, she said, “Soon, my son.” From the beginning, she’d known this child was a boy.
Ever since midnight she’d been feeling uncomfortable. Her child, as if knowing, had ceased moving. Her back ached and from time to time she got twinges across her stomach, signs that her time was near.
She wanted her son to be born yet she knew the moment he was he’d be whisked from her and belong to others. Enid would ensure the world thought her a doting grandmother and Lawrence’s sisters warm and loving aunts. As his mother, however, she would be ignored from then on, her main task having been performed, providing the heir.
She stared longingly at the garden, sighed, and sank into the settee in the middle of the conservatory, the book of poetry Ellice had purchased for her in her hand.
Eudora possessed an uncanny ability for growing things. The lush plants surrounding her were deeply green and vibrant, smelling of fecund earth. Three plants had already begun to bloom, white peppery blossoms reminding her of spring.
Once again she lay her hand on her stomach. How fitting her son would be born in the season of renewal, the winter having passed.
For a few minutes she simply enjoyed the oasis of silence in a house of sound. She hoped the respite would last, that no one would suddenly say, “Oh, where is Virginia? She mustn’t be alone.”
She opened the book, thumbed through the sonnets, and started to read.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
A few minutes later she closed the book and hugged it to her chest.
Poetry was, perhaps, not the best choice of reading matter. Even now she couldn’t bear to read Tennyson or Burns. Soft words and romantic notions made her think about things she would be better off not remembering. Above all, she should not recall Macrath, the quirk of his smile, the way he stood as firm and unmovable as a pillar, his legs braced apart, his arms folded, like he dared someone to try to move him.
She should not think about the time when they’d been entwined with each other, still flush from loving, their hearts gradually slowing from the race to passion.
“I could get lost in your eyes,” he had said. “They’re so pale a blue they’re almost like clouds.”
“I never knew you had a penchant for poetry,” she said.
“I don’t, unless it’s around you. I love the color of your hair, for example,” he continued, twirling a lock around his finger. “I love how it’s so black it shines with its own kind of light. I love how your cheeks always turn pink when I compliment you.”
What had she said in return? She couldn’t remember. She’d probably kissed him and held him, eyes closed against the wonder of Macrath.
She skimmed the rest of the book, selecting another poem.
“Yes,” I answered you last night;
“No,” this morning, sir, I say.
Colors seen by candlelight,
Will not look the same by day.
Was everything going to remind her of Macrath?
No, poetry wasn’t wise. Poetry glorified the highs and lows of emotion. The authors were either rapturous with joy or immobile from grief.
She felt the same being with child. The fatigue and nausea had blessedly disappeared, to be replaced by emotions she couldn’t control. The sight of clouds overhead could summon tears. The sweet and warm scent of the honeysuckle caused her to weep. But she was just as easily annoyed, which was why she had found a quiet place in the conservatory rather than listening to the eternal chatter inside the parlor.
Perhaps she should read an adventure like Ivanhoe. Or something that would elevate her mind. She did not want to feel the pain of love lost or the joy of love found.
Would Macrath ever know of his son? For this ruse to work, he mustn’t. Yet she wanted to tell him, and the compulsion to do so was growing each day. He needed to know, even if in doing so she condemned herself to poverty.
But she didn’t wish that for her son.
For the sake of her child she had to remain silent.
“There you are.”
Virginia bit back a sigh, and wondered if there was anyplace she could truly escape. Was there anyplace Paul wasn’t?
He didn’t seem to do much during the day except walk around and watch everyone. When she’d suggested to Enid they might want to consider dismissing him, her mother-in-law said something vague in reply, avoiding an answer. Twice, she’d brought up the subject, and twice Enid deflected the question.
Evidently, keeping Lawrence’s attendant also kept Lawrence’s memory alive. Virginia had stopped commenting about Paul, but she also avoided him when she could.
She pointedly returned to her book, hoping he would get the hint and simply go away.
Instead, he took the chair opposite her.
Was he going to force her to be rude?
He regarded her with the intensity of a hawk, a habit of his that bothered her.
She didn’t look up but continued to read, staring at the words on the page.
“You’re lookin
g lovely today,” he said, breaking the silence.
Please go away.
She would have to take her courage in hand and talk to Enid again. This time she would insist on Paul’s dismissal. She’d tell her mother-in-law about all the times she turned to find Paul watching her. Not only was he always underfoot, but he questioned Hannah at length about their visit to Drumvagen.
She turned the page, hoping her silence would give him a hint she didn’t wish to be disturbed.
“I’ve heard that women who are with child look exceptionally lovely.”
She would not look up.
“It’s not much longer, is it? I wonder who the child will look like?”
Before she could frame an answer to his effrontery, Hannah came to the door.
“Your ladyship,” she said. “You’ve a visitor. Mrs. Montgomery. Do you wish to see her?”
She nodded. Not only was Ceana a friend, but her arrival would mean Paul would be forced to leave.
“Yes,” she said. “Ask her if she minds coming to the conservatory.” The alternative was she had to stand and waddle her way into the parlor. At least this way their conversation could be private.
Hannah turned and looked pointedly at Paul. He stood and without another word left the room.
“Was he bothering you, your ladyship?” Hannah asked, her eyes too sharp.
“What does he do all day?” Virginia asked, her eyes remaining on the doorway.
Hannah shrugged. “No good, I think. Are you certain you’re up for a visit?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m certain.”
She wiggled into the corner of the settee, piling the needlework around her. Not a good distraction, as it turned out, simply because she was so large.
Had Macrath’s mother been as huge?
She clasped her hands together, a gesture that was becoming difficult over the mound of her stomach. She’d told Hannah, more than once, that she truly didn’t need a tray on which to rest her tea things. Her stomach was more than capable of doing the job.
Ceana entered the room in a rush, handing her bonnet to Hannah. Macrath’s sister stopped a foot from the settee, staring at her.
“Good heavens, Virginia. No wonder I haven’t seen you lately. Are you feeling well?”
“Very well,” she said, not trying to hide her amusement. She stared down at herself. “I am large, aren’t I?”
“As a horse,” Ceana said, then covered her mouth with her gloved hand. “That’s hardly a compliment, is it? I shouldn’t say it, should I?”
Had Ceana always been so voluble and excited?
Her friend settled into the adjoining chair, pulling off her gloves and beaming at her all the while. Her hair was mussed from her bonnet, but she didn’t seem to care. Her eyes, so similar to Macrath’s, made Virginia wonder if her son would have the same shade.
“I just couldn’t wait. I wanted to tell someone. I’ve told Peter, of course, and he’s beyond overjoyed. I’ve written Mairi, but she’s in Scotland. I’ve written Macrath, but heaven knows when the letter will reach him. I wanted to tell you.”
What did she mean? She bit back her question about Macrath in favor of Ceana’s news.
“I’m going to have a child,” Ceana said, her smile as bright as a summer day. “Is it as marvelous as I think it must be?”
“After the first three months, it was for me,” she said. “Before that, I felt seasick all the time.” She wished she could lean forward, grab her friend’s hand or wrap her in a hug. In her position and as difficult as it was to rise, all she could do was smile at Ceana.
“You’ll be a wonderful mother,” she said. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Peter wants the baby to be born at Iverclaire,” Ceana said. “We’re leaving for Ireland tomorrow.” She sighed. “Which means I’ll be alone, with none of my family around. I wouldn’t mind but Macrath is so far away.” Looking directly at Virginia, she asked, “Does he know?”
For a hideous moment she thought Ceana had penetrated her masquerade.
“You asked for his address. I can only think you wished to communicate with him. Does he know about Lawrence?”
Dear God, she was so grateful Hannah wasn’t in the room.
Would the rest of her life be filled with moments like this one? Or, once her child was born, would everyone forget everything but the fact he was the eleventh Earl of Barrett?
“Does he know about your child?”
She shook her head.
“We really should have been sisters,” Ceana said.
For the blink of an eye Lawrence lingered between them, disembodied and ghostly.
How difficult it was to talk. She could barely push the words past the lump in her throat. “Macrath’s away?”
There, that sounded dispassionate enough. She didn’t reveal anything, did she?
“He’s in Australia. He’s been there for months and months. My Peter thinks he should be gone more, but then, he’s a bit intimidated by Macrath. Which he shouldn’t be. Peter is a paragon in his own right.”
Ceana’s husband was the younger son of an Irish duke, and a financial genius, from what she’d heard. He managed the family’s considerable fortune, increasing their wealth each year. Although he was several inches shorter than Ceana, her friend obviously adored him, as he did her.
“I think he should come home, but when he does he’ll probably bring a wife. How do you think an Australian wife will fare in Scotland?”
“As well as an American in England,” Virginia said.
Ceana was still talking. “I do hope our child will take after my family and not Peter’s. Two of his brothers have bright red hair.”
“Is he due back anytime soon?”
“Peter? Oh, you mean Macrath. We don’t know. When he left, he wouldn’t tell us when he was coming back. Perhaps there’s a reason he’s lingered. A woman might have kept him there.”
Would she stop saying that?
“Did he know?” Ceana asked.
For a second her mind would simply not focus.
Ceana’s smile faded as her eyes softened. “Dear Lawrence. Did he know he was going to be a father? How utterly sad, if so.”
She hadn’t considered the question and didn’t know how to respond now. She looked away, and a moment later one of the maids entered the room bearing a tea tray. Ceana served them, her concentration on the task releasing Virginia from having to tell another falsehood.
The maids knew to serve her only a special kind of green tea, one Enid had decreed would be good for her digestion. Thankfully, she had grown to like the vegetal taste, and sipped it now, grateful it gave her an excuse not to talk.
She hadn’t thought how difficult it would be to lie. Nor had she considered the questions people might ask. For the last several months she’d been a hermit at home, kept from society not only because of her mourning but her condition.
The rest of the conversation was blessedly Macrath free. They spoke of things maternal, including their wishes and hopes and dreams, all the while skirting over the topic of giving birth. Other matrons were more than happy to convey what a hideous experience it would be, how much pain they’d personally endured, and how fortunate each woman was to have survived it.
Listening to these stories seemed to be part of the entrance fee to a select and secret sisterhood.
Neither she nor Ceana mentioned the delivery, but it was on her mind as she bid her friend good-bye.
Was it easier to endure what was coming when a husband waited, anxious for news of an heir or a daughter? Did a husband’s love and affection mitigate everything a woman had to go through? She doubted Lawrence would have feigned any care or concern.
And Macrath? She could see him at her side, holding her hand, speaking softly, trying to take her mind from the pain.
How odd that she’d thought him at Drumvagen all these months and he’d not been there. He’d been fixed in her mind as walking the moors, working in his ice laboratory, striding from r
oom to room, and all this time he’d been in Australia.
She should have known somehow. She should have felt him gone.
Pain suddenly stretched across her stomach like a fierce band. She gasped, wondering when it would ease. She was being broken in two. Closing her eyes, she clenched her hands on her skirt. All she had to do was endure it. From what Enid said, the pain came in waves.
This wasn’t a wave. This was a celestial hand squeezing her belly.
Gradually, the pain eased. She sat against the back of the settee, weakened.
Perhaps it was all those thoughts of Macrath, but her son was suddenly anxious to be born. She had to tell Enid her time had come.
Paul stood outside in the garden, watching the conservatory.
She was ignoring him. Despite his solicitude, Virginia rarely paid him any attention.
Didn’t she understand what it was like to see her round with another man’s child? When the whelp was born she would devote all her attention to the infant.
His mother had been the same. She kept them clean, as much as she was able, and as fed as she could manage. She patted his cheek with his palm, sent him off after his father every morning with a look in her eye that said she’d do it differently if she could.
A son of his would never have to do what he had. A daughter would be feted like any countess.
He knew the baby wasn’t Lawrence’s. Did she truly think people would believe such a thing? Lawrence hated her. He had more occasion to know what Lawrence felt than anyone else.
Her friend left and she sat there for a while, her gaze turned inward. He was about to move away when he realized something was wrong.
Through the glass of the conservatory, he could see Virginia leaning back, her face etched in pain.
He left the garden, entering the house, and reached her side.
“Enid,” she said, her voice quavering. “Tell Enid.”
Karen Ranney Page 13
