Karen Ranney

by The Devil of Clan Sinclair

  Hannah didn’t say anything, merely unstoppered one of the bottles. A pleasant minty odor emerged as she poured the contents onto a bandage then began to wrap it around one of Virginia’s hands.

  She stared down at her hand, more afraid than she’d ever been. Was this punishment for her actions? She had grievously sinned, but Elliot needed her. She didn’t want her son to grow up without his mother, as she had.

  Hannah regarded her somberly for a moment, then finally smiled. “You aren’t going to die, your ladyship.”

  “Eudora did,” she said, looking at her. She could no longer blink back her tears. Dear God, she was so afraid. “So did the scullery maid.”

  Hannah nodded. “They didn’t have me caring for them, now did they?”

  Virginia wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, closed her eyes and said her prayers, like a child again in upstate New York, the only child of a rich and powerful man. Except this time the prayer was absurdly simple and didn’t mention her father, her governess, or her dog.

  Please, God, protect my child. Please don’t let me die.

  Between Sydney and London

  July, 1870

  The air was heavy on his skin, pressing in on him. Macrath could do without sea spray in his face, coating his hair and stiffening his clothes. He was tired of the ocean. Tired of the endless noise of his own ice machine. Tired, too, of traveling. He wanted to be home at Drumvagen. Home in Scotland where he didn’t have to eternally explain that, no, he wasn’t immigrating to Australia like so many Scots he’d met.

  He’d met more Scots in Australia than in London.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Sinclair,” Captain Allen called out, motioning him to his side.

  Macrath moved to stand next to the captain on the bridge.

  Allen reminded him of a Highland bull, with the mop of his hair falling down on his brow and his wide, blunt nose. Even the captain’s beard, trimmed to a point, fit the picture.

  “The Crown threw their cargo overboard this morning,” Allen said with a grin. “Rancid meat, most like.” He pointed to a dark horizon. “They may be faster than we are,” he said. “But their ice room isn’t better than yours.”

  “They chose insulation and nothing else,” Macrath said. “They’ve no machine on board.”

  “All is well with yours, I trust?”

  The Sinclair Ice Company had provided the machinery for Captain Allen’s ship. Macrath’s model worked on air compression and expansion. Installing it on the Fortitude required it be powered by the main boiler. He and Jack had insulated the refrigeration room with charcoal and wool batting. The frozen beef, mutton, lamb, and butter were wrapped in wool and the surrounding air withdrawn, cooled, and expanded back into the chamber. To spare the machinery, he turned it off for hours at a time, but monitored the temperature in the chamber before and after doing so, to ensure the cargo remained frozen.

  “The temperature is well within acceptable ranges,” he said now.

  “You think, then, that we’ll reach London with the cargo safe?”

  “Ready to be eaten by the good citizens of England,” Macrath said.

  “It’s about time the world tasted Australian beef,” the other man said.

  He grinned at the captain, who smiled back. Together, the two of them stood to win not only a large purse for this contest between ships, but bragging rights as well.

  “Your achievement is remarkable, Macrath,” Allen said. “I didn’t think I’d be impressed but damned if I’m not.”

  Macrath smiled. He liked this Australian. “It’s a good design,” he said. “The ice room holds in the cold as well.”

  “I would never have thought of using wool for insulation. Nor did I expect you to have the machine running clear across the ocean.”

  Two of his three competitors had opted to build a cold room, while the third chose to use ether as a refrigerant. Macrath had built a cold room as well, along with a protective shed for the latest version of his ice machine. He and Jack had spent most of the voyage wiping the machinery down, keeping it clean of salt spray, and praying it lasted the duration of the voyage.

  The Fortitude was powered by steam and had cut the trip between Sydney and London to about sixty days, a savings of almost half the time of a clipper. He’d sent Sam home aboard the Princess, and they might reach Scotland before him.

  The Grafton had started dumping its cargo two weeks out of Sydney. With the news that the Crown was out of the running, too, the Magellan was their only competition.

  “We’ve a fortnight till London,” the captain said, “but I’ve a wager you’ll win.”

  “A wager you’ve made with the other captains?”

  “Aye,” the man said, grinning at him. “We’ll have one of those haunches of beef you’re cooling for us.”

  They spoke of the voyage for a few more minutes before Macrath turned back to his machine. Tending it all these days had been wearing, but not if he won the wager.

  In a fortnight he’d be in the city where she lived.

  He’d tried not to think of her, the second time he’d attempted to wipe his memory clean. He’d given a valiant effort to eradicate all thoughts of loving her, of that time in the grotto, of her kisses, her whispers, the sound she made when she found pleasure in his arms.

  In the process, he’d been willing to admit he was only human and some memories were not easily forgotten.

  Even now he could summon her simply by closing his eyes. He could feel her, pliant in his arms, her breasts overflowing his hands, her laughter echoing in his ears. She trembled the first time he’d kissed her. In Scotland she’d done the same, but without the intrusion of prying eyes he was able to hold her close until she was the impatient one. Until she reached up and kissed him back.

  How the hell could he forget that memory?

  He wasn’t a man who confided his feelings to others, but on nights like these, when the stars peered down at him like a million interested eyes, he wished there was someone to whom he could say, “I was a fool not to court Miss McDermott. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t possess a throaty laugh or eyes reminding me of clouds. Nor was she to blame for my being unable to get Virginia’s face from my mind.”

  If he were honest he might have said, “I should hate her for leaving me. For choosing a title over me.”

  Despite her protestations, being the Countess of Barrett had meant more to her than anything else. More than staying in Scotland with him. More than his feelings for her. More than his love.

  The stars, winking above a black sea, were silent.

  London

  July, 1870

  In her delirium, Virginia was a girl again, racing through the woods near Cliff House, laughing. In the next instant she was standing on the bluff overlooking the Hudson River shining blue-gray and bearded by strips of forest. Her father owned most of the land she saw, but he rarely seemed pleased about his possessions. Or her, for that matter.

  Then she was swinging, her skirts in the air, her stomach plummeting as she soared, her nurse fussing at her to be less of a hoyden and more of a young lady.

  Her dog, Patches, was barking beside her as she ran from the porch of Cliff House across the wide expanse of lawn to the woods. She loved the woods bordering the white painted house above the Hudson, loved the smell of the rich, loamy soil, and the sweet scent of the purplish white flowers growing in wild abandon.

  Suddenly she was in the ballroom, having to walk a straight line from one side of the room to the other, turn and walk back over the parquet floor to the other wall while maintaining a rigid posture, her chin level, an insipid smile painted on her face. The voices of her governesses, three in all because they’d each failed in some way to please her father, rang in her ears. The dancing master despaired of her, but she was good at balancing a book on her head, keeping her two feet parallel to each other, and pretending she was walking on a train track. There were so many rules to learn. More rules than countries and capital cities.
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  Her skirts must not sway. She must, above all, know the names of the guests attending her father’s annual summer party. She must be seen but never heard, unless her father asked her a question, and then she must reply as quickly as possible with the right answer so as not to embarrass him.

  Her governess was rarely pleased with her, unless it came to spelling or geography. She was good at both, less competent at mathematics, and not at all interested in French or Italian.

  “Why can’t I just speak English?” she asked in her fevered dream.

  Her governess sharply rapped her knuckles for that question.

  “I have a child,” she said, pulling the ruler from the governess’s grasp. “He’s the most wonderful child in the world,” she added in perfect Italian. “Have you any children? Has any man loved you?”

  The scene shifted yet again and she was standing beside Lawrence’s coffin. In the way of delirium and dreams, she knew some of what she was experiencing had been true. She felt the sleek mahogany of the coffin top and remembered touching it and the brass nameplate there.

  Then she was standing inside the burial plot, and the caretaker lowered Lawrence’s coffin to her. She perched atop it, her hoop billowing around her waist, as they piled dirt on top of her. Her pantaloons were covered in dirt and she was missing one shoe.

  Abruptly, it was no longer Lawrence’s coffin but Eudora’s. Poor Eudora was screaming in disbelief. Ellice was pointing at her and giggling.

  None of the mourners seemed to think anything was amiss as both of them were buried alive. Not one person said anything, even Macrath, who stood at the end of the burial plot, looking down at her with a severe expression.

  “Will you help me?” she asked, stretching up one hand.

  His fingertips touched hers, and just when she thought he would grip her hand, he pulled back.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you loved Lawrence?”

  “I didn’t. It was you, Macrath. I always loved you.”

  She called out for him and only heard Hannah’s voice. “Hush, your ladyship. Someone will hear you.”

  Abruptly, she was a child again, being told to be quieter. “You’ll wake the dead with your laughter, Virginia Elizabeth.”

  Mommy? Where was Mommy?

  “Your mother died at your birth, Virginia. It’s a hard lesson for a little girl to learn, but learn it you must.”

  Enid rapped her on the knuckles with a ruler. “You should never have married Lawrence. You can’t speak French.”

  She was running in the rain. She loved the rain, storms, and thunder. Cliff House was always secure and safe, perched as it was above the Hudson, the home of a man who’d become wealthy by being ruthless.

  Cliff House magically became Drumvagen. She was happy there. So much delight filled her that she was nearly weak with joy. She wanted to hug everyone she saw, or kiss them on the cheek in gratitude for sharing this day with her. They’d come from so far away to celebrate with her.

  She was dressed in white, her long veil trailing behind her. She approached the altar in Drumvagen’s chapel. Macrath slowly turned and smiled at her.

  In the next instant Macrath changed, becoming Lawrence, but not the sickly husband she’d known. Instead, he was a grinning corpse who held out a skeletal hand. Repulsed, she pulled away, just as he became Paul, leering at her.

  She glanced around for Macrath but he was nowhere to be seen. She was no longer at Drumvagen. Instead, she was in London again.

  The world faded to gray, then black, as she descended into nothingness with relief.

  Chapter 19

  London

  July, 1870

  They’d arrived in London yesterday and were directed to their quay at dawn. Now Macrath could hear conversations and cursing in a dozen different languages. The noise of creaking winches vied with the rumble of wheels against the cobbles as a procession of empty wagons appeared on the pier.

  Masts of sleek clippers stood next to iron hulled steamers, each one at the end of a voyage starting a world away, bringing spices, cloth, china, and mail from such places as Shanghai, Foochow, Zebu, and Yokohama.

  Granaries and warehouses edged nose to tail on the quay alongside the offices set aside for business. Captains would meet with shipowners or their factors, produce their logbooks, and give an accounting before signing over their cargo.

  “It’s a fair day, Mr. Sinclair,” Captain Allen said from behind him. “A good day to win, I’m thinking.”

  Macrath turned and greeted the man. The tip of Captain Allen’s beard was being blown upward by the breeze, calling attention to the man’s grin.

  “It’s a good day, Captain Allen.”

  They were the last of the four ships to reach the East India Dock, but the only one with a frozen cargo. Forty tons of it, which meant the Fortitude—and the Sinclair Ice Company—had won the race from Australia to England.

  He wasn’t celebrating just yet. Politics could come into play. Two of his rivals were Australian, and their nationality might factor into the awarding of the contract. Or it might not, since his competitors had to jettison their cargo.

  Regardless of the ultimate outcome, he still had bragging rights, and he would ensure that men who’d been tentative about purchasing one of his machines knew who had won this race.

  He liked being able to plan something on paper, develop it, build it, and have it work the way he’d seen it in his mind. If he built a flywheel to turn clockwise, it didn’t suddenly decide to rotate counterclockwise.

  Maybe he should only deal with machines and leave humans alone.

  “Will you be going home to Scotland now, Mr. Sinclair? Or is it back to Australia for you?”

  “I think it’s home, Captain,” he said.

  Drumvagen called to him. So did being able to work on a new version of his ice machine, a new design that had come to him on the voyage.

  Jack, too, was anxious to return to Scotland. The other man was visiting Edinburgh first before returning to Drumvagen.

  “While you’re here, you should see something of our city. London is like no other place on earth.”

  “I know London well,” he said, telling him of Ceana’s season.

  “Then you’ll be off reacquainting yourself with old friends.” Allen lifted a hand in a signal to his first mate. “Let me know where you’re staying,” he said as he walked away, “and I’ll buy you a tankard or two in the way of thanks.”

  Macrath turned back to his place along the rail, watching as the Fortitude’s frozen cargo was wheeled out of his ice room with Jack directing the activity.

  Nearby, pepper was being offloaded. He could taste it in the back of his throat. Crates of tea were being stacked at the end of the pier. As he stood there, a factor approached, met with two other men and started counting.

  What friends did he have in London? A few businessmen with whom he had a nodding relationship. A solicitor he’d employed to look over some of his English contracts.

  Virginia.

  If he sought Virginia out, it would be tantamount to admitting to her and the world how much he’d missed her, how much she was in his thoughts.

  She’d turned her back on him. She walked away when he asked her to stay. All he’d gotten in return was the scent of roses and memories relentlessly haunting him.

  Where was his pride? Caught and captured by an American lass with a lilting laugh.

  For someone who called herself fearful, she was remarkably courageous. Why else would she come to Scotland only days after being widowed? To test him? Had she come to him to see if he felt the same about her as she did about him?

  Had he failed her test somehow?

  What had he done wrong? For that matter, what could he have done to keep her in Scotland?

  Whenever he worked on a machine, the ultimate design began as a plan, but evolved as a prototype. What might have looked functional when he started might be tossed in the manufacturing process. Give and take, trial and error, they were al
l vital to a successful finished product.

  He had the inkling that the same process would work in relationships, especially this relationship. They were drawn to each other by strong emotions and pulled apart by circumstances, first of her father’s making, and then because she was the Countess of Barrett, newly widowed.

  Enough time had passed that she wouldn’t shock the world by marrying now.

  Nor would he be guided by his pride when he might find happiness.

  “I can’t work like this, Mr. Paul,” the maid said, sniffing into the corner of her apron.

  If it hadn’t already been stained with the polish she’d spilled earlier, he would have demanded she find a handkerchief instead.

  “With her looking out of the corner of her eye at me like she’s waiting for me to make a mistake.”

  “Cook is overworked like the rest of us,” he said, hoping to calm the girl. “I doubt she cares as much about what you’re doing as long as it doesn’t affect her workload.”

  “She wants me to clean the pots. I’m no scullery maid,” she said.

  Did she know she stunk of onions, so strongly that the library reeked?

  He smiled, an expression that had always caused the maids to flutter their eyelashes and giggle. In the last month, however, his smile had no effect on the female staff at all.

  The household was in shambles, but he was trying to muster everyone together. He was the de facto majordomo since Albert had left and the position was vacant. Eudora had died, the dowager countess had taken to her rooms, Virginia was ill, and Ellice was too young to assume any command. He alone was there to mitigate the disagreements and hear the whines and complaints from the ten staff members.

  The maids listened better than the men. He had fired the stable master for insubordination, but the man was refusing to leave.

  “I don’t take my orders from you,” he said. “When the dowager countess fires me, I’ll consider myself gone. But not by you.”

  The stable master’s mutiny had been joined by the coachman. Hosking was another one he’d fire when he got the power.

  “All the downstairs maids are taking turns,” he said to the girl now. “You can’t expect Cook to fix all the meals and scrub all the dishes.”