by Karen Ranney
“Nigel Wescott,” she said, glancing up at the portrait.
“General Wescott?” Alisdair asked, surprised. Wescott was the man who might well have sent his father to the gallows, had the MacRaes not been able to escape.
“We struck up a friendship, the general and I,” Patricia said, reminiscing. “The night your father and the MacRaes left Scotland, we discovered a great many things in common.”
“Because of you, they were able to leave,” he told her. “They never forgot your courage,” he added. “A great many baby girls were named Patricia in honor of you.”
Patricia smiled. “Thank you for telling me that, but I’m afraid it wasn’t courage as much as fascination,” she confessed, glancing up at the portrait with a wistful smile. “Nigel was a truly wonderful man. For years he acted as earl, since David held the title but could not perform the duties. He’s been gone now for seven years and I miss him every day.” She looked at Alisdair. “I loved your grandfather as well, Alisdair, but his heart had already been taken by Moira.”
A footman entered just then, bearing a tray laden with a round china pot and matching cups and saucers, along with an assortment of pastries. A crystal decanter and matching tumbler rested on another salver carried by the second footman.
“Thank you,” she said softly, smiling at the servants. “My butler took for granted that you would prefer whiskey over chocolate, Alisdair,” Patricia said, her eyes teasing. “Was he incorrect?”
“No,” Alisdair admitted, sitting in the chair next to the settee.
The fire was taking the dampness from the air, adding a cozy cheerfulness to the room. A brightly flowered rug in a Persian style covered the floor. Dozens of gilded sconces were mounted on the pale yellow silk walls, the beeswax candles lit against the gloom of the day. Elaborate plaster carvings of flowers festooned the corners of the ceilings. To complete the air of a feminine chamber, each table bore spindly legs, and each footstool arranged in front of the chairs was upholstered in needlepoint.
The only exception was the large wing chair in which he sat. The leather arms were worn and smelling faintly of tobacco. He couldn’t help but wonder if the general had sat here at night in quiet companionship with Patricia.
“Is there a portrait of my grandfather?” he asked as the footman handed him a heavily cut glass half filled with whiskey.
She shook her head. “A small one,” she said. “It was, after all, his duty to be pictured. Gerald did not approve of portrait painters, although he had your grandmother’s likeness done.”
“I’ve heard she was very beautiful,” he said, glancing at Iseabal. She sat quietly again, her annoyance tamped beneath good manners. She was not unlike a volcano he’d once seen in the islands, Alisdair thought. Dormant and quiescent, it nevertheless had the power to crack the earth miles away. Sometimes steam erupted and large holes revealed secret rivers of molten lava.
What fierceness of temperament was hidden beneath Iseabal’s façade?
Patricia stared down at the contents of her cup as if viewing something other than chocolate. Alisdair had the feeling that she was debating the wisdom of her words before continuing. Finally she replaced the cup in its saucer and gently set both on the table in front of her.
“Do you want to see Moira’s portrait?” she asked. “It took months, I understand, until Gerald was satisfied. It’s always hung in his chamber,” she added, leaning on the cane and slowly standing. “Why don’t I take you there now, and you can see it for yourself?”
Iseabal scowled at Alisdair, but he didn’t see her, being so intent on assisting Patricia up the stairs.
Not once in her life had she ever deliberately harmed anyone, but at the moment, Iseabal wanted to hit the MacRae over the head with her mallet.
He’d introduced her nonchalantly, as if she were nothing more than an object. This is a box, a trunk, a companion. My wife. Do not become accustomed to the fact of her; she is soon to be dismissed.
Frowning at him, Iseabal trailed behind the two of them.
At the landing on the second floor, Patricia rested, one palm pressed against her bosom.
“I rarely come to this floor,” she admitted after catching her breath. “My chamber is behind Nigel’s library. A precaution my physician ordered.”
“Then you should not have come,” Alisdair said, his concern evident.
“I wanted to,” she said gently, patting him on the arm in reassurance. “My health is an impediment to my wishes, a nuisance, nothing more.”
Iseabal followed them down the corridor, tilting her head back and marveling at the rectangular sections of black-and-gold molding set into the ceiling. Painted inside each section was a vignette—tiny pointy-eared figures frolicking near naked in a glade, or toga-draped couples sitting amongst blue-edged clouds. The detail was apparent even from here, each separate painting unique and different.
“I have not been here in years,” Patricia told him, slowly opening the door. “But I keep it just as it was in your grandfather’s day, Alisdair.”
The older woman went to the window, pulling aside the green-and-gold draperies before opening one of the panes. For a moment, she stood looking out at the view of the lawn, sparkling with rain droplets, and thick trees, their branches laden with watery leaves.
The sun, diffused by the growing mist, was still bright enough to illuminate first Patricia, then the room, revealing its pristine condition. Almost, Iseabal thought, as if Gerald’s chamber had been as carefully kept as a shrine. And the woman at the window, made young by the subtle shading of light, was its mistress and guardian.
There was something unbearably sad about the Countess of Sherbourne at this moment. As if the determined patter of the past few minutes had faded beneath the somberness of this place. Or perhaps, Iseabal thought, being in Gerald’s room had simply opened up a store of memories, old and dusty and rarely recalled.
Dominating the room was the bed, draped in emerald fabric that shimmered in the faint breeze from the open window. Four tall and ornately carved posts marked each corner of the bed, and supported a tester elaborately shirred in the pattern of a sunburst. The headboard bore a crest of a lamb and a lion, each on a shield and separated by a diagonal line.
The other pieces of furniture, although smaller, were just as distinctive in style. The front of the armoire was decorated in inlay, both shades of wood, light and dark, portraying a landscape of willowy trees beside a tranquil river. The side tables and chairs were all crafted with slender legs that curved, bowed, and tapered to end in clawed feet.
Iseabal walked inside the room, her interest captured by the leather-and-gold-tooled top of a writing desk. Her fingers stroked over the deeply embossed pattern of green leaves and gold berries stretching around all four sides.
“Gerald shared this room with Moira,” Patricia said, moving to the fireplace. No fire had been laid there, but the older woman extended her hands to nonexistent flames. “He continued to use it after we married.” She glanced up at the portrait mounted above the white stone mantel. “I think it pleased him to remember better times.”
The portrait of Moira MacRae was a simple one, that of a woman and her child. In the background was Gilmuir as it had once been. Moira’s blue dress accentuated the color of her eyes, the same shade as Alisdair’s. But that was not the only similarity between them. His grandmother’s smile had been transferred to his face and the angle of nose and chin transformed to a masculine version. Anyone looking at them would know they were related, and closely so.
Moira looked down at her child with such joy on her face that Iseabal envied the long-dead woman. Would she ever feel that happiness?
Reaching up, Iseabal traced the line of the child’s face a few inches above the canvas.
“Your father?” she asked.
Alisdair nodded.
“I love him dearly, even though he is not my own,” Patricia said, smiling fondly. “My dream was realized when I received his letter all those years
ago. You had just been born, Alisdair, and he was filled with tales of his bride and his son.”
“There are five sons now,” Alisdair said, turning his attention to her. “And all of us proud to call him father.”
Patricia looked around the room, her gaze touching fondly on one object after another. “Gerald would be pleased to know that his grandson has returned to claim his heritage.”
Iseabal glanced at Alisdair, wondering why he didn’t mention that he had no intention of accepting the title. Perhaps it was the sheen of tears in Patricia’s eyes that rendered him silent.
Alisdair wordlessly followed the older woman out of the room, no doubt to assist her down the stairs. Worrying about a cabin boy’s footing or an aged woman’s health or her own injury made him the most unusual man Iseabal had ever known. A man who was so certain of his strength and power that he was not afraid to be seen as caring. Alisdair MacRae would never punish a woman because he was annoyed with her, or terrorize a child because it amused him to do so.
Iseabal didn’t want to know more about him, didn’t seek to measure the depths of his character. Otherwise, she would feel a greater sense of loss than she felt right at this moment.
Because, Iseabal realized, forcing her smile to remain in place as she stood staring at the portrait, he was the husband of her dreams.
Chapter 14
T he chamber Iseabal had been given was lovely, but not as lavishly decorated as the public rooms of Brandidge Hall.
Directly opposite the four-poster bed swathed in yellow silk was the focal point of the room, a large mullioned window stretching from floor to ceiling.
Iseabal stood staring out at the view of rolling hills and lush green grass. There was nothing about the vista before her that was out of place. No sheep marred the thick meadows; the trees were large and majestic. A faint haze appeared in the distance as if God Himself had placed a foggy blanket over England so that she might sleep secure.
She didn’t belong here, a feeling accentuated by the torpid descent of twilight. In Scotland, night came with a protest, wild slashes of orange and red appearing against the darkening sky as if the sun feared it would never come again.
In Scotland, vows were made and honored.
Turning away from the window, Iseabal walked back to the bed. The first time in a week she would have a solitary place in which to sleep, unburdened by the presence of another. For the first time in a week, Alisdair would not be forced to sleep on the floor.
Her hand slid over the counterpane, noting the fine quality of the fabric. A great deal of expense had gone into making the residents of Brandidge Hall comfortable. Not like her own home, in which repairs were grudgingly made and sparingly done.
The maid had spread her clothing on the bed, as if she had a selection from which to choose. Undressing, Iseabal gently folded each garment and placed it back in her trunk.
After washing, she dressed again, this time in a petticoat of tan with a pale blue ribbon hem. Topping it were her blue jacket and a necklace of stones graduated in color and in size, strung together with a thin gold wire. She had found the necklace among the ruins of Gilmuir and considered it her greatest treasure.
Her fingers trailed from stone to stone, each one of them in a shade of blue from the color of Scotland’s skies to the exact tint of the MacRae’s eyes.
Glancing at herself quickly in the mirror, Iseabal noted the paleness of her cheeks. Her eyes looked too large for her face, and her lips almost bloodless.
A knock on the door was an imperious summons to dinner.
There was no footman on the other side of the door to escort her downstairs. Nor was it Alisdair standing there. Instead, the Countess of Sherbourne tapped at the bottom of the door impatiently with the tip of her cane.
Iseabal stood back and watched as Patricia entered, along with five servants, each bearing an object of clothing or a small chest.
“We’ve come to ready you for dinner, my dear,” she said, smiling brightly. Her glance surveyed Iseabal, leaving her with the feeling that the countess disapproved of her attire.
Patricia sat on one of the chairs beside the large window, tapping her cane in a wordless signal. Two maids came forward, each intent on unfastening an article of Iseabal’s clothing.
She brushed them away, and they glanced back at Patricia, who nodded in another signal, this one, evidently, to continue.
Iseabal stepped back against the wall, trapped between the armoire and the bed table, hands crossed over her chest.
“Your attire is quite lovely,” Patricia said, “but not appropriate for the bride of the Earl of Sherbourne, my dear.”
Iseabal stared at the older woman, uncertain as to what to say.
For a moment Patricia studied her, then raised the tip of her cane. Evidently, Iseabal thought almost frantically, each of her gestures was part of some secret language.
A woman of middle years came forward, a stack of clothing folded over one arm.
“The green one, I think, Jenny,” Patricia said.
The garments were placed on the bed and again the two maids approached her. When one of the maids began to pull up her petticoat, Iseabal slapped her hand away and jerked the garment out of her reach.
“No,” she said. “I appreciate your kindness, but I truly wish to wear my own clothing.”
Again that silent nod. The door opened, and the maids slipped out of the room, leaving Patricia and Iseabal alone.
“Did I misunderstand, Iseabal?” Patricia asked, her voice taking on a cool tone. “Do you truly wish your marriage to be dissolved?”
“No,” Iseabal admitted quietly.
“Then why have you done nothing to convince Alisdair otherwise? Pride is a foolish emotion, Iseabal. I spent a great many years being miserable, my dear. I was married to a man I desperately loved, yet was afraid to tell him so. Or,” she said reflectively, “to demand the same of him.”
Patricia smiled at Iseabal’s silence. “Do you deny you feel affection for my grandson?”
What she felt was stronger than yearning, deeper than curiosity, yet Iseabal couldn’t define it exactly. Perhaps it was affection, or something more.
“It is not a question of pride,” she replied quietly. “Alisdair wants this annulment. He feels forced into our marriage.”
“Was he?” Patricia asked, her gaze never leaving Iseabal’s face.
“Yes,” Iseabal answered simply. “He wanted Gilmuir; my father wanted a fortune.”
Patricia’s eyebrows rose. “And what did you want?”
“Does that matter?” Iseabal asked, unexpectedly amused. “My wishes are not capable of swaying either man.”
“A man’s pride is a brittle thing, my dear,” Patricia said gently. “It breaks rather than bends. I am not surprised that Alisdair got his feathers ruffled at being forced to marry.”
Iseabal doubted it was as simple a matter as his pride.
Patricia made an impatient sound. “Sometimes people are mismatched and refuse to admit it, or they’re perfect for each other and cannot recognize that fact.” She tapped her cane on the floor as if to accentuate her point.
Then she glanced over at Iseabal, her eyes twinkling. “There are simply times when a woman must take a man’s hand and lead him where she wishes. Get his attention, at least.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Iseabal said truthfully.
“I know you don’t, my dear. But if you’ll call the others inside, we’ll show you,” Patricia said, waving toward the door.
Over the next hour, Iseabal was prodded and pushed, her hair curled into absurd ringlets that were pinned at the crown of her head in an elaborate style. But the greatest indignity, Iseabal thought, was when her clothing was stripped from her as if they were rags and tossed to the bed, replaced by a garment from the countess’s closet.
“I will agree it is not the latest fashion, my dear,” Patricia said as Iseabal stared, dismayed, at the dipping bodice. “But it reveals a woman’s fi
gure.”
The dress was of a deep emerald shade, the skirt draping in large swags over an underskirt of a lighter shade of green. But what material was used in the skirt was startlingly lacking above the waist.
The bodice of the dress fit tightly, leaving no room for her stays.
“What is that?” Patricia asked, pointing to her wrapping.
“A bandage,” Iseabal answered, telling the other woman of her fall into the foundations.
“Very well,” Patricia said, frowning, “I suppose it will have to remain. But your shift ruins the lines of the dress.”
“I’ll be naked,” Iseabal said, beginning to panic. She couldn’t appear at dinner with only the wrapping between the dress and her skin.
Patricia ignored her.
A tall, narrow-faced woman approached Iseabal, jerked down on the bodice until the tops of her breasts appeared like two round eggs sitting on a nest. She stared at herself in horror.
“I think we’ll leave her hair unpowdered,” Patricia said, waving away another woman bearing a box of powder and a paper cone. “But perhaps the smallest tint of rouge to her cheeks and her lips would not be amiss.”
Iseabal shook her head, but her protest was disregarded.
Stepping forward, a maid opened the small mahogany chest she held, revealing a selection of jewels sparkling in the candlelight.
Wide-eyed, Iseabal turned to her hostess. “I can’t wear any of these,” she protested.
Patricia nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, my dear. Your bosom will serve as a point of interest.”
Finally she was done and being turned in the direction of a pier glass. Startled, Iseabal gazed at the woman reflected there.
Not Iseabal Drummond, modest and neat, but another female with ivory skin and an overflowing bosom even now turning pink with embarrassment. Her coloring seemed too vivid against the emerald fabric, her lips red, her eyes too deep a green.
