Jamie MacLeod

by Michael Phillips

  Edward still remembered verbatim the hastily scribbled note he had received from his older brother: “Could you watch over things in my absence? For your services, I’ve arranged for the solicitors to double the annual allowance specified by our father in his will. . . .”

  Watch over things! As if he had not been doing that very thing for years! And without their even knowing . . . without so much as passing consideration by his father in the apportionment of his property!

  So now he was not only to be treated like a common servant, he was being paid like one as well! His pride nearly forced him to leave then and there. But his deep attachment to the estate could not let him. He could stand being called Lord Graystone even if he knew it was an empty, meaningless epithet; he could bear the humiliation of receiving his monthly allowance as a salary along with all the other hired servants; he could bear the bitterness of knowing his father had loved his brother more—as long as he was not forced from his land.

  But the circumstances of his disappointments ate away at his heart. As each day passed he wondered how long he would be able to tolerate the sham that his life had become.

  Then an old family friend and her niece had come to Aviemere for a visit. She was recuperating from an illness, the doctor had suggested time in the country, and she had written; Edward, being the only Graystone on the premises, had answered, giving his consent, and they had come, the niece acting as both companion and nurse to the elderly Mrs. Lennox.

  Showing them every courtesy, at first Edward had paid little attention to Olivia. Having had it bred into him almost from birth that one in his so-called “position” (whether titled or not, he was from an old and distinguished Scottish family) was bound to marry well—if not into the aristocracy itself, then certainly a lady of substance from a family of some renown. And even if his feigned title was but a mockery of the whole hierarchical system, still he could not shake free from the confines of his training as to the correctness of marital alliances. He would vindicate himself in his father’s eyes—however his conscious mind would have scoffed at the notion that he still sought the old man’s approval!—by marrying above his brother and making something of himself despite their disregard of him!

  Therefore he was ripe for the love which began to blossom within him for Olivia, the niece of his father’s friend. Her father was a merchant of good family. He could offer his daughter only a modest dowry, but a good name and a heart as of gold. For the man was one of God’s true sons and he had taught his daughter in the ways of the Kingdom.

  Thus Olivia began to show Edward that life could have another dimension when love was properly directed. The love he learned from her eased the ache of what he could not have in heritage. And she introduced him to something far more important even than the bond of love they came to share in their hearts—that was a quality of love that sprang from faith—faith in a God with whom Edward had had nothing more than a cursory acquaintance. She lived her faith so sweetly, so naturally, that he was almost able to believe it himself. But the walls of his bitterness were thick, and though his new wife and her God had begun to remove a good number of its outer layer of bricks, her death came before a significant breach could be made.

  The irony of the death of Edward’s wife was that she died trying to give him the one thing he lacked, just as he had begun to realize that perhaps he did not need it after all. She had been helping him to find a meaning in life outside Aviemere, and he had at last reconciled himself to Derek’s position above him. That settled in his mind, he would need no heir. He and Olivia could be content as they were. But suddenly everything had changed, and his dream was within his grasp. And she had sacrificed herself to give him one who could carry it on after him. Then just as suddenly it had all turned sour on him; he ended up with the heir, but having lost everything else.

  So he had an heir, an elusive link to Aviemere. But the price he had paid for that selfish desire burned tortuously within him. He had his heir, but his wife was dead! The price had been too steep.

  And now, he thought, even if some bizarre twist of fate somehow landed the estate squarely in his hands, it would be an empty prize. Yet he would never let a flicker of the self-recriminations that boiled beneath rise to the surface. He had paid dearly, with loss of wife and his worth as a man, and if this was all he was destined to have—a position little higher than a factor’s and a son who would rightly hate him—then he would accept it, and give no man cause to ever pity him.

  Pain in most forms is meant as an adjunct to the process of healing, but in Edward the pain sent him once again inside himself. There he was unable to turn his eyes toward those who might have been able to mend his heart and bring it a wholeness he had never known. Focused on the pain of his self, he could see neither the son who needed him, nor the loving Father whose arms of compassion were eager to wrap themselves about them both and draw them into His own heart. But God’s means are never exhausted. And where one method fails to open the closed door of a man’s heart, He sends another. So now Jamie, new in her own walk of faith, had unknowingly been sent to care for the son of this man as an instrument in the hands of the Almighty, in whose plan exist no secondary causes.

  Graystone had traversed the moor by now and was coming upon a green knoll some two miles south of the MacRae croft. Suddenly he realized his fists were clenched so tightly about the reins that his nails had dug into his flesh, and his shoulders ached with tension.

  He spurred the stallion into another gallop—it was the only sort of release he would allow himself.

  25

  Guests

  In three weeks at Aviemere Jamie had seen the laird only twice. After their first meeting in the library, she had passed him once in a corridor. Andrew had been with her at the time and she was both embarrassed and miffed by the impromptu meeting between father and son. The boy had hung back as if coming upon a stranger, and the father had given him but a quick passing glance. Not a word did he speak to Jamie.

  It was much to her surprise, therefore, when two days later, in midafternoon, she received a summons from the laird.

  “He said for ye t’ come t’ the parlor,” said the maid who delivered the message. “And t’ bring the child.”

  Nervously Jamie straightened Andrew’s clothing, brushed his hair, gathered him up, and hurried from the nursery. Her own fear of the man was tempered by her excitement at the thought that the laird had at last sent for his son. She would do nothing to delay the long-awaited reunion, and she hastened along the hall and down the stairs as quickly as caution would allow.

  At length she came to a breathless halt before the door of the east parlor. Lifting her hand she knocked softly, allowing the natural awe of Andrew’s father to still the flurry of her emotions.

  “Come in,” came his voice.

  She turned the handle, pushed the door open, and entered. To her surprise he was not alone.

  Three other persons, finely attired, obviously of the local gentry, were in the room. An older gentleman, portly, with balding gray hair, and a pince-nez balanced precariously on his nose, stood off to Jamie’s left near the hearth. The other two guests were women. One was about the man’s age, tall and trim with her graying black hair piled upon her head in intricate style. Her sharp-featured face seemed ever alert and on the lookout for something at hand. What, Jamie could not have guessed. She appeared to be the gentleman’s wife. The younger woman was in her mid-twenties and extremely attractive. Though she was sitting, it was clear she was tall and graceful. The vanishing trace of a smile still lay upon her lips, and the line of her eyes still rested upon the laird where he stood opposite her; obviously, the last words spoken by him prior to Jamie’s entrance had landed agreeably upon her admiring ears. There was a visible likeness between her and the older woman, whom Jamie took to be her mother.

  Taking this all in in an instant, Jamie’s initial reaction was hesitation at having stumbled unknowingly into such an encounter. No one in the room took note of the awk
wardness evident upon her face, however, for the same moment the older woman rose from her chair and exclaimed delightedly, “Oh, there he is! What a beautiful child! He is the very image of you, Edward!”

  “Thank you, Lady Montrose,” said Graystone, proud but yet detached.

  “Thank you for granting an old woman’s request. We see so little of children at Montrose.”

  Inwardly Jamie sagged with disappointment. The summons was not at all what she had hoped it would be. No chance for the father to get to know the son; this was merely an opportunity to show the child off to neighbors. And even at that, the laird seemed to have been coerced into it. The attachment which had already grown up within her toward Andrew was possessive of such a scheme. How dare he use his son so! She wished she might whisk him away from the room where he was little more than an ornamental showpiece.

  “Oh, Edward, you must let us hold him,” said Lady Montrose sweetly. “Candice, dear, wouldn’t you love to hold him?”

  “Yes, of course, Mother,” replied the lovely young woman, still seated. Notwithstanding her assent, she did not appear nearly as interested in the child as she was in the father, for her eyes continued directed toward the laird, with now and then a coquettish smile.

  “By all means,” answered Graystone.

  If Jamie hesitated slightly letting go of Andrew’s hand, she could hardly be blamed. She had been the boy’s sole companion for so many days that it was difficult to relinquish control to these strangers who seemed more bent on massaging Lord Graystone’s good will than anything else.

  “You may go, Miss MacLeod,” Graystone said, turning toward Jamie. “I’ll send the maid when we are ready for you.”

  Jamie turned and exited. But before the doors had closed behind her she heard the words, “So that’s your nurse—a bit young, isn’t she?”

  “Capable, nonetheless,” replied Graystone.

  With the words the doors struck shut and Jamie was left alone in the hallway.

  But she could not easily pull herself away, and lingered. Concerned for the child, she gave little thought to the impropriety of eavesdropping.

  Candice Montrose’s voice caught her attention before she had a chance to move, and she remained glued to the spot.

  “Well, she is rather quaint-looking at any rate. Where did you find her?”

  “Aberdeen.”

  “Listen here, Edward,” spoke Lord Montrose for the first time. “I don’t know about you, but baby pandering is not quite my forte. Don’t get me wrong; he’s a handsome lad and all that. But—”

  “I quite understand, Montrose,” Graystone said. “Let me pour you a brandy.”

  “I’d be most gratified.”

  Jamie heard the clinking of crystal, then silence except for the muffled sounds of the two women cooing over Andrew.

  “I say, Edward,” said Lord Montrose, as the men caught up their conversation again, “do you think this weather will affect the harvest?”

  “I don’t expect it to, though our own crews won’t enjoy harvesting in the rain.”

  The two men talked on of tariffs and harvest and weather, while Jamie shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, straining to hear conversation concerning Andrew.

  “I say,” said Lord Montrose. “Isn’t that brother of yours off in Africa somewhere?”

  “Yes,” replied Graystone shortly. “The Transvaal. You know, the Dutch and their diamonds that Disraeli wants.”

  “Must be a bloody gruesome life down there. I shouldn’t like it at all. A savage place, I don’t wonder! Wasn’t he wounded some time back? I recall hearing a report he had been killed. Then miraculously it turned out he had only been wounded and captured. He must have some stories to tell!”

  “I expect so,” said Graystone dully.

  Then the feminine voice of Lady Montrose interjected itself into the dialogue. “I do believe little Andrew is getting tired. And really, we ought to be on our way also. We wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.”

  “Little danger of that,” said Graystone.

  “You are most gracious,” Lady Montrose replied. “But you must allow us to entertain you soon.”

  “At your pleasure.”

  “Let us not allow such a long lapse until our next visit,” came Candice Montrose’s poised, melodious voice. “We will be having some friends for dinner next week and Mother and I had planned to send you an invitation. Please say you’ll come!”

  “I shall look forward to it,” replied Graystone. “Let me get the door.”

  Suddenly Jamie came to herself.

  In a panic she started to race away, but before she had advanced a half dozen steps down the corridor, she heard the doors open behind her. She stopped and turned, dead still, her cheeks flushed with red as if to announce her guilt. She was staring into the cold steel-eyed countenance of Edward Graystone.

  “I don’t believe you were called,” he said sternly.

  “I know—sir,” she stammered. “I—weel, I didna hae onythin’ t’ do—that is, I thocht I’d stay close by—in case I was needed . . .”

  She despised herself for the lie, and the fact that it was hardly convincing made it even worse.

  “Then you may take the boy.”

  She quickly took Andrew from Lady Montrose and hurried away, trying not to notice the derisive stares of the two ladies, or the chilling look from Lord Graystone himself.

  26

  Two Conversations

  For several days Jamie saw nothing of the laird.

  He was in her thoughts, however. For Andrew’s sake she wanted to find some means to break through his tough granite-like exterior. She had to open his heart to the boy—somehow! Yet she cringed at the very thought of facing him. Anger at his cold treatment of his son and apprehension at what he might do if she dared confront him intermingled obscurely in her mind.

  Yet she knew the day would eventually come when she would have to speak to him. However timid she was, and no matter that she was just eighteen and he was a powerful laird, on poor Andrew’s behalf she must try to soften the father toward his son.

  But how?

  One afternoon while Andrew was napping, Jamie was restless and unable to read. She wandered in search of Dora, hopeful for a visit, but learned the kindly housekeeper was gone for the afternoon. She shuffled toward the kitchen, lingered there in meaningless interaction with the cook for a few moments, before her hostess let it be known that she must be about her work and visitors—especially fellow servants—were not especially wanted. Jamie departed for nowhere in particular, walked aimlessly down several corridors, past the east parlor where she had seen the Montroses, and without realizing it suddenly found herself in a wing of the mansion she had never seen before.

  She was in the middle of a grand ballroom, beyond which was a wide hallway where another parlor was located, and next to this, a gallery of family portraits. Fascinated, she walked slowly to the end, carefully looking at each face, and then discovered herself between two closed doors. All was quiet around her. Slowly she reached out to test the handles. The doors opened without a sound and she walked into a lovely little room whose French doors on the opposite wall opened out into one of the beautiful outside courtyards. The room was clean and inviting, awash in the afternoon sun.

  Everything within sight was exquisite. A delicately carved walnut Queen Anne desk with a glass top caught Jamie’s eye first, but she was quickly diverted toward two wing-back chairs upholstered in the richest colors of green, magenta, and blue. The hearth of imported marble was spotless—there had been no fire here for some time—, and on the mantel sat the most splendid figurines even an experienced eye would have found north of Edinburgh. To Jamie, who had never seen anything like them, these miniature figures were so lifelike in every detail that she stood fascinated as her eyes examined each one. Knowing better than to touch such precious heirlooms, as her eyes lit upon one figurine in particular, she could not help herself. It was of a shepherdess girl with two w
oolly lambs at her feet. Enchanted by the face, she slowly reached for it, picked it up, and drew it off the mantel.

  After a moment or two Jamie realized that such a place could be none other than a woman’s special room. She reached back toward the mantel to set the tiny figurine in place.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Jamie started, and the shepherdess girl slipped from her hands and fell with a sickening crash to the floor. She spun around to face Edward Graystone, but her gaze quickly dropped to the broken fragments at her feet.

  “I—I . . .” Her heart was pounding and her lips were trembling so that she could not speak.

  “Who gave you permission to come here?”

  “No—one—I was just . . . it’s such a lovely room . . . I didn’t know I shouldn’t—the doors weren’t—”

  “You clumsy lout!” he fumed. “You have no permission to roam about where you please! Do you understand?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said weakly, trying to bite back the tears rising in her eyes. She stooped down to retrieve what was left of the shepherdess and her lambs. “Perhaps I can—”

  “Leave that alone!” he shouted, cutting her short. “Get out of here!”

  Jamie made no further attempt to speak, knowing if she did she would burst into tears. She had clearly been in the wrong, and nothing she could say would change the guilt she felt over what she had done. Hastily she retreated and ran back down the hall, turning a corner before the rush of tears escaped. Even as she flew through the door, Graystone himself had slumped into one of the expensive leather chairs he and Olivia had picked out in Copenhagen, his face hidden in his hands.

  Jamie made it unseen to the third floor and to her own room. She was greatly relieved to have seen no one and to find Andrew still asleep. She fell on her bed and allowed the tears to flow, trying to pray through the flood, but hardly knowing what to say. Should she pray for herself? She was making a mess of things and had not even been here a month! She was breaking things, stumbling in where she didn’t belong, hearing words not meant for her ears, making the laird furious with her. Was she still just a ridiculous shepherd girl? Perhaps she didn’t belong here at all! Emily had tried to make her believe in herself, believe that she could take her place alongside people with training. But she wasn’t like these people. She didn’t know how to be. She would never be a lady. She could never be a lady! Her dreams would wind up on the floor just like the shepherd girl she had dropped—broken and crumbled! She didn’t know how to behave, how to speak, how to act around real ladies and gentlemen!