by Karen Ranney
“The stones are a new addition,” Elspeth said. “It didn’t have them when I was a child.”
“Have you ever looked at it?”
“I did, once, when I was a little girl. I saw myself as I am now, only a little older.” Elspeth’s smile broadened. “I had two little ones with me. It was enough of a look for me.”
She kept the mirror face down on her lap. “I can’t see anything anymore.”
Elspeth reached over and patted her on the knee, a curiously maternal gesture.
“If you can remember anything she might have said about it, please let me know.”
“You might ask her yourself, Your Ladyship.”
Startled, Veronica stared at her. “Your grandmother is still alive?”
Elspeth nodded. “She was on my last visit home. One of my brothers or sisters would have let me know if she’d died. She’s very old, but she’s spry. She lives outside Kilmarin, near Perth, where I was raised.”
“I thought you were from Lollybroch.”
Elspeth smiled and shook her head. “No, that’s my Robbie’s family. My own comes from Perth, and it’s homesick I am from time to time.”
“I know how that feels,” she said, remembering the two years in London.
“How do you come to have the Tulloch Sgàthán?” Elspeth’s cheeks flushed. “Begging your pardon, Your Ladyship, it’s not my place to ask.”
“It was by way of being a wedding gift,” she said, stretching the truth a bit.
“Have you never seen anything in it, Lady Fairfax?”
“I did, once,” she said. “Not now.” She placed the mirror back in the bag, pulling the drawstring tight. “I think, perhaps, for me it’s just a mirror.”
The other woman didn’t say anything. What could she say? That Veronica was being foolish? Or would Elspeth say, if she’d felt the freedom to do so, something like the expression often quoted by her father? The worth of a thing is known by the want of it.
Veronica wanted, very much, to see something in the Tulloch Sgàthán, and for that reason, it was priceless.
Chapter 18
Montgomery hadn’t slept well for years. The only time he could remember sleeping deeply was after he’d been with Veronica, a fact that annoyed him.
She wasn’t a drug to be taken when he couldn’t sleep.
He’d stayed away from her for two nights to prove he could. Good, he’d won that battle; he needn’t continue to avoid his wife.
A physician had suggested, a year or so ago, he use laudanum, but he’d decided against it. There’d been too many times in the last year when he might have been tempted to take too much of it. He wasn’t a coward.
He could hear the River Tairn gurgle in its triumphant passage through the glen, pausing to rest in pools and, once rested, babbling over rocks. The air was clean and almost icy at Doncaster Hall, reminding him of being aloft. A curlew sounded mournfully from a nearby tree, accompanied by the hiss of the wind through the pines. He thought he saw the shadow of a deer peering out from the junipers, but in a moment it was gone.
The pines growing in stunted profusion around the base of the mountains were not the pine trees of home. Here, they boasted a reddish brown bark, their shaggy branches growing only at the top of the tree.
Even the oaks were different. The massive gray trunks stretched up forty feet or more, the gnarled branches thick with emerald leaves. These Highland oaks looked resilient enough to endure any season and had done so for centuries.
In winter, the winds would howl, snow that even now capped the distant mountains would form drifts across the glen. The hardy Scots sheep, expected to subsist year long on a diet of Highland grass, would become indistinguishable from the snow.
He wasn’t certain he’d be here, then.
In the last few weeks, he’d learned the topography around Doncaster Hall well enough that he could walk the paths and the hills without the benefit of a full moon. Tonight, he’d walked for nearly an hour before retracing his steps to halt in front of the house.
The façade of Doncaster Hall reminded him so much of home that he could imagine himself there, five years ago, the sound of music carrying into the garden. The occasion was the first party they’d given since their parents had died of fever two years earlier. The first party, and the last, because plans had already been made. He was due to work with Thaddeus Lowe with his balloons, a decision garnering its share of ridicule from his brothers.
“He hasn’t given up thinking he can fly.” He could hear Alisdair’s voice so clear in his mind it was as if he stood there beside him.
“He’s not a bird,” James had said. “He’s a bat, and he’s going to hang upside down by his feet.”
He’d taken their good-natured ribbing in stride, knowing it concealed worry. His decision to join the Balloon Corps had made his defection marginally easier. His brothers were going to fight for Virginia while he was going to join the Union Army.
That night had been warmer than this one, the scent of honeysuckle so thick in the air, he’d suspected his clothes would forever smell of it. Besides the smell of the night and the swell of the music, he could remember laughter.
They’d all been so damn happy five years ago. Happy to be young, to be wealthy, to be going gallantly and magnificently off to war. He’d been the anti-soldier, the one person in the ballroom who hadn’t bragged of his division or his newly bestowed rank.
Only the four of them knew he was about to be a traitor to everything he’d known. Yet every time he remembered, he knew his decision would have been the same.
He glanced up at Veronica’s window, now darkened. If he went to her, she’d welcome him into her arms and grant him some sort of peace. Perhaps he didn’t deserve peace, after all. Perhaps he was destined to walk the night forever to pay for all his many sins.
Even so, he knew he was going to her.
Veronica stepped back from the window, grateful she’d extinguished the lamp. Montgomery couldn’t see her.
She pressed her fingertips to the glass, wishing she could call out to him or send comfort to him somehow. He would say she couldn’t be fey or possess her Gift. Yet even with distance separating them, she could feel his isolation and his pain.
Every night, for the last three weeks, it had been the same. Montgomery walked around Doncaster Hall, taking a solitary route down to the river and up to the hills. When he was done, he came to her.
What troubled him so much that he walked every night? What demons pursued him? Did memories of the war keep him awake? Or was Caroline the source of the deep and profound sadness she felt from him?
How very foolish to be jealous of a ghost. Yet she was.
She removed her wrapper and got into bed, tucking the covers around her and staring up at the ceiling.
How did she fight a ghost?
She was here and alive, willing to be a wife in all ways. Why, then, did Montgomery ignore her? Why was there only passion between them and nothing else? They never spoke or shared thoughts. They never planned for the future. Doncaster Hall was so large she could exist in it for weeks without seeing him.
Was that what he wanted?
She wanted more.
She wanted what her parents had had, a communion, a deep understanding she could feel from one to the other. She wanted passion, but she also wanted to be able to look across a room, meet Montgomery’s eyes, and know what he felt without using her Gift.
A noise halted her thoughts.
He must have eyes like a cat to be able to walk through the darkened room with no need for a light. All she could see was a black shadow standing in the doorway. Was he trying to frighten her?
She was beyond fear but well into anger.
The shadow halted just beyond her footboard as she sat up.
“You needn’t come any closer,” she said. “I’ll not welcome you into my bed.”
“You’re my wife.”
“You might as well say, ‘You’re my dog. Or you’re my horse.
’ Would you talk more to me if I were your dog or horse, Montgomery?”
“You’re angry.”
She punched her pillow into place, then leaned back against it, glaring at him.
“Yes, I’m angry. I’m very angry. Go away.”
Instead of leaving the room, he walked to the side of the bed.
“Why?”
Instead of just sitting there waiting for him to pounce, she slid from the other side of the bed.
“You might have a legal right to be here,” she said. “You don’t have a moral one.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
She walked around the end of the bed until she neared him.
“You don’t talk to me, Montgomery. You don’t say a word to me all day long, and I’m supposed to welcome you into my bed as if I’m grateful for your attention? Any attention?”
“I have to talk to you?”
He sounded so astonished, she poked him in the chest with her finger.
“Yes. You have to talk to me.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to answer my questions,” she said.
“Take off your nightgown.”
“Did you not hear a word I said?” she asked.
“Take off your nightgown, and I’ll answer your questions.”
She knew what happened the minute she was naked around him. She shook her head. “No. You answer one question, and I’ll unbutton my nightgown. One button.”
He folded his arms and regarded her, a black shadow that was probably frowning at her. She didn’t care. She wasn’t retreating.
“One question? One button? That’s a little steep, isn’t it?”
“Then go back to your bedroom,” she said. “I’m not changing my mind.”
He moved to the bedside table and lit the lamp. The sudden yellowish glow in the room made it as bright as day. She wished he’d allowed them to remain in the darkness.
“Ask,” he said. “Be prepared not to like the answer.”
Any answer had to be better than endless silence.
“Are you returning to Virginia?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You don’t know? When will you know? When you do, will you bother to tell me?” The man was maddening.
He shook his head. “That was one question, Veronica, and I answered it. A button, please.”
“That’s hardly fair, Montgomery. That was part of the whole question.”
He leaned closer. “Then you’ll have to be more careful of your questions in the future, won’t you?” Surprisingly, he continued. “This isn’t my home,” he said. “Scotland might have been the home of my forebearers, but I’m a Virginian.”
“I’m a Scot.”
He didn’t have a response, only pointed to her button. Slowly, she unfastened it.
“Would I like America?”
“Another button, please.”
She grudgingly unfastened one more button.
He considered the question for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said. “Virginia is certainly warmer.”
“I don’t want to go to America,” she said, her attention focused on her hands rather than at him. “I belong here, Montgomery. I know that sounds selfish,” she added. “Aunt Lilly says a woman has no right to question her husband.”
“Is this the same woman who gave you advice about your wedding night? Must you pay any attention to her words at all?”
She shook her head, smiling.
“Why do you walk at night?”
“Another button.”
This was not going well. Soon, she’d be naked.
He smiled at her. Montgomery was so handsome, her throat closed when she looked at him. She wanted to banish the game entirely, reach up and kiss him and begin another sport.
Instead, she unfastened the button, wondering if she dared to ask the questions that most troubled her. Would he leave her if she did?
The placket extended to the middle of her breasts, and she had four more buttons. Four more questions if he allowed her to ask that many.
“Why do I walk? I like the solitude.”
She knew he was lying, and from his look, he was aware she knew it as well. Rather than press him for more of an explanation, she moved her fingers back to the placket.
His attention was fixed on the actions of her fingers, his gaze warming her blood.
“What is your middle name?”
He looked startled at that question, then smiled at her again, the expression deepening the dimples on either side of his mouth.
“Alexander. And yours?”
“Moira,” she said. “Did you own slaves?”
His face stilled, the smile fading. “Have you wondered that all along?”
She nodded.
“Are you an abolitionist, Veronica?”
She hadn’t expected him to ask her that. “I think I am, yes,” she said, placing one hand flat on the placket.
He didn’t answer her question, time ticking by achingly slow.
“You’re not,” she finally said.
“I’m like my grandfather,” he said. “He refused to own another man.” He smiled again, but this smile was sadder, wreathed in memory. “My grandfather used to say we have dominion over the earth and over the seas, but not over other men.”
“So Gleneagle had no slaves?” she asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
He turned, moving to the window, pushing back the drapes until he could see the view of the glen darkened by night.
Should she take back her question?
Before she could do so, he turned, his back to the window, the heels of his hands braced on either side of him on the windowsill. He stretched out his legs, studied his boots, then the interior of her bedroom, taking time to answer the question.
Perhaps she really should take it back, but curiosity kept her silent.
“You’re a Fairfax now. You deserve to know the history,” he said. “My grandfather purchased slaves. Growing tobacco takes people. The moment a man was brought to Gleneagle, he was freed. He was under contract to work for five years, and after that, could leave or stay, as he wished.”
She remained silent, intent on his words.
“When my grandfather died, my father stopped the practice. Maybe he was greedier. I often wondered if it was the influence of my mother’s family. They openly ridiculed my grandfather’s actions, seeing it as fiscally unsound.”
He folded his arms in front of him and studied the carpet.
“Evidently, economic expediency trumps moral certainty,” he said.
“The English abolished slavery more than thirty years ago,” she said.
He nodded as if he knew.
“It was the one issue separating my brothers and me,” he continued. “They followed my father’s example. I took my own path.”
“Which was?”
He turned and faced the window again. “To walk away from all that my family held dear. To choose my conscience over my kin.”
“Your grandfather wouldn’t have approved of what your father or brothers did.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “No, he wouldn’t have.”
“But I think he would have approved of your being the 11th Lord Fairfax of Doncaster,” she said.
He smiled but didn’t respond.
“It must’ve been very difficult for you,” she said softly. “Disagreeing with those you loved.”
“Have you never disagreed with those you loved?” he asked, his attention on the view from the window.
She thought about those years with her uncle’s family in London. She’d been miserable, not finding very much of a common ground with anyone. She’d felt a familial tie with them; her uncle was her mother’s brother, after all. But had she loved them? Not the way she’d loved her parents.
“I cannot imagine disagreeing with my parents,” she said.
“As you said, it was difficult. After a while, the diff
icult becomes commonplace.”
“Are they dead? Your brothers?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, but when he did, his answer was not unexpected. “Yes,” he said simply.
She came to stand at the window beside him. What she felt from him defied her description of it. Pain was there, yet something else, a memory of joy, a bittersweet longing. She suddenly understood how much he wished to be home. But home was not just a place for him, it was more. To be surrounded by the familiar, the beloved, those people who’d made up his life.
Could Montgomery ever truly go home?
For now, they’d leave the past behind.
“So you found yourself a lord,” she said, pasting a smile on her face, “came to England, and became a husband. Enough difficulty for one man, I would think.”
“And you, Veronica?” he asked, turning. “You found yourself wife to a stranger, an American. Enough difficulty for one woman, I would think.”
She didn’t answer him.
“I try to stay away. Somehow, I always find my way here.”
His honesty startled her.
She unfastened the rest of her buttons.
“No more questions?” he asked.
“No,” she said, as honest as he’d been. “It’s foolish to pretend. You come near me, and I want to make love to you.”
At that, he was the one to look startled.
“You’re the most amazing woman.”
“Am I?” She smiled. “Amazing enough that you’ll continue to talk to me? I know nothing of you, Montgomery.”
“On the contrary, Veronica, you know a great deal about me.” His smile was slightly wicked.
“I’m not talking about how you look naked, Montgomery. I’m talking about what you do all day in the distillery, or what your plans are for your balloon.”
She stood in front of him, placed her hands on his arms, and allowed her fingers to trail from his upper arms down to his wrists and back, needing to touch him. He’d taken off his coat, but his shirt was in the way.
“We won’t talk about the past. Can we talk about now? Or what might come in the future?”
His eyes stayed fixed on her face. Yet he gave her no hint of his thoughts as silence stretched between them.
She closed her eyes, reached out, and tried to feel the emotions coming from him. Heat. Desire. Need. A loneliness so acute it mimicked her own.
