Through the Fire

by Elizabeth Johns

  He was inordinately handsome, but he did not seem to know it. His dark hair and blue eyes alone were enough to make her heart race, and when he smiled, the crinkles around his eyes made her forget herself entirely.

  In London, any man with his looks would have the ton at his feet. He would no doubt be the on dit of the hour and be hunted by a host of high-ranking ladies, regardless of his married status. He wasn’t up to snuff with fashion, of course, and did not carry himself with haughty arrogance, as was de rigueur, but he presented himself with calm confidence, as if he had no need to please. He would tempt the cats of society beyond bearing.

  Margaux considered the realization that her husband might wish to have a presence in London. Had his brother taken his seat in Parliament? Did Gavin intend to do so? She could not contemplate London yet. Would everyone be as repulsed by her appearance as her own mother had been? Of course, they would. She had seen how injured soldiers had been ostracized. People knew in their minds that they should respect veterans and honour them for their service, but it made them uncomfortable to look at the crippled or to know what to say.

  She closed her eyes as they descended the stairs and was surrounded by his scent of amber and musk. She inhaled again, deeply, wanting more, but it turned into a wheezy breath that caused her dutiful husband to look down at her with concern. How charming he must find her!

  She smiled, as if begging pardon, not wishing to be caught studying him. He smiled back, and she was thankful he was holding her or she would have melted onto the floor. They reached the door of the drawing room and a footman opened it for them. She had thought he would set her on her feet, but he continued into the room to the gasps of her parents.

  “Good evening. Your daughter wished to join us tonight. Would you care to follow us into the dining room?”

  Margaux smiled at her parents, who were staring at her with astonishment.

  “Are you certain this is wise, chérie?” Lady Ashbury reprimanded.

  “It shouldna harm her as long as she doesna over-exert herself. As you can see, I am ensuring she doesna do that. Shall we?”

  Well done, husband, she thought. It was nice to have someone else defend her for once. Gavin seated her next to him, instead of at the traditional, opposite end of the table. Most likely, he was being dutiful again. She bent her head to the soup before her, not realising how hungry she was after days with no sustenance. Swallowing was not natural. It still felt as if knives were pointing in every direction as the soup went down, and she found herself coughing indelicately and painfully. She decided to wait until later to try when she was alone. The less she appeared the invalid, the less changed they would think her.

  “I rode over to survey the damage at Breconrae today.” Lord Ashbury broke the painful distraction of her coughs.

  “Was it a total loss? I didna go back after I found Lady Craig.” Her husband referred to her.

  “The servants’ wing was saved. I believe we may move the girls back once we find a new house-mother.”

  “Perhaps Charles will wish to rebuild his inheritance,” Lady Ashbury remarked. “One day, he will need a home to settle down in, since we are not planning to remove from our main house in the forseeable future.”

  “Do not set your hopes on it, my dear. Charles shows no indication for anything of that nature. I intend to start the rebuilding, but there need not be any hurry, since there is ample space for the girls.”

  “There is no need to remove them with undue haste, either. They are welcome for as long as necessary. I think my services may be needed more often than not, though Mrs. MacNair is an excellent midwife.”

  “That is kind of you, Lord Craig. I don’t know how I would have borne it if you had not been there for Margaux,” Lady Ashbury said, while delicately blotting her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

  Margaux did not wish to consider what had almost happened. Where was Aunt Ida?

  She reached out for Gavin’s arm. “Ida?” she whispered.

  “She is a stout one, Lady Ida. She is mending slowly, but as she ought.”

  “Your aunt is minding her doctor’s orders to stay abed,” Lady Ashbury remarked.

  Margaux would not take the bait. She nodded. How long did her parents mean to stay? Perhaps her mother could be put to good use, if they were going to remain for the ball. She reached for Gavin’s arm again.

  “Yes, my lady?” He looked at her with his disconcerting eyes. He seemed amused.

  “The ball,” she managed to force out.

  “A ball?” Her mother perked up, as Margaux had known she would.

  “I was going to cancel it, lass. It is hardly the time, with your injuries and Iain’s recent passing. I think the villagers will understand.”

  Margaux shook her head vehemently.

  Gavin’s eyes widened in response to her intensity.

  “When is the ball to take place?” Lord Ashbury asked.

  “It is our annual solstice ball. To celebrate the threshing and give to the villagers.”

  “That is little more than a fortnight!” her mother shrieked. “Chérie, we must stay until after the ball. Margaux is not yet in any condition to plan this alone.” She turned to her daughter. “Not that you are not quite capable, under normal circumstances.”

  Margaux would not be offended. She truly did not feel up to planning a ball, and it was her mother’s delight, after her children. Margaux only hoped Lady Ashbury would quell her normally grandiose tendencies. After all, this was for the villagers.

  She stole a quick glance at Gavin. Smiling at her, he winked, indicating he knew she had purposely diverted her mother’s attentions away from herself. She smiled coyly back at him. She wouldn’t warn him yet about her mother’s idea of throwing a ball.

  Chapter 11

  Gavin decided he could no longer put off seeing to the estate. His wife was past danger, although her lungs would likely be weak forever. She might never regain her full voice. However, if anyone could, it was she. He chuckled as he thought of her antics the day before. She was a stubborn, clever woman!

  He had wondered how someone with her beauty and wit had remained unmarried. Had she loved Lord Vernon so deeply that she could not bear to marry another? He did not wish to dwell on her past or his. She was charming, even without a voice. And her beauty went deep beyond the surface. He was surprised by her strength; when most ladies would have given up or at least stayed abed another month, she had insisted on leaving the sickroom. He had occasionally met a farmer or other labourer of her ilk, who had refused to be kept down. Margaux did not have to worry about fields or hungry mouths to feed, but she might be trying to prove something to her parents. He should keep a close eye on her and ensure she rested. She had already been going over guest lists and the menu for the ball, with her mother and Mrs. Ennis, when he had left the house. He had a sneaking suspicion that this would be the grandest ball that the county had ever seen.

  He surveyed the lands from the rise. His brother had more than doubled the farmable land that his father had had. Had Iain been leasing out the farms, or had he overseen it all? Gavin had no idea. For some time, he watched over the vast estate that was now his, attempting to assimilate this new life he had inherited. A breeze swept through the ripening awns of the barley fields, rippling the crop into golden waves, and he inhaled deeply of the nostalgic scent. He felt sadness for the empire his brother had built but he would never enjoy.

  It was nearing the harvest, and that meant the barley would soon be ready for malting. Gavin at least knew the barley was intended largely for whisky. Should he continue on with this venture his brother had made a substantial fortune from? Gavin had no nose for business, and not a very sophisticated one for whisky. He would have to find a use for the unfathomable amount of barley that was about to be threshed. He had honestly thought whisky to be only a hobby of his brother’s. It was about to become his, he mused.

  He did recognize some of the workers and greeted them while they were out tilling t
he land. The veterans from the Eastons’ estate would be arriving soon, and he fully intended to give them useful employment. He sighed; all he wished for was to be a country doctor.

  He set out from there to the old barn near the mill, to see what he was up against. His father had always enjoyed crafting whisky, but his small still had been just enough to supply the family for an entire year. Gavin was not prepared to find five giant stills that were as wide as he was tall. Good heavens! They must truly be supplying half the kingdom.

  He walked around the giant tubs which currently stood waiting for the barley to finish ripening. The walls were lined with enormous oaken barrels, each labelled with their year of casking. He could not fathom what was before his gaze. This was his to undertake or it would be allowed to die with his brother. He did not wish to be involved in anything illegal. He might be heading to London more quickly than he was prepared for, if only to attempt to make this proper. Tragically, Iain had been heading to Parliament to argue for legalization when his family’s carriage had gone down the side of the cliff. Meanwhile, there would be no clandestine deals for Craig whisky until he could do so with a clear conscience.

  He was fairly certain he would bungle several batches before he had enough mastery over the process, as it was. He knew the family recipe was tucked away for safekeeping, but meanwhile, he hoped some of the men were wiser about Scottish moonshine than he.

  “Craig? Are you in here?” Lord Ashbury’s voice called to him.

  “Aye.” He stepped out from behind one of the rows of barrels that had been obscuring him from view.

  “I had no idea,” Lord Ashbury remarked appreciatively as he looked around.

  “I think there is bound to be a good deal of trouble over this, if discovered,” Gavin pondered with a frown.

  “Or a good deal of happiness.” Lord Ashbury smiled.

  Gavin chuckled.

  “It will be sometime before I take the operation back where Iain had it—if ever.”

  “You must,” Ashbury insisted. “Surely this gives you an idea of how much demand there is for it.”

  “It doesna make it legal.”

  “Legal does not always mean right,” Lord Ashbury protested.

  “True. But I must protect my family,” Gavin said thoughtfully.

  “I know Iain did what was necessary to keep the estate above the hatches. It is unbelievable, the amount of upkeep these old estates require.”

  “Aye. It wasna always so prosperous. I doona condemn him. It was also his passion. It isna mine and I will ruin the good name of Craig if I do not take my time.”

  “A wise choice. It is my own pleasure that speaks more hastily than my son-in-law’s,” Ashbury agreed in obvious amusement.

  “Doona worry. I willna let family run out. It looks like Iain left enough to keep you supplied,” Gavin said, looking around at the barn stacked high with barrels.

  “Only if you keep brewing at his pace,” Ashbury replied, chuckling. “Once word gets out, everyone will be hounding me instead.”

  “I had best find someone who has experience. After I find Iain’s books,” Gavin said, thinking aloud.

  “I am certain Easton will send the right people for you.”

  “Let us hope he sends some Scots. No one makes whisky like a Scot.”

  Lord Ashbury mumbled his agreement and began walking around to survey the monstrous stills and tubs. “How did Iain manage this alone? I cannot imagine.”

  “I suspect once it is started, it is largely watching and waiting. I heard Father tell once of placing it all in the still and allowing magic to happen.” Gavin’s face took on a look of deep consternation. He lifted the lid on one of the large pots and the strong aroma of a barley field accosted him.

  “It doesna smell like whisky. ’Tis more like beer,” he said, surprised.

  “That must be where the barley malts and concentrates before it is placed in the still. After you place it in the still, the whisky forms,” Lord Ashbury remarked.

  “We will be harvesting the barley soon. I have until then to learn.”

  “I suppose it is time to find your brother’s books,” Lord Ashbury suggested.

  “Aye. I suppose it is.”

  Margaux listened to her mother giving instructions to the cook and the housekeeper, interspersed with frequent exclamations. “La! I know not how we will manage anything approaching a decent ball!” she declared with Gallic gestures of her hands. “There is no time to send to London for anything!”

  “We doona need anythin’ so fancy,” Mrs. Ennis dared to protest once, but she was given a quelling look by Lady Ashbury.

  “My daughter will also be presented as Lady Craig. I want it to be parfait.”

  After that, Mrs. Ennis sniffed in occasional disparagement and muttered darkly that anything Glasgow had was as fine as could be found in London.

  Margaux suppressed a smile and did not bother to protest. In the past two-and-twenty years, she had learned it was useless.

  She decided her time would be better served elsewhere, and that she would like to tour the castle and become more acquainted with her new home. She would prefer to explore rather than sit here.

  She stood up; at once, her mother ceased the list of instructions and directed her attention.

  Margaux held up her hand and whispered. “Do not trouble yourself, Maman. I am only going to the parlour.” She shook away the offer of assistance. It was time to prove she was made of sturdier stuff—to her mother and herself. She knew she was not ready for stairs, but surely she could manage a room or two. She had never been beyond the first floor, except for her new bedroom—a chamber which adjoined her new husband’s, she had noticed for the first time last night. He had brought her back there and walked through it to her own after kissing her on the cheek and whispering to her in Gaelic again. Sometime soon, she would gather the courage to ask him what he was saying. She was not quite ready to know.

  She walked upright as normally as she could for her mother’s benefit and sought the nearest chair as soon as she was beyond the door. Her wheezing sounded loud enough for the entire castle to hear. Once her breathing had settled, she looked at the room about her and felt a pang of guilt. She had entered a private study. Even her kind and loving father did not allow his children into his private study without permission. She could not help but be curious about her new husband, and there was something about a man and his sanctuary that drew her to it.

  She had never met anyone quite like Gavin. No man had ever been so kind or gentle with her. Men of society were, of course, never allowed the intimate liberties—unless they were doctors. She blushed when she thought of how Gavin had respected her privacy in the bathing room, although he had likely wanted to laugh. Perhaps his experience as a doctor explained much of it. But Sir Henry, the doctor her family occasionally employed in London, was not particularly kind or gentle. He was direct and to the point.

  She looked about her from a comfortably worn leather chair. It must have been a favourite chair for generations. There was another like it flanking the opposite side of the fireplace. On the small table next to her, an old pipe sat beside an open book of poetry. Did her husband smoke? She had never noticed the smell about him. Perhaps the pipe had been his brother’s.

  The room was not large. An over-sized desk occupied the far side of the room, and it was piled with papers. The far wall held obviously well-loved books. It was a comfortable room. She wanted one for herself. Perhaps there was such a room for her. She would have to ask.

  Her eyes were drawn to the portrait above the mantle.

  A handsome couple, surrounded by three healthy-looking, blue-eyed boys, looked down upon her. The man looked very like her husband. Iain. He even had the same eyes, with laughter lines surrounding them. He was looking at his wife with adoration. Margaux felt a stab of jealousy. She wanted to be looked at like that. Iain obviously had been in love with his wife. Love did not happen when you married for convenience.

  T
he late Lady Craig had been a red-headed beauty, but her eyes were not so welcoming. She was likely wondering why this stranger was in their home trying to take her place, Margaux thought. Why was she here? Why had she gone against her own principles and married for convenience? She did not belong in this home where love was synonymous with marriage. She had taken that away from Gavin and herself.

  A few tears escaped and trickled down her cheek. She was feeling sorry for herself again and should go to her room, her inner voice chastised, but she was too fagged to climb the stairs. She sank into the chair and dared to put her feet upon the accompanying footstool and made herself comfortable. She only needed a few minutes to rest and then perhaps she would be able to go a little farther.

  Gavin entered his study with the express purpose of finding Iain’s journals. Iain had once mentioned he kept them under lock and key, and Gavin assumed he would have placed them in the vault. When he walked in and saw his wife sleeping in the chair, he motioned to Lord Ashbury, who smiled and crept back out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Gavin looked at his lovely wife, who was audibly wheezing, and shook his head. He felt a wave of protectiveness come over him. One day, he hoped they would mutually feel more than that. He did not want her to feel trapped or to resent him. Why was she in his study? Had she been waiting for him? He watched her for a while, before turning his attention back to finding the journals. He opened the vault as quietly as he could and searched through decades of deeds, wills, and other official-looking papers. Nothing resembled a whisky recipe. He did find several cases of family jewellery, and he realized he should have presented them to his wife. To be fair, he hadn’t really had an opportunity. He had given Margaux the family ring, because it had been passed to him before Iain’s wife was buried. He would give Margaux these other jewels before the ball. She might not be able to dance, but she would look the part of Lady Craig. Although, he mused, glancing at his wife with a rueful smile, the stubborn woman would no doubt try to dance.