“Kosta, please,” Konstantin said. “It is the name I am used to, here.” He came up to them. “You must believe me when I say I did not know either of you lived here. I would not have accepted Will’s invitation, had I known. My presence must grate upon you.”
“Yes,” Morgan said.
Konstantin nodded. “I came to relax, to recover. It has not been an easy transition to the title for me. Will is an old friend. He made the Highlands sound appealing to my worn spirits. Can we be polite to each other in the meantime?”
Morgan looked at him with his blank, intimidating stare.
Emma cleared her throat. “I believe I can manage politeness, if I must.”
Morgan nodded. “Agreed.”
Konstantin gave them a hard, tight smile, revealing white and even teeth beneath the black mustache. “Thank you.” He stepped out of the way, to let Morgan move on.
Morgan led her into the dining room. She could feel the muscle of his arm beneath her fingertips. It was iron hard.
Supper was a strained meal, with neither Emma nor Morgan able to summon any polite conversation. Emma managed a few soft responses to direct questions and picked at her food. She drank rather more of the whisky which Bakersfield had learned to keep on the sideboard for her.
It did not surprise her a great deal when Morgan murmured to Bakersfield, “I think I will have one, myself.”
He sipped the whisky for the rest of the meal.
Will and Bridget carried most of the conversation, with Konstantin providing the foil. Will was pleased to have another outdoorsman to whom he could show off the estate. “It is completely the wrong time of year for hunting,” Will explained. “The only game permitted right now are roe deer, and they’re quite a climb up from here.”
“I think a good climb is just the thing I need,” Konstantin replied. “I’m prepared, if you are.”
Will laughed, looking pleased. “We’ll have you fit as a fiddle by the time you go. You’ll see.”
“Striding around the knees of mountains does take stamina,” Bridget said.
“Do you speak from experience, Lady Rothmere?” Konstantin asked.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Bridget said, her mouth turning into a pout. “I thought I might have to be carried down, in the end. My legs would not cooperate for another step.”
The conversation moved on, with Will mentioning the summer balls and festivals, the markets and his club, and plans for a dinner party to introduce Konstantin to all the locals.
Emma’s gaze slid to Morgan, on her left, for Konstantin had the seat of honor on Will’s right. Morgan was not smiling as the long list of possible events and activities developed.
When Will tried to include Morgan in the less vigorous affairs, Morgan declined. “I am afraid it is a busy time of year, right now.” He did not add further explanation. Konstantin did not protest, either.
Will didn’t seem to notice the odd tensions around the table.
When they rose from the dinner table to return to the drawing room, Emma excused herself and went back to her room, instead. She could not stand another moment in the man’s company. He was a constant reminder of the great mystery in her life. He personified danger…only she had no idea what type of danger he could represent, because it was all hidden in the past and kept there.
Sleep evaded her, though.
When she dismissed the worry about Konstantin and the secrets he stirred, her thoughts instead turned to Morgan, and his kiss.
What was she to make of that kiss? He had said nothing afterwards. He had not prostrated himself at her feet, begging for forgiveness for gainsaying her reputation and honor, as the lords who had kissed her in the past had done.
What did the kiss mean?
And why had she let him kiss her? Morgan was not a lord, not even a peer. Only, did it matter, anymore? She had been forced from society. In truth, it was unlikely she would have found a lord willing to marry an orphan girl of unknown parentage, which was how society still regarded her.
Why had he kissed her? Morgan hated society and liked his placid routines.
Only, he also liked stealing away to wrestle, when no one was looking.
He did not like to drink.
…unless pushed to it as he had been last night.
He said he had a great and terrible temper.
…yet he was the most sober and silent man she knew.
Emma did not understand Morgan. He was too full of conflicting details to make sense. Was it any wonder she could not grasp his reason for kissing her?
You must speak to him about it, she decided. Her heart plunged at the idea. What if she demanded to know his intentions, only to find he had none? What if he had been playing with her, the way all the lords had been?
Sleep stole over her in slow, reluctant stages. It was a disturbed sleep, shot with discomforting dreams full of fear and worry.
Emma found herself awake shortly before dawn and long before anyone but the staff were about. She didn’t ring for Cookson. Instead, she donned one of the few wrappers she possessed. Normally, she preferred to avoid dressing so casually. There were society people who still considered wrappers to be lude, even when in the privacy of one’s own boudoir. This morning, though, she did not care.
She had a headache and wondered if tea would ease it. She crept downstairs to find Bakersfield and see if a pot could be arranged in between the frantic preparations for breakfast.
Bakersfield gave her a warm smile. “Of course, Miss Emma. Would you like some toast to go with the tea? A little jam, perhaps? I believe Cook has some salicylic powders on the shelf, too. Let me see what we have. Please settle in the breakfast room and I’ll bring the tea right away.”
He hurried off.
Emma moved through the hall to the breakfast room, which was tucked behind Bridget’s morning room. She glided as smoothly as she could to avoid jarring her head. She came to a halt in the doorway, her belly cramping.
Konstantin sat at the table, his elbows on the cloth, his head in his hands. His fingertips drove into his skull, as if he was trying to relieve pressure.
Emma glanced over her shoulder. No one had seen her approach the breakfast room. Konstantin had not looked up. If she eased away from the door, she could turn and go back to her room. She would tell Bakersfield she was too ill to sit at the table.
Then Konstantin lifted his head, which removed the opportunity to retreat.
His eyes were already narrowed, his swarthy face unsmiling. “I thought I would be the only one up at this hour. Did you not sleep well, either, Miss Emma?”
Emma cleared her throat. “I…have a headache.” There was nothing for it but to sit at the table. She edged toward the end farthest from Konstantin, choosing the seat beside Bridget’s.
Konstantin reached the chair before she could put her hand on it. He held it out for her. He did not smile as he did it, though.
Emma thanked him and settled on the chair. Her heart worked heavily.
Konstantin returned to his seat and grimaced as he sat.
“Are you ill?” she asked.
“Ill at ease and at heart.” He rested his hands on the table, between the spotless knife and fork Bakersfield had laid for him. “I have troubled you and upset your life. I saw it last night. You barely ate. My mere presence is making you sick. And now you say you have a headache and you are wan.”
Emma could not deny any of it. To confirm it seemed cruel, though. “You worried about that?”
Konstantin played with the knife, making it flash in the light from the lantern over the table. “It was only after I visited Innesford that I understood how my arrival had upset all of you. Before my visit, I was blind to anything but my family’s concerns, which appalls me. I am not a cruel man, Miss Emma, all appearances to the contrary. I grew up watching my father suffer because of the indifference of others. He was a gentle man. A kind man. He asked for none of the troubles which afflicted him. When I took the title, I was determined to
never be that unthinking, that unaware of the impact of my actions upon others. Yet within a year, I have trampled upon the hearts and minds of other innocents.” He grimaced. “Yes, I have worried about that.”
Bakersfield arrived with a footman, both carrying trays. The big family teapot was placed in front of Emma, while the tall silver coffeepot was placed in front of Konstantin. “Strong, as you requested, Your Highness,” Bakersfield added.
A large plate of perfectly toasted bread was placed between the two of them, and bread plates, too. The circular tray with the collection of jams and preserves, honey and marmalade, most of them made from fruit grown in the Kirkaldy kitchen garden, was put to one side.
A tiny porcelain tub with four packets of salicylic powder was placed beside the jams.
“Will there be anything else, Your Highness? Miss Emma?”
“Thank you, Bakersfield.” Emma’s voice was rough.
Konstantin sat upright and reached for the napkin. “It looks more than adequate, thank you.”
The two men withdrew.
Emma’s throat tightened as she smelled the scent of strong tea. Instead, she reached for the packets of powder and plucked one.
“What is that?” Konstantin asked.
“It helps with headaches.” She unfolded the paper and tapped the crystals into the fold, then raised it to her mouth.
“Before you swallow that…” Konstantin said, his tone mild.
Emma lowered the packet.
Konstantin pushed his plate to one side and rested his hands on the table once more. “Do this.” He pinched the skin between his thumb and forefinger with his other hand. He lifted the pinched hand, demonstrating. “Right here, just before the tendons.”
Emma raised her brow. “Why?”
“It is a treatment for headaches, which the eastern doctors showed me. Try it.”
Emma wanted to laugh. How could holding one’s hand cure a headache?
She put the powder packet to one side and imitated Konstantin, pressing her thumb and finger against the flesh between the other hand’s finger and thumb. “How hard must I press?”
“Not so it hurts. Not lightly, either.”
She pressed. “For how long?”
“Until the headache eases.”
“How long does it take?”
“As long as it must.” Konstantin gave her a small smile. “You should not be in such a hurry.”
“I would like my cup of tea,” she confessed. “I cannot pour while I am clutching at my hand in this way.”
“May I pour your tea, then? It would be the first time I have done so, although I have watched tea being poured many times.”
“You never drink tea?”
“I prefer coffee.” He reached for the teapot and pulled her cup and saucer closer to him, picked up the strainer and placed it in the cup. “In fact, I prefer the coffee they make in Constantinople, which is considerably different from the coffee one finds here. This coffee serves well enough, though.” He poured carefully. “Milk and sugar?”
“Cream, please. Just a little.”
He added a dollop of cream and pushed the cup back toward her. “Has your headache eased?”
“That quickly?” She let go of her hand long enough to reached for the teacup and take a mouthful. Then she paused. The movement of reaching for and raising the cup had not made her head thud. “I do believe it is actually working,” she murmured. She put the cup down and returned to squeezing the flesh of her hand. “This is remarkable.”
Konstantin poured the thick, black liquid from the coffeepot and sipped. “Passable,” he admitted, sounding surprised.
“What does constitute good coffee, in your opinion?”
“If the correct coffee beans were available, then it would be boiled twice and the grounds not removed before pouring. The cups would be much smaller than this.” He lifted the teacup. “Very little of it is required to satisfy the palate.”
“It does sound different.”
“My family has a coffee service set which dates back to the sixteenth century. It is rarely used these days. When it is, we remember our ancestors with gratitude.”
Emma touched the big white teapot. “This teapot dates back to last year. It is used every single day. I am always grateful for the tea it pours.”
Konstantin’s mouth turned up at one corner. His black eyes flickered with humor. Then it faded. “How do you stand it, not knowing?”
Emma’s heart lurched. She let go of her hand and sat back. “I am told I am better off not knowing.”
Konstantin’s jaw worked. She could see the flex of his cheek above the black beard. “And you are willing to accept they are right?”
“I trust my family completely,” Emma said, even though she had questioned whether they were right to withhold the information. She reached for a slice of toast and pulled the tray of jams toward her.
Konstantin played with the handle of the teacup, which looked tiny against his big hand. “Does it not…gnaw at you? The need to know?”
Emma’s heart squeezed again. “Yes,” she admitted. “It does.”
Konstantin swiveled on his chair so he faced her squarely. “I know just enough to feel as though if I squinted the right way and looked at it in the right light…if the pieces were arranged correctly…then I might see the truth for myself. I keep thinking that if I can guess the connections properly, I will figure it out.”
Emma drew in a slow breath. “On the other hand, I am afraid to prod at it too hard. If I was to properly guess the truth, would I like it? Or would I truly regret knowing it, as everyone assures me I would?”
Konstantin’s black gaze met hers. “Precisely,” he murmured. “The range of possible answers are bleak.”
Emma nodded. The tension in her chest eased as she recognized that Konstantin was as torn by the lack of answers as she was. It wasn’t simply family honor which drove him. There was fear there, too—fear he wouldn’t like the answers.
“How is your headache?” he asked.
“Gone, thank you, Your Highness.”
“Kosta.”
She hesitated. “Kosta,” she repeated.
Chapter Thirteen
Emma would not have predicted for an instant that having Kosta as a guest at Kirkaldy would be a pleasant experience. Yet as the spring rolled toward summer; as the doors and windows of the house were opened and the rooms aired; as the mild days of spring cleaning and the scent of fresh blooms and sweet grasses filled the air, Emma had to admit Kosta’s presence was a positive thing.
Kosta and Will were the greatest of friends. They both enjoyed riding and walking and the limited amount of hunting available at this time of year. Venison became a frequent dish upon the Kirkaldy table.
The first dinner party to introduce Kosta to the dignitaries and influential of Inverness was a resounding success. Kosta, Emma admitted, was a charming man. His English education had ensured he was comfortable with English society and etiquette.
He liked good company and listened closely to everyone, coaxing stories from them with his appreciative manner. He also liked to laugh, which he and Will did frequently.
As a result of the first dinner party, Kosta’s social calendar soon filled to the brim. His was always the largest pile of letters upon the breakfast table each morning, most of the letters invitations to parties and dinners, usually in his honor.
It became usual for Kosta to head off in the evening in his tuxedo and not return until the small hours of the morning. Afternoon affairs were frequent, too. When he did not have a social engagement, he and Will would tackle physical work upon the estate. Sometimes they joined the crews of laborers repairing hedges or drystone walls, or planting fields or many of the myriad tasks a working estate demanded to keep it running smoothly. Kosta seemed to enjoy getting his hands dirty, too.
While Kosta and Will hunted and fished and tramped about the estate, chopped trees and mended fences, climbed peaks or herded sheep and cattle with
youthful enthusiasm, the business affairs of the house continued on.
Bridget was as routine-bound as Morgan. She would head off on her rounds each morning, her satchel stuff full of papers and letters and ledgers, only to return late in the afternoon, looking tired but pleased.
One afternoon, she sat beside Emma in the drawing room where Emma was reading. “You were right,” Bridget said quietly, unbuckling her satchel.
“How shocking,” Emma murmured. “What about, pray tell?”
Bridget sorted through the documents and ledgers in the satchel. “About plain jackets for working ladies.”
Emma sat up. “Really? How wonderful! You have sold some of them?”
“All of them,” Bridget replied. She withdrew a letter and held it out to Emma. “There is an emporium in London, a new store run by a Mr. Charles Digby Harrod.” She raised the letter a little. “They bought a few of the jackets and instantly sold all of them. Now they want two hundred more!”
Emma looked at the line in the letter requesting two hundred jackets in various sizes, which Bridget had underlined with her pencil. “Good Lord!”
“I will have the designer draw up different designs, too,” Bridget said, taking back the letter.
Emma shook her head. “No. Make skirts and shirts, Bridget. Skirts from the same fabric as the jackets, so they become a suit, if the lady wishes to wear one, and the shirts to go beneath the jacket. Then it might be sold as a complete ensemble, or they can buy the pieces one at a time, as they can afford them.”
“Shirts require cotton,” Bridget said, her face falling. “We cannot compete with the midland cotton mills, if we must import the cotton to spin. It is only because there is so much excellent wool up here that I can make the tweed…”
Emma gripped her wrist. “Linen, Bridget. The finest, softest linen. There are flax fields all over Scotland.”
“For cattle and sheep feed,” Bridget said.
“And now, the best of the flax can be for Kirkaldy linen.”
Bridget chewed at her thumb. “That would require a completely different type of mill,” she said doubtfully.
Year of Folly Page 13
