The Devil Wears Tartan Read online

  She dressed, intent on finishing her chamber. The carpenter arrived a little later to build the shelves Davina had requested. For hours there was nothing but the incessant sound of the carpenter and his helper at work. The banging of the hammers became almost commonplace, as routine as Nora slipping through the adjoining door to see if Michael or his helper wished a meal, a beverage, equipment or supplies, or anything else that an increasingly solicitous maid might be able to supply.

  Michael was not averse to such attention. What man would be? Nora was young and pretty, with blue eyes and curly brown hair. She was shorter than Davina, and more diminutive. But she had a smile that made anyone witnessing it want to smile as well, and when she cast it in Michael’s direction, there was little doubt that Ambrose’s carpenter was a trout and Nora an expert fisherman.

  As for Marshall, Davina did not see her husband all day. Nor was she about to send him a message. What would it say? Are you well? Come to me? Forgive me? Thank you?

  She spent a few hours responding to well-wishers and distant family, relatives whose existence she barely remembered, but who evidently thought it opportune to remind her of their ties now that she was a countess.

  Stationery had been delivered from John Elder & Co. in Edinburgh with her new name. She’d not thought Marshall would have anticipated her wants or needs. Yet, in his way, Marshall was as solicitous of her as Nora was of Michael. Except that Nora was beside Michael whenever she could be, letting the man know—without a doubt—that she was fascinated with him. Marshall was a ghost.

  Davina stared out the window, adrift in thoughts of her husband. Her memories of the night before were interrupted only by the entrance of plasterers into the sitting room. Her face felt flushed as she stood and crossed the room to her library.

  “We’re almost done here, Your Ladyship,” Michael said, moving back from the wall. The shelves were lovely, built against one wall so snugly that they couldn’t be moved. The cornice was still being carved, and when the whole of it was done, Michael was going to have his helper rub it down with oil that would bring out the grain of the wood.

  “They look wonderful,” she said, appreciating his workmanship.

  “I had a bit of bother with that cupboard, but I finally worked it out. The third shelf’s a bit deeper than the rest. I made it so for them big books, but it lets you in right enough.”

  She crossed the room to investigate, and found that Michael was indeed correct. There was a cupboard cut into the wall and framed with wood.

  “It was underneath all that batting,” Michael said.

  “Did you open it?” Davina asked.

  “Not my place, Your Ladyship.”

  She nodded, wishing he’d come to her earlier. Luckily, however, the space between the shelves was high enough that she could lean forward and pull at the edge of the cupboard. The door was wedged securely in place, and it took several moments until Davina could manage to get it free.

  She opened the door tentatively, wondering if some vermin had found a nest in such a secluded burrow. Nothing greeted her but a pile of books. No, not books. Journals. Three shelves of journals. She extracted one and brushed its spine clean. The front page was delicately inscribed with a name she instantly recognized. Julianna Ross. She closed the journal again and held it close to her chest. Julianna Ross, Countess of Lorne. Marshall’s mother. She replaced the book along with the others and slowly closed the cupboard. How very odd that it had been concealed. Why?

  Why had she not simply destroyed the journals instead of hiding them? Or had she wanted to keep them for just such an occasion as this: their discovery by a descendant? Davina wasn’t quite a descendant, but she might become the mother of one.

  “What are they, Your Ladyship?” Nora asked.

  For the first time since her marriage, her new title grated on her. Nora’s habit of completing every sentence with “Your Ladyship” was growing tiresome as well. But she didn’t berate her in front of the others. Nor did she have an answer to appease her curiosity. The journals suddenly felt private and personal. She didn’t want to tell the other women, because they were certain to spread the news. Suddenly it felt as if the Countess of Lorne had reached out solely to her, and like it or not, Davina was the steward of a dead woman’s words.

  “There’s plenty of time to determine what they are later,” she said, closing the cupboard door firmly, and hoping no one would question her further.

  Marshall closed the door, sealing himself in his study. He wouldn’t go to Davina tonight. Even though he wanted to—dear God, he wanted to—he’d remain in his chamber.

  She was too fascinating, too alluring. She made him forget, exactly, who he was. She made him forget the pain and the agony his life had become, and for that reason she was more dangerous than opium.

  You must resist the pull of the drug, Your Lordship. It promises happiness but it only brings destruction. It is not your fault you have come to crave it, but what you do from this moment on is your choice, and your responsibility.

  The pull of the drug? The Crown had provided the most skilled treatment for him, by the most intelligent and learned men, and they were all fools when they talked about opium.

  He’d walked away from it, finally. He’d endured the cessation of the drug, the physical pain, the mental delirium. Yet even after his body was purged of the opium, his mind was poisoned by it. If he’d known what his life would have become, he would have begged his captors to kill him.

  Now he was faced with another torment. A wife who promised him absolution when he was undeserving of it. A temptation who made him feel clean and safe and sane when he was with her.

  He wanted to warn her that she should be sparse with her smiles. Each one made him want to place his palm over her lips, trembling in their curve, because he could not bear the tenderness of such an expression.

  Her eyes were like the enchanted pools of a hidden forest, touched with magic. Yet those eyes had the power to reveal all her emotions from joy to sorrow.

  Her face was all subtle curves and angles, a perfect nose, a chin with perhaps too much stubbornness about it, high cheekbones, and barely tamed brows. Her ears were shells of the most fascinating curve, as delicate and feminine as the nape of her neck exposed by her bent head.

  Her teeth were white, and she flashed them often; even her most commonplace expressions ended in a half smile, as if she mocked herself. Her hair was thick and curly, a russet shade that curled around her shoulders to frame the symmetry of her face. Held tight in his fist, her glorious hair prompted him to think of silk and fire in one errant thought.

  She’d a way of walking that made an onlooker think she was comfortable with the body Providence had given her. He’d been transfixed that first morning, watching as she walked toward the Egypt House.

  He’d been besotted ever since.

  For two nights he’d been fortunate, as if God Himself had taken pity on him for the travails of this past year and had blessed him with this temporary companionship. For two nights he’d lain with her, slipping not into sleep but a restful doze that mimicked peace.

  The danger, however, was too great. He could fall asleep. Worse, his visions could visit him when he was with her. She was too vulnerable alone with him. Too fragile. Too sane.

  He’d avoided society for a year—he could avoid Davina. He would visit her once a week, no more than that. Perhaps in a month or two she’d be with child. Or he would be dead, and she’d be a very wealthy widow.

  Despite the fact that he’d spent the majority of his adult life in diplomatic service, ever since China he’d felt uncomfortable in social situations. The thrust and parry of saying nothing while appearing amenable strained his temper and bored him to tears.

  He didn’t care about the fate of governments or political figures. He doubted he could summon up one minute of compassion for any member of Parliament. Nor would they, if any of them knew the whole story, give him absolution for what he’d done. The less kind and pe
rhaps more honest of his peers might attempt to put themselves mentally in his position and then congratulate themselves that they would never sink to his actions. But then a comfortable home outside London was not the same as a Peking prison cell.

  A long time ago, Marshall had understood that he was not so much the Earl of Lorne as he was the property of the Crown. Now he was not even that, only an emissary who had failed, not poorly but magnificently, his mission to China an object lesson for all his successors.

  In the last five years, he’d learned too much about human nature. He’d been surfeited by compliments from sycophants who’d cared little if he’d lived or died as long as he said a good word about them to the Queen. Five years had been ample time to teach him that greed was the most powerful motivator of the human species, that deceit was a common enough element in the people he met every day.

  He’d learned, too, that there were a few people in the world capable of friendship and loyalty, but they were as rare and as priceless as black pearls.

  Davina might be one of those people.

  Yet he couldn’t bear to see that look on her face. A look not of disappointment as much as regret—that she’d married him, that she shared his name, that she’d given him her body and the freedom of her responses.

  Nor did he want to frighten her by letting her witness his ascent from the hell of his nightmares. Better she hate him than be terrified of him. Better she be confused and uncertain than aware of what he truly was.

  He’d been powerless to prevent the deaths of twenty-two men. Men who’d put their trust and their lives in his hands.

  Reason enough for nightmares.

  He sat in his chair and reached for the decanter of wine, and wondered how long the night would be. Would his visions come at midnight? Or would they visit earlier, having been deprived of two nights of haunting? He sipped at his wine and prayed for sleep, for a moment of rest before he must battle his demons.

  Davina ordered a tray in her room, fully expecting that Marshall would come to her later. She bathed and perfumed herself and then sat in the sitting room awaiting him. Another hour passed, and she realized that she looked too expectant, too anxious. Instead of performing a tableau that could easily be entitled “New Wife Awaiting Absent Bridegroom,” she should go to bed.

  By half past eleven, Davina knew that Marshall was not going to join her tonight. She sat up in bed, with the pillows propped behind her, and regarded the soft pink peignoir at the end of the bed. Should she don it and go in search of him? After yesterday, she was reluctant to enter his suite. What else would she learn about her husband?

  She sat there for nearly half an hour, attuned to any sound around her. Her eyes became accustomed to the dark, enough to realize that a quarter moon was shining. There wasn’t enough illumination to determine what shapes were in the darkness, but enough to mark the passage of the night.

  Impatient with herself and her inability to sleep, she put her legs over the side of the bed and slid down from the tall mattress. She lit the lamp on her bedside table and then regarded the shadowed room. All her belongings had been put away. The walls had been repaired where the batting had pulled away some of the plaster. When she gave the order, painting would begin in earnest, and she’d have to find a place to sleep in the interim. She knew better than to assume she’d sleep beside her husband.

  What task could she find to occupy herself in the middle of the night?

  Needlework had always been a little difficult because it strained her eyes. She dabbled in watercolors occasionally, but needed sunlight for that, not the yellowish light from the gas lamps. She’d brought her personal library from Edinburgh, but none of the books looked inviting. She might explore Ambrose’s library, if she knew where it was. Besides, there was every possibility that she could encounter Mrs. Murray on her rounds, and she really didn’t relish that.

  There were a few books she hadn’t yet read—the journals of Julianna Ross. For a few moments, she engaged in a war of sorts with herself. Julianna’s journals were not meant for anyone to see. She herself had kept a journal for some time, but had given it up. Her life was not substantially interesting to transcribe it to paper. Nor was she willing to divulge every single one of her thoughts for others to read.

  Did she have the right, then, to read someone else’s thoughts?

  Perhaps if she simply read a few pages, Davina could better ascertain whether the journals were of a personal nature or more prosaic. Perhaps Julianna did nothing more than discuss menus or her garden.

  Davina carried the lamp into the room she’d made her personal library. The odor of newly planed wood perfumed the air. Bending down, she pulled open the cupboard door. The arrangement of the journals wasn’t difficult to determine. They began at the far left and continued to the right in chronological order.

  She grabbed two of the books to the far left and returned to her bedchamber, retrieving her spectacles from her bedside table. Only then did she mount the steps and slide beneath the sheets again.

  Gilt-etched leather made up the covers of the journals, reminding Davina of books her aunt had bought her from Florence. She opened the cover delicately so as to not damage the spine, now cracked with age.

  On the frontispiece “Julianna Magreve Andrews” had been scratched out and “Julianna Ross” written above in a flowing and beautiful script.

  Can love come so suddenly? Does it happen in the time that it takes to utter a sentence? Oh dear God, if it does, it has happened to me. I have fallen in love. I have fallen in love. Shall I say it again? I, Julianna Andrews Ross, have fallen in love. Such an emotion, love. Such a horrible and torturous thing to feel and yet marvelous and wonderful and entrancing all at the same time.

  He came to sit at my side today when I was in the garden. I was sketching, and he sought me out. I pretended not to be aware of him at first. I wanted to be detached. But then I turned and he was looking at me.

  Aidan. Such a wonderful name. It fits him, somehow. Aidan. It goes with his black hair and his smile. Such a lovely smile he has. Such a lovely manner about him.

  Davina sat in the middle of the bed, drew her legs up, and balanced the book on her knees. She soon forgot her qualms about reading the dead woman’s journal, being captivated by Julianna’s story.

  Marshall’s mother was evidently in love with her husband, but it didn’t seem as if the emotion was reciprocated. One entry in the second journal was telling:

  He is going back to Egypt. Even though I am heavy with child, he is leaving. When I questioned him as to why now, he only looked away. Can he not bear to be with me? Am I so repulsive that he would much rather be in Egypt?

  He will return, he said, in time for the birth. Yet he and I both know that isn’t the truth. He will return when he feels the inclination to do so, and I will bear my child alone.

  I would much rather hate Aidan now.

  The next entry was commonplace, regarding a new spice Cook had used in what was evidently a delicious stew. A few entries later, Julianna recounted a plant cutting a neighbor had brought. Nowhere did she mention Marshall’s birth, and he was mentioned only in passing toward the end of the journal.

  I wanted to give Marshall a brother or sister. Perhaps it was for the best, given his difficult birth. What a joy he is to me. Why should I ever long for another child, with such a son?

  Davina went back to the cupboard and retrieved a few more books, choosing a journal dated 1857, thirteen years earlier. Julianna had died in 1862. Did she know that she only had five years to live? Was there any inclination in her writings that she was conscious of the passing years?

  The tone of Julianna’s entries was generally happy, and only once did she seem less so.

  Aidan is coming home. I received word via his factor today. The season in Egypt is finished, and his health has suffered for it. And so the Earl of Lorne has come home to be earl again.

  Their marriage was not, evidently, a happy one, each living a separate life from the
other. Davina skipped ahead several weeks to find an entry after the Earl of Lorne had returned.

  Aidan lives for the dynasty of a forgotten age, in touch with his treasures as he has never been with human beings. I have seen him stroke the statue of a long-dead queen or gently touch a bandaged hand of one of his mummies with more tenderness than he has ever shown to another living soul. Does he not understand that those of us who draw breath also need attention?

  Did Marshall emulate his father? Did he, too, want a marriage in which two separate lives never touched?

  Davina picked up another journal, and then almost immediately wished she hadn’t.

  I have returned, just this afternoon, from the specialist in Edinburgh. He is quite an avuncular man, given to nodding often, which sets his large mustache to bobbing furiously on his face. I found myself concentrating on the ends of the mustache rather than the sound of his voice, which is rather high and whiny. I suppose a man cannot be blamed for the sound of his voice, but it seems to me that he would make an extra effort to counteract the appearance of femininity by adopting a more sober kind of dress. Unfortunately, my doctor chooses the rather appalling shade of plum for his waistcoats. But who am I to criticize the fashions of others? I am no portrait of elegance myself. I have no patience for it. Now, I have no time for it.

  There, the very reason for my journey to Edinburgh. I cannot delay the words any longer, but in my foolishness, I think that if I do not write them down, they are less real. Instead my doctor’s diagnosis will simply hang in the air, not fastening itself to me. How foolish I can be, sometimes. I cannot help but wonder if other people have such reluctance to face a terrible truth?

  I feel as if my body is collapsing in on itself and will disappear until I am no more than an envelope. All they will find of me is a tiny, much-folded square of Julianna.

  But I am delaying again, am I not? Silly woman. My reluctance to write the word will not prevent death from coming for me, eager and intrusive.