A Borrowed Scot Page 12

  “Enough to do it again?” she asked.

  No, it wasn’t embarrassment he felt, but heat.

  “I’d be a fool to say no, wouldn’t I?”

  She kept jerking her gloves tighter on each finger. He couldn’t help remember what she’d said about his fit. He found her actions so arousing he had to turn and focus on the scenery.

  He’d not expected the mountains around him, their scraggly peaks still capped with snow. The soil was barely a thin layer over a base of rock, as if the Almighty had sprinkled it over the Highlands as an afterthought.

  As they traveled farther west, the earth began to sprout green, turning from rock to undulating glen. In the distance was the glimmer of a lake surrounded by a forest of pine. For a time, the road followed a glistening silver river before the rolling hills hid it from view.

  He liked Scotland, and it surprised him that he did. He liked the mountains surrounding him, the scent of the air, different from Virginia. His home was young and vibrant. A seed dropped in the ground would boast a budding plant within days. This ground was harder and older. Any coaxing would be done with oaths and threats.

  They stopped for a drink a few hours later at what Donald, the coachman, told him was the Well of the Phantom Hand. The water was cold, crystal clear, and welcome, as was the respite from the silence in the carriage.

  When they resumed their journey, it was with the information they’d arrive at Doncaster Hall within the hour.

  The hills varied in shape and size, some large, some smaller, all in varying shades of green from olive to emerald. The far-off glint of water hinted at the river they’d followed for a time.

  The slope of one hill ended where another began, almost like interlocking fingers. The packed-earth road, wide enough to accommodate two wagons abreast, wound up and over each incline. Two deer looked out from behind a cluster of boulders, curious about the strangers.

  “We’re nearly there,” Veronica said, as they crossed a wide planked bridge, the wood darkened to a rich umber.

  A glen, shaped like an arrowhead, opened up before them. On either side, the tree-covered hills seemed to point the way to another hill, one carpeted in emerald grass and topped by a sprawling house. A river, now wide and placid, sat like an engorged snake beside the home of the Lords Fairfax of Doncaster.

  The breath stilled in his chest.

  Before him, as if it had been magically transported from Virginia, was Gleneagle. Two long red brick wings jutted from either side of a center structure boasting a tall pitched roof. White-framed windows glittered in the morning sun. The river flowing around the base of the hill might have been the James, and the mature trees, some looking to be well more than a hundred years old, might be those he’d played in as a boy.

  He closed his eyes. For a long moment, he kept them closed, fighting against a spurt of longing so intense it threatened to unman him. Then he tested himself again and opened them to find the scene unchanged.

  “What is it, Montgomery?”

  He forced himself to glance over at Veronica.

  “Nothing,” he said. How could he explain the rush of memory? Or the sudden awareness his grandfather had built Gleneagle as a reminder of all he’d loved in Scotland. How could he tell her that the ghost of the old man was beside him now, patting his shoulder in approbation?

  He would sound as odd as she did when speaking of her Gift.

  She remained silent, kindly allowing him his lie.

  As they approached the house, the past surged up to welcome him. The circular drive to Doncaster Hall was the same as Gleneagle’s. He half expected, when the carriage stopped in front of the door, to see all the people he’d loved rushing out to greet him. His brothers, Caroline, ghosts who had never seen this place, and never walked this ground.

  The silence remained unbroken for long moments.

  Finally, he gripped the door handle, pushed it open, and stepped down. He half turned toward Doncaster Hall as the front door opened, the yawning cavern revealing nothing for a moment. In that second, he held his breath, waiting. Was this heaven? Had he somehow died on the voyage to England? Had God rewarded him for his minuscule good deeds by conveying him to this place, this mound of earth so resembling the home of his heart?

  Instead of Magnus or James, Alisdair, or even Caroline, the man who opened the door was a stranger to him, followed immediately by Edmund Kerr, his solicitor.

  He turned, extended a hand to Veronica, and clasped hers too hard as she stepped down from the carriage. His wife then did something odd. She stood on tiptoe, one hand on his shoulder for balance, and kissed him on the cheek.

  Before she pulled away, she whispered, “I’m here, Montgomery.”

  He was startled to see a look of compassion on her face. Was he so transparent she could tell what he was feeling?

  “Welcome to Doncaster Hall, Lord Fairfax,” Edmund said, striding to the carriage.

  He turned to face his solicitor, conscious that Veronica had slipped her arm through his. Who was supporting whom?

  “You made good time,” Edmund said, smiling widely.

  How odd that his solicitor had lost his dour appearance and now appeared almost jocular.

  He nodded, still uncertain if he could speak.

  Edmund gestured with a hand toward the house. “As you can see, this is Doncaster Hall.”

  Montgomery made a great show of patting Veronica’s hand and studying the gravel before following Edmund up the path.

  The wind surprised him. Soughing through the trees, it was almost a welcome, a greeting in some native Gaelic. He’d learned some of it from his grandfather, but not well enough to speak it without prompting. The sounds of the birds, however, fit into his memory of Virginia, as well as the sight of the eagles soaring overhead. This, too, was another facet of his home he suddenly understood. His grandfather had named the house in Virginia for an eagles’ aerie in Scotland.

  His entrance into Doncaster Hall was accompanied by the same odd feeling that he was in two places at once. Stretching up for three floors was an oval staircase, wide and dramatic, and carpeted in emerald wool. At the top of the staircase was an oval ring of Corinthian columns, each column a floor high. The view from the ground floor as well as the top was an ornately designed ellipse.

  “The oval staircase, Your Lordship,” Edmund said. “Designed by Adam himself in the last century. It leads to the public rooms. Would you like to have a tour now?”

  He shook his head. “I think my wife and I would like to be directed to the family quarters,” he said, turning toward the left wing. “They’re through here, are they not?”

  “Yes, Your Lordship,” Edmund said, looking confused.

  “The second floor,” he said, testing himself. “The first door leads to the state bedroom, then a series of smaller bedrooms and dressing rooms and, finally, the owner’s bedroom.”

  “The state bedroom was converted to His Lordship’s bedroom,” Edmund said. “A dozen years or more, sir.” The man hesitated. “Have you been here before, Your Lordship?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Yet you know the layout of the house.”

  He only nodded. His grandfather couldn’t have known about the changes, but everything else about Doncaster Hall had been replicated at Gleneagle.

  “I’ve heard about it,” he said, an answer that evidently placated Edmund.

  He glanced at Veronica, who was looking at him with a studied gaze. He hadn’t fooled her. He needed time to understand what he was seeing before he discussed it with anyone.

  Magnus had been a Scot, through and through, but he’d left the Highlands with bitterness under his tongue.

  “The land couldn’t support us, Montgomery. Not with all those sheep. It’s why I’ll not have the devils on my land.” Magnus had ruffled his hair, then. “I’m raising a fine family of Scots here in America, boy. Men who are Highlanders in their hearts.”

  His grandfather had died before the war, before seeing his fam
ily torn in two. He’d died and been buried in the churchyard down the road before knowing what had happened to Gleneagle.

  Now, Magnus Fairfax was here, his ghost as companionable as those of Alisdair and James and Caroline. Gleneagle was here, sprung forth from the land to welcome him in Scotland.

  Who was being fey now?

  “The staff would like to greet you,” Edmund said. “They’re arranged in the Round Parlor, Your Lordship.”

  The last thing he wanted to do was play Lord Fairfax, but he waved Edmund toward the other wing of the house. He glanced at Veronica. She’d not released his arm, and, as they turned, she squeezed it, a wordless gesture to indicate her support.

  “Shall we go introduce ourselves?” he asked.

  She nodded, and he couldn’t help wonder if she felt as dazed as he, albeit for different reasons. He decided to push his thoughts away until he could deal with them. Nothingness was easier.

  They followed Edmund through double doors and into the River Wing, the side of the house facing the River Tairn. Although its dimensions were the same, the Round Drawing Room was different from its twin at Gleneagle, a fact Montgomery found to be a relief.

  The room overlooked the sloping banks of the river and featured views of the rolling glens. Was this room used like the one at Gleneagle: a place for visitors to be greeted and impressed by the view, or impressed by Gleneagle itself? The power and the influence of the Fairfax family were evident once a visitor had been welcomed to their Virginia home.

  Above him, the ceiling was festooned with ornate carvings, complete with plaster ribbons trailing from a center bouquet to each corner, where a dimpled cherub held one end. He was grateful to note that the mania for fringe and crimson dominating the living spaces of London hadn’t reached Scotland. Instead, the walls were covered in a pale green fabric, the gilt furniture arranged in such a way that guests could walk close to the windows, or perhaps utilize the door to the left to wander to the terrace outside. A trio of sofas, accompanied by the requisite number of tables and lamps, were arranged in front of the massive white stone fireplace.

  Arranged in a line from the windows to the door were the men and women who comprised the staff of Doncaster Hall. An impressive number of people—short, tall, portly, slender—each attired in what were probably Fairfax colors, pale blue and white. Each woman and man bore a singular expression, one of sincere welcome that would have been flattering had he not felt as if the last quarter hour was out of time and place.

  He forced a smile to his face and greeted each person, nodding as Edmund introduced them. Ralston was the majordomo, an older man with stiff, broad shoulders and boasting a thatch of white hair tamed in a leonine fashion. Mrs. Brody, the housekeeper, in turn introduced the rest of the staff, from Cook to the gardeners. He heard Veronica murmur greetings beside him, grateful she, at least, had been suitably trained in such details.

  What the hell was a Virginian, schooled in the law, forced into war, and interested in an odd avocation, doing playing at being a lord of Scotland?

  Veronica had never felt such blistering pain from anyone. The sight of this place, this house, had opened a door in Montgomery, emotions she’d only fleetingly felt earlier. Grief, mixed with despair and longing, rolled in waves from him. Even without her Gift, she would have seen the anguish in his eyes.

  She gripped his arm tighter, just to let him know he wasn’t alone. She was here, and she’d help in whatever way she could to banish that look in his eyes and the set, frozen expression on his face.

  His responses were proper, if distant. His greetings were polite and a little cold. The warm welcome on the faces of the staff faded to caution. Here was a master who would not be as benevolent, their eyes said. Here was someone who would not care for their welfare as much as the 10th Lord Fairfax of Doncaster.

  She tried to add what warmth she could in her smile, in her comments, but she was more concerned with the stiffness in the arm she held, an iron control she suspected was hard-won.

  When they were done, the staff still stood at attention, as if expecting a speech from Montgomery. The man of an hour ago could have done it, but she didn’t know if this man could push back the pain long enough to make the effort.

  Montgomery surprised her, however, by striding to the windows, then turning and facing the group.

  “Thank you for your welcome for me and my wife,” he said, glancing at her.

  She smiled in response, the perfect expression for such a situation. Thankfully, she’d been privy to many of Aunt Lilly’s lectures on the decorum expected of the daughters of an earl. With any luck, the lessons would translate well to being the wife of a lord.

  “I look forward to our continued cooperation in the months ahead,” he said.

  The staff smiled and nodded, but she saw more than a few confused glances. Why had Montgomery said months and not years? Had he decided to return to America after all? She pushed back the thought, keeping her smile firmly moored in place as he strode ahead of her, Mr. Kerr at his side.

  “Shall I see you to the family quarters, Lady Fairfax?” the housekeeper asked.

  She slowed, allowing her pace to match that of the older woman. It was just as well, she’d lost sight of Montgomery.

  Mrs. Brody was older, with the confidence of someone who knows she does her job well. Her hair was closer to silver than white, arranged in a coronet at the top of her head. An almost militaristic arrangement, as if she cowed any stray tendrils into obeying. Her face bore a few faint lines, especially around the corners of her eyes and mouth, giving her the impression that the woman smiled more than the role required.

  “If you would, please, Mrs. Brody.”

  “You’ve the voice of Scotland,” the housekeeper said in surprise.

  She nodded. “My home was not far from here,” she said. “Lollybroch.”

  The expression on the housekeeper’s face changed from polite interest to genuine delight. “I know the village well,” she said. “We’ve hired several girls from there over the years.”

  For a few moments, they discussed people each might know. Veronica didn’t explain her father’s studious habits, or the fact her mother had followed his lead. As a family, they hadn’t socialized, but she did add she hadn’t been home in more than two years.

  “Once a Scot, always a Scot,” Mrs. Brody said, reaching over and patting her arm in a gesture that would have garnered a remonstrance from Aunt Lilly. In Scotland, however, the lines between servant and master were often blurred.

  “Your husband, though, he’s from America.”

  She nodded. “He is. Virginia.”

  “We’ve had a number of ours gone to America,” Mrs. Brody said. “It’s a sight for one to come back.”

  She wasn’t certain Montgomery was here to stay, another comment she didn’t make to the housekeeper.

  “Shall I tell you a little about the house, then?”

  What she really wanted to know was why it had such an effect on Montgomery, but she nodded. Otherwise, the housekeeper would no doubt complain to the majordomo, and the tale would slowly filter down to all the staff that the mistress had no interest in the house itself.

  The corridor in which they traveled was filled with portraits, all done in the same style. A three-quarters pose, painted in front of rows of bookshelves, the subject staring out at the River Tairn.

  “A tradition,” Mrs. Brody said, noticing her glance. “Each of the lords has had his portrait painted in the Grand Library.”

  The men arrayed in the gallery did not bear much resemblance to Montgomery. No distinct familial traits were revealed in each successive portrait. No large nose or widely placed eyes, or ears that stuck out too much. No one had the distinctive blue eyes Montgomery possessed. Nor were any of the prior lords as handsome as her husband.

  They mounted a set of stairs nowhere near as ornamental or magnificent as the oval staircase. Still, the banister was polished mahogany, and the balusters were ornately carved and d
usted with gilt.

  At the second-floor landing, she halted.

  She’d not expected as much rich detail in the family suite as she saw. The emerald carpets were a perfect backdrop for the brass and crystal chandeliers. The walls were covered in a pale green patterned damask, while white vases and urns were placed throughout the hallway and on two long mahogany tables. Someone had filled the vases with spring flowers. The effect was not only welcoming but warm.

  “We have the Best Bedroom here,” Mrs. Brody was saying. “And the dressing room that goes with it. Then there’s the Lady’s Private Room next to that, and the Lady’s Bedroom.”

  Mrs. Brody walked down the hall, gesturing with her hand toward the end of the hall. “That staircase leads to the nursery wing,” she said. “Shall we go there first?”

  “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Brody, could you just show me the Lady’s Bedroom? I find I’m extraordinarily tired from our journey.”

  A little lie, but surely one for which she’d be forgiven. She didn’t want to see the nursery wing just then, didn’t want to think of the future when it was so uncertain.

  The housekeeper looked aghast. “Forgive me, my lady, of course you’re tired.”

  She opened the third door in the hall, then stood aside for Veronica to precede her. “If you’ll note the poppy seed heads in the plasterwork detail, Your Ladyship. That dates from the time the house was first constructed.”

  “It’s quite a lovely room,” she said, looking around her. The bed was smaller than she’d expected, more space being given up to the two armoires and vanity. The wallpaper, ivory with gold flowers, was lovely. The floorboards were covered in an ivory carpet with the same flowers replicated at intervals. A room fit for a Scots princess.

  She was, at least, a Scot.

  Mrs. Brody opened the door to the Lady’s Private Room, which turned out to be three rooms: a bathing chamber and lavatory, a dressing room, and a small sitting room connected to the sitting room adjoining the Best Bedroom. Evidently, if a wife wished to communicate with her husband, she needn’t leave her chamber and walk down the hall to do so.