A Borrowed Scot Page 15

  As he left the bed, she sat up, feeling self-conscious for the first time since he’d arrived in her sitting room. He went to where his trunks were stacked along one wall and unerringly chose the second to the last, opened it, and withdrew a robe. She’d thought he meant to wear it, but he returned to the bed naked, evidently feeling no shame about the state of his undress.

  Why should he? He was so magnificently constructed that even then, when her body still thrummed from the pleasure he’d given her, she wanted to run her hands over his arms and legs, curve her palm around his shoulders, stroke his chest, and admire the man Providence, and her own impulsiveness, had made her husband.

  He gently pulled her to her feet, placed the robe around her shoulders, helping one arm, then the other, into the sleeves. The robe felt like silk, sliding against her skin in a whisper of coolness. He folded one lapel over the other, wrapped the belt around her twice, then tied it in a bow in the front, as if she were a precious package.

  She didn’t know what to say to him. What words were proper? Should she even have any comments about what had just transpired between them?

  Raising her hand, she placed it on the side of his face, her fingertips brushing against his night beard. Although he was clean-shaven, unlike most of the men of her acquaintance, his cheek was bristly.

  They exchanged a long, wordless look, one that might be interpreted any way she wished. She gathered the material of the robe in one hand so she wouldn’t trip and stepped down from the dais.

  She halted at the door and looked back at him. He was standing there, still naked.

  When Montgomery didn’t speak, she left him, doing so with the sense that perhaps he’d have spoken if she’d only had the words or the wit to coax his thoughts free.

  Chapter 15

  Streaks of clouds in shades of orange, gold, and pink stretched across the sky like scarves tossed into the air. Veronica stood at the window of her bedroom, captivated by the sight of dawn in the Highlands.

  Elspeth knocked on the door and entered, smiling brightly.

  “Good morning, my lady,” she said. “Isn’t it the most glorious day?”

  She wasn’t certain what kind of day it was going to be, and wasn’t that a pitiable thing?

  The rumble of wheels prevented her from having to respond. A caravan of wagons, each piled high and covered with a canvas tarp, rumbled up the road and disappeared behind a nearby hill.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “I suspect something His Lordship ordered,” Elspeth said, coming to the window. “They’ve been coming for hours. Would you like me to go find out, Lady Fairfax?” Elspeth asked.

  “No,” Veronica said. “I’ll go see myself when I’m dressed.”

  She flew through her morning ablutions, the only difficulty coming when Elspeth attempted to detangle her hair. Finally, she asked her new maid to simply gather it and cover it with a lace snood. No ringlets or elaborately styled hair softened her face. Her eyes looked too wide, their shade an unremarkable hazel. Her face was pale, her lips a little swollen, and softly pink.

  Her maid was looking at her oddly, her head tilted to one side, her eyes narrowed slightly.

  “What is it, Elspeth?”

  “You look different, Your Ladyship, but I can’t quite decide what it is that’s different. Did you sleep well?”

  Hardly at all, not a comment she’d make to her maid. She could feel warmth creep up her cheeks as she stood and grabbed her shawl.

  “Mrs. Brody asked what time would be convenient for you to meet with the seamstress.”

  She turned. “Seamstress?” she asked, although she already knew. Montgomery had made arrangements to augment her clothing.

  Elspeth nodded.

  “I’ll find Mrs. Brody myself,” she said, leaving Elspeth to set her rooms to rights.

  Twice, she turned left when she should have turned right, and was given directions by a smiling maid. She waved away an offer to lead her to the housekeeper, saying she’d rather find her way. After all, she was to live here. The sooner she learned Doncaster Hall, the better.

  The Blue Drawing Room was the first of the public rooms she investigated. Here, the walls were hung with a blue damask fabric that focused the eye on the delicate plasterwork of the ceiling and the white mantel, with its frieze design of lions and thistles. A larger drawing room was next, a room she privately thought of as The Picture Room, taking up the whole of the east side of the second floor. Paintings of ships and men attired in naval uniform adorned one of the crimson walls. The other walls were covered in landscapes of Doncaster Hall and portraits of previous Lords Fairfax with their wives.

  Other art treasures sat on tables and credenzas, evidently placed to display them at their best advantage. She wasn’t an expert on porcelain, but the statue of a shepherdess looked valuable, as did the Chinese vases colored the same crimson hue as the walls.

  On the top floor, she discovered a ballroom, its inlaid floor shiny with wax, a series of couches and chairs arranged along the sides of the room for weary dancers to rest. The musicians could either perform on the stage at the far end of the room or from the gallery above the dance floor.

  As she walked through Doncaster Hall, the magnificence of the house called to her. She suspected there would be charm even in the scullery.

  The nursery occupied the whole of the third floor, consisting of adjoining suites for nurse, governess, and tutor, and bedrooms for older children. She stood in the doorway of a room designed for an infant, the large fireplace carefully screened, a comfortable chair in the corner adjacent to a reading lamp. A carved bassinet sat in the opposite corner, ready for a new mattress and an occupant.

  Resolutely, she pushed any thoughts of the future from her mind and continued her search for Mrs. Brody.

  She was lost for a good ten minutes before she found herself in a wide corridor leading to the public rooms. She opened a door she thought was the dining room, one that would lead to the kitchen.

  This wasn’t the dining room at all, but a strange room with curved walls, one covered in weapons. Worse, Mr. Kerr was seated at a table in the middle of the room.

  She stepped backward, hoping the solicitor hadn’t heard her. Her hopes were dashed when Mr. Kerr raised his head and pinned her with a look.

  “Can I assist you, Lady Fairfax?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, stepping back. “I’m simply exploring Doncaster Hall. I apologize for the intrusion. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  “Without a guide?” he asked, putting down his pen.

  “Do I need a guide, Mr. Kerr. In my own home?”

  When he stood, she took another cautious step backward.

  “Are you afraid of me, Lady Fairfax?”

  She stared at him for a moment, uncertain how to answer. The solicitor wouldn’t understand the confusion she felt in his presence. His emotions felt restrained and blanketed as if he hid his feelings even from himself.

  Something about the solicitor disturbed her, an odd feeling that grew stronger each time she met him. Perhaps it was the fact that he had an air of barely suppressed superiority, but then, she would have expected that if he knew the story behind her marriage to Montgomery.

  “No, Mr. Kerr, I am not. Do you want me to be?”

  “Indeed not, Your Ladyship. It’s just that you seem hesitant in my presence. As if you fear me, somehow.”

  “This is quite an unusual room,” she said, looking around rather than responding to his comment.

  “The Armory is one of the more famous rooms of Doncaster Hall. The 3rd Lord Fairfax purchased the weapons from the Office of Ordnance. It’s said he nearly stripped the Tower of London of its collection of swords, pistols, and other weapons.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  He looked surprised at the question. “To have them, of course.”

  She looked around the room. One particular sword boasted a blade with a dark red stain. She sincerely hoped it was rust and not d
ried blood.

  Mr. Kerr walked to the curved wall. “Twenty-five chests of weapons were delivered to Doncaster Hall, along with two men from the Tower who were skilled in their use. Now, they’re displayed here.”

  “And you’ve chosen to work here.” She simply could not envision Mr. Kerr as a warrior. Perhaps a warlike squirrel, brandishing a nut as a weapon, but hardly more.

  “Since the Armory contains an area for the cataloging and maintenance of the hundreds of weapons stored here, I’ve chosen to use this desk, yes.”

  “A reminder of England’s bloody past,” she said. “And Scotland’s.”

  Added to the English weapons were those from Scotland: enough Highland dirks, cudgels, two-handed claymores, and basket-hilted broadswords to outfit a good sized army.

  “The majority of Fairfax men were not of a warring mentality, your husband excluded.”

  Had she heard correctly?

  She glanced at him.

  “Your husband fought in the American Civil War. Did you know, Lady Fairfax?”

  She nodded.

  “Quite a brave man. Decorated for it.”

  “Why do you sound so disapproving, Mr. Kerr? Surely courage is a virtue?”

  “He killed a number of men, I understand.”

  “Have Fairfax men never killed, Mr. Kerr? Not in defense of their land or their freedom?”

  “The 11th Lord Fairfax is a borrowed Scot, Your Ladyship,” he said, the words tinged with something she couldn’t quite name. Bitterness? Envy?

  “I must leave you,” she said, pretending a cordiality she didn’t feel. Two years of living with Uncle Bertrand and Aunt Lilly had prepared her well for the sin of prevarication. “With my apologies for having disturbed you.”

  “It is no bother, Your Ladyship,” he said, waiting until she reached the doorway before sitting once more. “If you need anything of me, you need only send your maid.”

  She studied him for a moment.

  “Why are all those wagons arriving?” she asked.

  “I imagine they’re the purchases your husband made in London, Lady Fairfax.”

  She waited for him to continue, but he said nothing more.

  Finally, she left him, found the housekeeper, and arranged for a time to meet with the seamstress and her assistants. In addition, she and Mrs. Brody decided on an hour each day to meet to discuss those items that required her decision.

  Thank heavens Aunt Lilly made her trail behind her most days to be of assistance. At least she knew what was required to keep a large household functioning. Although the townhouse in London could easily fit into Doncaster Hall a dozen times, the principle was the same. Procure, prepare, and preserve food, ensure that the servants knew how to, and were, performing their chores, and ensure that all who lived at Doncaster Hall had their needs met and were healthy.

  Duties she would have to grow into, she suspected. If they were to remain in Scotland.

  Inside the distillery, the bricks were blackened from decades of wood fires boiling under copper kettles. The air was strangely sweet, as if the aroma of whiskey still wafted through the building. Once, there might have been boards beneath Montgomery’s feet, but only packed earth remained. The roof, supported by several brick pillars, possessed a half dozen holes, allowing shafts of sunlight to illuminate the space.

  He strode out of the distillery, in search of Ralston. The older man was directing the uncrating of the bolts of silk he’d purchased in London.

  “Are there any carpenters at Doncaster Hall?” he asked.

  Ralston nodded. “We’ve got two lads who can build anything, Your Lordship.”

  “Then I’ll keep them busy for the next couple of weeks. I need at least six worktables. First, the roof needs repair.”

  Ralston looked up. “That it does, Your Lordship. When we stopped making whiskey, there was no other use for the building.”

  “Why did you stop making whiskey?”

  “Maybe I misspoke, Your Lordship,” Ralston said with a smile. “We haven’t given up making whiskey. We’ve just given up making whiskey here. There’s a large Fairfax distillery outside Glasgow now.”

  From what Montgomery had learned in London, the Fairfax wealth came from fisheries, mines, shipbuilding enterprises, and various other industries. Unlike the American branch of the Fairfax family, the Scots branch did not work the land.

  He walked away from Ralston, ignoring the activity behind him for a moment. Perched on the hill in front of him was Doncaster Hall. The emerald leaves of the trees were dusted with sunlight, some leaves frosted white by the glare. Dark brown trunks arrowed up from an undulating earth carpeted in lush green grass. The river glinted silver in the sun.

  A peaceful view, nothing out of place or garish, as if the scene before him had matured for generations.

  At home, it was time for planting. The young seedlings would not have been brought out from the sheds yet, but there would be furrows as far as the eye could see. From dusk until dawn, people would be walking the roads, while mules and wagons carried supplies to Gleneagle’s farthest acres. The air would be heavy with animal sounds, conversation, and song.

  Standing a half world away, Montgomery could almost imagine the dampness of fecund earth, sweet mimosa, and the musky tang of crabapples.

  Birds burst out of the trees surrounding Doncaster Hall like cannon shots, circled in formation, and returned again. A signal he should be about his tasks. Thoughts of the past, and Virginia, would have to wait until later.

  Veronica asked one of the men on the path about the arriving wagons. He pointed her to the distillery, located some distance away.

  Doncaster Hall was perched on top of a knoll, larger than a hill, smaller than a mountain. In the back of the house, an approach not seen by visitors, were various outbuildings. The land sloped to a valley intersected by the River Tairn and spanned by an arched bridge of weathered gray stone.

  Across the bridge were several buildings. The largest, of the same weathered gray brick as the bridge, stood alone, two wagons parked in front of its large open doors. The rest of the vehicles were taking the long way around, down the valley to where a wider wooden bridge allowed wagons, carts, and carriages to cross. She watched them from the top of the walking bridge, hesitant to go any farther only because Montgomery was directing the wagons.

  As she stood there, the most curious melancholy flooded her. He was the only person with whom she’d ever been intimate. Yet she and Montgomery might as well be strangers. Only the unexpected passion they shared bridged their ignorance of each other. Perhaps she should be grateful for that. Was it something every married couple experienced? Would she trade their passion for the ability to talk to Montgomery?

  Why couldn’t she have both?

  The skirt of her dress was too full, the fabric felt stiff and shiny as if it had been starched. She pressed her hands against the material, and it almost bounced against her fingers. Elspeth was very diligent in her tasks.

  At the moment, however, she wasn’t as concerned about her apparel as she was her appearance. Would Montgomery think her pretty? Vanity had never been one of her flaws. How odd to experience it at this point.

  She followed the path from the bridge to the distillery, hesitating as a wagon rolled in front of her.

  Montgomery saw her, acknowledging her presence with a nod. At least he didn’t banish her. Neither did he stop directing the wagons and their drivers.

  The first of the wagons was already being unloaded, and several men she recognized from the staff greeting were assisting in the process. Numerous crates and barrels were revealed when the canvas tops were taken off the wagons. One huge crate, nearly six feet square and almost as tall, required six men, including Montgomery, to carry it.

  She could hear his voice as he shouted instructions to the men.

  “Be careful of that one, it contains a burner.” A few minutes later came another order: “We need another pair of shoulders over here, lads.”

 
Even the majordomo was being pressed into service. She would not have been surprised to see Mrs. Brody and all the upstairs maids there as well. However, this endeavor, whatever it was, was evidently a masculine pursuit.

  As they disappeared into the yawning abyss of the distillery, she circled one of the wagons, staring at the huge basket inside. It looked like one of the structures she’d seen at the Crystal Exhibition in London. Uncle Bertrand had been quite pleased to get special tickets for that day and had taken his entire family for an outing.

  “Is it a balloon?” she asked, when Montgomery emerged from the distillery and drew near.

  “That one is, yes. How did you know?”

  “The Crystal Exhibition,” she said. “Mr. Green’s balloons. I saw one of them tethered there.”

  “It’s what I did in the war,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “Before the war. I’ve always been fascinated with flight.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous?”

  “Breathing in and out is dangerous,” he said, his expression tightening. “I don’t feel required to solicit your approval, Veronica.”

  She truly was surprised. She began to smile.

  “Have I said something amusing?”

  “No one has ever sought my approval for anything, Montgomery.”

  Without saying another word, he turned and walked back into the distillery.

  Veronica stepped back to view the contents of other wagons.

  Two baskets were lined up, side by side, next to a tall pole. At the top of the pole was a flag, fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Scores of crates were being opened, revealing pipes, metal plates, and parts that looked as if they belonged to the inside of a boiler. Another set of crates was being carried into the distillery by two young men.

  She wondered if Montgomery had commandeered them from the stable or from the house itself. Either way, no doubt working on a balloon was more eventful than their normal chores.

  The most amazing sight was on the far slope of the glen. There, long stripes of blue and green silk lay on the grass. Next to it was an oval gondola, and a crate marked HANDGRIFF SORGFÄLTIG.