The Devil Wears Tartan Read online

  Spring was always more favorably portrayed as a young girl with flowers in her hair and Winter as a hag with unbecoming features and pale, white skin. Winter, despite her appearance, might have been the more charming of the two.

  In winter the world appeared dead, but it wasn’t, only waiting. There were signs of life for the person who was careful to look: the grasses turning green beneath the melting snow, the first brave flowers pushing up through the ice. In the winter, dawn was always so much more spectacular, as if nature knew the dullness of the landscape needed brightening with color and drama. Blues, vermilions, greens—all the colors and shades of the rainbow merged together and splashed across the sky. The sunsets lingered, saying a protracted farewell before fading away into night.

  But it was summer now, and on this morning, she was not as intent on the dawn as she was the Egypt House in the distance.

  She needed to ask Marshall a question, just one question that might possibly decree the future. Not simply his, but also hers.

  Davina hesitated at the edge of the courtyard, wondering if Marshall could see her from his office. Aidan’s Needle pointed the way, the obelisk repeatedly drawing her gaze. Was he there? Or was he choosing to hide himself from her?

  She entered the Egypt House, unsurprised that the door was unlocked. Who would dare broach the Devil of Ambrose’s sanctuary? None but his wife.

  For a moment she simply stood there, surrounded by all the magnificent relics of the past. Without too much difficulty, she could picture herself back in ancient Egypt. What would life have been like for her there? Would she have married a man of substance? Or would she have been content to be a handmaiden? Would she have been frowned upon by Egyptian society for being invariably curious? Or would she have even considered society worthy of a second thought? Would she have caused a scandal in Egypt, too?

  She rested her hand on the stone leg of a pharaoh and smiled at her bravery. No doubt in ancient Egypt such an act might be reason enough to be killed. A gesture of defiance, of bravado, for all that it had been committed against a statue.

  “Marshall?” His name echoed around the large space, but he didn’t appear. Perhaps he was simply waiting for her to leave. Well, he was in for a very long wait.

  She wended her way through the array of Egyptian antiquities, stopping to admire a series of masks in a glass case. One, the head of Anubis, was crafted out of hammered silver. Another was made of plaster, the colors showing even after all the passing centuries.

  At the bottom of the staircase, she hesitated, calling Marshall’s name again. When he didn’t respond, she mounted the steps, and entered his office. Everything was as it had been yesterday, except for the addition of a small ceramic coffin in the corner of the room. The size was no larger than a small child. The remnants of a reed mat clung to the top of it, but Davina stepped carefully around it, having absolutely no desire to peer inside. What would she do if she found the wrapped body of a child?

  The same thing, probably, that she did when encountering another one of Aidan Ross’s prized possessions—the open sarcophagus proudly displaying its mummy: She carefully avoided looking in that direction and pretended it wasn’t real. She was not so frightened by such trophies as she was repulsed by them.

  It was one thing for Aidan to bring home furniture and statues and artifacts, but shouldn’t the citizens of Egypt be allowed to rest in peace in their own country?

  She arranged herself at Marshall’s desk. From the pocket of her dress, she withdrew her spectacles, balanced them on her nose, and retrieved the papyrus from his desk drawer.

  Opening Marshall’s writing case, she picked up the stylus and began laboriously copying the symbols from the papyrus to the wax tablet, discovering that it was an excellent way to learn the hieroglyphs.

  She was so intent on her chore that she didn’t hear Marshall enter the room.

  “Did you know that your eyelashes are so long that they brush against the lenses of your spectacles?”

  She placed the stylus on the desk and looked up at him.

  “You say that as if they are somehow deficient,” she said.

  He didn’t answer, merely leaned forward and kissed her on the nose. She blinked rapidly at him, and then concentrated on the papyrus in front of her.

  “Did you notice how perfectly these lotus flowers are formed? Each petal is just like the next. There is such majesty and yet delicacy with each one. They are alike, yet each is separate and somehow unique.”

  He came to the side of the desk and sat in the chair there. She should have, perhaps, given up his chair to him, but she wasn’t feeling excessively charitable right now. Or excessively polite.

  There was the matter of Mrs. Murray.

  “Did you know that Egyptians prevented unwanted children with the application of crocodile dung?”

  He looked startled. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

  “Did you know that the Roman emperor Caligula stole armor from Alexander the Great’s tomb?”

  “No.”

  Was that only word he was going to utter?

  “He had a bridge of boats built across the Bay of Naples and he rode back and forth across it on a horse. He wore the armor, and no doubt thought himself greater than Alexander.”

  “Do you know that you use knowledge like a shield? When you’re distressed, you start repeating the most fascinating facts. I really must get a look at that library of your father’s.”

  “There’s nothing left,” she said, carefully taking off her spectacles and folding them. “Oh, the books are still there, but the room isn’t. The house isn’t, I mean. It was sold not long after he died. There wasn’t any need, you see, for me to keep it. I wish I had, now. There should always be a place you could call home, someplace where memories are stored.”

  She looked around the room. “Not like this. Not filled with other people’s memories. But instead, memories of your own. Something to remind you of your mother’s smile, your first achievement, something that made you happy or proud.”

  “Do you always wax so philosophical?”

  “I suspect you do as well,” she said, looking at him. “However, you’re loath to share your thoughts. Or you disappear for long stretches at a time, so that the opportunity never arises for you to share them.”

  He didn’t say anything in response, but he sat back in the chair and regarded her silently.

  For the first time she noticed that he looked tired. His eyes were reddened, and there were lines on his face that hadn’t been there a few days ago.

  “Whatever did you do last night?” she asked. “Besides avoid me?”

  Again, he didn’t answer.

  “You’re always so dour, Marshall, but more so today. Your expression makes me think that your thoughts are not exceptionally pleasant.”

  “Then I shall have to guard my expression.”

  “I wouldn’t bother if I were you. Just continue to disappear. You’re very good at disappearing. And staying away.”

  She smiled at him, but she knew her expression had an edge to it.

  “Perhaps I should think of you as a challenge. Perhaps I should ask myself: How shall I charm Marshall today? How could I make him smile?”

  “The effort is appreciated, but not necessary.”

  “Oh, I have learned that, Marshall.” She smiled again. “I confess that I think a great deal about you,” she said. Should she be telling him this? Perhaps not. But he was her husband.

  “I can think of a great many subjects that would be better for you to concentrate on rather than me, Davina.”

  She brushed her hand in the air as if wiping his words away.

  “Nonsense,” she said blithely. “I’m a bride. And brides are allowed to think only of their husbands. At least for a short amount of time. No doubt I shall become more involved in decorating Ambrose in the coming weeks. Or perhaps I shall become an expert on the daily menu. Or, like your mother, I’ll become proficient at gardens.”

&nb
sp; He looked bemused by her announcement.

  “Or perhaps I shall never find anything more fascinating than you to study.” She propped her chin on her hand and regarded him.

  “I can show you the necklace of a Twenty-second Dynasty queen,” he said, his smile as insincere as hers.

  How very polite they were, and how very irritated at each other. At least she was irritated at him. Perhaps he saw her behavior as normal and usual.

  “Anything but fixate upon you?” she asked, her smile disappearing.

  He stood and walked to the other side of the room, opening a case she’d not noticed earlier.

  When he returned, his hands were overflowing with gold links, chains embedded with stones.

  He dropped them on the desk in front of her as if they were an offering, and perhaps they were.

  “I’m very impressed with Ambrose,” she said, staring at the necklaces. “And your father’s collection. You’re quite wealthy, and famous as well.”

  With one finger she rearranged one of the necklaces so that the links were lying straight. The jewel at the center was a beetle of some sort, only this insect was crafted of gold.

  She glanced over at him, again seated in the chair beside the desk. “But I would trade it all for a marriage like my parents shared.”

  Had she stripped the words from his mouth with her candor? Had she horrified him?

  She picked up the necklace.

  “I had thought to give the entire collection to you. Not all of the antiquities,” he said, at her quick look. “But the queen’s jewelry. It seemed fitting.”

  “How can you own something that is thousands of years old? It shouldn’t belong to anyone any more than the earth and the sky.”

  He didn’t comment, merely straightened out the jewelry on the surface of the desk with one finger.

  She suddenly grabbed his hand, and when he would have pulled away, she held on to it firmly. They both knew he was stronger, but he allowed her to hold his hand, to carefully bend back his fingers.

  In the center of his hand was a deep, incised scar, round in shape, with an irregular border, as if he’d been wounded not once but many times. Radiating outward from the circle were other, smaller scars similar in size but not as deep. She turned his hand over, but the scars didn’t carry through to the other side.

  Gently she pressed two fingers against his palm.

  “Tell me about this,” she said softly, surprised. How odd that she’d never noticed the scar until now. He had, however, a curious habit of keeping his hands clenched. Except of course when they’d loved, and she hadn’t been concerned with his hands at the time. “Did it happen in China?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “It’s not important,” he said.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Rarely now,” he said, gently withdrawing his hand from her scrutiny “It’s bearable.”

  “A great many things are bearable to you, Marshall, that would not be so to another individual. Have you always been so stoic?”

  His smile surprised her. “I’d hardly consider myself stoic, Davina. I don’t make light of my injuries, but at the same time, I realize they’re the price I paid for my survival.”

  He refused to be thought of as a hero, and judged his own actions in the harshest of ways. Such modesty should be a character asset, but Marshall took it to extremes, refusing to believe that there was anything notable or honorable about his behavior in China. Because he’d been captured, he could extract from the expedition nothing good or decent.

  “Are you always that salt and pepper about everything?”

  He looked at her quizzically. “Salt and pepper?”

  “It’s an expression my father used to use. Not everything is black or white. He used to say that life is mostly salt and pepper mixed together, an unsurprising shade of gray. The best times have a little sadness mixed in, and the worst times have a little joy.”

  “Your father was never in China.”

  “Have you never wished to continue traveling? Never wished that you were still in service to the Queen? Still a diplomat?”

  He stared down at his hands before curling them into fists. “I’m hardly an example of successful diplomacy.”

  “Salt and pepper,” she reminded him.

  He nodded, but that was his only response.

  There was a look in his eyes that she couldn’t fathom. A look of caution? For the first time, she had an inkling that his past might be something he would never discuss fully. The pain might be too deep, the agony of his experiences too great to ever share.

  “Did you fornicate with her?”

  He looked confused. “Who?”

  She frowned at him. “Mrs. Murray. Last night, did you fornicate with her?”

  “Fornicate?”

  “Fornicate. Copulate. What do I call it, Marshall? There weren’t any books in my father’s library that addressed the act.”

  “Thank God for that,” he said.

  She stood.

  “Is that the reason she was in your room last night?”

  There was that damnable smile again.

  “I did not fornicate with Mrs. Murray last night. If she was in my room it was either to deliver something or pick something up, not because I was beset with lust for her.”

  “But you did,” she said, the suspicion so strong that she began walking toward the door. “You did once, didn’t you?”

  He looked away, but just when she thought she wouldn’t get an answer, he nodded. “It was a very long time ago, Davina. I was not yet earl, and she was not yet the housekeeper.”

  She clenched the material of her skirt tightly, and then forced her fingers to relax.

  “We both needed solace at the time. It doesn’t matter now. You’re my wife.”

  She nodded. “A very strange wife,” she said. “You push me away with one hand, and pull me close with the other. Is that one of the rules of this marriage?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Am I not to feel anything for you, Marshall? Nothing at all?”

  “It would be easier if you didn’t.”

  “For whom? You? Or me?”

  “You knew from the first, Davina, that this would be no ordinary marriage. If you weren’t told before our marriage, I made a point of telling you afterward.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Her own foolishness had made her think there might be something more between them.

  “I broke the rules, though, Marshall,” she said.

  Without a further word of explanation, she simply turned and walked away.

  For a week Davina remained in her room. Her meals were brought to her on a tray from the kitchen. Her occupations were reading and sleeping.

  She’d never been so thoroughly bored. Or heartsick.

  Not once had Marshall sent word inquiring as to her health. Not once had he knocked on her door. Not once had he sent her a note.

  She might as well have been a guest he’d forgotten was in residence.

  After three days, she’d exhausted her supply of books brought from home. At night she descended to Ambrose’s massive library to take a few books. She did not encounter Marshall. Nor was the ever-present Mrs. Murray in sight. She returned to her room with an armful of volumes, some of which involved Egypt.

  At the end of the week, she retrieved the last volume of Julianna’s journal. For days she’d thought about not reading it at all, especially the last entry. There was something so sad about knowing Julianna’s story from the ending first.

  As she opened the last volume, she realized that the pages were written in a different handwriting. Still she kept reading, compelled to by the very nature of Julianna’s story.

  I have been sitting by the window all day, watching the workers erect Aidan’s obelisk. He has returned, shocked, I think, to find his wife resembling one of his ancient mummies. I think, perhaps, the mummy is more substantial. I’m afraid I look like a skeleton.
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  The delightful young girl I hired from Edinburgh had to be convinced to write the previous paragraph. Leanne comes highly recommended by one of my acquaintances, and has agreed to assist me in those tasks I can no longer perform for myself. I doubt that she knew, when she came to Ambrose, that she would also be required to act as my confessor.

  Leanne is a beautiful girl, with long blond hair and a sunny disposition. She blushes quite prettily also, as I will no doubt see often enough if I put all my sentiments into words.

  I used to count the months and weeks and then finally the days left to me. I am now counting the hours, I’m afraid. There will no doubt come a time when I begin to count the minutes as well, hearing each click of the mantel clock as a drum roll, an announcement to the angels that I am shortly to be among them.

  I do not seem to care any longer if heaven or hell is my final destination. I simply want to be gone. It is time. Julianna Ross’s role in life is done and played out.

  If I regret anything, it is that I was not closer to people, that they didn’t know how I felt about them. But most of the people I loved in my life are gone now, and perhaps I will have an opportunity to communicate with them once more.

  I shall miss Marshall with all my heart. My son has been very solicitous, and possesses more skill at hiding what he feels than his father. There was no look of horror on Marshall’s face when he first saw me a few weeks ago. There is no revulsion now, only love and compassion. For that I adore him all the more.

  Garrow has been a constant visitor, and we have grown close over the months. He provides me with his magic Chinese herbs and powders, and I no longer question the efficacy of them. I have managed to survive this long relatively pain-free. I have eventful dreams in which I visit with my parents and my childhood friends, but I do not mind those. For his assiduous attention and compassion, I shall always be grateful to Garrow.

  We tend to remember people by the way they died, and not by how they lived. I hope that people will see my gardens and marvel at their beauty. I hope they will not question whether or not I was courageous at the end. I hope that when the time comes, I am sleeping, and death is simply part of a dream.