So In Love Page 17

  She nodded quickly. “Because your business is in Edinburgh.”

  “And our home, don’t forget that.”

  “But couldn’t you build something here?” Her glance encompassed the far glen. The prosperous village seemed to expand up the hillside every year. The road leading to Inverness had once only been a track but was now paved. Upward of two hundred people lived at Gilmuir, a great many of them employed at the shipyards.

  “I’m sorry, Meggie,” he said. “But I have business in Edinburgh.”

  “You always have business in Edinburgh,” she said, sighing deeply to let him know she wasn’t pleased.

  He hid his smile.

  “I’d like to come and see Gilmuir in winter, Papa. Robbie says the ice hangs all over the trees and the forest looks magical. I want to come back then. Could we, please?”

  It was the first time she’d ever expressed a desire to return to Gilmuir in the winter.

  “The winds are cold and bitter in winter,” he said, having made the journey more than once.

  “I don’t care. The fireplaces at Gilmuir are huge. They’ll keep us warm.”

  “We’ll see,” he said and she sighed again, sending him an admonitory glance.

  He grinned, placed his hands beneath her arms, and hoisted her up until they were eye level. He kissed her soundly on the nose, his heart lighting at the sight of her grin.

  “Do try, Papa,” she said somberly. She tilted her head back and studied him, and in that instant he saw her mother in the child’s face.

  Go away, Jeanne.

  The ghost in his mind only smiled.

  Jeanne dressed and, as she usually did, rearranged her neckline so that her mother’s pendant wouldn’t show. Her hand flattened against the base of her throat as she remembered that she’d left it behind. Although not an especially pretty piece of jewelry, it was a last link to her mother, the last link to Vallans, and perhaps even to her past. As much as she valued it, however, she wouldn’t be so foolish as to return to the Hartley home, not when she’d taken such pains to escape it.

  At breakfast the staff was in their usual talkative mood, the conversation turning, as it usually did, to Douglas and Margaret.

  “When do you expect them to return?” Jeanne asked when, one by one, the staff dispersed. Her heart beat quicker as she waited for Betty to answer.

  “The Gathering lasts a month, so they’ll be back then. Mr. Douglas never takes more time away from his business. Even though,” she added, “Miss Margaret often stays longer. This year, for example, she went with Mr. Hamish and his wife three weeks early. Very close with them, she is.

  “The time will pass quickly enough, you’ll see,” Betty said, as if she knew how discomfited Jeanne was by that information. “Cook is practicing some new recipes for Miss Margaret and I’m busy with my own set of errands. One day they’ll be back and you’ll wonder where the time went.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Jeanne asked, looking around the immaculate kitchen. Even at the convent she’d been given tasks to accomplish. The unoccupied hours since Douglas had left had given her too much time to think about him.

  “Oh, no, miss, we have it all in hand. You should enjoy your free hours. There’s a sweet little park on the corner. You might wish to take a walk and enjoy the day. I myself have plans to do the very same. Have you ever noticed that the air is so much clearer after a storm?”

  Jeanne watched as Betty wiped down the already spotless table, washed the rag, and spread it out to dry. “Would you be going toward town?” she asked. “If so, I have a favor to ask.”

  Betty glanced at her curiously. “What is it, miss?”

  “I’ve left my locket where I used to work. I need someone to retrieve it for me.”

  “Used to work?”

  Jeanne clasped her hands before her, wondering if it was a wise thing to mention the necklace. How much else would she have to divulge? “I was employed as a governess to Robert Hartley’s oldest child.”

  “I had no idea you’d been in service here in Edinburgh,” Betty said. The other woman had perfected the art of revealing nothing. Her round face was carefully devoid of expression and her eyes held no emotion at all. “Mr. Douglas only told us you were from France.”

  Jeanne took refuge in silence. Betty had been friendly to her from the first, but there was a decided chill to the air now as she twisted the rag she’d just smoothed across the work surface.

  “You’ve the time to go yourself if you wish, miss.”

  Jeanne stood and walked to the window. A series of shelves stretched across the view of the tiny garden. For a moment neither woman spoke, but the interval wasn’t peaceful. Instead, the silence seemed to hum with questions.

  “I’d rather not return to the Hartley home,” Jeanne said finally.

  Betty glanced at her sharply.

  Jeanne took a deep breath and faced the other woman. “I had no choice but to leave, Betty. Or perhaps I did,” Jeanne corrected. “I chose to leave rather than to stay under difficult circumstances.”

  “And what circumstances would those be?” Betty’s eyes narrowed.

  “Is that important?”

  Betty didn’t glance away. “Are these circumstances any better, miss?”

  In that moment Jeanne realized there were no secrets in this household. Not only did the servants probably know that she had shared Douglas’s bed but they’d given their tacit approval. At least, until this moment.

  She felt her cheeks warm under Betty’s continued scrutiny. Finally, Jeanne answered her. “I will welcome a man to my bed or refuse him, Betty. It is my decision and mine alone. I will not be forced into it.” And that was it, wasn’t it? Not whether or not she was considered virtuous, but whether it was her own choice. For years, she’d had that luxury taken from her. She had vowed never to be a prisoner again, even if it was only of the will.

  Betty surprised her by nodding, as if she agreed. “Will you be leaving us as well?”

  Inherent in the question was another one that wasn’t voiced: Will you be leaving Douglas? Evidently, it wasn’t prudery but loyalty that stiffened Betty’s back and made her voice sound like ice.

  “When I’m no longer wanted,” Jeanne said, offering Betty the hard-won truth.

  Betty nodded again. “Give me the directions,” she said. “I’ll fetch your necklace this afternoon.” A moment later she was out the door, leaving Jeanne in the empty room.

  “When I’m no longer wanted,” she said again in the silence. How many nights had she lain awake, thinking of just that? How many hours had been spent reliving those moments with Douglas? She knew that she would stay until he sent her away, but she would not leave first. How odd to suddenly understand the enormity of her need for him.

  A wiser woman would have been frightened. Instead, she only smiled faintly, thinking that, despite her care and caution, she had become a prisoner after all.

  Chapter 18

  D ouglas looked around the clan hall, relieved that he’d finally begin the journey home tomorrow. He’d stayed the full time, even though there had been plenty of reasons to leave Gilmuir early. Negotiations were under way for a new warehouse site in London. In addition, two ships, the MacRae Maiden and the newly refitted Moira MacRae, were due in from India. Men who had been boyhood companions in Nova Scotia captained both ships and he anticipated seeing them again.

  If his impatience to return to Edinburgh was based partly on the fact that Jeanne was there, it was an admission Douglas had no intention of making to another human being.

  Moving through the clan hall, Douglas nodded to a few villagers. Finally he sat at the table, a replica of one that had been here for generations. After the ’45, Gilmuir had been put to the torch before being razed by English cannon. Nothing had been left of the old castle but a few walls, a corridor, and the ruins of the priory. Alisdair had gradually rebuilt the fortress, adding on two wings and several towers.

  The hall was an impressive chambe
r. Three stories tall, it was festooned at the ceiling with replicas of banners the MacRaes had possessed through the centuries. Small metal lanterns sat inside yellow-painted embrasures, casting intimate circles of light over the hundred or so people gathered here. There was enough festivity and laughter that no one noticed his silence.

  Margaret, like the other children, had been sent to sleep in the loft on the third floor. None of the parents truly expected their children to fall sleep easily. There was too much excitement during this last night, too many conversations to listen to, and too much activity to witness.

  Someone passed him a tankard, and he drank appreciably, savoring Brendan’s newest batch of whiskey. His brother had married Elspeth nine years earlier and a few years ago had taken over her father’s distillery.

  “I’ll take a hundred barrels,” he said as Brendan sat beside him.

  His brother laughed. “If you’ll take two hundred, I’ll throw in my brother-in-law to help you over the winter.”

  Douglas raised one eyebrow. “Trouble in Inverness?”

  “Jack needs a diversion,” Brendan said in a low tone.

  He remembered Brendan’s brother-in-law from a previous visit to Inverness. Newly married and working at the distillery, Jack had been a happy young husband. Circumstances changed a year later when his wife died in childbirth.

  “Elspeth thinks he needs a change of scenery,” Brendan said, looking fondly across the table at his wife.

  “She looks tired,” Douglas said. Like most of his sisters-in-law, she’d done too much to prepare for this event. Since he’d arrived, he had a chance to witness exactly how much work the gathering required.

  “She’s expecting again,” Brendan confided.

  Douglas took another sip of his whiskey. “What does that make, six children? Are you single-handedly trying to repopulate the Highlands, Brendan?”

  His brother grinned but didn’t answer. Leaving the table a moment later, he went to sit beside his wife. Douglas couldn’t hear their whispered conversation but he could imagine it. Brendan would be urging her to rest while Elspeth reluctantly agreed. She wouldn’t go, however, until Brendan joined her.

  Concern and caring, togetherness, a respite from loneliness, love—that’s what he’d witnessed in the MacRae marriages this past month. He’d never before been envious of his brothers, despite the fact that by the time he was born they were nearly men. He’d not had their camaraderie when he was a boy, but he’d had something they had not—the undivided attention of both his parents.

  While his older brothers were sailing the seas or building ships, he was growing up in Nova Scotia, living a life appreciably different from theirs. The contingent of Scots who had emigrated from Gilmuir nearly fifty years ago had lived in hardship. His youth, however, had been spent in relative comfort. His brothers had been educated either by his parents or a Jesuit priest who had taken refuge among the émigrés from Scotland. Douglas, however, had wanted to attend the Sorbonne in Paris and had done so.

  It was the loss of their parents that had brought the five brothers closer together and strengthened their bond. Over the past seven years Douglas had grown to know them, respect them, and consider his four brothers his best friends.

  But he had no intention of telling any of them about Jeanne. He doubted any of them would really understand either the circumstances or what he felt. He wasn’t entirely certain he did.

  The festivities were increasing in volume. Douglas leaned back against the wall and watched the dancing, feeling oddly as if he were simply an observer at this most familial of occasions. Alisdair’s wife waved to him and he forced a smile to his face for Iseabal’s benefit.

  Across the room he saw Hamish, and slowly he made his way to his brother’s side, greeting those people who called out to him. For three years he and Hamish had sailed together, Douglas learning a great deal about being a ship’s captain under his brother’s tutelage. Hamish had also taught him a great deal about life as well, those lessons learned through observation. His older brother had taken him on when he was seventeen years old, angry, heartsick, and feeling belligerent toward the world. Despite the fact that Hamish was newly married and no doubt had wanted to be alone with his bride, he’d given him patience, understanding, and enough work that he’d fallen exhausted into his bunk at night. When the time had come, Hamish had also listened, given him advice, and unfailingly assisted Douglas when he was determined to return to France to find his child.

  “Is Mary ready for visitors?” Douglas asked.

  “She’s had all hands on deck this afternoon cleaning,” Hamish said with a smile.

  Every year at the Gathering all the brothers and their wives met aboard Hamish’s ship. The children remained at Gilmuir, tucked into their beds while the adults made the journey down to the firth. The event was an intimate one filled with recollections and laughter, and occasionally some solemn moments.

  He excused himself and mounted the stairs to the loft. In moments he found Margaret’s pallet, and sat down on the edge of it.

  “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your own room?” he asked his daughter. Each of the cousins had his or her own room in one of the wings Alisdair had added to Gilmuir. If Brendan’s brood kept growing, however, his brother would be forced to add to the fortress.

  She shook her head vehemently from side to side, sending her black curls swinging. “Please, Papa, no. Everyone is looking forward to tonight.” She pulled on his sleeve until he bent down to hear her whisper. “Robbie has promised to tell me the story of Ionis the Saint.”

  “A very great tale indeed,” he said, remembering one of the stories that swirled around Gilmuir. The priory, it was said, had been built on hallowed ground, a place where pilgrims had once come to pray.

  He looked around the large loft. It was evident from their appearance that the children were related. Black hair was predominant, and in a few faces he saw the MacRae blue eyes. He doubted, for all the presence of blankets and pillows, that there would be much sleep going on tonight.

  Iseabal was tapping Robbie’s nose with her finger, a gentle admonition that her youngest child no doubt required. Riona, sitting beside her own two children, smiled at him and he smiled back.

  Margaret followed his gaze, her eyes suddenly becoming pensive.

  “Would you tell me a story, Papa?”

  He knew, without asking, what story she wanted to hear. Amid all this maternal affection she would naturally feel the loss of a mother more acutely. Several of her cousins glanced at him with interest, and he suddenly realized that the tale was not going to be for her ears alone.

  “Please Papa?” she said, scooting down on the pallet. He covered her with the sheet and tucked it below her chin.

  “Once,” he began, “I lived in Paris.”

  “When you were going to school,” she interrupted.

  He nodded, hiding his smile. “Yes, when I was going to school.” The story was one he’d told her since she was a baby. But then, he’d never thought to see Jeanne du Marchand again. Now he wished he’d invented a little more, and depended on the truth a little less.

  “You were studying philosophy,” she said.

  “Who is telling this story?” he teased.

  She only smiled at him and for the moment was content to let him continue.

  “I was studying philosophy,” he said. He had been so filled with himself back then, so certain of the world. Everything had been either black or white, with no grays in between. If he wanted something, all he had to do was reach out his hand and grasp it. He had never failed, never been denied anything, had never felt pain. Later he looked back and winced at what a naïve, gullible, and impressionistic fool he’d been.

  “And you saw her one day,” Margaret prompted.

  At his nod, she clasped her hands together over the sheet, so obviously impatient with him that he smiled.

  “I saw her walking to her carriage with her maid at her side.” Too easily, his mind replaye
d that instant. “She was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.” She’d laughed at something her maid had said, in such an unrestrained manner that he’d been captivated. This was a fulsome laugh, not the polite titter used at the French court or the embarrassed chuckle an Englishwoman might employ, half covering her mouth with her hand as if to hide her less-than-perfect teeth. Jeanne had laughed with such great abandon that he’d stopped and watched her, smiling at the sound of her amusement.

  Margaret had the same lust for life.

  He glanced at his daughter. “She smiled at me just then,” he said. Suddenly he was no longer only a student in Paris. He could have been a courtier from a bygone time, a suitor in medieval Italy. She had the capacity to render him both more and less than he was simply with a smile.

  “And you followed her home.”

  “Yes,” he admitted, “I followed her home.” Only to find that she was the daughter of the Comte du Marchand, and so well guarded that he’d despaired of ever seeing her again. “I watched and waited for her,” he said, abruptly conscious of the audience to his tale. Iseabal leaned against the wall and smiled at him, and he realized she had probably never heard the story before.

  “There was a stone fence around her Paris home. I climbed it one day, and sat there debating what to do next when I saw her. She was walking through the gardens, a book in her hand.”

  He’d jumped down and gone to her. Jeanne had turned at his approach, so startled that she’d dropped the book to the ground.

  “I picked up her book and handed it to her.”

  “And that’s when you knew that you loved her.” Margaret smiled, satisfied.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s when I knew.” As simple as that, he’d fallen in love, the emotion coming to him in a way it never had before and probably never would again, suddenly and cataclysmically. He’d not expected to find himself enchanted by a pair of fog-colored eyes and a pink mouth that curved into such a delightful smile. Immediately, he’d wanted to reach out his hand and feel the silken texture of her hair, let the tendrils wrap themselves around his fingers. Then he would pull her gently to him and kiss that surprisingly seductive mouth.