A Scottish Love Page 24

  “What matter of some urgency?” he asked.

  Less than a quarter hour later, they left the office in the same manner, leaving him stunned and silent.

  Chapter 25

  Love of country had been bred in Brian MacDermond, fueled by talks of breaking free of the yoke of England. He’d fought for Scotland and would do so again, but fighting was one thing, living in an uneasy peace another.

  Life had narrowed for him. There was no more talk of freedom, only whispers of how to endure the English rules. They’d taken the pipes from him, forbidden him their use. But his canny clan had hidden more than one instrument, and from time to time, he took himself up to the bluff overlooking Loch Mor and eased his heart with the sound.

  Some hinted that he might well be reported to the English, sent away to be imprisoned in an English gaol, or hanged to make a lesson of him.

  But when the anguish was too great to bear, and the emptiness of his soul too great, Brian MacDermond defied the cowards, took up his pipes, and played to the gorse, the deer, and the eagle.

  He met her there, where she’d come to hear him play in defiance of all that was safe and proper. The laird’s wife, Anne, with her soft and sad smile. On the bluff overlooking Loch Mor, they revealed each to the other, and Brian found that there was something else other than the pipes that could give him peace: Anne Imrie.

  Anne, with her black hair and brown eyes, and her shy smile as if uncertain in the way of it. A good Inverness lass, she was, a distant cousin of a distant cousin of the laird.

  They talked of their children, then they talked of freedom, of rumors of more laws to choke down the throats of good Scotsmen everywhere. They never talked of his wife or her husband, a man he’d come to call friend.

  Nor did they ever speak of what they felt, one for the other, or the fact that when night came, each had begun to long. Not for what they had, but for what could never be.

  The preparations for the entertainment welcoming Mr. Loftus and Miriam to Gairloch were also accompanied by Mr. Loftus’s indisposition.

  For three days now, the American had been laid up in the Laird’s Chamber, so vilely ill that even Elizabeth looked a little pale after caring for him. Helmut had taken himself off, finding duties requiring his presence outside the sickroom, even taking his meals in the stable.

  As annoying as Mr. Loftus was, he didn’t deserve to be quite that ill. Twice, Shona had called for the doctor from Invergaire Village, and twice he’d come, examined Mr. Loftus, and pronounced him healthy except for an incipient case of gout and a love of too many rich foods. He’d put the man on an abstemious diet, refused him whiskey, announcing dire consequences if the American didn’t obey his strictures.

  Two hours later, Helen had been seen sneaking up the stairs with a dram full of whiskey, and tray of slices of mutton adorned with one of Cook’s white sauces.

  The second time the doctor had come, he’d looked at Shona as if she were guilty of poisoning her guest. Out of fondness for Helen, she hadn’t said a word, but she had given the other woman a stern look. A warning for Helen not to accommodate Mr. Loftus’s gluttonous desires regardless of her tender heart.

  She suspected, however, that someone had, behind her back, provided him whiskey or the food the doctor expressly prohibited.

  Miriam hadn’t been the least upset about her father’s illness. She waved it away with a comment to the effect that: “Papa probably just ate something bad for him.” Otherwise, she was content to involve herself in each part of the preparations for the entertainment to welcome her to Invergaire Glen.

  “We don’t have many musicians,” Shona said, two days ago. “We’ve drums, pipes, flutes, and a fiddle. Those will have to suffice.”

  Did the silly woman know they wouldn’t be playing waltzes for her, but a series of country dances? The party might ostensibly be to welcome Miriam, but it would also be for the villagers and the rest of the invited guests.

  As well as announcing the departure of the last of the Imries from Invergaire Glen. Now, that was a thought guaranteed to depress her.

  Resolutely, she grabbed the book in which she’d been making notes, and retreated to the Violet Sitting Room, a parlor on the second floor so named because of the expensive French wallpaper depicting bouquets of the flower.

  As she closed the door, another explosion sounded at Rathmhor. For days, Gordon had been experimenting with different strengths of blasting powder. When people had first rushed out to see the cause of the horrendous sound—all but poor Mr. Loftus and Elizabeth—she’d wanted to tell them not to bother. It was just Gordon.

  She hadn’t seen him since he’d left a bag of money at her feet.

  Shouldn’t he, at least, have called on Fergus? Or had he decided to ignore their friendship?

  “I shall have to travel to Edinburgh for a dress suitable to wear,” Miriam said, flinging the door of the sitting room open.

  “The party will be held in three days,” Shona said, startled. “You haven’t the time.”

  “I haven’t anything to wear.”

  She bit her lip, thought about her words before speaking, then attempted to moderate her tone.

  “Miriam, you’re a princess to the people of Invergaire Glen. I’ve seen you wear dresses to dinner that would awe them. It isn’t necessary to purchase anything new.”

  Miriam’s mouth twisted into a moue of dissatisfaction.“Perhaps you’re right,” she said with a toss of her head. “Besides, I doubt I could find a dressmaker to my requirements in Edinburgh.”

  She kept a smile on her face because she was an Imrie, and no one was going to best her, least of all Miriam Loftus.

  “What are you wearing?” the other woman asked.

  The question took her aback. “I haven’t given any thought to it,” she said. Really, what could she wear? The one good dress she had was black. She was exceedingly tired of black.

  Miriam eyed her with a narrow-eyed gaze.

  “You’re not going to wear another black dress, are you?”

  She sat up straight and pinned a smile to her lips. “I’m just out of mourning,” she said.

  “Black doesn’t favor you at all.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that.

  “I have something that might fit you,” she said. “It’s much too large for me. I never had the alterations done because the dress didn’t suit me.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” she said, the smile now anchored in place by sheer determination.

  “Then I’ll go and have Elizabeth fetch it for you,” Miriam said, as if she hadn’t spoken.

  Elizabeth wasn’t her maid, but that comment was never uttered. Why speak, when Miriam never listened?

  Miriam simply turned and left the room without another word, leaving Shona to stare after her in dismay.

  Was she going to be trapped, by manners, into wearing some hideous castoff from the American girl? Her last public outing before she left Invergaire Glen would be as a frump.

  The Imrie pride had been supplanted by the Imrie humiliation.

  She frowned at the doorway for a few moments before bending her head to her task again. She’d already planned the refreshments, and they would cost her a sizable portion of the money she had. That, and feeding Mr. Loftus and his party for the next several weeks. She’d arranged to have several women from the village come and scrub the Clan Hall and the adjoining Family Parlor to a shine, since the guests would be mainly in those rooms.

  The piper she’d hired had refused to be paid, saying that it was an honor to perform at Gairloch. She’d almost kissed Rory in response. Of course, she hadn’t, since such a thing would have embarrassed the older man, but she hadn’t been able to keep tears from welling in her eyes.

  Helen tapped on the door frame, then crept into the room on timid feet. They’d barely talked since yesterday, when the doctor had called upon Mr. Loftus again.

  She glanced up at Helen, put her journal down on the table, and studied her companio
n. Something was wrong, and it was evident from the puffiness beneath the other woman’s eyes that Helen had been weeping.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  She’d allowed herself the profligacy of a small fire, and the room was warm, the sunlight welcoming.

  Helen sat on the opposite chair, staring fixedly at her clothed knees.

  “Helen?”

  “Have you ever found yourself miserable because of something you’ve done?” Helen asked.

  “Many times,” she said. “What are you feeling so guilty for?”

  “Being unwise,” Helen said promptly.

  She blew out a breath. “Don’t tell me you took Mr. Loftus some whiskey again, Helen. Or some scones? He isn’t to have any of that.”

  Helen shook her head, the other woman’s demeanor so filled with misery that she really was concerned now.

  She leaned forward, placing her hand on her friend’s arm. “Helen, tell me, please.”

  “I think history has a way of repeating itself, don’t you?”

  What a curious question.

  “In what way?”

  “You tell yourself you’re not going to do what you’ve done before, but when the circumstances are similar, you do the very same thing that you once did. What happened to all the lessons you learned? What happened to the misery you felt?”

  She sat back, staring at Helen. How had the other woman known? She’d returned to Gairloch soon enough, both after the incident at the Works and at Gordon’s home. She’d never confided in the other woman, but now it looked as if she was being censured for her behavior.

  As well she should be.

  Helen was only a few years older, but in some ways, she had more maturity. Perhaps it came from nursing her father for so many years. Or from being rendered destitute by his death. In that, they had something in common.

  “I’ve been lonely,” she said. “Which is no explanation for losing my mind around the man. I see Gordon and the world falls away.”

  Helen was looking at her strangely.

  “I can’t change the past, Helen. You’re right, though. I can do something about my behavior now.”

  “What would you change?” Helen asked. “If you could?”

  She picked up her journal, opened it, but didn’t see any of the writing, or the careful columns of numbers. Instead, the page was a blur.

  “Seven years ago, Gordon’s father came to me. He told me that Gordon was going to offer for me, that he was going to do so because he and Fergus were friends, because he knew the extent of our dilemma.”

  She put her finger in the book to mark her place and held it close.

  “We didn’t have any money, you see.” She sighed. “Same situation as we find ourselves in now, I’m afraid. The general said that not only would it be a marriage made in the name of pity, but it would keep Gordon from his destiny.”

  “You evidently believed him, because you married my cousin.”

  She nodded, looking away. This room had been decorated by her mother, who loved all things French. Had she truly loved the wallpaper pattern? Or simply because she’d had to order it from Paris? All those bouquets were rather overwhelming, not to mention that they seemed to change color in places, from light purple to blue.

  “Was it out of spite?” Helen asked. “Is that why you married Bruce? To prove to Gordon that someone wanted you?”

  Startled, she could only stare at Helen. The thought had never once occurred to her, although Fergus had questioned the speed of her marriage. She’d told herself it was because they had no money. But they hadn’t had any since their parents’ death. She’d reasoned that there was no need to delay, that Bruce was an eager bridegroom.

  Had it been more than that?

  Silence stretched between them, and she knew Helen wanted a response. How did she tell her the truth? Perhaps simply by uttering the words.

  “I came to love Bruce,” she said. “I was prepared to live my life with him. I wanted to make him happy.”

  Helen didn’t say a word to ease her confession or halt it.

  “But what I felt for Gordon was always different. I’m not sure I can explain it.”

  Words couldn’t hold what she felt for Gordon. Ever since she was a girl, he’d occupied a special place in her heart—a niche created just for him. When he went away to school, she’d been inconsolable. When he returned, the world looked like a different, friendlier, place. Her heart seemed to beat faster in his presence, and even her breathing seemed to try to keep time with his.

  They’d spent hours discussing things, arguing or agreeing. With Gordon, no topic was out of bounds. No question was too absurd to ask.

  Perhaps there had been a little spite to her decision to marry Bruce. I’ll show you, Gordon MacDermond. Someone wants me, and not out of pity. An earl, a man with a title and a fortune. So there!

  How did she admit that?

  How did she explain the pain she’d felt? Even if she had discounted the general’s words, a part of her would have always wondered if he was right. She hadn’t wanted Gordon’s charity. Nor could she stand between him and his future, or take more from him than she could give back.

  Helen frowned. “What did he say when you told him you were going to marry someone else?”

  Oh, dear, Helen really did know the most pointed questions to ask, didn’t she?

  She stood, placing the journal on the table in front of her. Suddenly, she wanted out of the room, away from Helen’s pointed questions.

  “Did you at least tell him how you felt?”

  Shona turned and faced her companion.

  “What could he have said?”

  Helen sat back, wide-eyed. “Did you never speak to him? Never explain your actions?”

  She shook her head.

  For seven years, she’d kept her own counsel, determined to make the best of her marriage and forget Gordon completely. He’d appeared in her dreams, instead, and in her thoughts when she didn’t guard them well enough.

  “You would have been happy,” Helen said, not waiting for her to find the courage to answer. “Happier than you were with my cousin.”

  She waved her hand toward Helen, set to respond that she’d loved Bruce, but the other woman didn’t give her the chance.

  “Instead, you chose to believe the general,” Helen said, “because it was easier.”

  Shona stared at the other woman for a moment, allowing the shock of that remark to penetrate.

  “No,” she said. “I believed him because he was right.”

  Helen didn’t comment and perhaps it was just as well. The lies Shona had told herself for years were beginning to crumble around her.

  “Does it matter?” she asked. “I can’t change the past.”

  “You might not be able to change the past, Shona, but are you going to repeat it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Helen shook her head. “You know. He’s there, just over there,” she said, pointing in the direction of Rathmhor. “Have you ever told him how you felt about him? How you feel now?”

  Shona looked away, wishing she’d left the room.

  “By your silence, I take it that means no,” Helen said. “Don’t let this chance slip by. Because there’ll come a day when you want to undo the past, just like before, only you won’t be able to. Don’t let your pride stand in the way.”

  “It isn’t pride,” she said, wishing it were. “If it were something I’d done, I could fix it. It’s him.” She looked over at Helen, the mist of tears making the other woman appear blurry. “He doesn’t want me.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “I’m here. He’s there. If he wanted me, he’d come to Gairloch.”

  “Do you want him? Do you love him? Perhaps it’s time for you to say it.”

  She turned away from Helen, walked to the doorway, and pretended an interest in the carving on the door.

  Love wasn’t a word they’d ever exchanged. They simply knew, in a
way that transcended words and made a mockery of oaths.

  “What if it’s too late?” she asked softly.

  “After death, it’s too late,” Helen said. “Until then, you have a chance to make wrong things right.”

  Did she? Lust still bound them, and perhaps need. Was it too late for love?

  “What have you done?” she asked Helen, wanting to change the subject desperately. “You said you were miserable because of something you’ve done.”

  Helen smiled. “It doesn’t matter now,” she said, shaking her head. “I might have been unwise, but I’ve never been as foolish as you.”

  The indictment stung but, then, truth often did.

  Chapter 26

  “Dear St. Bridget,” Shona said, staring at her reflection.

  Helen and Fergus had managed to move her mother’s pier glass into her room when Mr. Loftus was on one of his foraging expeditions. Now, in the light of the oil lamp, she was dumfounded by her own reflection.

  “I can’t go anywhere looking like this,” she said.

  When she’d first seen it, the dress hadn’t looked at all frumpy. Although it was a strange red color—the shade of old red wine—the garment had looked to be proper enough. She hadn’t counted on her own attributes filling it out so well.

  Her shoulders were bare, and it was quite obvious that she was endowed with, well, large breasts, since more than half of them could be seen.

  “I think it’s quite shocking,” Helen said from behind her.

  “I know,” she said. “Too shocking.”

  “Not at all,” Helen said, surprising her.

  She glanced over her shoulder at her companion.

  “Shona,” Helen said, “this is the last occasion you’ll be entertaining at Gairloch if Mr. Loftus purchases the castle. If Fergus won’t agree to sell, you still can’t afford to have another gathering here.”

  That was true. Of all of them, Helen knew the full extent of her finances, or lack of them.

  “This is your farewell appearance as an Imrie of Gairloch. Why shouldn’t you leave them with a sight to remember?”

  “Shocking?”

  “No,” Helen said, regarding her solemnly. “Magnificent. The dress really does suit you. Do you think Miriam knew?”