An American in Scotland Read online

  She nodded.

  “You had a letter in there. One I’d written to Bruce MacIain.”

  Again she nodded.

  He began to smile, but the expression didn’t reassure her one whit. There was another emotion in his eyes, one hinting that this man wouldn’t be like most of the southern men she knew: more than willing to be charmed by a belle armed with grace, a pleasing manner, and a voice thick enough to remind her of New England maple syrup in the dead of winter.

  “Why have you come to Scotland, Mrs. MacIain? Why did you wish to speak to me?”

  Her New York nature had nothing on Duncan. He was blunt, yet it was so refreshing to talk to someone who didn’t take the long way around to reach a point that she almost smiled.

  “You were interested in cotton, I believe.”

  He didn’t say anything, so she continued.

  “Are you still?”

  She folded one gloved hand over the other, keeping them immobile. She raised her head, leveling her gaze on the man opposite her, all the while maintaining a pleasant expression.

  Two years of living at Glengarden had made her adept at hiding her emotions.

  “Your letter indicated that you were,” she said.

  “Mrs. MacIain, your husband didn’t seem interested in providing me with any of his cotton.”

  There was something about the man that was both alluring and frightening. It might be his penetrating gaze or the stillness about him, as if he had all the time in the world, and the patience, too.

  “Please call me Rose,” she said. “Otherwise, we sound like echoes, don’t we? Mr. MacIain. Mrs. MacIain. The reason for being here? I have cotton. I have a great deal of cotton that I need to sell.”

  “Do you have the ability to act for your husband, Rose?”

  There. The very reason she had to keep up this charade. No, she didn’t have Bruce’s authority. In fact, Bruce had specifically instructed his factor that his cotton wasn’t to be sold in his absence. Instead, let it rot in warehouses in Charleston while his family starved.

  “Bruce is no longer able to make those kinds of decisions,” she said. “Would you be interested in buying it?”

  “My condolences.”

  She scanned his face, but there was no way to read the message in those direct blue eyes. He didn’t sound especially sad about Bruce’s implied death.

  “I would have been interested at one time,” he said. “I was planning on running the blockade myself.”

  “Were you?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, Rose,” he said, “you did as well. Otherwise, you would not be sitting here with me.”

  “I did,” she said. “The outward-­bound trip is rumored to be easier than approaching Charleston.”

  So far, Providence had smiled on her. Her money and her courage had lasted during the voyage to England. Now all she had to do was convince Duncan MacIain to purchase the cotton he evidently needed and she had to sell.

  She had to make him see that it would be an arrangement to their mutual satisfaction.

  He sat back in the chair and smiled at her. “Are you cautioning me against running the blockade? Perhaps it’s best that I changed my mind.”

  Oh dear. She certainly could not begin negotiations with an irritated man. She shouldn’t have spoken. Susanna always said that her New York nature was grating on a person.

  You’d be better served, Rose, to be a bit more southern in your approach. Southern women do not demand. We are more clever than that.

  She had never, in the two years she’d lived in the South, attempted to be more like her South Carolina relatives. Now might be an interesting time to try.

  “I’m a mere woman, Duncan. Who am I to caution a man of your strength and resolve?”

  His laughter startled her into smiling.

  He really was quite attractive, and the burr of his voice did something to the back of her neck, but she would not allow him to see that she was affected in any way by his appearance or his accent. To do so would be to weaken her bargaining position.

  “You’d once expressed an interest in Glengarden’s cotton,” she said, getting back to the subject at hand.

  “An interest your husband didn’t seem inclined to pursue, Rose.” Something about his tone interested her. An emotion that shouldn’t have been there.

  “Unfortunately, Bruce believed that selling the cotton to anyone other than the Confederacy was disloyal.”

  “You don’t feel the same, I take it?”

  “I believe the Confederacy would have been a great deal more solvent now, Duncan, if they’d based their currency on cotton. At the moment, however, they’ve no idea how to leverage the crop to their advantage. That’s why factors are making millions and the blockade has become so successful.

  “You won’t be able to find any cotton in Nassau,” she went on. “Most of the cotton that’s run the blockade has already been sold to either Fraser Trenholm or the other factors.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long time. She sat back in the corner of the settee, placed her gloved hands one atop the other and regarded him with patience.

  The two years she had lived at Glengarden taught her a great deal about ­people and herself. She had finally managed to quell her habit of saying what was on her mind. ­People didn’t have an inkling of her opinion or thoughts. Unfortunately, most of the time the ­people around her didn’t care to know, either.

  She had, in those miserable two years, learned how to deal with vain and irrational women and stubborn men.

  A stubborn man sat opposite her. He might speak in an entrancing accent and be handsome, but his mind was not easily changed. The fact that he was actually listening to her was a surprising development. She had thought that she would have to convince him of her knowledge of the cotton market before he would.

  Or perhaps he was getting ready to banish her from the room. That was possible as well.

  “I’ve been in contact with several factors, Rose. I agree with your assessment of the situation. The factors have effectively closed off the market, unless planters are willing to sell their cotton at a forty percent discount.”

  His knowledge surprised her, but it shouldn’t have. He ran a mill that was dependent on cotton to survive. Of course the world market would be of interest to him.

  “I have nearly a thousand bales of cotton,” she said. “I am not willing to sell it for almost half of what it’s worth. I’m assuming you still need cotton. If you do, I have it. It occurred to me that we might come to an agreeable arrangement.”

  Before he could speak, she held up her hand. “I am not trying to take advantage of a familial connection, Duncan. I only want what is fair.”

  He had to agree. He simply had to. If he didn’t, she had come all this way for nothing. She’d spent money that she barely had for a lost cause. If he didn’t agree, she would have to go back to Fraser Trenholm with her pride in tatters and agree to their horrendous price. That is, if they would even buy the cotton from her. The money she’d make would be half what she’d originally calculated and only suffice for a few months. If the war ended in that time, fine. If it lasted longer, they’d be in the same predicament, but without cotton to sell.

  She had one other alternative left to her. She’d heard of caravans of cotton going north, organized by women in a similar situation to what she faced. They’d sold the cotton to the Union in order to buy supplies.

  The problem was, she’d have to fight both her sister Claire and Susanna to do that. And if they were suspected of doing such a thing, they would be considered traitors to the Confederate cause. Glengarden might be put to the torch and the inhabitants of the plantation ostracized, or worse.

  Still, she might not have a choice.

  She occupied herself in arranging her skirts, tugging on her gloves, trying not to hear the tickin
g of the mantel clock.

  THEY WERE interrupted by Lily, who entered with a tray. “I’ve brought more scones, sir, and Mabel says she made you cold roast beef and mustard on a slice of bread for lunch. Oh, and tea.”

  He smiled at the maid. “Thank you, Lily.” Turning to Rose, he asked, “Would you like some more tea? Or something to eat?”

  “No, thank you.” She waited until Lily left and he’d served himself before continuing. “Glengarden cotton is among the best in the South. I’m offering you the price you’d pay delivered to Glasgow, less twenty percent.”

  “Is twenty percent the familial discount?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s because you’re going to have to retrieve the cotton yourself.”

  He held up his teacup as if in salute. “At least you recognize that.”

  “Another proviso. I need the money in gold. Not Confederate dollars, Union currency or English pounds. Gold will keep my family fed and give us some hope for the future.”

  He sat back, replaced his teacup on the table and regarded her steadily. “You don’t sound very optimistic about the Confederacy winning, Rose.”

  In her answer, she could at least give him the truth. “It’s my belief that the men of the South went to war on a romantic notion, intent on keeping their way of life the same. Nothing ever stays the same, Duncan. Everything changes in life. That was their first mistake. Their second was allowing the thrill of war to blind them to the facts. The South may be passionate and eager to fight, but they are no match for the Union.”

  “Would your attitude have anything to do with the fact that you didn’t grow up in the South?”

  “My attitude has everything to do with the fact that I didn’t grow up in the South. How did you know?”

  He smiled. “You don’t sound southern, Rose. I suspect it’s a northern accent. New York?”

  She nodded, surprised.

  “Isn’t it uncomfortable for you to live at Glengarden?”

  Her stomach fell to her feet. This was not going at all the way she expected. She had come to discuss cotton prices, transport costs, and percentages, not her views on the South.

  “Yes.”

  With any luck, that terse answer would satisfy him. It seemed it didn’t, because he smiled at her again. This time his expression was almost chiding.

  Perhaps the only thing left for her was the truth, except, of course, that she wasn’t ready to tell it.

  “You’re very opinionated, Rose. Have you always been so?”

  “Yes,” she said, giving him another bit of truth.

  She didn’t add that she rarely expressed her opinion because she didn’t want to be met with derision or that strange, southern way of acting that her sister had embraced. A woman was not supposed to have any serious thoughts. That’s what men were for.

  He finished the lunch he’d been brought and she sat there, waiting for his decision. Finally, he stood and strode across the room to stare out the window. After several long moments of silence he turned to face her.

  “Your husband is dead.”

  She was so startled she only stared at him.

  “Otherwise, you have no legal standing to sell anything, isn’t that true?”

  What on earth did she say now?

  “I imagine life has been very trying for you lately,” he said.

  He didn’t know the half of it.

  “Do you have documentation about this cotton of yours?”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding. “Certificates from the warehouse and inspection stamps, plus the latest inventory.”

  “May I see them?”

  She nodded again and stood. “They’re in my valise,” she said, and left the room, her heart lighter than it had been for days.

  He wouldn’t want to see the papers unless he was interested. Or did he doubt her word?

  Duncan MacIain wasn’t as sweet and compassionate as his female relatives. He was, however, as handsome as her first glimpse of him. Plus, he knew more about the cotton market than she’d expected.

  A few breathless moments later she returned to the parlor, handing him the papers she’d brought from Glengarden.

  “I’d decided against traveling to America,” he said, folding his arms in front of him. “I’d decided it was too risky an adventure, that I might not be able to obtain any cotton at all, especially since learning that the Confederacy is buying up space in the holds of a great many steamers.”

  He was very up-­to-­date on the news. She had only heard that on arriving in Nassau.

  If she couldn’t tell him the truth about her identity, at least she wouldn’t lie about other things.

  “My views are not aligned with those of the Confederacy, Duncan. They would have my family starve for the cause. I’ve lived the life they would preserve at all costs. I find nothing about it to admire. I neither think it noble nor enlightening to enslave vast numbers of ­people.”

  “You’re an abolitionist,” he said.

  “I proudly wear that label,” she said. “But I think I’d rather be called simply human. I cannot abide the idea of one person setting himself up above others and calling himself master.”

  He smiled. “I hold your views,” he said. “I’d be more comfortable if the Confederacy lost. I dislike having to subsidize slavery in order to keep my mill solvent and my family protected. At the moment, however, southern cotton is what we need.”

  She was straddling a strange line. She was pretending to be Bruce’s widow, but she couldn’t emulate Claire’s behavior.

  “How did an abolitionist come to live at Glengarden?”

  She should really tell him now, before this ludicrous situation continued any longer. She took a deep breath to do that very thing when he continued speaking.

  “You fell in love with Bruce to the degree that your beliefs no longer mattered?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Is it only women who do that, Duncan? Are men never similarly affected?”

  “It’s been my experience that love, once it borders on obsession, is a dangerous emotion.”

  Perhaps it was love bordering on obsession for Claire. She felt torn in this odd position in which she’d placed herself, pretending to be her sister. Granted, Claire had fallen deeply in love with Bruce, enough to give up her home and her family for him. But Claire hadn’t expressed any deep and abiding belief in the abolitionist movement. Claire had truly never been interested in anyone but Claire, another disloyal thought.

  Yet how could Claire have tolerated slavery without a word of protest? A question Rose had asked herself almost every day she spent at Glengarden.

  “There would never be a woman in existence who fascinated you enough that you would do something contrary to your nature?”

  “No,” he said simply.

  The answer dumfounded her. “Not ever?”

  “I doubt it.”

  She shook her head.

  “As to how an abolitionist came to live at Glengarden,” she said, giving him the truth, “I never thought it would be as terrible as it was. Nothing I said ever swayed Bruce.”

  Or Claire. She’d addressed her concerns to her sister first. Nothing she ever said to Claire seemed to make a difference.

  “It’s just the way it is in the South, Rose,” Claire had said. “You’ll just have to get used to it.”

  Her sister was surrounded by servants. Someone was always there to do her slightest bidding. If she dropped something and needed it picked up, all she had to do was flick a finger toward the offending object and it was fetched for her. Effort was simply not necessary. Her smallest wish was granted and money appeared to be no object, at least until the war started.

  Claire never seemed to notice—­or care—­that the ­people who served her never looked her in the eye. They weren’t free. They were chattel, according to Br
uce and his family. They were simply belongings, like a horse or dog.

  “If you’ll pardon me for saying so, you must have been an annoyance to your husband with your abolitionist’s views.”

  There was that tone again.

  “You didn’t like him, did you?” she asked.

  Instead of immediately refuting her question, he remained silent. When the answer came, she knew it was the truth.

  “I never met him,” he said, “but no, I was not disposed to liking your husband.”

  “May I ask why? He was well regarded in Charleston,” she said. “And in other places in South Carolina. It was not at all difficult for him to assemble his own regiment.”

  “Did he award himself a title? General MacIain?”

  The comment was so unexpected and yet so pointed that she couldn’t help but smile.

  “Colonel. Bruce didn’t like ­people to think he was taking on airs.”

  “Yet for all his popularity, I do not doubt that there were ­people who did not like your husband, Rose. You asked why I didn’t like him. He bragged about his life, including how many slaves he owned. The number seemed especially important to him. He never once seemed to think it morally repugnant or wrong.”

  She walked to the fireplace, admiring the small figurines assembled there.

  “No, he wouldn’t. It was a point of honor to him.”

  “I am tied to southern cotton although I don’t want to be. He, on the other hand, went to war to keep his way of life the same.”

  “You’re right.” She glanced back at him. “I didn’t like Bruce very much, either.”

  How very odd to confess the truth and wrap it in a lie. She despised Bruce MacIain and had worked against him every day she’d been at the plantation. She was so grateful she hadn’t been the man’s wife. It was bad enough to be his sister-­in-­law.

  DUNCAN CONCENTRATED on the documents in front of him, perusing the certification from the warehouse, the statement of the inspection of the bales. From time to time he glanced at her.

  She’d returned to the settee and was as still as any of the bric-­a-­brac in his mother’s parlor. Her cheeks were rosy, though, indicating that waiting for his decision wasn’t as easy as it appeared.