An American in Scotland Page 8

  She turned her hand in his and their fingers linked. He gently squeezed as if to let her know he understood the depth of her loss.

  He was nothing like Bruce or any of his friends. He didn’t boast. He didn’t act in a grandiose manner. He didn’t brag of his achievements or his horses. He treated everyone within his keeping with kindness. His affection for his servants was as obvious as his love for his mother and sister.

  She liked him. Moreover, she was growing to respect him. He kept his word. When he said he would do something, he did it. There was nothing hidden in his character, nothing about him that was unsavory. He was honest and decent.

  More than she could say for herself right now.

  “Why do you always wear gloves?” he asked, studying the black kid leather. “Was it a fire?”

  “No.”

  She pulled her hand back and stood.

  “Must you go?” he asked, standing as well.

  “Yes.” Oh, yes, before she was tempted to tell him all her secrets. Before the masquerade ended.

  She wanted to be honest with him. She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t a MacIain. She wasn’t a widow. She hadn’t been a wife.

  Until now she’d never wanted to kiss a man. Oh, there were handsome men in New York, those who worked with the abolitionist movement. Some of Bruce’s friends were good-­looking as well, except they all thought they were and made no pretense of modesty.

  But Duncan MacIain made her think of slumberous looks and long mornings abed. Of kisses in dark hallways and a hand reaching out to stroke her arm in passing. A quick look, a playful smile, and promise in the word “Later,” accompanied by a gentle laugh.

  Regret lodged in her chest like a brick. The time wasn’t right. The circumstances were against her.

  “I’m very tired.”

  He shocked her by reaching out and touching her cheek with two fingers. No more intrusive than that tender touch. As if he measured the heat of her blush. She felt like her cheeks were aflame, warmth surging up from her toes.

  Finally, he removed his hand, dropping it to his side.

  His jacket was open, revealing the snowy shirt beneath. She wanted to touch him, and she’d never before wanted to do anything of the sort. But now she wanted to place her hand flat against his chest and feel his heart beat against her palm.

  “Are you leaving because I asked about your hands?”

  She was staring straight at his throat, at the pulse beating there. She couldn’t look at his face, she just couldn’t, not with heat flaring on her cheeks and shocking thoughts coming one after the other.

  “No.” Yes. Perhaps.

  How was she to bear a voyage to Nassau with him? The days had been interminable on the Intrepid. What would they be like on the Raven?

  Maybe she should tell him now that it would be better if she took passage on another vessel, but that would only delay her arrival in Charleston. From what she’d heard of Lennox’s ship, it was one of the fastest blockade runners built.

  No, she would just have to guard herself, mind her emotions, and keep her thoughts under control.

  Chapter 9

  “Dear heavens, is that the Raven?” Rose asked, approaching the gangplank.

  They’d said good-­bye to everyone the night before; this dawn boarding would be a discreet one. There were still Union operatives in Glasgow, each of whom would be overjoyed to telegraph the news that the Raven had finally set sail.

  The ship had been brought up from the Cameron and Company shipyards, where she’d been berthed for the past year. Stretched along the bank of the Clyde, she was an impressive sight to behold.

  The Raven was a side paddle wheeler with twin smokestacks painted gray, her hull the same color, with a black line indicating where the iron cladding began.

  “According to Lennox,” Duncan said, “she’s three hundred feet long and has an eleven foot draft, in addition to five watertight compartments and four boilers. He swears that, even fully loaded, she can outrun anything sailing today.”

  “I didn’t think she’d be so large.”

  “She can carry all the cotton you have in Charleston, Rose, and still fly past any Union ships.”

  “She’s absolutely beautiful.”

  He glanced down at her. “Lennox builds beautiful ships.”

  He didn’t tell her that the Raven was thought to be cursed. Her original captain, Gavin Whittaker, had been murdered on the top deck. A few weeks later a fire had destroyed the wheelhouse and part of the captain’s quarters. Both had to be rebuilt. An additional circumstance that fueled rumors of a curse was the fact that the Raven had been sold to the Confederacy. After the damage to the ship, Lennox bought it back in order to make the repairs. When they were completed, representatives for the Confederacy sent word that they were no longer interested in owning the ship.

  She was, according to shipbuilders—­a group of men as superstitious as sailors—­a ghost ship.

  When his English cousin purchased the ship a few months ago, the talk didn’t stop, because the Raven had never gone to sea. This would be her maiden voyage, and a long one, across the Atlantic Ocean and back again.

  If anyone else had built the Raven, he would have worried about her seaworthiness, but he knew Lennox. He knew the care with which his friend built his ships. He also knew that Lennox had made a point of taking the Raven down the Clyde once a month, not only to test her out but to try to put a stop to the rumors about the ship being cursed.

  This voyage was being financed by Dalton MacIain, the English MacIain. In addition to purchasing the Raven from Lennox, Dalton had paid the captain and crew and given Duncan credit to buy the cotton he needed. Adding his own contribution meant Duncan could also fill the hold of the Raven for the inbound voyage. Even after paying the price Rose had demanded, and paying Dalton back plus a percentage, the profit would be substantial.

  A good business arrangement for everyone all around, with the added benefit that the Raven would lose her reputation as a ghost ship.

  Once on board, he introduced Rose to Captain McDougal before taking her to the two rooms of the captain’s cabin.

  In the parlor, two bolted bookcases with rails sat against a far wall. The bookcases were filled, and he couldn’t help but wonder who had taken the time to do so. He bet it was Glynis and some of the books had been selected for Rose’s tastes.

  A settee and table faced an iron brazier that looked capable of warming the entire space.

  He opened the door and stepped aside for Rose to precede him into the stateroom. A large square bed was bolted to one wall. The second wall was taken up by a porthole and two bureaus, no doubt fastened to the wall as well.

  She peeked behind a screen painted to resemble branches with flowers on them to find a tall wooden chest with brass hinges.

  “What is this?”

  He smiled when he saw it, unfastened it from the wall and lowered it.

  Once it was nearly to the floor, it was obvious what it was.

  “A bathtub! How wonderful.”

  “One of Lennox’s additions,” he said.

  She smiled when she saw the twin wardrobes.

  “Did you arrange for two of them?” she asked. “One for your clothes and one for mine?”

  “Actually, I didn’t,” he said.

  “A good thing.” She picked up the valise sitting beside one of the wardrobes. “That’s all I have.” She looked around the room, at the door with a porthole overlooking the deck and a porthole on the opposite wall with a view of the ocean. “It’s twice as big as the cabin I had on the voyage to London.”

  “If you’d like to come into the parlor anytime, please feel free.”

  She nodded.

  He’d had a cot brought in and placed behind the settee in the parlor. It wasn’t going to be as comfortable as his bed at home, but it w
ould do.

  “You should be comfortable here,” he said. “Are you a good sailor?”

  She turned to smile at him, her smile as radiant as the morning sun. She’d fixed her hair so it was in a bun, but a few tendrils had come loose and were framing her face.

  “To my surprise, I am. The voyage from Charleston to Nassau was difficult only because I was so nervous. From the Bahamas to London, the ocean was placid, the surface resembled glass.”

  “You’re a more experienced sailor than I. You’ve traveled across the Atlantic. The most I’ve done is accompany Lennox on sea trials and in his dinghy.”

  “I’ve never thought to travel on such a beautiful ship, though. Or one so large,” she added, looking around her.

  “The better to carry your cargo,” he said.

  “I suspect your hold is already full.”

  It was, but he didn’t want to discuss the munitions they carried or the other items like the fifteen hundred French wool blankets and a thousand pair of English double-­soled copper-­pegged shoes.

  Captain McDougal had come up with the list, acquired from his contacts in Nassau. Duncan could understand why they were carrying the weapons, but the cobblers’ tools—­awls, rasps, and hammers—­confused him. If he didn’t know better, he’d think someone was intending to set up a shoe shop in Charleston.

  “We’ll be casting off soon. We have the Clyde to navigate, but we’ll be out to sea before you know it.”

  She smiled at him, an expression he took as dismissal.

  He closed the stateroom door, stood there looking at the settee. First of all, it was too damn short. Secondly, it was upholstered in something scratchy, and thirdly, the horsehair made the cushions lumpy. He was going to have to learn to like sleeping on the cot.

  What about undressing? Would she come into the parlor wanting a book and interrupt him in a state of nakedness? Not that he’d mind all that much, but there were her sensibilities to consider. But, as a widow, surely she’d seen a man without his clothes? Perhaps they should make sure to knock before entering the other’s room. That would solve the problem.

  As to meals, that was easily arranged. If she didn’t want to have her meals with him, they could easily do so on deck. Or he could choose to eat with the captain or the crew.

  He was worrying entirely too much about this.

  She was simply his relative who was accompanying him to Nassau. That’s all this was.

  DUNCAN STOOD on deck staring back at the land they were so quickly leaving. Had his ancestors felt the same as he did now? Had his uncle, generations past, stood just as he was, feeling a tug of sadness as he left everything that was precious to him?

  The splash of water against the hull, the horns, bells, and the cawing of seabirds were all sounds accompanying them on their journey down the Clyde.

  They passed the cranes of the shipyards, half-­built ships being given life, finished vessels awaiting their sea trials, docks and offices like Cameron and Company. Scenes he’d seen all his life but never from the vantage point of leaving them.

  Would he see them again?

  The ship plowed through the water as if excited to be free, the Union Jack mounted above her bow flapping in the wind.

  They passed a castle perched on a crag of rock, a train trying to catch up to their speed, the tall spire of a church.

  He stood there, uncertain how much time passed.

  This part of the Clyde smelled of oil and decaying vegetation. Soon they’d be past Rothesay then into the Firth of Clyde, headed for the Atlantic Ocean.

  The river widened, the distance to the shore became farther. Soon, the hills in the background, forested or striated in grays and blues, would be only shapes on the horizon. The seabirds grew less frequent as the waves grew deeper.

  Rose didn’t speak when she joined him. She was comfortable with silence and didn’t talk simply to fill a gap in conversation. They stood there at the railing, hearing the splash of the powerful paddle wheel, smelling the coal fumes belching from the Raven’s two smokestacks.

  Finally, it happened. Civilization was only a shadow on the horizon. The Raven was alone on the stretch of water, Captain McDougal in command.

  “I did like Scotland,” she said. “It was nothing like I expected.”

  “Why is that?”

  “For all their pride in their heritage, the American MacIains would have you believe that Scotland is still a rough and wild place with men who wear kilts and carry around cudgels. They think themselves far advanced.”

  “Advanced enough to own other men?”

  She turned to look at him.

  “We Scots fought against England to prevent being enslaved,” he said. “I find it odd that my American cousins would forget that lesson.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment. “Yet you took their cotton readily enough,” she said.

  When she wielded a verbal spear, it was tipped with poison.

  “Yes, I did. I have no excuse for it. I could explain myself by saying it was business. That I was just doing what other mills were doing.”

  “Did you never think that by buying the South’s cotton you were encouraging an economy dependent on slaves?”

  “Yes,” he said, giving her the truth. “I did. Yet I had little choice. I still don’t. For that reason, I pray the Union is victorious.”

  “What I’m selling you is Glengarden’s last crop. There’s every possibility we’ll never produce another cotton crop. And we can’t be the only plantation with that future.”

  “Then perhaps it’s right that it happens,” he said.

  To change the subject, he told her a story he’d once heard from Lennox.

  “Did you know that sailors’ wives and mothers often make a sacrifice to the sea before their men begin a voyage?”

  “A sacrifice?”

  “It’s in the way of a bargain,” he said, staring down at the waves. “Whatever she gives to the sea has to matter: a favorite pot, a kettle, a bit of embroidery she fancies.”

  “And in return, the sea won’t keep her man?”

  “That’s what’s supposed to happen.”

  “Perhaps we should give it something as well, a token of respect, a sacrifice for a safe voyage.”

  Before he could stop her, she’d unpinned the cameo at her neck and tossed it into the ocean.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Love itself is sacrifice, don’t you think?”

  He studied her until she turned her gaze to the sea.

  “No,” he said. “Not just sacrifice. It should also be devotion, compassion, understanding. You should be given to as often as you give.”

  Her eyes returned to him. Her smile was faint, as if she forced it. Instead of commenting on what he’d said, she turned the conversation back to the cameo she’d tossed overboard.

  “I lied a little. Do you think the sea will know? It doesn’t pain me to part with it.”

  Her smile had disappeared and in her eyes was an expression he couldn’t read.

  “Did Bruce give it to you?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “No, my sister.”

  With that, she turned and left him, leaving him staring after her.

  Glengarden Plantation

  South Carolina

  “I WANT my shawl, Maisie. The blue one with the gold thread shot through, Maisie. Not the plain blue one.”

  “Yes, Miss Susanna.”

  “And my pot of rouge. I could do with some color.”

  “I can’t remember where I put it,” Maisie said. “I’m sorry, Miss Susanna, but this old mind of mine isn’t working like it used to.”

  She wasn’t going to help that poor woman look silly at her age. Susanna thought that old age could be held back with bright colors and slathering on rouge.r />
  “Find it,” Susanna said, her voice uncharacteristically rough. “I don’t want Bruce to see me looking less than my best. He’s been gone a year, Maisie.”

  She knew exactly how long Bruce had been gone. Slightly more than a year. Thirteen months, three days, and a few hours. Time in which a bubble had seemed to descend on Glengarden. One of, if not happiness, then certainly contentment. No one held back their words, although it had become a habit to do so. If someone laughed, it wasn’t followed by a guilty look toward the corridor or sudden silence to listen for the sound of boots on the carpet.

  Dinner was spent in conversation, not silence. In the morning, Gloria would come racing down the front steps and out the door as if to embrace the whole of life at Glengarden. Not one soul would stop and caution her. Or guide her away from the stables because her father was there.

  Without Judge Wellington telling them, they’d have no idea Bruce was on his way home. Or that he’d lost a leg.

  The devil does take his due.

  Every night she said a prayer to the Almighty that the South would lose, that all those men who’d paraded around on Glengarden’s veranda dressed in their fancy uniforms would fall in battle. Every night she also prayed to be forgiven her hatred. Not spared of it, because it was the only thing that kept her moving each day. Otherwise she would have wakened in her bed outside Miss Susanna’s room, remembered that her Phibba was dead, and wished herself dead as well.

  Michael had been one of the few slaves who could read. He’d recited passages of the Bible to them and she’d memorized the ones that gave her the most comfort.

  Vengeance is mine, I will repay, was not one of them.

  “I’ll go and look for the rouge now,” she said.

  “Be quick about it.”

  Rouge was not going to make Susanna look twenty years younger. Nor was it going to soften the signs of age. The last year had not been kind to the woman known as a beauty in her youth. The skin on her face was so thin it barely concealed her bones. Her nose, once aquiline, was now as sharp as a knife.