by Susan King
"I agree. I hoped you might like it."
Legan paged through the book for a while, then glanced up. "Is this the completed work?"
"There is another one that she is finishing now. Both treat the flora and fauna, weather, the geological character of the island and its adjacent reef, and so on. She has a particular gift, I think, for capturing the beauty and variety of life on the island, and the moods of the sea and the seasons, all with these elegant, precise drawings. I can assure you that the other journal is equal in merit to this one. She plans a third journal as well."
"Might she allow me to see the other one?" Logan paused to exclaim his admiration for a sensitively rendered drawing of seals sunning themselves on Sgeir Caran.
"I believe so, sir. She has spent years on her journals for the pure joy of the work, but I think she also dreams of sharing them as books for others to enjoy."
"We may be able to arrange that for her. This is remarkable, really." Logan nodded. "There is a great deal of interest in the Highland culture just now. People are mad for Scotland, sir, for its history and its culture. Mad to tour the Highlands and purchase any souvenir that links them to Scotland. Some think we are wrong to perpetuate the romance of plaids and pipes and heather, when our country is so very different from that, but I say all this interest helps our economy and our reputation for romanticism and mystery. The queen herself writes Highland journals, did you know?"
"I had heard something of it."
"A Hebridean journal like this one, written and illustrated by a Scotswoman, would be highly popular. They would be beautiful volumes... aye, more than one." He tapped the desk with his fingers, thinking.
"Of course, we would send the drawings to the best engraver in the city for exact reproduction of the details. We could add hand-colored, tipped-in illustrations. Possibly we could also produce a smaller edition with line engravings at a lower cost."
"Perhaps," Dougal said, "they would look well as a set with green leather covers and a tooled design of flowers on the front. The gold lettering on the spines could read 'A Hebridean Journal, by M. MacNeill.'" Logan considered him for a moment. "I like that very much. I shall remember it." He nodded. "Aye, people would be mad to own such a lovely set of books. A naturalist's view of the Isles. Brilliant! Do you think your authoress would agree to allow us to publish them for her?" Dougal smiled. "I believe she would, sir."
"Mr. Stewart, thank you for bringing this to me. How may I contact Miss MacNeill?"
"I met her through some of her kinfolk on Caransay. Since I'll be returning there soon, I'd be happy to deliver a letter to her through them."
"Good." Logan handed the journal back to Dougal, then took up a sheet of paper, dipped a pen, and began to write.
While Logan was occupied, Dougal flipped pages in the little book, pausing to glance at careful studies of seashells, their spirals touched lightly with washed color. Along the side of the page were some notes in Meg's small, rounded handwriting.
Periwinkles and large and small whelks found on the western Shore, Innish Bay. The whorls hold the soft, delicate colors of a dawn sky. Within the pink-shadowed spiral of the whelk, the sea sings its ancient song.
A shiver ran through him, deep and secret, as if Meg herself had whispered in his ear.
On other pages, Sgeir Caran emerged in clean lines and hatched shadowings, its shape unaltered by black powder blasts. Images of the rock filled three more pages, combined with studies of birds, including the eagles that nested on the rock.
Eagles mate for life, she had written beside a sketch of two birds in flight above the majestic rock, and this pair has been together many years. Their loyalty is transcendent. To see them soar over the great sea rock in perfect unison is to realize the profound poetry of their devotion. Theirs is the pure love of two dedicated souls who, once joined, will never part.
He closed the book quietly.
Logan sealed an envelope and handed it to Dougal. "I have taken the liberty of enclosing a cheque with my letter in the amount of one hundred pounds. I can offer the lady a little more once I have discussed the matter with my partners. Until then, I hope this will secure the privilege of publishing her journals. I assume that a sum of money would be welcome to her."
"Thank you, Mr. Logan. Very welcome, I imagine. And it is a generous gesture of faith."
"You may wish to act as her adviser, Mr. Stewart, since you have some experience in publishing yourself."
"Small experience, but I would be glad to be of assistance."
"If her journals become as popular as I expect, thousands of readers will soon know her name, and her bank account will benefit. Assure her of that." Logan smiled. "Please take the book and the cheque to her. I hope to meet with her soon."
Nodding, Dougal slid the envelope and the little book into his pocket. "I am sure the lady will be pleased."
Logan looked at him keenly. "But you do not know for certain, do you, sir."
"I admit I took something of a risk in coming here."
"You are a loyal friend, sir. Convince the young lady that this is her golden opportunity. I hope her own dreams are the equal of your dreams for her."
Dougal stood. "Believe me, sir. I hope so, too."
* * *
"Certainly, Mrs. Larrimore, if you think we will need extra staff for the soiree, please hire them," Meg said. She stood in the drawing room with Angela Shaw and Mrs. Larrimore, the housekeeper of Number Twelve Charlotte Square.
"You'll find willing maids of service at Matheson House," Angela suggested. "It is newly established, and there are several young women there eager for work."
"Huh," Mrs. Larrimore said dubiously. "Them lassies."
"They are well-bred young women caught by unfortunate circumstance," Meg said. "Many of them desire honest work. You can hire a few to act as kitchen maids and upstairs maids for the evening, at least. We will need some ladies' maids, as well."
"Well. I suppose I could inquire," the housekeeper said.
"Excellent. Now, we shall have music and a little dancing for our private assembly," Meg said. "The drawing room will be large enough if some of this furniture is removed to the upstairs rooms. The carpet should be rolled and placed elsewhere, too."
"The musicians can set themselves in that corner, near the garden doors," Mrs. Larrimore said, pointing to a roomy area beside the wide glassed doors leading to a small conservatory. "And we'll set conservatory plants about in pots."
"That will be lovely," Meg said. "Our own roses in the conservatory are still plentiful. We could use some of them. Mrs. Shaw, are the other flowers ordered?"
"Yes, madam. Yellow and ivory roses, mixed with other flowers for variety and color. They will be set about the room, and the buffet table will hold an arrangement of a tower of sugared fruits, very pretty. I personally made some tiny nightingales of silk and paper in the Japanese method to set among the flower arrangements, in honor of Miss Lind, since she is called the Swedish Nightingale."
"Splendid idea, and I'm sure very lovely. You have a delicate hand for craftwork." Meg turned to look around the room. "We'll use this room for music and dancing and the dining room for the supper buffet, with the doors left open for mingling. We'll need to designate two upstairs rooms for dressing rooms, one for the ladies and one for the gentlemen."
"Aye, madam," the housekeeper agreed. "I've told the maids to ready the blue bedroom and the upstairs sitting room. The rooms will be comfortably heated and well lit, and there will be plenty of soap and water, towels, combs, brushes, pins, and so forth set out for the guests."
"Excellent. And it will be a nice touch to provide rose water, lavender water, and some almond-rose cream for the ladies to use. And, of course, add salts and cologne as well."
"Aye, I'll see to all of it. And I'll order the grooms to lessen the fires in the grates toward evening. With so many guests, the fires will make the place too warm. We don't want anyone fainting!"
"A good thought. And we'll need tw
o maids to take the cloaks and hats and store them for the evening in one of the bedrooms."
"Aye. A wee slip of paper pinned to each cloak with the owner's name on it will prevent a kerfuffle later."
"Good. I'll leave the rest of the details to you, Mrs. Larrimore. We'll be coming in that evening from the concert at the Music Hall, and most of the guests will be arriving from there, too. All must be in readiness by eight o'clock, I think. Oh, and I'd like a lady's maid exclusively for Miss Lind, as well, who will arrive later than the rest, of course."
"Katie will do. She's a good lass. What of the menu, madam?"
"I would not change a thing," Meg said, and she looked at Angela. "Mrs. Shaw, what is your opinion?"
"I like Mrs. Larrimore's suggestions to provide fruit ices and lemonade earlier, with a light buffet supper served at midnight," Angela answered.
Meg nodded agreement. "It will be a very late evening, but the concert from seven to nine dictates that it must be so."
"Very good, then," Mrs. Larrimore said. "I'd best get back to work, madam and Mrs. Shaw. Cook will start baking long before dawn on that day, and there will be a great deal to do—meats to roast for chilled slices later, dishes and punches to prepare, extra ice to be ordered and stored. And of course, the whole house cleaned and polished, top to bottom. It will all be done, though. Do not fret a bit about it. Oh, and the dressmaker from Paris will be here this afternoon."
"Thank you, Mrs. Larrimore." Meg smiled as the housekeeper bobbed her head and left the room.
"It promises to be a lovely event," Angela said.
"This is not a large house for such a party," Meg replied, glancing around. "I... oh, I suppose I am nervous, Angela."
"Strathlin Castle offers more room, but this house is more convenient for most of the guests, who can return easily to their homes afterwards. And it will be convenient for Miss Lind, as well, since she plans to travel the next day. I believe she has a concert in Perth the following evening."
Meg nodded distractedly. "None of that makes me nervous," she said. "I know that you and Mrs. Larrimore, and all the others, will work together to make this a wonderful party. It is... well, it is something else entirely."
Angela tilted her head sympathetically. "Can I help?"
"I'm afraid I must puzzle it out on my own." She thought of Dougal walking the machair of Caransay deep in the night, puzzling out his theorems as well as his feelings for her.
Seeing Angela's keen glance, Meg smiled brightly. "You are always such a help. We call you Angel for a reason," she said, tucking her arm in her friend's. "We had best hurry. We're expected at the opening of the new exhibit at the National Museum of Antiquities at one o'clock. They are displaying some recently discovered Celtic treasures, which I hear are quite stunning. It promises to be very interesting."
"Yes, I'm looking forward to it. The museum directors are delighted that you are free to attend, madam, as you and Matheson Bank are among the museum's chief contributors. They may ask you to say a few words."
"And I shall decline. I suspect the directors hope to flatter me so that I will sponsor their new museum building, on which they plan to break ground next year. But I will sponsor it regardless, and even more enthusiastically if they allow me anonymity today."
Angela smiled. "Some members of the bank's board plan to attend the exhibit's opening, as well. I know that Sir John Shaw and Sir Frederick Matheson are both invited."
The rhythm of Meg's step faltered slightly as she walked arm in arm with Angela. "How nice," she said, "to escape from the concerns of the party for a little while."
* * *
"Lady Strathlin, it is a joy to see you again," Sir Frederick said, as he stepped out from behind a stone column. The museum's spacious and bright foyer, where the exhibit had been arranged in long glass cases, was very crowded, filled with ladies and gentlemen attending the opening. Beams of warm sunlight poured over golden stone, green ferns, and the cheerful colors of the ladies' dresses, capes, and bonnets.
"Sir Frederick," Meg said, looking at him from under the brim of her dark blue bonnet, "what are you doing here?"
He doffed his top hat politely, although her greeting had been far from polite. "Why, the same thing you are doing, my dear, enjoying the exhibit," he said. "Although I'm glad to have a moment to speak with you. Have you thought about my proposal?"
She stared up at him. In the shadow of the huge column and lost in the noise of the echoing room, their conversation would be private. But she had no desire to speak to him, and she stepped away from the column, looking around for Angela Shaw or any other acquaintance who stood nearby.
Until Frederick's appearance, Meg had been lost in a pleasant reverie as she strolled past the glass cases, admiring the gold and silver and enameled artifacts displayed on velvet. The fascinating examples of brilliant Celtic craftsmanship and ingenuity captivated her, so that she had not noticed the tall, solidly built man in the black suit who now stood gazing down at her.
"I've given your suggestion some thought," she said carefully. "But I am not ready to speak to you about it. Certainly not here," she added in a near hiss, glancing around.
"Of course not, my dear," Matheson said. "I wanted to remind you."
"How could I possibly forget? Ah, Mrs. Shaw, there you are!" She called a little more loudly than she had intended. Hearing her, Angela turned and glided forward, her wide black bombazine skirt and half cape and her purple-and-black bonnet creating a somber note in the bright, sunny foyer.
"My dear Margaret, I look forward to hearing your answer on the night of your soiree," Frederick said. As Angela drew near them, he took her gloved hand cordially. "Mrs. Shaw, how delightful to see you again, and looking so well." Then he turned to Meg, who still watched him, her heart slamming. "I so look forward to your soiree, Lady Strathlin. We are to attend in grand full dress following Miss Lind's concert, I take it?"
"Yes," she said. "The details of dress and time are on your invitation card."
"Indeed. Oh, my dear ladies, please accept my apology. I must run. I have an appointment with Mr. Stewart this afternoon. I believe you know him, madam."
Smothering a gasp, Meg nodded. "Mr. Dougal Stewart? Yes."
"He and I have some business matters to discuss, now that he finds himself in a state of near ruin. I understand that he is coming to your private assembly. That should prove an interesting highlight for an evening." He smiled.
"Near... ruin?" Meg stared up at him.
"Well, of course, thanks to you and your solicitors. Had you not heard? I suppose your advocates work independently for your benefit, sparing you the details."
"I—they—well, no, I hadn't been told as yet." Meg realized that Angela was watching her with a slight frown. Puzzled herself, Meg wondered in a growing panic what her solicitors had done.
Frederick tipped the brim of his hat again. "It's true, they have triumphed over Mr. Stewart. Poor fellow. We shall talk further, my dearest Margaret," he said, taking her hand and bowing. "Mrs. Shaw." He turned away to stride through the crowd.
Meg watched his long black form as it cut a path through the bright dresses. She looked silently at Angela.
"I despise that oily snake," Angela murmured. Meg blinked, surprised by such a strong statement from her quiet, demure friend. "I hope you are not actually considering marrying him. He tells everyone that you are head over heels in love with him and about to announce it to the world."
"I'm not," Meg said. "Head over heels, that is."
"Good. I could not imagine it." Angela took Meg's arm. "My dear, have you seen the beautiful jewelry on display? You must come look. And I've found Mr. Hamilton—he was able to attend after all, when he thought he might be detained. We've just met the antiquarian who discovered many of these artifacts herself. She is lovely and delightful. Her name is Mrs. Christina Blackburn."
"I had heard her name before, but I have not yet met her."
"Then let it be my privilege to introduce you.
The Blackburns are rather famous for being an artistic family, although she is not."
"Ah, yes. Her father and brother both are brilliant painters. I own a seascape by John Blackburn the elder," Meg said.
Angela nodded. "Her late husband was an artist as well, a cousin of the same name. There was a scandal a few years ago, but... well, it does not do to mention these things. She is the lovely brunette standing over there beside the tall man with the blond hair. That is Dr. Connor MacBain."
"Oh!" Meg said. "I know his excellent reputation, although we have never met." She remembered that Dougal had once mentioned that a cousin of his was the wife of Dr. MacBain of Calton Hill in Edinburgh. Her heart beat faster. "Is there—anyone else with them?"
"Are you thinking of Mr. Stewart?"
Always, Meg thought, but she did not dare say it.
"Dr. MacBain's wife told me that Mr. Stewart is her cousin. A most interesting coincidence!" Angela nodded.
"Is he here?" Meg asked urgently, glancing around. "Did he accompany his relations to the opening?"
"No. Apparently Mr. Stewart had a previous appointment today. Mrs. MacBain said that he rode up on the train a few days ago. He is staying with them on Calton Hill."
Dougal was in Edinburgh already. Somehow she had irrationally expected him to simply appear for her soiree. Of course he would be here now. She might see him at any time, through a number of social connections.
Even knowing he was not in the museum, she glanced frantically around, looking for those broad shoulders, that glint of brown, sun-gilded hair. She wanted desperately to see him again, but she felt a sense of unshakable dread fill her at the same time.
She had to tell him the truth. She could not wait until the night of her soiree. If Dougal met with Frederick, there was no predicting what he might learn. Fear struck her with such force that she did not follow what Angela was saying.
"Dr. MacBain also said that Mr. Stewart has lost funding for his lighthouse. And there is a rumor that he will be personally ruined over this fiasco."