by Lara Temple
‘Are you talking about Aunt Celia, Papa?’ Jamie asked and at that Jo sent Benneit a frowning look.
‘No, your father was talking of another Celia, Jamie.’
‘Is she my cousin, too?’
Benneit planted his hands on his hips and grinned down at her.
‘Ah, the pitfalls of falsehood. Shall I bring you a shovel so you can keep digging, Jo?’
‘Will you buy her a dress, then, Papa?’ Jamie insisted, sticking to the essence of the matter.
‘I will, Jamie. Several. So you may both frolic in the kelp to your heart’s content.’
‘Nonsense. Oh, look!’ Jo exclaimed, extracting a long silver tube from the mess. Jamie squeaked.
‘Treasure!’
Benneit frowned and jumped down from his perch on to the mud.
‘Show me.’
‘No, I found it and so it is mine,’ Jo said, holding the tube away from his outstretched hand. ‘And I decide it goes to Jamie.’
Jamie took it with glee, turning it in his hands and brushing away the mud and clinging kelp.
‘It’s a flute!’ Benneit said.
‘I knew that,’ Jamie answered.
‘I thought it was a unicorn’s horn,’ Jo said in disappointed tones.
‘Did not!’ Jamie said.
‘Well, I hoped it might be. Do you think it is made of real silver? Perhaps it belonged to the mermaid queen’s musicians.’
Benneit tapped it.
‘Tin.’
Jamie blew on it and a spray of slimy mud spattered down the side of Jo’s dress.
‘Sorry, Jo,’ Jamie said contritely as she wiped at the goo.
‘I think it’s an improvement,’ Benneit said, inspecting the damage. ‘It looks like a map of Italy now. And there is Elba. That’s where Napoleon escaped from, Jamie.’
‘Oh? Where is he now?’
Benneit put his hands on her waist and turned her, pointing to a speck just below her posterior.
‘On that island there. St Helena.’
Jo moved away from his grasp, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. Benneit considered apologising for stretching the jest, but it was pleasant to see her so flustered.
‘We really should return. The water is rising,’ she said and Benneit swung Jamie back on to the rocks. On impulse he turned and took Jo by the waist, swinging her up as well. With a gasp she steadied herself against him, her fingers brushing down the sides of his neck as she leaned her hands on his shoulders, sending whispers of warmth over his skin and tightening his hands on the soft curves of her waist. For a moment he held her between the sand and the rock, her lips parted, revealing lovely white teeth and the tip of a pink tongue that made his tingle with a need to test the sudden conviction she would taste sweet, warm, a little spicy...
She pushed against his shoulders and he raised her the last few inches to deposit her on the rock. She turned and made her way towards where the rocks descended again to the sand. He did not follow right away, until the encroaching waves licked at his boots and he cursed and leapt after them. They continued in silence until he took Jamie’s hand and guided them towards the cliff path.
‘Shouldn’t we go by the Sea Gate?’ Jo asked.
‘Papa only goes by the cliff path by the chapel, don’t you, Papa?’
‘I like coming in through the inner bailey,’ Benneit answered, avoiding Jo’s questioning gaze. ‘Besides, I must stop by the stables. Would you like to take your pony out to the village with me tomorrow, Jamie?’
Jamie threw his arms wide in a gesture of such obvious pleasure Jo laughed.
‘What horse will Jo ride, Papa?’
He hesitated and Jo interceded.
‘You and your papa will go. I shall stay to help Mr McCreary, Jamie.’
‘Oh, dull!’ Jamie scoffed, but danced ahead up the shore. After a moment Benneit spoke.
‘If you would like a decent horse to ride while you are here, you need only speak to Angus. As long as you take a groom with you, you do not need to be limited to rides with Jamie. I presume Langdale ensured you are a fine horsewoman.’
‘It was a condition of our union. He would not propose until he saw me at a canter.’
He paused, taken aback, but then burst into laughter at the glint in her eyes.
‘How did you meet?’ he asked, grateful she was unknowingly smoothing over that strange moment by the rocks. ‘He was not of Uxmore’s circle as far as I can recall.’
She laughed and again he noticed the softening of her eyes, the tiny lines fanning out and enhancing her air of mischief.
‘The first time we met it was in the worst possible place in the world—Almack’s. He was in town for Tattersall’s settling day and his cousin had all but forced him to attend. He arrived five minutes before they closed the doors and he told me later he planned to be late so he would be barred, but his luck was out, or rather in, as he told me later. We were introduced and we danced, but as usual I was quite dreadfully discouraging; after we wed he told me I treated him as the lowliest of worms. I didn’t mean to be awful, but I was so miserable I think I was dreadful to most people I met in London.’
‘Was it so bad? Most portionless young women would have been grateful for an opportunity to attend the London Season.’
She walked a little faster, her shoulders curving against the wind. He caught up with her.
‘Don’t run away, Jo. You can always tell me to mind my business if you do not wish to discuss something.’
‘I am not running away. It is cold.’
‘Liar.’
She bent to pick up a smooth grey stone, her voice barely a mutter.
‘If I had been pretty, or accomplished or...or something, perhaps I would have been grateful.’
He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of her words, but the memory of her—stiff, silent, awkward—made him keep his peace. She, too, had changed through the years, but for the better, unlike him.
‘You didn’t tell me how you came to wed your Alfred after all.’
Her face softened and warmed once more, and peculiarly he felt the spear-tip of jealousy. It was not right that when he thought of Bella he could conjure up none of the warmth so apparent on Jo’s face. He could still make no sense of what he felt after losing Bella—love and resentment and disappointment and sadness all tangled together like a mess of kelp tossed up on the shores after a storm.
‘I met him again quite by accident. Celia had just given birth and Lady Theale asked me if I would attend to her.’
‘Just as she asked you if you would attend to Jamie?’
‘Well, since I was helping Cousin Philippa, who is far worse than Celia, I think she was rather doing me a favour.’
‘Good God, talk about the choices of the damned.’
‘It wasn’t that bad. But whatever the case, it was January, and I was travelling and we slipped on the ice and broke a wheel and had to walk to the nearest inn. Then suddenly a man on horseback rode by and I saw it was Alfred, but I never expected him to remember me and certainly not fondly.’
‘I gather he remembered you none the less.’
‘He did. He was very kind and he put me on his horse and when we were out of sight he mounted behind me, took me to his house where he introduced me to his mother. She had a weak heart, but was very lovely, rather like my own mother. Alfred and I used to laugh that he rescued me just as in the fairy tales. There I was, stranded in the snow, well, a flurry at least, and up he rode on his white steed—which was a grey, in fact, but close enough—and swept me off my feet quite literally. I was not very good as a rescued princess, though. I was very suspicious at first. I even thought he was making an effort to promote me to his mother because he wished to find a companion for her. In fact, when he did propose, I was convinced that was what he was offering me. It took a few confused mome
nts for him to understand we were talking at cross purposes. He enjoyed teasing me about it later.’
She smiled, lost in her memory, and Benneit looked away to the shore below them. Jamie had stopped to inspect something Flops was scratching at and they stopped as well. The sun was dancing on the choppy water. It was a rare, clear, beautiful summer day. There was no rhyme or reason to why he felt annoyed. It was almost as if he begrudged her that happiness just as the Uxmores had. That love.
‘Bella painted a very different picture of your Alfred.’
‘I wonder how. She never met him, after all. We never went to Uxmore.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘We were never invited. Not that I would have wanted to go anyway. I presumed eventually I would have no choice, but we were in mourning and then... Well, it hardly matters. I know what they said of us. I heard it all when I returned to live with Celia.’
‘But you never corrected them.’
‘That would have been impolitic. Celia was always kinder to me when she could look down on me. It was so hard to return to Uxmore...’
His hand rose towards her, but she didn’t see and he clasped his hands behind his back. She was not a child to be comforted. The urge to tuck her against him, the small slight form in Celia’s Awful Dress, and somehow protect her from the bludgeoning of the Uxmores’ condescending charity...
She did not need his help. She had found her own way to survive and hold her own. In fact, she was one of the least downtrodden women he knew. The realisation surprised him. Bella had far less independence—she had always required him as her sounding board, either of his approval or his disagreement, in order to know where she stood.
Jo was... Jo. A self-sufficient island in all respects but material. She needed nothing from him, not really. For which he was very grateful. He preferred his life pared down to its basic building stones. He did not need a grey-eyed pixie widow added to his scroll of responsibilities. There was no room for someone like her in his life.
‘Come, it is time to return. I have business to attend to before I leave for Glasgow tomorrow.’ He didn’t wait for them to respond but swung Jamie into his arms and made his way up the cliff path. He had done his share for the day.
Chapter Seventeen
Benneit stood in the shadow of the trees at the top of the cliff overlooking the bay, watching them. He was tired from the long drive back from Glasgow to advance his plans for the distillery and for the Lochmore ball, but impulse had dragged him out here once Ewan informed him Jamie was down on the beach with Angus and Jo. A week was as long as he had been away from Jamie in a long while and he had felt it—instead of the usual dread at returning to Lochmore, this time he had been restless to come home, forcing everyone to proceed at a frenetic pace so he could keep to schedule.
He should be happy. Delighted, even. Everything was proceeding smoothly. McCrieff had approved the use of water from Loch Tyre and in a few weeks men would arrive to build the distillery and expand the village port. If all went well, in a few years Lochmore might become one of the largest distilleries in Scotland, providing livelihood not just for Lochmore tenants but for the McCrieffs and possibly other clans in the area.
He should be happy.
But as he watched them, his relief at reaching home was shoved away, replaced by a buzzing sensation, like annoyance. From up here they looked like a family of beachcombers, Angus’s tall frame dwarfing them a little as he bent to pick up Jamie’s discarded shoes and held his hand out to take Jamie’s coat from Mrs Langdale. It was a simple, intimate act from a man Benneit trusted with his life, but for some reason it irked him.
Jamie ran up the path to the castle and Angus turned to speak to Mrs Langdale. Once again, she was not wearing a bonnet and the wind was attacking her schoolmistress’s coiffure and, as Angus bent his red head towards her, she raised her hand to push back the straying flaxen tresses and Benneit saw her laugh. But when Angus followed in Jamie’s wake, she remained on the shore, turning to walk back along the shore.
Benneit hesitated and descended the path. There was no real danger, but he had best be certain she didn’t strand herself on the rocks when the tide rose.
He found her seated on his childhood perch, the great boulder carved by years of wind and rain into a natural seat, set high on a rocky ridge that might eons ago have fallen from the cliff side. On days like this, when the sun was shining, it would be warm and nest-like, and she sat curled in it with her eyes closed and her face raised to the sun in utter disregard of all feminine concerns for milk-white complexions. The wind had won the war against her bun and as he watched she pulled out the remaining pins, letting her hair tumble about her shoulders. In a moment she was likely to unravel further, perhaps go up in a puff of smoke, like a fairy-tale sprite.
Before he could gather his resolve to withdraw she opened her eyes and saw him. Her eyes widened and her hands flew to her hair.
‘Welcome back, Your Grace. If you are looking for Jamie, Angus took him...’
‘Yes, I know. I will join them in a moment. Do you like the Devil’s Seat?’
‘The what?’
‘This rock is called Devil’s Seat.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘You are good at stories—hazard a guess.’
Her eyes lit with interest and she snuggled a little deeper on to the rock.
‘Did you sit here as a child?’
‘Yes, but I am sorry to disappoint you, it was named that before I was born so you cannot lay that at my doorstep. Besides, I was usually a rather well-behaved boy.’
‘In my experience anything that must be qualified with both “usually” and “rather” is suspect. That leaves me to infer that occasionally you were a rather horridly ill-behaved boy.’
‘I had my moments. Rather fewer than Jamie, but perhaps that is only my memory.’
‘Well, if it is any consolation, I find that it is not in the least healthy for children to be perfectly behaved. It is usually a sign something is very wrong.’
He climbed up as well and sat on the boulder slightly beneath her. Her hands rose again towards her hair, but fell away, fisting. He repressed his smile as well as the temptation to tell her looking dishevelled suited her. If he did, she would probably have her hair back into its bun before he could blink.
‘Why is it a sign something is wrong?’ he prompted.
‘Sometimes when children do not feel secure they are less likely to risk displeasure. They become...watchful, careful. Sometimes they do the opposite—they become thorough hellions because they gain attention only when they are horrid.’
‘What were you like as a child?’ he asked, trying not to show his discomfort at his visceral reaction to her words.
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. I presume you were not conjured fully grown by a magician with a penchant for pixies in grey gowns.’
‘Pixies?’
‘You remind me of a pixie.’
‘Really? Scots must have a very different notion of pixies, then. I always thought they were rather mischievous and...appealing.’
‘My notion is wholly English and that is very accurate. But you are evading my question.’
She turned towards the sea, tucking her fluttering hair behind her ears.
‘Happy. I was happy.’
He waited and after a moment she sighed.
‘It seems so long ago. I wish I could go back. Or I wish my father hadn’t died and we could have stayed in Upper Dunstable.’
‘What was it like?’
‘It wasn’t a large village, much smaller than Lochmore, just a couple dozen houses, but we were like a family. My father was also schoolmaster and the vicarage was always full of children. My mother was quite ill when I was young. I think that was why she never had more children and she loved having the house full with all our friends. Whenever so
meone could not be found they came to the Vicarage, knowing they would probably be there in the parlour or in the kitchen. Mama and Mrs Dell, our cook, were friendly rivals when it came to baking and they would spend hours trying the new recipes brought by Mrs Flitwick, the grocer’s wife.’
‘Your Mrs Dell must have been quite tolerant. I wouldn’t dare infringe on Mrs Merry’s domain.’
She laughed, the tumbling joyous sound that had struck him as so unlike the image she portrayed, but now it suited her, with her tangled hair glistening from the sea spray and her hands sweeping in wide gestures.
‘Neither would I, even if I had Mama’s penchant for baking.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Not a smidgen, I’m afraid. I did try, but I was so hopeless they banished me to help Papa in the schoolroom. I would forget to mind the time or add too much salt or confuse rosemary with thyme. Hopeless. Mama said it was because I was always daydreaming and not attentive enough.’
‘Strange. You appear a pattern card of sober efficiency.’
‘I learned to stop dreaming. It is not that difficult to be efficient. It merely requires some determination.’
‘Do you not dream any more, then?’
‘Are you afraid I might neglect Jamie if I do?’
‘No. I merely hope for your sake that you have not forgotten how. That would be a pity.’
She dragged her hair into a semblance of a bun and secured it with the pins in her lap. It was lopsided and did nothing to contain the tendrils dancing about her face. Her mouth flattened, draining of animation; but not her eyes—they were damp and not from the sting of the wind. He didn’t know whether to apologise for raising old dreams or to tuck her against him and soothe her. Neither was appropriate.
Then, she smiled at him.
‘Thank you for reminding me. I don’t think often of home. It seems so...unreal. Now, how does one descend from the Devil’s Seat? It strikes me it is much easier to climb up than down.’
‘You don’t climb. You jump.’ He demonstrated, ending in a crouch on the sand, and turned to grin up at her. She stared down at him in dismay.