A Question for Harry

by Angeline Fortin

  No sound emerged.

  With renewed energy, Fiona kicked nothing but air and clawed at her brother’s hands, crying for Colin to let her go but he held fast. “Let me go!” she screamed.

  “Blossom, shh,” he whispered in her ear.

  Seconds … no! An eternity later Connor appeared at the door and Fiona stilled.

  Alone.

  Come on, Harry, she inwardly begged, staring at the empty portal. Come out. Come out. Please.

  Colin’s hold eased but Fiona clung to his hands as Connor met her eyes somberly. God, Connor was never so solemn! But there was real regret in his eyes. “Blossom …”

  Fiona shook her head in denial and looked back at the door.

  But it remained dark.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  It couldn’t be.

  Harry was too strong. Too alive. He was … hers.

  Pain engulfed her, stealing her breath away. Pain, like nothing she had ever experienced. Every fiber of her being burned, seared with the agony that radiated out from her heart. How could this be? How could she lose him when she had just found him again?

  Tears began to run unbidden down her cheeks as she stared at that empty door. Oh God, she prayed, begged silently. Please. Please.

  It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

  Fiona began to struggle in earnest for her release and Colin let her go. She ran toward the building, stumbling along the way.

  “Fiona! Don’t!” Connor shouted and started to run after her as well but this time Colin held him back.

  “Don’t. Let her go.”

  “But …”

  “God, man,” Colin said, choking up. “Can you even imagine?”

  Connor shook his head. “No.”

  Colin swallowed painfully picturing the utter devastation on his sister’s face. “I can.”

  Together they watched their sister tripping up the front steps before she disappeared through the darkened portal.

  Silence reigned.

  Then an awful keening of absolute despair that was enough to tear at the heart of even the most hardened of men filled the air. Colin’s eyes burned with tears.

  “No-o-o-o!”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  From the diary of Lady Fiona MacKintosh – April 1893

  Harry is gone.

  I fear I will never see him again.

  He was truly gone, Fiona thought, lifting her head from where she had collapsed on the floor after seeing Harry’s body resting in a pool of blood.

  Tears choking her, she pushed herself up and crawled the rest of the way until she was at his side. Turning about, she gently lifted his head into her lap. “I’m s-sorry, Harry. So sorry,” her quaking words were hoarse with emotion. “None of this should have happened. I should have left you alone before. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard.”

  I should have been content to move on. If I had I would have wed long ago, I would never have met Ramsay, she thought. Fiona cast a dark glance at the other body lying nearby and shuddered. I would never have led him to you. This would never have happened.

  “It’s all my fault.” Her tears rained unreservedly as she bent over him, pressing her trembling lips to his forehead. “I love you, Harry,” she choked out, kissing him again. “I do. I’m sorry I didn’t say it before.”

  Harry had been right. She hadn’t known what she had. Fiona thought she had, thought she knew what real loss felt like. But she had only lost Harry’s presence, not his person. It had never been so permanent. Even after their initial flight from Crumpsky and the fight in the alley, she had thought she considered the worst of it. She was wrong.

  There was nothing to compare.

  Fiona brushed his dark hair from his temples in soothing strokes. He was so beautiful. She couldn’t believe that she would never again see his blue eyes fill with humor.

  With love.

  It was wrong, so utterly wrong.

  And she just couldn’t accept it.

  Harry was too strong and she was … she was just too stubborn to accept it. Harry had always said so.

  “No!” she gasped gruffly, shaking her head and then again, louder. “No! I won’t have it! Wake up, Harry!” She patted his cheeks but gained no response. “Come on, Harry!” she yelled hoarsely into his serene countenance. Her throat constricted around the plea as tears fell like raindrops on his face. “Come on!” she begged desperately.

  Fiona slapped him then. And again. “Come on!” Harder. “Come on!”

  “Fiona!” Colin shouted and then was by her side, trying to pull her gently away but Fiona slapped him away and hit Harry again. Colin pulled at her more forcefully.

  “Bugger it, Fiona,” Connor yelled anxiously. “He’s gone!”

  “No!” The cry was wrenched from deep within her and Fiona threw her fists down on Harry’s chest, her entire weight sagging over him as sobs of grief shook her.

  Colin’s arms came around her again and lifted her away and this time Fiona fell back, agony racking her body as she turned to cling to her brother.

  Her shattered sobs filled the silence.

  … then Harry breathed.

  The three of them froze in astonishment at the short, ragged intake. Then nothing. Fiona was almost certain she had imagined it when there was another gurgle.

  A gasp.

  Then Fiona was at his side again, slapping his face and calling his name. He coughed and almost gagged, so with Colin’s help, Fiona rolled Harry to his side and pounded his back. He heaved weakly and struggled to drag in another labored breath. Another hacking exhale and the next intake came easier.

  Letting him roll back over, Fiona took his head in her lap once more and patted his cheek more mildly. “Harry? Harry?”

  His eyelids flickered and closed. “Why must you always beat me so?”

  Fiona could barely hear the weakly spoken words but chuckled through her tears and sniffed, running the back of her hand across her eyes. “Why do you make me? I try so hard to be nice to you.”

  Harry’s chest quaked with might have been an attempt at laughter but then groaned and tried to roll to the side, but Fiona urged him to lie back. “Careful, Harry, you’ve been shot.”

  He stilled and sighed. “Have I? I can’t…” He lifted a hand to his chest. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re covered in blood!”

  Harry drew in another breath and relaxed. “His.”

  Colin and Connor were bent over him then, opening Harry’s jacket, vest and shirt. “He’s got one, looks like it got him in the ribs.” Colin probed and Harry cried hoarsely in pain. “More than a few broken ribs I think. Two are bad. I hope he didn’t puncture a lung.”

  “He fell on me. Damn near crushed me. Couldn’t breathe.”

  “I think you’ll live, Aylesbury,” Colin said, though relief was evident in his voice.

  “Oh, Harry!” Fiona moaned, cradling him against her. “How could you do this? How could you risk yourself like that?”

  “Because I love you. Always will.”

  “Oh, Harry!” she whispered, pressing her lips to his forehead. “I love you, too.”

  Aylesbury released a breath that might have been a laugh. God it hurt to breathe, to move. To think. But he wouldn’t have traded that moment for anything. “You sure I’m not dead?”

  Fiona laughed too between her tears. “You heard me. I love you, Harry Brudenall. It’s always been you.”

  Aylesbury closed his eyes again. “’Bout time.”

  Bending her cheek next to his, Fiona murmured her love to him over and over. As if once said, she couldn’t say it enough. She would never lose the opportunity again. “I love you, Harry. I’m so sorry. So sorry I took so long to admit. I was just so afraid.”

  “Afraid?”

  Fiona nodded, framing his dear face between her hands. “Afraid that we wouldn’t be able to find everything I longed for together. Afraid that it wouldn’t be perfect. I know now that it won’t be perfect because we aren’t eithe
r.”

  Aylesbury made a choking sound close to laughter and Fiona, too, sniffed back her tears with a watery chuckle. “All right, you’re perfect, but I’m not. I argue too much, I’m too independent. I’ve made so many mistakes and I almost waited too long to try and make them right. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing. Can’t take it. Just not right coming from you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  They shared a smile and Fiona brushed the tears from her cheeks one last time. “I love you, Harry. I truly do.”

  “I love you, too, darling girl.”

  “I know you said you wouldn’t mention it again so I have a question for you, Harry.”

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t even asked yet!”

  “Just put the ring on the right finger and kiss me, won’t you?”

  To his amazement, Fiona did what he asked without an argument.

  “Now will you get me out of this blood bath?”

  Epilogue

  From the diary of the Marchioness of Aylesbury – Jun 1895

  This is the happiest day of my life. Even better than playing head to head with Miss Pearson at Wimbledon Commons.

  Added by the Marquis of Aylesbury five minutes later

  My God, I should hope so.

  The chapel at Dinton Grange

  Aylesbury, England

  June 1895

  “Are you ready for this, Blossom?”

  Fiona hardly spared a sidelong glance for Francis as he carried her on his arm up the aisle to meet her future husband, who awaited her at the altar. Never had she seen Harry looking as extraordinarily handsome as he did just then but it had nothing to do with the way his charcoal grey morning suit hugged his muscular frame or the charisma that fairly radiated from him.

  It had everything to do with the way he watched her as she neared.

  The organ was deafening, bellowing as wretchedly as a drunken sailor, but Fiona didn’t care. All she could really hear was the pounding of her heart as Harry smiled down at her with that same devastating smile that had captured her body and soul so long ago. Beneath his dark brows, his beautiful blue eyes lit with humor, life and joy.

  They were always like that now but something new had been added as well: a fiery light of love and desire that warmed Fiona to her toes each time he looked at her. Which was often. Fiona knew already that their life might not be the impeccable paradise she had long dreamed of, but it would be the perfect life for them to share together.

  In what was fast becoming the new MacKintosh tradition, they were wedding by special license just two weeks after Fiona thought she had truly lost Harry forever. Two weeks – which was two weeks longer than most of her brothers had managed – to allow Harry to heal from his injuries. Though she would have wed him with his head still lying in her lap that day, Harry had jested that he would need to have all his strength to cope with her night and day.

  Fiona tolerated the wait only because she was sure he would.

  “Yes, Francis,” she said through a broad smile. “I’m very ready.”

  In short order, her brother handed her over to the man who would soon be hers forever. Harry’s warm hand closed over hers and squeezed.

  “You are absolutely radiant,” he murmured as they completed their short walk together. “I like your dress.”

  The wedding gown Fiona had chosen of ivory silk moire was not as lavish as some women might wear when marrying a marquis. With simple lines and only modest leg-o-mutton sleeves, it was only sparingly detailed with pearl and braid trim, and inset chiffon at the low-cut neckline. The subtle detail was in the shining contrast of the ivory satin that was inset in the large open pleats around the skirt and at the belt around her waist.

  A lot more time and effort had been put into choosing everything else she was wearing.

  “Just wait until you see what I’ve got on under it,” Fiona whispered with a wicked smile that sent the flame in his eyes leaping.

  Aylesbury grinned down at his soon-to-be wife. She was undeniably luminous, exuding all the life, love, and mischief he loved about her. No doubt she would keep him on his toes in the years to come. There was even less doubt that theirs would be the tranquil, contented marriage he had once hoped for, but he and Fiona both had agreed that anything as subdued as contentment was not for them.

  They would fight passionately but love just the same … with their whole hearts and their entire selves. For all the years that God blessed them with, they would live.

  “I can’t wait,” he whispered, a simple phrase that meant so many things.

  “I hear you have some surprises for me as well,” Fiona said. “Something about a honeymoon?”

  Aylesbury raised a brow. “Do you want me to tell you where we’re going?”

  “No,” Fiona said as they reached the clergyman and waited for the music to end. “I trust you.”

  And she did.

  Even from a distance, the organ music emanating from the little chapel had sounded worse than a highland banshee during mating season. Connor sprinted toward it anyway, trying to tie his cravat as he ran. He was late! He couldn’t believe it. Fiona was going to kill him.

  And he was going to kick his own arse as well since he had no desire to miss the ceremony. Who would have thought it would take so long to tie a few dozen shoes and cans to the back of Aylesbury’s carriage?

  The music stopped abruptly, the blessed silence buzzing in his ears as he bounded up the steps to the chapel, ready to fling open the doors and bolt inside before anyone noticed he was missing. His hand wrapped around the handle just as slim, black-gloved hand did the same. Connor looked up in surprise at the young woman he hadn’t noticed, standing there.

  Then wondered how he could have possibly missed her. Even draped in the deepest black of mourning, she possessed a sheer splendor that was undeniable. Beneath her dainty black hat, her hair was just as dark, shining like a mirror in the morning sun. Her startled eyes, as brilliantly blue as the skies above, met his.

  “H–” Connor cleared his throat gruffly. “Hullo.”

  “Hullo,” she whispered, almost as if she was having the same difficulty as he in finding his voice.

  The seconds ticked away as they stared at each other.

  “Are you going in?” he asked finally.

  “I …” Twisting the fringed black reticule she carried nervously between her hands, she looked wistfully at the door, but shook her head. “No. You go ahead.”

  Connor cracked the door, then let it fall shut once more. “Are you sure? I’m sure the ceremony has barely begun.”

  Still wringing the dear life out of the purse, the woman pressed her full, rosy lips into a tight line and shook her head again. “Are you a friend of the bride or groom?” she asked. She had a marvelous voice, rather low and husky but cultured.

  “The bride is my sister. Pardon me, I’m Connor MacKintosh.” Connor held out his hand to the curiously odd woman but while she shook it with surprising firmness, she didn’t offer her name.

  Shifting from foot to foot, Connor waited impatiently. As lovely as she was and as much as he would like the opportunity to talk … hell, do all sorts of things with her, he couldn’t miss his sister’s wedding. “I’ve got to go. Are you sure you don’t want to come in?”

  She shook her head yet again, her short veil swinging from side to side. Turning away, she walked down the steps toward a small pony cart sitting among all the more elegant carriages surrounding the chapel.

  Connor watched her go, fighting something within him that urged him to follow. Black-haired, tall, willowy mysteries wrapped in black gauze apparently had that effect on him. With a sigh, he turned back to the chapel.

  “Mr. MacKintosh!” she called for his attention and he turned, waiting for her to say something more. She worried that poor reticule between her hands again.

  “Does he … does he love her?” she asked, almost choking on the words as if they pained her to say them and Connor al
most swore he could see tears glinting in her eyes.

  “Aye, he does,” he answered, afraid that he might be breaking her heart in the process.

  She bit her lip and swiped at her eyes. “And she …”

  “Loves him very much.”

  The young woman nodded jerkily and turned, climbing into the small cart. Connor watched as she gathered up the reins and slapped the pony into motion.

  He watched her still as she drove away. There was something about her that compelled him to chase after her.

  “Connor!”

  He turned to see Dorian hanging out the chapel door. “Och, get in here, mon. Yer missing the whole buggered thing!”

  With a nod, Connor followed his brother into the chapel. Fiona was at the altar staring up at Aylesbury as if he’d hung the moon. He’d never imagined he would see her looking so happy ever again.

  He’d be damned if he’d be the one to ruin it by mentioning the woman he’d met. Clearly there was something between her and Aylesbury, but the past was past and Connor cared only for his sister’s future happiness.

  It wasn’t like he knew the woman’s name or where to find her, anyway.

  Author’s Note

  The history of women and golf together is a fascinating one as it has long been, and in some cases, still is considered a gentleman’s game. Back in the 1500s, Mary, Queen of Scots, was an avid golfer. Some said that she spent more time playing than she did ruling her country. It was during her reign that the Royal and Ancient Golf Course at St. Andrews was first built. She is also credited with coining the word ‘caddie’ for the cadets who carried her clubs.

  In 1867, the Ladies Club of St. Andrews was founded as the first official association (that I could find) for women’s play in the sport. Over the latter half of the 19th century, similar associations would be formed throughout Great Britain and the United States including Wimbledon in 1872. In 1893, the first system for a golf handicap was developed, not by a man, but by a woman. Miss Issette Pearson, who later married in her forties, created the handicap to even the playing field between players of different skill sets, between men and women. She was also a member of the Ladies Golf Union, also established in 1893.