by Arnette Lamb
Had she been pleased at her first sight of him? Had she thought him a comely babe and worth the travail? Silliness, he knew, and entirely unmanly, but he was certain he would treasure looking upon his own newly birthed child. If it were proper and his wife consented, he’d even enjoy watching the birthing itself. Welcoming a new life must truly be a miracle. After spending so many years in a country where women were sequestered and excluded even from meals, Michael found himself interested in the general aspects of a Christian female.
Mother’s white satin gown and heavily dusted wig contrasted sharply with the Elliot rubies at her throat, her wrists, and her fingers. Lines of age blemished her mouth, pulling her lips into a perpetual frown. Considerably shorter than Sarah MacKenzie, his mother was still a slender woman with pretty hands and well-tended skin.
Buttering a piece of muffin, she complained of everything from the slowness of the post to the small print in the doited Scots Magazine. “And those deplorable slums,” she cursed. “They’ve spoiled the lanes for any outings to view the boats in the harbor.”
Pinched-mouth, Sarah’s epithet, perfectly suited his mother’s disdainful manner. Yet she was an attractive woman, or at least elegant and fashionable. She was also woefully rude, for she wasn’t in the least interested in her younger son or the events of his life during the last 15 years.
Michael hadn’t expected to be bothered by that. He hadn’t anticipated being hurt by her indifference. Grown men shouldn’t opine for a mother’s attention. Or should they? If not, then why did he feel hollow inside when he expected to feel fulfilled?
“I had hoped to add a portrait gallery,” she went on, “but with that window tax, none of the brilliant architects will take a commission in Edinburgh. They cannot build a decent mansion here. The Exchequer would have us go back to hill forts with smoke holes and arrow slits for light. Not in London, of course. Can you imagine Chatham taking kindly to being told how many windows he can afford?”
Michael couldn’t resist saying, “I do not think Pitt lacks a window allowance.”
“Neither would the Elliots if our coal concerns still prospered.”
The family estate in Fife, where Michael had been raised, provided the Elliots their wealth. Having only his boyhood knowledge of the business, he chose a cordial reply. “I’m certain Henry does his best, Mama.”
“Of course he does.” She picked up her wineglass and put it to her lips. The glass was empty, but she pretended to swallow rather than bring attention to the fact that she’d already drunk all of the claret. She’d done that twice since the hashes had been served.
She rang the servant bell. When the butler appeared and refilled her glass, she ignored it. “The export tax robs us of our profits. Shipping coal to the Baltic has become a charitable enterprise.”
Watching her, Michael realized he didn’t know or couldn’t remember the color of her hair. A son should know that, among other generalities about his mother, such as the name of her closest acquaintance or her choice of books—additional information for his list of important family matters. When he married and had children, he would conduct his family in a more friendly fashion. They would know each other, travel together, share thoughts and opinions. Most of all, they would be loyal to each other.
She sighed and drank from the goblet. “Poor Henry. When I think of him languishing in that cell—” She squeezed her lips tighter and clutched a perfectly manicured hand to her throat. The Elliot rubies twinkled in the candlelight. Were there other jewels? A chest of family gems? Sadly, he recognized how little he knew of the Elliots’ legacy.
Searching his memory, he found a vague recollection of this room, with its wainscot walls, crystal chandelier, and carpeted floors, but he could not recall the occasion of his last visit here. Hadn’t the ceiling been much higher and the table a vast expanse of lace-covered oak? How old had he been? Probably six or seven; when he’d sat in one of the high-back chairs, his feet had dangled above the floor.
He had felt clumsy then. He felt confused now.
“Are you listening, Michael?”
At his arrival at Glenstone Manor earlier in the day, she had excused herself, but only briefly, from a visit with the vicar. Standing in the unlighted hall, Michael had glimpsed his mother for the first time in fifteen years. The urgency of her tone during their conversation had brought out his heroic intentions and sent him hurrying to Lawnmarket to slay the dragon, Sarah MacKenzie.
On reflection, his eagerness galled him.
He put down his fork. “What precisely was the misfortune that befell dear Henry? You didn’t say.”
Turning her head away, she breathed through her nose. “ ’Twas that scoundrel, the duke of Richmond. He preyed upon your brother’s decent nature and lured him into a gaming den.”
The condemnation was at odds with what Michael knew about Richmond, and he regretted not having questioned his mother at length before dashing off to confront Sarah MacKenzie. “His grace is reputed to frequent the better gaming clubs, but his honor has never been questioned.”
She grew very quiet, then asked, “How would you know? You’ve been in service in India.”
She made his chosen career sound vile. As a second son he’d had few options beyond the family crumbs. What would she say if she knew of the fortune he’d amassed? He’d reserve that information. “Tell me what occurred.”
“Richmond cheated at some game—dice most likely—and when Henry refused to pay him fifteen thousand pounds, the wretched duke had dear Henry clamped in irons and carted away. ’Tis appalling.”
“Fifteen thousand pounds is an appalling amount to wager at dice.”
The butler served the brandied pears, then dusted debris from the table.
When he had exited, she said, “Yes, Michael, I’m certain you would see it as a fortune.”
He wanted to laugh. Instead he thought of Sarah. She’d been fierce in her conviction that she would not squander her dowry on a gaming debt. He shared her dislike of wasteful practices and had the feeling they would agree on more than issues of moral principle.
She could even pick apart a law and derive its maxim. Maxim. How many women—or men for that matter—even knew the meaning of the word? Not many, he was forced to admit.
Taking his silence for confirmation of her opinion, his mother continued. “I’ve received a letter from Henry’s solicitor. The duke has threatened to take the matter before the House of Lords. He advises that we send Richmond a token payment.” Lifting her eyes, she settled a pleasant gaze on Michael. “You must cashier yourself out of the career we bought for you.”
Aghast, Michael blurted, “I repaid you long ago.” He’d also left the army the day he joined the Complement.
“Repaid us?” Her laughter trilled to the ceiling. “You mean those small sums you sent? Were they not gifts to me? I put the money in the poorbox, since I had no need of more carrying-around money at the time.”
Carrying-around money? For six years, he’d dutifully sent home half his pay. He’d been an angry youth, determined to make something of himself. When dangerous missions arose, he stepped forward to earn advancement. The more perilous the assignment, the greater his reward. Now he knew why she had not acknowledged receipt of the money; she had not valued his contribution.
“We even recommended you to lead the Complement.”
A lie. He’d earned his original appointment through bravery in a bloody quagmire on the plains of Madras. Command of the Complement was decided only by secret ballot of the members. First officership of the Complement could not be bought, which is why Michael had wanted it.
Tonight another leader would be chosen. Michael was ready to hand over the reins. His mother’s summons had provided a perfect opportunity to put the soldiering life behind him. He had not expected her to ask him for money. What he had envisioned from her was so far off the mark, he’d as soon forget his sentimental expectations.
A sarcasm gripped him. “No man could ask for a mo
re notable family than the Elliots.” Unless he was a Borgia or a Medici.
“We are fortunate in that,” she purred. “Which is why I disapproved of that MacKenzie girl from the start. She has a lot of brass, even for one who is bastard born. She was fortunate to attract Henry’s eye.”
“I doubt that, Mama. She’s lovely.”
She gave a casual shrug, but eyed him like a charmer watching a puffed-up cobra. “In a countrified way.”
Proclaiming Sarah’s elegant beauty to be provincial was like calling the maharajah’s palace in Bombay a rustic hunting lodge. The comparison was so absurd, no comment came to mind.
“I’m sure it’s an imposition, but could you perhaps find the wherewithal to rid her of that dowry? If your wits fail, then woo her. I’m certain Henry wouldn’t mind, unless you turn base and—and—ruin her for the marriage bed.”
Woo Sarah for deceitful ends? Did his mother truly expect him to stoop to dishonoring a lady? He’d been on his own too long. For much of his life Michael had forgotten he even had a brother. Three years separated them. They had not been tutored together. Henry had been sent to foster with the duke of Argyll; Michael had been kept at the country estate. The vicar’s son had been his tutor. He’d been away from both family and country for so many years, he couldn’t summon a single tie to bind him either to the woman who had borne him or to the brother who administered the Elliot estates.
How could Michael be expected to woo, for what amounted to profit, the woman his brother had chosen? It went against all propriety. It also offended him to his soul.
His mother eyed him appraisingly. “You do favor your father’s people, and all of them have a way with women.”
Michael hadn’t known his father. The earl’s twice-yearly visits to Fife had been brief and formal. He’d died three years after Michael shipped out to India. Word of the death had come to Michael by formal announcement. The notice, sent through the ordinary post, had reached him months after the funeral.
“Do attend me, Michael. We’ve no time to lose. You must woo her in Henry’s stead.”
Henry wooing Sarah, Sarah loathing the Elliots. How had she tangled herself up with them?
“How much will they give you upon resignation? More than we paid, I should hope.”
Beyond shock, Michael simply stared at her. She still thought he earned a wage. He grasped a random, paltry sum. “Two thousand pounds.”
Her mouth tightened in a perfect picture of Sarah’s description. “Give it to me, and I’ll take it to London. Perhaps his grace will be pacified by it. We cannot have our family affairs dragged into Parliament.”
Knowing he’d break the family crystal if he had to endure another moment of her overbearing company, Michael rose. “I’ll take it myself the day after tomorrow.”
“I have friends to see in London, and I must look after Henry.”
As much as he hated himself for it, Michael tried to reason with her. “Henry has manly needs, Mama. Toiletries and things unmentionable in mixed company.”
“Nonsense. I am his mother.”
That did it. He crumpled his napkin. “I do not appreciate being accused of speaking nonsense.”
She sat motionless, surprised. “Your father never allowed me an opinion.”
With good cause, Michael thought, and wondered if she’d been born a shrew.
“Go then, and do not skimp where Henry’s comfort is concerned.” Judging from the vigor with which she rang the servants’ bell, Michael knew her acquiescence was hard won. She spoiled it by saying, “You may take port in the study. There hasn’t been money for brandy or for the tobacconist. The housekeeper has prepared you a room, in the family wing, of course.”
He assumed this was a great compliment, considering her tone. But as her son, he expected more than civility from her. It wouldn’t come today or tomorrow, and in the meantime, he’d keep a distance.
“You’re very accommodating, Mother. But I’ve arranged rooms at the Dragoon Inn.”
“Nons—”
“My lady,” he interrupted, “I’ll be staying elsewhere.”
“You said ‘rooms.’ Have you brought a mistress with you or taken a wife?”
She actually believed he would marry without telling his family? The idea had certainly never occurred to him.
She’s a stranger, his bruised pride said.
She’s a damned disappointment, his heart replied.
Buck up, the mature soldier insisted. “No, I travel with a manservant.” Turnbull would chuckle at being relegated to that.
“Can you afford a valet?”
Michael wanted to roar in frustration. Instead, he told her what he thought she wanted to hear. “I’m thrifty to the core, Mother.”
Realizing she’d gone too far, she gave him a conciliatory smile. “You will keep me informed as to your progress with that MacKenzie woman?”
“By all means. Shall I give you a report now?”
“Only if the news is good.”
She’d take what she jolly well got. “I told her you sent apologies for calling her an ill-bred, uncivilized ne’er-do-well.”
“You wouldn’t dare take her side.”
No, he wouldn’t. He must try to establish loyalty among the Elliots. “She’s sorry she said that you were a pinched-mouth crow.”
“Oh, she’ll pay for that slander. I’ll see her pilloried beside Mercat’s Cross with other liars and thieves.”
“She also indicated she would fight any suit we brought against her.”
“She thinks she knows so much. No decent family will send their children to that Sunday school of hers, and I’ve just begun.”
A teacher—it fit Sarah perfectly. “I’m dining with her tomorrow night.”
“Remember what I said about ruining her for your brother.”
Ignoring his mother’s rudeness, Michael bid her good night and escaped to the darkened streets of Edinburgh. The wind chilled him to his bones, but he’d walk before he’d ask his mother for the use of the family carriage.
A sedanchairman called out, but Michael waved him off. He couldn’t abide the confinement of those wobbly, upright caskets. His teeth were chattering by the time he found what looked like a familiar landmark, a pair of lampposts with griffins on top.
Hoping the inn was around the next corner, Michael hunched his shoulders and kept going. The wind fluttered his kilt and sent icy bursts of air to his private parts. Tradition be damned; henceforth he would wear trews beneath his plaid.
“Fancy this, a gentleman who lacks the coin for a sedanchair.”
Cold forgotten, Michael stopped and searched for the sound of the voice. From the shadows emerged a stooped man, a blanket cloaking his shoulders and dragging the ground. In one hand he held a broom.
Was he truly a streetsweeper or a criminal bent on evil? Michael didn’t know. He summoned the voice he reserved for Calcutta’s most tenacious beggars. “What do you want?”
Waving an arm expansively in the dim light, the man declared, “A coronet on my head and a chest of gold would make me smile. That and a castle full of bonnie Highland lassies to call my own.”
The absurdity did not lessen Michael’s apprehension. He was alone on a dimly lighted street in a city he’d visited only a few times years ago. Darting a glance over his shoulder, he looked for accomplices.
The man laughed. “The thin purse of an Elliot ain’t worth the bother.”
“Neither is losing your teeth,” Michael warned, noticing that the man had a full set. “Be on your way.”
“I’ll go about my business when you leave Lady Sarah out of yours.”
The man’s intervention was so preposterous, Michael almost laughed. But he couldn’t; his jaws were on the verge of cracking with cold. Clamping his jaw tight, he said, “Listen well, whoever you are. I won’t be—”
“Cholly.” His head came up. “That’s my name.” Then he stepped back into the shadows, but not before Michael glimpsed his eyes.
&nbs
p; Their youthful gleam belied his wretched form, and the hand holding the broom looked strong. For a man of the streets, he had a sober expression and well-tended, straight teeth. Michael brushed off the contradictions. This was not the slum warrens of Calcutta, but Edinburgh, where a man was recognized and judged by the sett of his family plaid. It also felt like the most frigid city in the world.
He stomped his feet and anticipated roasting his backside before a roaring fire. Turning, he retraced his steps.
The broom handle thunked on the damp cobblestones. “Ain’t that way,” the sweeper called out. “You were headed in the right direction. The Dragoon Inn’s just past Pearson’s Close. Unless you’re afraid of an old man with a broom and a care for a well-bred lass on her own in Auld Reekie.”
Michael spun around. “How do you know so much about Sarah MacKenzie?”
The man lurked in the gloomy shadows. “From the lad Notch. His tongue’s as loose as an Elliot’s morals. We’ll all champion the lass. So have a care or keep the Complement at your back.”
Again, Michael looked behind him. The street was empty. A blessing, for he couldn’t think past his rattling bones and shriveling parts.
“Yes, well.” He moved around the streetsweeper and toward the next lamppost. “A pleasant good evening to you, too.”
“The tailor in Putnam Close has smallclothes for them that wears the kilts, to keep your noble ballocks toasty warm.”
Ignoring the taunt, Michael forged ahead. Relief came when he spied the sign above the arched doors of the Dragoon Inn.
* * *
The next evening, Sarah thumbed through her notes to refresh her memory. She must present a convincing appeal to Mayor Fordyce. Laying out the facts without placing blame was the sensible way to converse with a man. Insist that he already knows what he does not, and beg his patience to endure your meager attempt to reflect upon his causes. Make him think the idea was born of his own brilliance. Flatter his fairness and guide him to the brink of an idea. Smile sweetly and sigh with relief at his ability to help a mere woman reason out the difficulties of life.