03 - Dreams of Destiny

by May McGoldrick

  He had no difficulty spotting the grave, a small mound outside the wall near the pine tree. The ragged bundle of a woman lay over the black dirt, obscuring much of it. Part of the blanket she had wrapped around her had fallen away, and the gray cloth flapped in the wind, keeping a strange rhythm with the pine boughs above.

  There were no sound coming from her, no movement as Walter approached. Anxiety again gripped him, for she lay there over the freshly packed grave as unmoving as the dead. He stopped a few feet away from her.

  “The air smells of the rain.” He said for the sake of something to say. He took another step closer. Her cheek was pressed against the dirt. Her eyes were open, and he saw the tears that were streaming down and soaking into the dark soil. She was looking directly at him, but Walter didn’t think she saw anything.

  “You cannot stay here all day and night, lass,” he said softly, crouching down beside her. He took the end of the blanket and tucked it gently around her shoulder. “The cotter’s wife tells me she has a place ready for you anere. You can come back here again tomorrow morning.”

  She didn’t respond. Her blue eyes, brimming with tears, stared vacantly into space. Hesitantly, Walter reached out and touched her cheek. She immediately recoiled from his touch. The gesture brought as much relief to him as distress. At least she’d moved, he reasoned. She’d responded to something besides the grief that was gripping her.

  “I’ll not hurt you,” he said quietly. “The same goes for the old cotters down the hill. We only want to help you.”

  The blankness in her look returned. Walter looked around at the countryside again, at the wild rolling hills. The heather was in bloom, its subdued purple lending color to the pale green of the summer grass. The same scenery that would be breathtaking on any other day looked barren now. He couldn’t leave her here. At the same time he would not force her to desert her newly buried bairn. The woman needed to work through her grief. He knew about that.

  He sat down on the hard ground and leaned his back against the low wall. With his legs stretched before him, he picked up a fistful of the freshly turned dirt.

  “’Tis good to cry, lass. ‘Tis important to let your suffering out when ‘tis crushing your soul. In fact, I’m thinking that the way you are dealing with your loss is far better than I might be doing,” he said thoughtfully, letting the dirt sift through his fingers. “You do not know me, but in my lifetime I’ve lost more people than I care to count. Still, never have I been able to face my loss when it happens. I’ve always buried my pain, thinking that’s the manly way, only to have it come back and haunt me later. That’s the way of it for me—just let it sit inside me, festering…ugly and painful…like an ancient sore.”

  Walter took another fistful of dirt and let the cold dampness of it penetrate through his skin. “Then I end up doing foolish things. Things I regret later. But it feels like a chain that I’ve wound around me, growing heavier all the time.”

  The end of the blanket had loosened and was again flapping in the breeze. Walter reached over and tucked it around her shoulder. She had not moved. The tears still glistened on her mud-streaked face. He noticed her blue gaze was now focused on his face.

  “I am Walter Truscott,” he said quietly. “I should like to know your name.”

  She gave no answer, did not move, gave no indication that she even understood what he’d said.

  “I do not know who your kin are, or where they might be. But the people that we think left you at the cotter’s door two nights ago must be far away by now. Still, you should not worry about what is going to become of you. Those good people down the brae have offered you a place to stay for as long as it takes you to heal. And after that, if you are willing to work, I can find you a decent job if you want it.”

  Walter didn’t know why he’d said that. He didn’t even know if anything he’d said made any sense to her. He doubted she cared right now what would become of her. He doubted that she cared whether she lived to see another sunrise or sunset.

  “I know you’re listening to me. As I said, you are teaching me a good lesson about how to grieve. But I want you to pay attention to what I say now, for I could teach you a thing or two about the importance of holding on to life.”

  Despite her earlier reaction,e to sached out and pushed a few strands of the dirty blond curls off of her brow. His fingers fleetingly brushed against her cold skin. This time she did not recoil.

  “You might not think it now—as I could not imagine it when I was feeling wretched myself—but there are people out there who need us. People who count on us. People who are waiting to meet us someday…waiting for us to make a difference in their lives.” He raised a knee and rested his elbow on it. “I’m a believer that we each have a purpose in this life. We are born to do some good. But life is never easy. Our roads are never too clear. Most of the time, we just stumble though the darkness, we fall into the ditches. We feel deeply the cuts and blows of man and nature. We make wrong decisions. We sometimes find ourselves on the wrong road entirely. But we have to somehow work our way through, find our way back. We have to believe that the final reward is worth it. We have to work through the challenges and find our destiny.”

  The first droplets of rain fell on them. The wind was picking up, beginning to whistle through the pine boughs. The dark clouds now sealed off the sky. Walter leaned toward her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, waiting for her reaction. She again did not flinch.

  “Did I mention the blows of nature?” he asked. “Those storm clouds promise to soak us to our bones. Now, I am not about to leave you up here alone. If you stay, I am staying. You may already have a fever, lass, but I want you to understand something. If I end up spending the night out here with you, I am sure to catch the same thing, which will cause a number of good folk a great deal of trouble. So why don’t you come down with me. You can come back up again tomorrow. And the day after, as well. As many days as you wish.”

  She said nothing, but her gaze remained on his face.

  “I do not want to put too much pressure on you, but think for a moment how troubling ‘twould be for those two old folk down there…and for me…to have you lying out here in the cold and rain. I already told you I am staying. But knowing Rita, she’s sure to be fussing over you and me and bringing us food. Now, old Angus is not about to stay down there alone, and he’ll be climbing up the brae, too. In the end, they’ll both be wet and probably catch their death. If you persist in staying here, lass, you’ll be putting those two old cotters’ lives in danger.”

  Either she’d heard what he was saying or she was sick of listening to him talk. No matter what it was that spurred her, Walter’s heart rose when she very slowly pushed herself into a sitting position. The rain and wind began to whip at them. He immediately moved next to her, not wanting to scare her but ready to help her if she let him.

  She sat there for awhile, staring at the small mound where her bairn lay. Walter stayed there beside her, allowing her to gather her thoughts and her strength. Some time passed before she raised her face to him, and Walter realized that this was the first time she was really looking at him—perhaps even seeing him.

  She looked even younger now than he had thought—and much more vulnerable. She was clearly ill, and he wondered for the first time if she would survive the difficult birth.

  “Let me help you,” he asked her gently, extending a hand.

  She looked at it, but then, on her own, she started pushing herself to her knees. He stood up. The wind swept the blanket off her shoulder. He reached down to grab it as she sank back down onto the dirt.

  Kneeling beside her again, Walter was relieved to find her conscious, but she was obviously exhausted. The rain was falling hard now. Tucking the blanket over her, he scooped her into his arms.

  Her eyes were open, and she watched everything he did. If she intended to complain, she was too weak to voice it. Carrying her in his arms, he started down the hill. She was a small thing, a rain-soaked bu
ndle of rags. Still though, she had the most unusual effect on him. He felt with each passing moment some invisible threads drawing them closer together. Perplexing as it was, he welcomed the sensation.

  “You would not think it, after all I’ve been saying, but I am thought of as a quiet sort of man. A man of very few words, they tell me. But of course, I have never had such a pleasant audience. By that I mean, someone who is so agreeable to everything I say.”

  She closed her eyes. She was not ready for humor. Walter could understand that. She needed to get well. He lifted her higher in his arms, gathering her closer against his chest, and almost smiled as she laid her head against his shoulder.

  ****

  There was a growing crispness in the air with each successive morning. Summer was sliding inevitably into autumn. Having been caught in heavy fall rains the preceding year as they traveled south, the Douglas family had decided to leave Greenbrae Hall early this year. The servants were ready to close most of the manor house. When they were gone, only a caretaker and a few servants would remain behind.

  Carriages and carts were stuffed with trunks and servants and Lady Cavers was just being handed into her new chaise, when someone noticed that Emma was missing. A groom was sent out to Baronsford, but she was not there, to everyone’s surprise.

  Neither David nor Pierce had seen her for at least two days. Lyon had been absent since the spring with his regiment. When Walter heard she was missing, he slipped away. He knew where she was.

  He found her there at the tower house. All of the reprimands and hard words he’d planned to berate her with withered away when he saw her. Emma’s eyes were swollen practically shut. Streaks of dirt covered her face. Her hair and dress were a mess. She was sitting alone, hugging her knees in a corner of the cold fireplace in the Great Hall, looking as if she’d done without food or water for some time. Upon seeing him, she simply turned her face to the stone and continued to cry.

  “What happened to you? What is wrong?” He did the only thing he was capable of doing. He went to her and sat beside her, and she immediately moved into his arms.

  “I hate them. I hate all of them. ‘Tis unbearable to live with them. No one understands me. No one cares for me. No one wants me. I am a burden to them all.”

  “A burden to whom?” he asked, already guessing this had to do with the sometimes open animosity that existed between Lord and Lady Cavers. Emma had spoken of it often over the past few years. It was because of them that she preferred to be at Baronsford. She had told him many times how she envied the harmony that existed in Pennington family.

  “My parents,” she explained. KMy father was going to Edinburgh, and my mother to London. And I overheard them. I’ve known for a long while, but I never heard his lordship say it openly before.”

  “Say what, Emma?”

  She hesitated, and then looked up at Walter. “He cares not where I go, for he does not believe I am his.”

  “In the heat of an argument, many things are said that are not truly meant,” he replied gently. “He does not mean it.”

  “He does,” she said tearfully. “They did not know I could overhear them. I heard his lordship accuse my mother. She denied nothing, even when he said I was just the wild product of one of Augusta’s affairs. He accused her of the vilest things, and she laughed in his face.”

  He could think of no proper answer.

  “Walter, he will disinherit me,” she wept, pressing her head against his shoulder. “Then what is to become of me?”

  CHAPTER 7

  With any luck, they would reach Stoke-On-Trent soon. She’d asked David about it and had received the answer when a particularly bad stretch of road had forced her to put aside her writing. That had been the extent that Gwyneth trusted herself to converse with him.

  She could admit—at least to herself—that he was making her nervous. The nearness placed upon them by the close confines of the carriage was getting to her. The memory of last night’s kiss, so vividly alive in her imagination, was not helping either. Whatever the reason, she was struggling against her inner chaos, and she was having great difficulty pretending to be indifferent to his presence.

  Casual conversation was out of the question. When David was awake, she pretended sleep. When he dozed, she forced herself to stare out at the passing countryside, fighting all the while her desire to watch him. When they both were awake and she could no longer pretend sleep, she kept her notebook open, writing intently. Of course, she did not think for a moment that anything she was writing would make any sense. Still, it made her look busy and discouraged communication. She knew it was her fault that even the stop they made for a noon meal had been marked by a strained silence. She couldn’t help it.

  David was not making things any easier for her, either. Today, he had not once ordered her about. And during the long stretches of silence, while she was trying to immerse herself in the tale she was writing, she found him watching her…as he was doing now. This made embers grow hot in Gwyneth’s stomach while her body tingled in unmentionable places.

  “Do you think they might possibly have a tub at the inn in Stoke-on-Trent?”

  The image was too provoking. Gwyneth decided to not even acknowledge the question.

  “Maybe they’ll have one made of bloody china.”

  She stole a quick glance at him but didn’t respond. She seriously doubted that Mr. Wedgwood’s pottery works made tubs for bathing.

  “If they haven’t one, I may just go for a swim at the Trent to wash off this dust. Perhaps you’d care to accompany me.”

  His long legs were stretched out on an angle across the space between the seats. He’d discarded his jacket sometime early in the warm afternoon and rolled up his sleeves, displaying muscular arms marked with evidence of his former profession. He had not shaved for the two days they’d been traveling.

  She wondered if he planned to take room for himself tonight. He must, Gwyneth quickly answered herself. She could feel the heat rise in her face, though. To hide it, she turned her gaze out the window at the passing scenery. She assumed they were very close to Stoke-On-Trent.

  “How do you think your beau would feel about you and me sharing a single room?”

  Involuntarily, Gwyneth shot a look at him. He had a roguish expression on his face, if ever she had seen one. She looked down at the notebook on her lap.

  “How he feels about you, I should not care to say. But as to his feelings about me, once I explain the circumstances of last night, I am certain he will understand the situation I was forced to endure…and my inability to change any of it.”

  “But what about tonight, and tomorrow night? How are you planning to explain sharing a bedchamber with me for the entire trip?”

  Her brain was insisting on arguing the impropriety of his suggestion, but her body was rebelling against it. Reason versus passion. Lord, she thought she’d become a philosophical argument on two legs. Luckily, she was still able to fight down her body’s impulses…so far.

  “And furthermore, last night I found the floor too bloody hard to sleep on.”

  “David, you must make separate arrangements. It is totally unseemly for us…for you and me…we cannot travel in such a manner.”

  “You had no thought for decorum when you were planning the elopement.”

  “That was then. This is now.”

  He shook his head. “After what you tried to pull last night—trying to escape through your window—you have left me no choice but to keep a constant eye on you.”

  “You are not my keeper, David.”

  With a smug look, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Say what you will, I cannot leave you to yourself and allow you to wreck your future, Gwyneth. You are the one who has forced this need for vigilance on my part.”

  For the sake of maintaining her sanity, she wanted to argue his point. Arrogant. Stubborn. High-handed. Belligerent. All of these words were rattling about in her head. At the same time, though, she knew there was no purpose
in it. David had the look of a man resolved to do what he saw as his duty. Where this sense of duty sprang from, however, she had no idea.

  “And you still haven’t told me how you are planning to explain this to your beau.”

  “No explanation wille required. I have been given no choice in any of this, have I?” She closed her notebook and held it tightly against her chest. “Considering the unfortunate circumstances I find myself in, he will certainly understand.”

  “He is a very understanding fellow, of course. Cowards always are.”

  She told herself she wasn’t going to be baited.

  “And obviously naïve, too, to think nothing could happen between us after so many days together.”

  “Nothing has,” she said with alarm. “And nothing will.”

  David’s blue eyes focused on her mouth and Gwyneth felt herself growing flustered all over again. If she could only quell these remnants of her childhood infatuation and see him as the bully he was trying to be now.

  “Deny it all you will. We may yet prove that wrong.”

  “A gentleman would know from my refusal that I despise your attentions.”

  He moved one knee just enough to brush it against hers. “If the way you kissed me back last night…and the night before…are any indication of your aversion, then you have done an excellent job of fooling me.”

  She could create pages of stories each day, but she could not think of a proper lie now when her sanity most depended on it. There did not seem to be a flippant return in her repertoire of jaunty retorts. Her body, her face, her heart, and now her tongue were all traitors. Gwyneth pulled from him, pressing her knees against the door of the carriage. She opened her notebook and focused on the words she’d written today.

  Considering all she was going through, it was fairly good. Excellent material to lose herself in, too, she thought. All blood and gore. Not a sensitive word or a passionate passage.