03 - Dreams of Destiny

by May McGoldrick

  “I know what I am doing. And there will be no scandal,” Gwyneth said in defense of her actions. “We shall be married and that will put an end of any talk…if there is any. And for your information, I am not some flighty dreamer. I happen to know the details of the conditions of my inheritance better than anyone. My uncle’s lawyers cannot deprive me of what is coming to me if I am married.”

  “So this is why you are doing it,” David snapped angrily. “You are marrying to get your hands on your inheritance?”

  “No!” she answered, hearing the frustration in her own voice. “We were arguing about my writing, not about the man I am to marry. I am not desperate for my inheritance. In fact, I care little about it.”

  “More proof that you are lost in dream world and do not see what is happening in your life.”

  “Why? What now?” Gwyneth leaned forward, meeting David’s fierce glare. “Pray tell me, since you know everything, what have I said wrong now?”

  “You should care about what is coming to you. Your uncle thought you were intelligent enough to leave a fortune to. ‘Tis your responsibility to know how to take care of it rather than simply allowing some weasel of a husband to steal it away.”

  “I do not inherit until I wed, which tells you even my adoring uncle believed that I, as a young woman, am incapable of caring for my own affairs. So my husband can do as he pleases,” she said out of spite. “He is not stealing it. In fact, if he wants to gamble and lose my inheritance, he is welcome to do so. I am not concerned about it, I cannot see why you should be.”

  “You are just being a brat and you know it. You have known no hardship in your life, never gone hungry a day, but you have no means of supporting yourself other than this inheritance. Do you have any written contract to protect you? No. Has your dog of a future husband agreed to any settlement that will provide for you? No. One day soon, you care what the scoundrel will do with your money, but by then ‘twill be too late.”

  “I think not,” she said, forcing herself to be calm. “In the event of such dire circumstances as you imagine, I shall have no difficulty supporting myself.”

  He gave her an incredulous look. “By what means?”

  “By publishing my tales.”

  His bark of laughter lacked any hint of mirth. “And that would be a scandal of some note.”

  She should not have been hurt. She had known this would be his reaction. Still though, it took great deal of effort to hide her feelings. Gwyneth shrugged and forced herself to smile, lifting her chin bravely.

  “I do not care what the world thinks. If you are correct, and my inheritance is stolen and lost, my life shall not be ruined. I shall have a husband who will not mind at all if I can bring more money into our marriage. And I shall provide another source of income. In doing so, I shall be free to spend all of my time in the wonderful worlds that my imagination creates. I shall live my life doing what I love…writing.”

  “You call that wonderful?”

  “I call it heaven.”

  “I call it hell,” David grumbled as the carriage rolled to a stop before the inn at Stoke-On-Trent.

  ****

  He didn’t see her for nine long months, but when she returned, Truscott saw much had returned of the young Emma whom he had befriended long ago.

  He could tell she cherished his trust and friendship. She stole away many afternoons during the summer to be with him at the tower house. He was relieved that Emma stopped trying to tempt him. No kissing or testing his body’s ability to withstand her charms. She understood his concern, his fear of intimacy with her, and she did not press him.

  True to her old ways, though, Emma’s behavior when they were with others remained the same. Beyond of the old tower’s walls, Walter did not exist as far as she was concerned. She chased after David for every minute that he was back at Baronsford. And later that summer, another distraction appeared, stealing time that she could have spent with Walter. A parentless cousin of hers—a lass of only nine years old—was brought to Greenbrae Hall to live with them.

  Walter felt for the young child. He saw in her the same caution and confusion that he had faced himself not so many years back. He understood her loneliness and her tendency to follow Emma everywhere, despite the older cousin’s protests. Gwyneth Douglas was doing the same thing to Emma that Walter had done to David, Pierce, and Lyon.

  Then, one gray afternoon when Emma had been able to get away by herself and come to him, her bitterness came through.

  “I know why Gwyneth was brought here,” she told him, glaring off in the direction of Greenbrae Hall. “She is to be the instrument of his lordship’s punishment of me and my mother. She has been taken in to inherit what was to be mine. I am on my own, Walter. From this point on, I shall need to find my own means of survival.”

  CHAPTER 8

  An assortment of stones arranged neatly on the dirt outlined the infant’s grave. At the head of the spot, a rude cross made from a couple of broken branches cast a shadow over the dark earth. Around the stony border of grave, writing in the dirt was visible, and Walter Truscott got down from his horse to take a closer look.

  He had seen the young woman scratching words into the dirt twice when he’d come up here to visit with her over the past two days. Each time, she’d stopped immediately and said nothing as she brushed the markings away. It was clear to Walter that she didn’t wish for him to press her about what she was doing, so he hadn’t pursued it. Finding the gravesite unattended now, though, he took the opportunity to kneel down and peer at the words.

  She was a curious women, but certainly a resilient one. Her fever was gone. Physically, she appeared to have recovered from the difficult childbirth. Her melancholy and her reticence continued, however. They still had no name for her. She would say nothing to Walter and had said almost nothing to Rita, the cotter’s wife. She had been quick to offer her help with the chores about the cottage, though, but had done so with only a word here or there. The cotter’s wife told Walter that the young woman didn’t use the tongue of the Highlanders. Oddly, her accent—at least what Rita could make of it—sounded like that of an English woman.

  The mystery of who she was and where she’d come from only intrigued Walter more. Though she never said a word, he knew that she welcomed his visits. Even so, while riding his horse here each day, he feared that he would arrive to find her gone. Every time the thought occurred to him, he told himself that he shouldn’t care if that were to happen. Strangely, though, it did.

  He stared at the writing. They appeared to be names, written in a circle—a chain of words and names around the grave. They were written in English, but some of the letters were too small or indistinct for him to read. Several of the names were repeated.

  Holmes. Vi. Violet. Mary. Truscott focused on those he could read. Page. Kneb… Kneb… He carefully lifted a twig from the word. Amina. Ohe…Ohe… His brow furrowed. Moses. Ami… One of the names caught his attention. Millicent. He moved around the small grave and discovered the name was repeated three times. Walter looked back at the letters Kneb and tried to imagine if the rest spelled Knebworth.

  He didn’t know whether to hope it did or didn’t. Walter knew Knebworth was a village near Melbury Hall. Millicent’s estate just north of St. Albans. She and Lyon still spent large stretches of time there. In fact, the earl’s manservant Gibbs had stayed there permanently as the new steward. Could it be that this young woman had come all the way from the south of England? Ohenewaa, the black former slave who had become a close companion to the dowager countess, was staying at Baronsford now. The two women had traveled north from Melbury Hall for the wedding between Pierce and Portia and were planning to stay at least until Millicent had her baby. Truscott moved around the grave, tried to see if he would see any other mention of Ohenewaa. The first letters were the only thing left. But what else could they be?

  He pushed up to his feet and looked off in the direction of the cottage. What was she doing here, if she had come from M
elbury Hall? One thing he knew, she was not here to do any harm.

  Taking his horse’s bridle, he started over the hill toward the cottage. Rita’s husband, Angus was working on a ditch at the bottom, and he straightened up stiffly as Truscott approached.

  The older couple had been very hospitable in taking the stranger in, and Walter could see that both of them had taken a liking to the wan traveler. After exchanging greetings, the old cotter leaned on his wooden shovel.

  “Ye can stop sending me those lads to lend a hand with the work here. I’m so set with everything that I’m fixing things that need nae fixing.” He gestured to the ditch. “And my Rita says nae more baskets of food, neither. The lass is hardly a burden to us. And she eats less than a bird, and we’re more than happy to share what’s we have with her.”

  Truscott tied his horse to a branch of a gnarled apple tree that huddled with several others by the ditch. “I stopped first by the grave of the bairn. Has she said anything about all that writing she’s been doing in the dirt around the thing?”

  Angus shook his head and looked up the hill that Truscott had just descended. “She says naething to me, sir, and I just let her be. I do see her up there, though. I’ve seen it. The missus thinks ‘tis some charm to keep the wee thing safe.”

  Places and people that are somehow connected to the woman and child, Truscott thought. Surrounding the lone dead child with a sense of family.

  “Where is she now?”

  “Inside.” The cotter motioned with his head. “Not an hour ago, Rita was out here, bragging to me about how good an eye the lass has with a needle. Manor house skills, she’s thinking. She’d given the lass some simple mending to do, and then ran out to show me the fancy stitches she’d done…as if I’d know one from another.”

  Walter chatted a few more minutes with the cotter about the weather and the man’s ailing knee and such. He stopped hearing whatever Angus was telling him, though, the moment the young woman stepped out of the cottage. She was wearing no cloak and the tangle of curls gathered on top of her head caught the golden rays from the sky.

  The first thing running through Truscott’s mind in that moment was that even in her disheveled condition, she was prettier than sunshine. As she always did, whenever she saw him, she immediately stopped and her blue eyes looked his way.

  This was it. No smiles. No words. No other gesture of greeting. But Walter was still satisfied since she now appeared to notice him at least.

  And this was enough. For now, at least.

  ****

  The two women and their entourage arrived at the Lady Cavers’s townhouse in London to find out that there was no news of Gwyneth awaiting them. The servants who’d seen her last simply assumed that their mistress was on her way to Scotland with Captain Pennington. To ease Augusta’s upset, Lady Lennox assured her friend that none of this was conclusive of anything. Any one of a hundred reasons could be thought of why Gwyneth had arrived with the youngest Pennington brother. In fact, she argued, it was more than likely that they had separated shortly after leaving the house. Despite Lady Cavers immediate reaction, however, Lady Lennox refused to allow her friend to depart for Scotland right away without an escort. Meanwhile, listening to Augusta’s steady stream of complaints, she prayed for guidance.

  Relief arrived that afternoon when a longtime friend of Lady Cavers, apparently having heard of her unexpected arrival back in London, showed up at the door.

  Lady Lennox had never had the good fortune of meeting the gentleman whom she’d heard so much about, but she remembered her friend describing Sir Allan Ardmore as a kind and refined gentleman who was unfortunate enough to inherit a title but little else from his dissolute father.

  The man’s youthful features, along with his average size and gentle manners, made him appear to be younger than Lady Lennox had imagined. But after only a few moments of being introduced, the older woman could understand completely why Augusta held the baronet in such high esteem. Sir Allan Ardmore was not only observant of Augusta’s distress, but quite attentive of Lady Lennox, as well. And he was obviously an old and dear friend.

  “I am truly sorry that you were forced to undergo such worry,” the baronet exclaimed as soon as he’d heard about the root of Augusta’s concerns and why she was back in London. “And I cannot help but feel that my lack of judgment has caused much of this trouble.”

  “I appreciate your sympathy, my dear. But you can take no blame in any of this,” Lady Cavers said.

  Augusta had taken up a position at the window of the second floor library. Lady Lennox imagined her friend still half-expected Gwyneth to arrive at the townhouse at any moment.

  “If there is anyone who should be at fault over this, ’tis I,” Augusta lamented. “Too much independence. I have been too trusting. I assumed in error that my ward was more mature than to engage in such irresponsible actions.”

  Sir Allan stood awkwardly by the unlit hearth, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. “I am afraid, milady, that I possess some information that you do not. I saw Miss Gwyneth at Hampstead Village the very afternoon that she must have stopped here.”

  Augusta turned abruptly. “Did you? Was she alone? Did she tell you what this change of plans was all about?”

  The baronet’s thin fingers brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve. Lady Lennox noticed the redness that had crept up the young man’s neck, disappearing at the edge of his fashionable powdered wig.

  “Well, milady…she was in the company of a gentleman and obviously did not wish to address me, so I did not approach her.”

  “Another man?” Augusta replied shrilly, taking a step toward him. “Who was this man? Pray, do not tell me they were traveling together?”

  “Indeed, milady. I fear your suspicions are correct,” Sir Allan said. “I was close enough to overhear some of their conversation. And my understanding was that the man traveling with your niece is the younges brother of the Earl of Aytoun. And from the looks of things, they are indeed sharing a carriage and traveling north together.”

  Augusta sank down on the nearest sofa, looking forlorn. She patted away the beads of perspiration on her upper lip and forehead. “Were any of my servants with her?”

  “None,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Just the two of them…unescorted.”

  “The horror of it! The scandal! Gwyneth shall never be able to make a proper match after this. I dread to think of the repercussions.”

  “The Douglases have been neighbors to the Penningtons for years.” Lady Lennox joined her friend on the sofa. “Your own daughter was a member of that family. No one would think of this arrangement as odd unless you spread such ideas yourself. With all the thieves and highwaymen on the roads these days, her mere safety could have convinced your niece to seek this travel arrangements. Truly, Augusta, this is not as bad as you are making it out to be.”

  “The girl could have taken half a dozen grooms and servants with her for protection. This is not the first time she is traveling that route.” She shook her head unhappily. “I must go to Scotland at once. My mind will not rest unless I know she has arrived safely either in Edinburgh or at Greenbrae Hall.”

  “You cannot travel alone. We need to arrange for an escort,” Lady Lennox said emphatically.

  “If you would allow me to go with you, Lady Cavers,” the baronet offered, stepping forward, “I would be greatly honored.”

  “I certainly cannot impose on you, Sir Allan.”

  “If you please, I would like the opportunity to redeem the wrong I have done. I was so stunned to see Miss Douglas there with this brute of a man that I failed in my duty as a friend to approach and demand at least an introduction of him. I did not even try to speak to Miss Gwyneth to ask after her health. You must allow me to accompany you on this trip.”

  Augusta looked at Lady Lennox for her advice.

  “I believe ‘tis a fine idea.” The older woman turned to the baronet. “When can you be ready to travel, sir?”

  �
��I shall be ready at first light tomorrow morning.”

  Lady Lennox patted Augusta’s hand, silencing any complaints. Both women remained in the library after the baronet bowed and left to prepare for the journey north. She was relieved to see her friend’s color much improved. Her mood was definitely brightening.

  “All your past praises of him were so justified. He is a delightful young man.”

  “Indeed, but what a fool I was not to grant Gwyneth the permission she sought before this entire muddle occurred.” Augusta sat down and leaned back tiredly against a pair of silk pillows.

  “What did she want?” Lennox asked.

  “Our young baronet here has expressed a certain tenderness for my niece, and she is partial toward him, as well.”

  “Has he asked for her hand in marriage?”

  “Heaven forbid! He wouldn’t, for he is too proud and thinks he has nothing to offer in a match such as theirs. I believe he would not ask for fear of jeopardizing his friendship with me if I were to reject his proposal.” Augusta shook her head. “But Gwyneth came to me this past week, hinting at her desire for my approval…should Sir Allan express his interest.”

  “And I take it your response was negative.”

  “Of course! With no mincing of words I told her there would be no marriage between her and Sir Allan, though I hold the man in high personal regard. I reminded her of the baronet’s financial difficulties and how, to any onlooker, ‘twould only appear that he was marrying her for her inheritance. Also, I brought up their difference in age, not to mention that as a recluse she would only be looking at disaster in marrying someone with his active social proclivities.” Augusta let out a heavy breath. “Chastise me if you will, my friend, but at the time I thought them very ill-suited for each other.”