by Karen Ranney
Duddingston Castle was like its owner, revealing itself a little at a time. She couldn’t help but wonder if it would prove as fascinating as Lennox.
The carriage was directly outside the door, Connor acting as driver.
Ruthie made a little wave with her good hand and Connor smiled back at her. There was most definitely a romance blossoming there.
“Is this the door you came in, Miss Mercy?” Ruthie asked.
Mercy had already heard this superstition. “No,” she said, “but we’re in Scotland so maybe it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters, Miss Mercy. If a person comes in one door, they should go out the same door if they don’t want to take the luck with them.”
Lennox looked amused when Ruthie narrowed her eyes and stared at her.
“We can’t go out the door we came in, Ruthie,” she said patiently. “It leads to the loch.”
Ruthie didn’t appear convinced, but she finally nodded.
Mercy turned to Lennox. “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been very kind. I hope that I haven’t taken your luck with me.”
“After today I think you’ve probably brought me luck.”
He smiled at her and she got that feeling again, that strange, disconcerting sensation that her stomach was falling. It was suddenly difficult to breathe and her pulse was racing.
There was no reason she should be thinking how handsome he was or how charming he could be. Instead, she should be praying that he forgot the accident as quickly as possible, especially her near-naked appearance in the water as well as the sight of her petticoats.
She was strangely thankful that they weren’t alone. If they had been, she had the feeling that she might do something entirely improper and shocking, like standing on tiptoe and kissing him. The image of doing that very thing was so startling that she took a step back, then turned and entered the carriage as fast as she could.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The carriage ride back to Macrory House felt even shorter than before, but perhaps that was because Mercy was becoming familiar with the route.
She turned to Ruthie. “We’ll be leaving as soon as you feel up to the journey. That’s only going to be a matter of a week or two at the most.”
Ruthie turned her head, surveying the scenery as if she’d never seen pine trees.
“I know,” she said in a voice that sounded as if it had lost all its life.
They didn’t talk for the remainder of the journey, the silence uncomfortable and unusual.
The view of Macrory House was as awe-inspiring as it had been the first time. Since she had explored the majority of the rooms in the past week, she knew, firsthand, how large the house was. It probably equaled Duddingston Castle in space. Not in history, however, or appeal.
No, she shouldn’t be thinking about the castle at all. Or its owner.
She would banish him from her thoughts completely. She wouldn’t worry about the next time he went up in the air, and she knew there would be a next time because men like Lennox didn’t see obstacles. They went around them or over them. He wouldn’t be deterred by his failure. It would only add to his determination.
Nor was she going to think about how terrified she’d been or how relieved when she’d known he was safe. And she most certainly was not going to think about the way he looked at her, as if his gaze were somehow tied to her heart.
“She’s a beauty,” Irene said. “Not only that, but she has a good heart. Plus, she’s brave as well. I think there’s more Scottish in her than just the Macrory blood.”
Lennox hesitated in the doorway. He had work to do. He was going to go back to his drawings and try to figure out what had gone wrong this morning.
Irene arranged the vegetables she’d purchased on the cutting board. He liked watching her. The angle of the knife there, the way she lined up the carrots and onions. Every movement of her hands seemed like it was planned and carried out with militaristic precision.
The vegetables didn’t stand a chance.
“We need to work on the kitchen garden,” he said.
She glanced at him. “That’s the first time you said anything about that. And why would that be now?”
“It seems to me we should be able to grow our own vegetables.”
“And who would be doing the weeding? And the cultivating? And the planting? Are you planning on hiring someone else?”
“There is that,” he said.
“Tommy grows the best vegetables and he charges a fair price for them. I’ve not the energy nor the time to be hoeing and digging. Never mind getting on my knees to weed. And I doubt that you’re willing to give up your puttering to become a gardener.”
“Puttering?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Whatever you call what you do in the Laird’s Room. It puts coins in our pockets, Your Lordship. Gardening wouldn’t.”
“I hate it when you call me that,” he said.
“That you do,” she said, smiling. “But it was very clever of you to get me started on gardening so I wouldn’t talk about the American girl.”
It was his turn to smile. Irene had always been an intelligent woman. He didn’t want to talk about Mercy with anyone, even Irene.
However, it seemed as if Irene wasn’t finished.
“You need to call a truce,” she said. “Make up with Douglas.”
“I wasn’t the one who started it all, Irene.”
“I swear, the two of you are bairns. It doesn’t matter who started it. It’s who finishes that counts. Be the bigger man.”
“I’m fine without Douglas Macrory in my life. I’ve managed the past five years. I can manage the rest of it.”
“The old man might not have five years.”
“Then the problem will resolve itself, won’t it?”
“If you think that sister of his is more reasonable, I’m here to tell you that you’re wrong. I’ve never seen ice in a human shape before, but there it is.”
“Irene. Let it go.”
She sliced the end off a carrot with more force than was necessary, then looked up at him with a frown.
“Mercy isn’t your enemy,” she said. “If you gave her half a chance she might be a great deal more.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he turned and left the room. He needed to involve himself in his work. That way, he could banish all thoughts of Mercy.
When the carriage stopped in front of the house, a servant opened the door and stepped aside. Mercy was about to exit the vehicle when McNaughton stepped up.
He extended his arm and she had no choice but to take it, descending the two steps to the gravel.
“Miss Rutherford.”
“McNaughton.”
“I take it that you’ve had another misadventure,” he said, his stare encompassing her damp hair. At least he couldn’t see the state of her corset or shift.
The servant who’d opened the door helped Ruthie from the carriage.
All four of them mounted the steps, entering the reception room just as they had a week earlier.
“I believe the family wishes to speak with you, Miss Rutherford.”
“Why?”
“The carriage was spotted on the approach to the house, miss. There are questions as to where you’ve been and why you’ve returned in the Caitheart vehicle again.”
She sighed inwardly, wishing there was an end to this idiotic feud. The two families were fighting because of people who were long dead. Wouldn’t their deaths have been cause enough for them to band together?
“They’re waiting for you in the family parlor, Miss Rutherford.”
She couldn’t help but wonder how much pleasure McNaughton received from the idea that she was about to be lectured.
Mercy turned and addressed Ruthie. “Thank you, Ruthie,” she said. “Will you go and rest now?”
“You don’t want me to go with you, Miss Mercy?”
Mercy shook her head. “No. There’s no need for you to be there. I really want
you to go rest.”
Ruthie nodded.
Mercy turned and looked at McNaughton. “I’m not certain where the family parlor is. Can you give me directions?”
He looked down his narrow nose at her, gave her a grim smile—the kind undertakers must surely wear—and said, “If you’ll follow me, Miss Rutherford, I will take you there.”
She had no choice but to trail along in McNaughton’s wake. A few minutes later she was grateful that she’d done so, because she was certain she would never have found the room without help.
The butler stood aside, opened one of the double doors, and bowed slightly. The glint in his eyes, however, was anything but obsequious. He was thoroughly enjoying her discomfort.
“The family parlor, Miss Rutherford,” he intoned.
She was surprised that he didn’t announce her in that same officious voice. Mercy took a few steps inside the room and was assaulted by the color blue. The sofa and two flanking chairs were upholstered in blue silk. The curtains on the four north-facing windows were made of the same fabric. The room would be naturally dark, given that several trees had been allowed to grow close to the house, but the color scheme made it seem even gloomier.
The whole family was there: her grandmother, Great-Uncle Douglas, Flora, and Aunt Elizabeth. Only Elizabeth smiled at her, an expression that seemed filled with pity. Flora was wide-eyed and no doubt grateful that she wasn’t the person being watched so carefully. As far as Ailsa and Douglas, she doubted if even Mount Olympus had had such strict and cold judges.
There wasn’t anywhere for her to sit, unless she chose the opposite side of the room where four chairs and a gaming table had been set up in front of the fireplace. She chose to stand in front of the sofa where Douglas and her grandmother sat, grateful that a wide rectangular table was between her and her older relatives.
When she was a child, her grandmother had slapped her on occasion, claiming that Mercy had misbehaved. The infractions had been so small that she’d never remembered them, only the punishment. Mercy didn’t have any doubt that Ailsa would resort to such behavior now if she was annoyed enough. The past four years might have aged Seanmhair, but she was neither frail nor feeble.
Mercy’s shift was nearly dry, but it was itching. She wanted to go change her clothes, bathe, and consider the events of the morning. Instead, she stood before her relatives in an impromptu tribunal.
They must truly be angry to venture out of their rooms before dinner.
The irritation Mercy felt was a slow-burning thing, a tiny fire lit by a solitary, rebellious thought. Who were they to pass judgment on her?
“What have you done now, Hortense?” Ailsa asked. “I never thought to see the day when my own granddaughter behaved with such shocking lack of decorum.”
“You evidently have no care for the family’s wishes,” Douglas said. “Or you would not be in that man’s company.”
“Is it because he’s an earl?” Flora’s eyes were wide, her cheeks pink. “Americans quite like titles, I hear. He hasn’t any money, however.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Douglas said. “A man is who he is. Not a title he inherited.”
“Is that why you’re sniffing after him?” Ailsa said.
Her grandmother had never sounded so crude in the past.
Mercy had come into the room determined not to say a word about what had happened this morning. She’d known, because of their antipathy toward Lennox, that they wouldn’t understand. They didn’t disappoint. The only person who hadn’t said anything to her was Aunt Elizabeth. Nor did she say anything supportive.
“There was an accident,” she said. “Rather than walk home soaking wet I dried myself off at Duddingston Castle. Irene was very kind.”
There, the kernel of the truth if not the exact telling of it.
All four of her relatives looked as if they were trying to decide whether or not to believe her.
“And the carriage?” Douglas asked. “Was that Irene’s doing? Or did Lennox summon his carriage for you?”
It hit her then.
“Are you worried that history will repeat itself? A Macrory woman and a Caitheart man?”
Uncle Douglas didn’t answer, but he didn’t meet her eyes, either. Her grandmother had no such difficulty. That unblinking gaze would have been disconcerting if she hadn’t had practice meeting it.
“Your blood is diluted,” Ailsa said. “You’re hardly a true Macrory.”
Diluted because of her father, of course, a wealthy Yankee who had the temerity to offer her compassion.
Mercy didn’t respond. From past experience, the best way to behave would be to say something conciliatory, admit her flaws, beg for forgiveness, or otherwise grovel.
She didn’t feel like groveling at the moment.
Flora looked mildly disappointed and Mercy couldn’t tell if it was because she hadn’t been verbally whipped or confessed to something salacious.
Aunt Elizabeth was watching her, her aunt’s gaze as direct as Ailsa’s.
“If you don’t mind,” Mercy said, taking a step back, “I’d like to go to my room now.”
“I think that would be best,” Ailsa said.
“And I think you should remain inside Macrory House until such time as you return to America,” Douglas added.
Her grandmother nodded. “Since you’ve proved to have little common sense or decorum, Hortense, that sounds like an excellent idea.”
No one said a word as she turned and left the room.
It was entirely possible that her grandmother would discover the truth about her adventures of this morning and that she’d been alone with two men while in a state of undress.
Ruthie might not get a chance to recuperate. They might be banished back to America any moment now.
She’d never disobeyed at home, being a dutiful daughter so as not to cause her parents more grief. Coming to Scotland had changed her. Maybe it was because she’d made a bid for freedom. Or because she’d made a choice not to accept the life doled out to her. For whatever reason, she wasn’t the same person she’d been even a short time ago.
She reached her room to find Ruthie sitting there.
“What am I going to do with you? You should be in your room resting, Ruthie.”
“Will we really be going home when my arm heals, Miss Mercy?”
She had a feeling that Ruthie wasn’t homesick as much as dreading the day they would leave Scotland.
“Yes,” Mercy said. “We weren’t meant to stay here long.”
Perhaps she should tell Ruthie that she was feeling a similar reluctance, but it wouldn’t help for both of them to be foolish.
Ruthie nodded. “Let’s get you out of that dress, Miss Mercy. That corset and shift must be uncomfortable.”
“It’s beastly, Ruthie, but I would feel better if you rested. Truly.”
“I’d much rather be doing something, Miss Mercy. When I’m alone in my room, all I can do is think and all that does is make me sad.”
She hugged Ruthie, fervently wishing she could do more.
Chapter Twenty-Three
For a week Mercy remained inside Macrory House, only venturing as far as the walled garden. At least she wasn’t bothered by her cousin since Flora had departed for her Edinburgh trip with her grandfather.
With the exception of her relatives and McNaughton, who looked down his long beak of a nose at her, everyone at Macrory House was warm, friendly, and curious. The servants asked her questions about America or her journey to Scotland. Numerous times she’d been told about a relative who’d emigrated and now lived in Chicago or New Jersey or a half dozen other places.
Conversation in the kitchen was lively, never malicious, and always sprinkled with laughter.
After dinner she’d grabbed a book and left the house, intent on the garden. All she wanted to do was sit on one of the benches and read.
“May I join you?”
Mercy looked up to find that her aunt had followed her.
Other than dinner, stiff uncomfortable events where her grandmother and aunt rarely spoke to her, Mercy hadn’t seen Elizabeth. Although her aunt had said that she’d wanted to spend time with her, it felt like Elizabeth was avoiding her. Mercy couldn’t help but wonder if that was on orders from her grandmother. She hadn’t known Ailsa to be petty, but the war might have changed her.
She moved aside so that Elizabeth could join her on the bench. Her aunt’s skirts were wider than hers, but then Mercy had the advantage of a newer wardrobe. She rarely wore the wide hoop Elizabeth favored. The only exception was when she donned a gown for formal events. The latest styles were accentuating a bustle, but Elizabeth wouldn’t have had access to a new wardrobe.
They sat silently together for a few minutes. Elizabeth looked over the garden with an expression that indicated she truly didn’t care what she saw. The view wasn’t very inspiring. This part of the garden led to a maze and the hedges were precisely trimmed and over their heads. No flowers had been planted. Nor was there anything of interest, like a bit of statuary to catch the eye. The garden was, however, a lovely place to escape to if you wanted to avoid Flora.
Mercy waited, certain that her aunt had sought her out for a specific reason.
“You spend a great deal of time in the kitchen, Mercy.”
She was right, she had been sought out for a reason, evidently to be lectured about her behavior.
“Did Seanmhair send you to find me?”
Elizabeth looked away rather than answering.
“I know that things are different here than in America, Mercy, witness the relationship you have with Ruthie. Here the line between staff and employer is well drawn. It breaks down the barriers when a member of the family socializes with the servants.”
She had never known her aunt to be a prig. Nor did the words Elizabeth was saying sound like something she would say.
“Tell Seanmhair I’ll be gone soon enough,” she said, trying to mitigate the irritation in her tone. Weren’t there more important things for her grandmother to be concerned about than whether she spent time in the kitchen?