by Karen Ranney
Elizabeth finally looked in her direction.
“Your face lights up when you talk about him.”
“Who?” she said, even though she knew to whom Elizabeth was referring.
“Lennox. When his name comes up in conversation, you seem eager to defend him.”
Mercy put her book to the side, clasped her hands in her lap, and stared down at her fingers.
“It isn’t, as Flora thinks, because he’s an earl. I admire him. I didn’t, initially. I thought he was boorish and arrogant. He does things that other people think are foolhardy, yet he doesn’t seem to care about their opinions. If there’s something he wants to do, he simply goes forward with it.”
“That might be considered obstinacy.”
“Or determination. Or being his own man, without regard to whether other people approve.”
“He’s also a very handsome man.”
She glanced at Elizabeth again to find her aunt studying her.
“He is at that,” Mercy said. “But I don’t understand why you refer to him so often at dinner. As if he’s some hideous and horrible person. I’ve never found him to be so.”
“As you said, Mercy, you’ll be gone from here soon enough and life will return to what it has always been.”
“Are you living the life you want, Aunt Elizabeth? Here, in Scotland? Is this where you wish to be?”
Elizabeth was staring at the hedges again, but this time she looked like her thoughts were far away from Scotland and perhaps years distant.
“I’m sorry,” Mercy said. “That’s not a question I should have asked.”
Mercy reached over and placed her hand atop her aunt’s. She wanted to say how sorry she was, how much she wished that Elizabeth hadn’t had to endure the pain of losing the man she loved. Instead she remained silent because there were times when words seemed useless.
Robert had installed a telescope between the merlons on the tower’s top. Lennox had covered it with an oiled tarp years ago, more out of respect for his brother than to protect the equipment. Now he put down the lantern and removed the tarp, shaking it over the edge to get the dust off before dropping it at the base of the telescope.
He’d never been a romantic like Robert. He’d never felt about a woman the way Robert had Mary, or been willing to make a fool of himself for love. Living at Duddingston had probably been as lonely for Robert as it was for him. Whenever Lennox had thoughts about such things, he buried himself in his work. To do otherwise would be foolish.
When he’d first seen the telescope, he’d known why Robert had put it here. Not to see the stars or the scenery. No, he’d probably somehow communicated with Mary. Maybe by lantern light or some other type of signal.
Now here he was, doing something almost as idiotic.
He tilted the telescope toward Macrory House, looked through the eyepiece, and tried to focus it. All he could see was fog, as if the lenses needed to be cleaned. He tried a half dozen more times before he finally gave up and put the tarp back. If he wanted to continue to be as foolish, he would have to disassemble the telescope and clean it thoroughly.
That wasn’t going to happen. Robert might have been lovelorn, but he wasn’t.
It was almost midnight. On a normal Highland summer night it wouldn’t yet be full dark, as if the land was reluctant to surrender the day. Tonight the sky was black with rolling clouds. Loch Arn was no more than an inky stain without moonlight reflecting on the water.
The air smelled clean, mixed with the scent of dusty stone. Somewhere, a bird called, no doubt announcing that a storm was coming.
He might be the only person awake for miles. The only one whose thoughts reached out far beyond his own body. Had Robert felt like this? Had his older brother willed Mary to light a lamp, to stand in front of her window, to wait for his signal?
He gently pressed his hand against his upper arm. He could almost feel Mercy’s touch on his skin. Or hear her indrawn breath when he’d flinched. He’d wanted to remain immobile for her sake, but her stitching had been more painful than he’d anticipated. He’d no doubt caused her as much discomfort. He’d ask her the next time she came.
A warning voice whispered in his ear. Perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to see her again. The better course would be to send word to Mercy that McNaughton should remove her stitches. The man could do a good enough job. Perhaps he should also tell her that there was no reason for her to ever return to Duddingston Castle.
The sooner she went back to America, the better.
For whom? How strange that the question was uttered in a voice that sounded too much like Robert.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“You’re up early, Miss Mercy,” the housekeeper said, looking up from her small desk in the office next to the kitchen. “Shall I ring for your breakfast?”
“Thank you, no, Mrs. West. I’m not hungry. Perhaps just a cup of coffee.”
Mrs. West stood. “Of course. Let me get it for you myself. Shall I bring it to the family dining room?”
“That’s not necessary. Perhaps I could sit with you for a few minutes?”
The older woman smiled and nodded toward the chair beside the desk.
She quite liked Mrs. West. First of all, she reminded her, not unexpectedly, of Irene. Secondly, the woman was possessed of an incredible practical nature, no doubt because of her position. Thirdly, she was exceedingly kind, evident in the way she treated her staff. No one was ever subjected to criticism in front of another person. She didn’t demean the people who worked at Macrory House. Even her conversation was carefully directed toward the good in a situation or a person. She was filled with compliments about the two new maids she’d recently hired. Or the young stable boy who’d prevented a fire because he’d been paying attention one night.
Mercy sat, folded her hands, and tried to maintain an aura of calm. Ever since yesterday, she’d been thinking about her conversation with her aunt. The longer she mulled over Elizabeth’s words, the more annoyed she became. She was tired of everyone trying to mold her into a perfect person. She wasn’t one. Nor did she have the least desire to be.
Coming to Scotland had been an act of rebellion, shocking and unusual for her. Being here in the housekeeper’s office was another rebellious act and would, no doubt, annoy her grandmother and aunt.
Wait until they learned what she was going to do next.
When Mrs. West returned with the coffee, she thanked the older woman and took the cup from her.
The next few minutes were spent discussing various innocuous topics, such as the garden, the staffing requirements, and the menu for the next week. When her coffee was nearly done, she put the cup on the edge of the desk and smiled at Mrs. West.
“Lennox has offered to take out my stitches. I would very much like them gone, Mrs. West. My head is itching abominably, and I haven’t been able to wash my hair correctly ever since the accident.”
The housekeeper didn’t say a word which surprised her. She’d expected Mrs. West to offer that McNaughton would be happy to remove her stitches. She had her explanation ready for the housekeeper. McNaughton had made no secret of his contempt for her. For that reason, she’d rather anyone else do the job.
“Is there a way to get out of the house without anyone noticing? I want to go to Duddingston Castle.”
“Miss Mercy . . .” Mrs. West began.
Mercy held up her hand. “Please do not lecture me, Mrs. West. I know what I want to do.”
“I would not venture to do such a thing, Miss Mercy. I was only going to say that you’re not dressed for crossing the glen. It rained last night and the ground is soggy. I’m guessing that you’ve no boots for the purpose.”
Mercy shook her head.
“Then, if you’ll allow me, I’ll loan you mine. They’ll no doubt be a might big, but they’ll work well enough.”
“Thank you. I’d be very grateful.”
“If you don’t mind I’ll send a bit of tablet over to Irene by way of you.” She
smiled. “It’s a bit of a sweet treat that Irene likes and I made it yesterday.”
“Of course,” Mercy said.
Before she left, Mrs. West surprised her by saying, “I’ll just spread the word to a few of the maids, miss. It’s a little misdirection, but it’s harmless enough. One will say they’ve seen you in the library. Another heading toward the garden. It will only give you a few hours, though, until someone goes in search of you in earnest.”
Mercy nodded. Armed with the pan of something that looked like a light-colored grainy fudge, she left the house, heading for a narrow door near the kitchen gardens. Trees close to the house shielded her departure, plus she had directions to a door in the garden wall. She would be out of sight of anyone in the house and could make it across the glen with no one the wiser.
The ground was solid until she left the walled garden by the secret door. Without Mrs. West’s help, she would never have found it, tucked as it was behind rose bushes and hidden by ivy. Once on the glen, she followed the housekeeper’s instructions and looked for the beginning of a drover’s trail, shortening the distance to Duddingston Castle.
The boots were too large, but she made them work by slipping them on over her shoes. More than once she sank nearly up to her ankles in the spongy earth, but after she was on the trail it was easier.
The morning felt damp, a residual from the storm last night. The woods at the foot of Ben Uaine were shadowed, the diffuse sunlight not able to penetrate the thick pines.
She climbed a small hill, stood there, and looked over the scenery, feeling a curious sense of belonging in this strange place. She felt as if she’d always known the mountains in the distance, the glen undulating before her, even the sight of the loch in the distance.
At first she’d been unable to decipher the Scottish accent. Now she could understand most of what was said to her, although there were still some sayings that were unfamiliar, like haud yer wheest, gie it laldy, it’s a dreich day. And the word for Ruthie’s splint: skootie.
Coming to Scotland had been an act of freedom, but it was turning out to be so much more. She felt different, more herself than at any time in her life. She wasn’t forced to wear a polite and stiff mask or endlessly guard her words.
Perhaps she could take this new person she was becoming back to America. Perhaps she would even have the courage to speak up for herself and explain that she wasn’t going to break. She didn’t need a guard twenty-four hours a day. Nor should her life be a prison.
Her parents would be upset about her decision not to marry Gregory, but she hoped they would eventually understand.
He may have come from a fine family. He may be ambitious and intelligent. He was not only regarded with respect by several of her father’s friends and business acquaintances, he had been lauded as a hero. He was handsome, polite, and exceedingly cordial to her parents.
Yet life with Gregory wouldn’t be a blessing. She would be expected to obey him, to be molded and coached, to be all the things he wanted in a wife. She would be expected to continue to strive for perfection, only with Gregory being the arbiter of her behavior.
She couldn’t imagine a more hideous future.
Of course, there was every possibility that she would cause a scandal that echoed throughout New York because she’d broken the engagement. No doubt rumors were floating now about her behavior. She’d probably be ostracized and people would gossip about her for years.
Let them say whatever they wanted.
If nothing else, this trip to Scotland had taught her that people will think what they will, because their own prejudices fueled their opinions. Her relatives had been guilty of that.
From here she could see Duddingston Castle spread out before her. Her heart beat a little faster at the thought of seeing Lennox.
She wasn’t going to lie to her relatives. If she was asked where she’d been, she was going to confess that she’d disobeyed their wishes and returned to the castle, but only to have Lennox remove her stitches. Very well, perhaps not simply to have Lennox remove her stitches. Perhaps for another reason, less easy to understand. She wanted to see him again.
After descending the hill, she stopped at the bridge to watch the water cascading down to the loch before entering the shadowed alcove that led to the castle’s front door. She pulled the bell, hearing it ring deep inside the house. Was he home? Or was he out experimenting with his flying machine?
He really should take more care than he’d shown on the two flights she’d witnessed.
It struck her then, hard enough that she stared at the iron door in front of her. She was worried about Lennox.
During the four years Gregory had fought in the war she’d been concerned about him, but in a way she suspected was different from what she was supposed to feel. She’d never cried into her pillow or sent words of longing through the mail. She’d worried about him because he was a human being, but she’d never once thought her heart would break because he hadn’t come home for so long.
She knew that she wouldn’t feel the same if Lennox had gone to war.
Chapter Twenty-Five
To her surprise, Irene answered the door.
“I was told that you were kept at home for your own good,” she said.
“Your sister helped me escape. The price for her assistance,” Mercy said, handing her the pan.
“I’m thankful that you’re here, then, for more than one reason. His Lordship has a liking for tablet, too.”
“Is he here?”
Irene studied her for a moment. It was an uncomfortable examination. She wanted to tell Irene that the reason she was here was only for Lennox to remove her stitches. That was all. She had no interest in the man. However, she wasn’t willing to lie to Irene.
“Aye, he is at that. He’s in the courtyard, working on one of his machines. Go straight through the Clan Hall, turn right and out the big door, and you’ll find him.”
Mercy smiled her thanks and followed Irene’s directions. The Clan Hall was larger than she realized, the noise of her borrowed boots clomping on the stone made her sound like a horse tromping through the space. Before she opened the door, she stopped, pulled off the boots, and held them in one hand.
Most of her upbringing had been geared to understanding what was right and proper, first within the confines of her own home and then in society. She was a Rutherford and that dictated she act in certain ways. Her father was a benefactor to several charities and more than once she’d accompanied her parents to events saluting his generosity. She was expected to be gracious at all times, cordial, and conversant in a variety of subjects regardless of who engaged her in conversation.
She spoke French and enough phrases in four other languages to make people of several nationalities at ease in her company. She’d been given an extensive education in art so as to appreciate the Rutherford Wing of the New York Art Institute. She’d been schooled in etiquette since she was five and in how to manage a household since she was ten.
Yet she’d never been coached about what to say when a man was half-naked in front of her.
Lennox was bare to the waist again. This time she was going to look her fill.
She had no idea that a man’s chest could be so well defined or muscular. She had the most curious compulsion to run her fingers through the hair there. Then she wanted to drop her hands and press them against his midriff.
He was reaching above him, tightening something on a piece of wood that was fastened to another crosspiece, and hadn’t seen her yet, giving her ample time to study him.
When he turned away from her, she saw that his back was almost as impressive as his front.
Should she retreat or announce her presence? She honestly didn’t know what to do, but the decision was taken from her when he turned and noticed her.
“You’re three days late,” he said, giving her no more greeting than that.
“I couldn’t get away,” she said.
“Irene said you’d been confined to
the house. How did you escape?”
She really shouldn’t smile at his comment or feel so proud of herself.
“I went to Mrs. West. The price for her help was to bring something to Irene.”
“Tablet?” His eyes lit up like a child’s.
She nodded and began walking toward him, still carrying the boots. To her disappointment, he reached over and grabbed his shirt, putting it on as she approached.
“Forgive my attire,” he said.
She almost wanted to apologize for staring, but kept silent.
“Why were you confined to the house? Was it because you’d come to my aid?”
She smiled. “I think my family’s afraid that I’ll shame them in some way.”
“Will you?”
“I’ve never shamed anyone before. I’ve been the epitome of perfection. Yet I’ve broken all sorts of rules by coming to Scotland with only Ruthie as my companion.”
“Why did you?”
As she was framing her answer, he said, “Forgive me, it’s none of my concern. I was simply curious.”
She stopped what she was going to say and looked at him. “No one’s ever been curious about me.”
“Why not?”
She thought about it. “Probably because I’ve never been very interesting. Everything about me has been known. I’m James Gramercy Rutherford’s only daughter. That says it all.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “That doesn’t even begin to describe you.”
The strangest feeling of warmth was traveling through her body.
“You didn’t have that idiot McNaughton remove your stitches, did you?”
She shook her head.
“Good. Come, we’ll get it done now.” He turned and walked back to the door, glancing over his shoulder to see if she was following.
This time as they walked through the Clan Hall she stopped more than once to look at the objects on the wall. Lennox didn’t seem in a hurry, so she asked him questions about what she saw.
She knew more about American history than she did that of Scotland, but she recognized the names of some of the battles he listed. Evidently, the Caitheart clan had participated in almost every confrontation occurring in Scotland for the past four hundred years. Either their weapons or their banners remained as a testament to the clan’s courage.