by Karen Ranney
How odd that those lessons were of value now. She knew that outwardly she appeared serene, despite the inward chaos of her thoughts.
“What are your plans for this morning, Davis?” Hartley asked, turning to his son.
The child looked first to Jeanne, and at her nod answered his father. “We’re going to visit Mama first, sir. Then we have to study about the Romans.”
“A very adventuresome morning, indeed.” Hartley smiled. “Perhaps after lunch you might spare some time for an audience?” he said to Jeanne. “Around three?”
Unfortunately, she had a very good idea of the topic for this meeting. All during the act of buttering his bread and eating his oatmeal, he’d not ceased staring at her breasts.
Very well, it was time to confront Robert Hartley.
“I just thought I might consult with you on Davis’s reading material,” he said, smiling his toothy grin. “He cannot be allowed to remain ignorant of the world.”
A little ignorance of the world might be a kindness done to the child, a comment Jeanne wisely did not voice.
Captain Manning didn’t appear until well after dawn. Douglas was up and addressing his correspondence when the man was announced by Lassiter. He stood at the captain’s arrival, waited until his guest was seated, and ordered breakfast to be served in his library.
“Are you still drinking cocoa in the morning, Alan?” he asked.
The older man nodded. “I don’t give a whit if it stains my wooden teeth,” he admitted.
A tap on the door interrupted them. Douglas called out a greeting and a young maid entered, laden with a large tray filled with a pot, two cups and saucers, and a selection of jams, toast, sausages, and jugged kippers, their tails tied together with a string. Douglas watched as she placed the tray on his desk, and thanked her.
“I need your help,” he said.
Alan Manning had been a friend for nearly eight years. In fact, it was Manning who’d brought the news to Gilmuir that the flagship of the MacRae fleet had been lost at sea, knowledge that Douglas still found difficult to accept even seven years later. In his mind, his parents had been rescued and were alive somewhere. As long as they were together, Douglas knew they would survive.
Manning hadn’t retired from the sea as Douglas had, but he’d recently married and for that reason had remained in Edinburgh a few weeks longer than normal. In addition, he was considering employment with the MacRaes. By agreeing to sail one of the MacRae vessels, he would forgo a greater portion of wealth at the end of each voyage, but he would also have less risk. A ship was an expensive venture. Each time a sail had to be mended, a mast repaired, or an anchor replaced, the cost was subtracted from the owner’s profits. If a man owned the ship he captained, he could find himself losing a great deal of money if a voyage was plagued with bad weather or a careless crew.
“I need a favor,” he said, after handing Manning a cup of his beloved cocoa. “Do you have someone you could spare? Someone you trust, who could also remain discreet?”
Captain Manning didn’t say anything, but his eyes were carefully guarded. “I might. Why?”
“I want someone watched. A woman.”
Manning remained silent.
“Someone from my past,” Douglas added.
The captain took a sip of chocolate and smiled, closing his eyes to better savor the bitter brew. “Why not simply take her under your protection?” he asked when he opened his eyes again.
Douglas smiled. “I don’t want that sort of arrangement. I just want to be apprised of her movements in case she decides to leave Edinburgh.”
One eyebrow rose, but Douglas didn’t answer the un-voiced question.
“Can you spare someone?”
“Where does she live?”
Douglas gave him the address, watched the second eyebrow join the first, and wondered exactly how much information he would have to impart before Manning agreed to his request.
After a moment of contemplation, he stood and walked to the far side of the room to a tall, glass-fronted cabinet. He’d never thought himself a man who believed in sentimentality, for all that he came from a family that valued ceremony and history. But his daughter had proven that assumption wrong.
Douglas opened the glass door of the cabinet and removed a tiny length of gold chain, so short that it didn’t reach from the base to the end of his thumb. Walking back to the desk, he handed it to Manning.
“My brother Hamish and his wife Mary and I once rescued an infant. She was so small and malnourished that this chain could wrap around her wrist. We used it to measure her progress during the first few weeks. Most of the time we didn’t know if she would live or die.”
Manning stretched the chain between both hands, frowning down at it.
“My sister-in-law has a reputation as a healer, and it’s because of her, I think, that Margaret survived.”
“Margaret?” Manning asked, obviously surprised.
“Yes,” Douglas said. He returned to the chair. “I became determined that she would never know that her mother had abandoned her.”
“And the woman you want me to watch is her mother,” Manning guessed.
“No,” Douglas said quickly. “Not her mother. She might have given birth to Margaret, but she never mothered her. Mary did that.”
“So I’m to watch her? A protective impulse, Douglas.”
“At one time I wanted to kill her,” he confessed to Manning. “If she’d stood in front of me, I would have done it despite witnesses or circumstances.”
“I trust time has mellowed you somewhat,” Manning said.
“Somewhat,” Douglas said wryly. “Up until now I’ve constructed a careful world for Margaret and nothing has interfered with it.”
“And you think she will?”
“I don’t think Jeanne du Marchand has ever spared a thought for her child.”
“What if she leaves? Is my man supposed to stop her?”
“No, just let me know.”
The captain shook his head, the gesture one of disapproval.
Douglas didn’t care. Perhaps he had not yet formulated a plan in regards to Jeanne but he didn’t want her to leave Edinburgh.
He stood, picking up the length of chain from the captain and returning it to the display case.
Margaret loved all the mementos of her early life and wanted a tale told of each item he’d saved over the years. It was she who had added to the store of treasures in the last few years. Resting on the bottom shelf were several items she’d unearthed at Gilmuir, or thought she’d outgrown. The tiny doll sitting on the bottom shelf was an example. The painted face had long since faded, and the legs and arms were loose and needed to be restuffed. But Margaret could not bear to have the doll thrown away.
Sometimes, she’d retrieve her and ask him to tell a story about when he’d first bought the doll. He’d fabricated a great many stories for his daughter, and the greatest of these had been the lie about her birth. But she would never know that the one woman who should have loved her had tossed her away.
This doll was treated with more care than Margaret had been.
Nor would his daughter ever know how foolish her own father was, unable to stop thinking about the woman he hated.
Chapter 6
W hen she was a child and asked to see her mother, Jeanne was often told that Hélène wasn’t feeling well enough for a visit. To the child, Jeanne, the future was uncertain, an amorphous world that never materialized. “Tomorrow, your mother will feel much better. Tomorrow, perhaps she can sit in the sun. Tomorrow, little one, and she’ll have breakfast with you. Will that not be fun?”
Tomorrow never came. One day, black ribbons appeared on the door and the servants began wearing black armbands. She and her father followed the priest to the chapel and watched silently as the iron grille to the crypt was unlocked. Inside the magnificently carved mahogany coffin lay her beautiful mother, but Jeanne was not to cry. According to Justine and her father, no tears were to be
shed on this most mournful of days. Instead, she was to stand straight and tall and be proud that she was a du Marchand. She wept in her pillow at night, and bathed her eyes with cold water in the morning so that her maid wouldn’t rush to tell Justine.
Perhaps because of childhood memories, Jeanne was diligent about Davis’s morning visits to his mother. She stood when breakfast was over, and thanked Hartley, stretching out a hand to her charge.
“We must visit your mother, Davis, before we begin our lessons.”
Davis nodded. He was a dutiful child, almost nondescript in his personality. His brown hair and brown eyes were unremarkable, as was his manner. He was neither gifted in learning nor too slow. Average would be the label Davis would carry all his life, but perhaps it would be safer than being called headstrong, wild, or evil.
The child reminded Jeanne of herself. Not in appearance or even in temperament, but in loneliness. Davis adored his mother as Jeanne had hers, and both women struggled to get well. In both cases the reason was the same, illness following childbirth.
They left the dining room together, making their way up the stairs to the second floor. At the door to his mother’s room, Jeanne nodded to Davis and the child tapped lightly on the door. A moment later the door creaked open and Barbara, Mrs. Hartley’s companion and nurse, greeted them.
“Is Mrs. Hartley well enough for Davis to bid her good morning?” Jeanne asked.
“The mistress had a good night,” Barbara said, nodding and stepping aside.
Jeanne and Davis entered the room, Jeanne hesitating at the doorway until her eyes adjusted to the preternatural darkness in the room. Mrs. Hartley had not yet recovered from the birth of her latest child, another son born a month ago. The infant was thriving, being cared for by a wet nurse and nursemaid. If Mrs. Hartley ever visited her baby, Jeanne was unaware of it.
Drawing Davis forward, Jeanne urged the boy to come and stand beside the bed. She didn’t blame Davis for his reluctance. The chamber was overpowering in its excess, from the brocaded bedcover and hangings to the Flemish paintings adorning the walls. Muted colors of burgundy, emerald, gold, and sapphire assaulted the senses.
“Good morning, Mama,” Davis said, sounding faint and unlike himself. Jeanne squeezed the little boy’s hand reassuringly and urged him forward. Davis glanced up at her as if to gain one last measure of courage before dropping Jeanne’s hand and stepping up to the bed. He pulled back the bed hanging and smiled into the darkness. “Are you feeling better this morning?”
The voice that answered him was surprisingly robust. “Yes, I believe I am. I’ve been able to eat my breakfast, which I’m told is a very good sign.”
“Did you have toast and jam, Mama? I did, and Cook trimmed the edges of the bread for me.”
“Did she?” Althea Hartley peeped out from behind one of the bed hangings. Jeanne was startled at the woman’s beauty, as she was each time she saw the woman. Althea was delicately blond, with a frailty that came partly from her youth and partly from having become pregnant three times in the last three years.
“Is your governess taking you for a walk today, poppet?” she asked, glancing at Jeanne with a vague look of confusion.
Despite the fact that Mrs. Hartley had known her aunt, she could never seem to remember Jeanne’s name, a fact that didn’t disturb her at all. The more anyone knew about her, the more vulnerable she became. Consequently, she cultivated an aloofness that kept the rest of the staff at a distance. The half-life of a governess fit her perfectly. She was neither part of the staff nor the family.
“Not until after my lessons, Mama.”
She pushed back the bed hangings and stared at Jeanne. “You’re from France, are you not?”
Jeanne nodded.
“Such atrocities.” She glanced at her son, evidently thought better of what she was about to say, and merely shook her head.
It was just as well. What would she have responded? That, yes, there were horrible acts committed in France in the name of freedom. That people, oppressed for decades, had suddenly revolted and cast off their chains and become the masters. She knew how it felt to yearn for freedom. Yet the aristocrats of France, for the most part, had utilized their power with greater discretion, whereas the mobs had no such sensibilities.
She didn’t want to talk about what she’d seen, or even what she’d experienced. Those recollections were for dark nights when she felt inclined to pity herself.
Jeanne placed her hand on Davis’s head. “Say goodbye to your mother, Davis,” she instructed. “Perhaps this afternoon we’ll take a walk in the garden.”
Where your mother can see you, and perhaps be lured into the sunshine. The thought was unspoken—governesses did not act as counselors or companions. But she met Barbara’s eyes over the bed and the older woman nodded.
“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” Althea asked, subsiding against her pillow. “Perhaps you might be convinced to do a few errands?” She turned and smiled at her companion. “I do so miss Barbara when she’s gone.”
“Of course, madam,” Jeanne said easily and bobbed a small curtsy. An irony of Fate that she had once outranked her employer, that she’d dined with the king and played in the gardens of Versailles. Those days were gone now, set aside as if they’d never been.
“Barbara will tell you what is necessary,” Althea said, her voice trailing off as if she were too weak to complete her thought.
Jeanne took Davis’s hand and turned away from the bed, hoping that Althea Hartley soon improved, if not for her sake, then her son’s.
Douglas exited his home, heading for his carriage, and halted in appreciation for the scene before him. The square was ablaze with blooms, scarlet, coral, and yellow flowers bobbing in the morning light. The air was crisp, but the temperature promised to be warmer with the sun already brightening the sky.
Work, while always challenging, occasionally paled next to a beautiful day.
Winter in Edinburgh had been a damp, messy affair. Rains had pelted the city for the last two months until the inhabitants of the city had begun to fervently pray for the onset of spring. Today, their petitions looked to be granted.
Soon, the work could begin on Margaret’s garden. He’d recently purchased the acreage to the west of his home. A week ago, he’d finished the plans and given them to the son of the man who’d produced miracles at Gilmuir. Ephraim had surrounded the fortress with hedges, softening the lines of the MacRae ancestral home, and creating a strolling garden where once an English fortress had stood. With any luck, his son, Malcolm, would accomplish similar feats of wonder on a terraced Edinburgh hill.
Douglas glanced up at Edinburgh Castle. Even though the structure sat in full view of the sun, there always seemed to be a dark, brooding aura to it. The square, for the most part, was quiet, the serenity interrupted periodically by carriages, but a street away there would be a bustle of activity. He had grown accustomed to the changing flavor of Edinburgh and the varied atmospheres of the city.
His life was different from that of his brothers. They were each, from Alisdair to Hamish, lords of their own domain. If Douglas was master of anything, it was the series of buildings in Leith, the ships he owned, and the countless wagons with the name MACRAE BROTHERS painted on their sides.
He’d not slept at all, but he ignored his fatigue. An hour ago, he’d bade his guest farewell somewhat cheered. Alan Manning had agreed to spare a man to watch the Hartley residence and report back to him periodically.
As Douglas entered his carriage he nodded to Stephens and began making a series of mental notes as to which tasks he wanted to accomplish first. Sitting back against the carriage, he watched the view on the way to Leith, Edinburgh’s seaport.
And saw her.
Once again Jeanne was with her charge, the little boy happily walking at her side. She consulted the list in her hand, squinting slightly in the full sun.
Douglas tapped on the roof of the carriage. A moment later the driver’s face appeared in
the small window built for just such a purpose.
“Yes, sir?” Stephens asked.
“Pull up to the corner and wait.”
Stephens closed the window and swerved the carriage out of traffic. Douglas sat back and lowered the curtain slightly so that he might observe without being seen.
For a matter of hours he’d been attempting to reconcile the memories of the Comte’s daughter with that of the governess. Jeanne had been unconventional as a girl, challenging all the boundaries she’d been given, much to his delight. The youthful Douglas had been more than eager to help her explore her sensuality and more than willing to ignore any strictures he, too, had been reared to obey. They’d been wild together, headstrong, and too much in love to realize the foolishness of attempting to change society’s rules simply because they seemed too restrictive.
All they’d accomplished was to create chaos around them.
He pushed away thoughts of France. Too much had happened since then for any memories, especially fond ones, to still remain. Instead, he sat and watched her, and wondered how evil could look so beautiful.
Chapter 7
J eanne took Davis’s hand and together they crossed the street, heading for the shops.
“Where are we going, miss?” he asked.
She consulted her list and recited their errands. “The greengrocers to pick up some vegetables for Cook, the cobbler to pick up your father’s boots, and the modistes for Barbara. Then we must have some silverware repaired.”
The moment the staff had learned of her errands for Barbara, she’d been given even more tasks. She didn’t mind; the day was beautiful and she was glad to be spared any thought of the coming interview with Hartley.
Davis nodded, concentrating on the pattern of bricks below his feet. He was a biddable child, almost too acquiescent. For all that he was the oldest of three brothers, he had little initiative of his own. But perhaps he would grow into it.
She rearranged their errands so that they would go to the greengrocers last. After checking that the silverware was in the bottom of the basket, she took Davis’s hand and crossed the street.