True Heart

by Arnette Lamb

  She changed her mind during the evening meal.

  Chapter

  9

  Over a feast of cloved ham and cabbages, steamed crab and creamy oyster stew, the family laughed and shared each other’s follies. Nestled around a plank oak table in a private dining room, the table set with ironed linens and Irish crystal, Virginia sat beside Cameron and listened to story after story.

  Agnes revealed that Cameron had gotten so drunk in Canton he’d boarded a ship bound for San Francisco. With the Emperor’s guard for escort, she had rescued Cameron before the anchor was weighed.

  After losing a year-long battle with the collegians in Edinburgh, Sarah was sponsoring an orphaned lad at Glasgow University.

  Against great opposition, Lottie managed to get a Hanoverian to visit Tain.

  In London, Mary had marked the occasion of Cameron’s father’s first day in the House of Commons. In cartoon she pictured Sir Myles Cunningham dressed in an elegant suit of black velvet. He stood in the hallowed chamber surrounded by Englishmen wearing kilts and sporrans. The absurdity of English nobility honoring the tartans of Scotland brought new scandal to Mary. The telling of the story kept Virginia and her family laughing through dessert.

  Surrounded by the warmth of family, Virginia felt a measure of redemption for the lonely nights she’d spent huddled on a prickly pallet. That girl and the events that had shaped her life seemed a far cry from the happy woman included in this cozy gathering. The goblet felt heavy in her hand. The hashes melted on her tongue. Cameron had complimented her more than once: Her dress was his favorite shade of pink, and she smelled of the prettiest of flowers. He’d laughed charmingly at her recollection of General Arnold and the ill-fated poplars of Poplar Knoll.

  Before making a third toast to Virginia’s recovery, her father called for more wine. When the glasses were again full, he cheered Quinten Brown. “To the pilot who steered us to Virginia.”

  Cameron cleared his throat in a sound—a signal—that Virginia remembered from their youth. She looked up. Their eyes met. He winked and, behind his napkin, murmured, “Next he’ll toast the carpenter who crafted the ship’s wheel.”

  Virginia struggled to hold back her laughter.

  “Cunningham,” her father called out. “Are you expected in London, lad?”

  Cameron tensed, a crab claw in his hand. Agnes and Mama shared a meaningful glance, then watched him. Virginia grew puzzled.

  Cameron took his time chewing. More time passed as he put down the pincher and wiped his hands and mouth. Finally, he said, “I won’t know that until I arrive in Glasgow. I hope your trip to Boston is enlightening.”

  Papa shrugged, but the careless gesture seemed inappropriate, considering Cameron’s reaction. “Feel free to go on to London after you’ve gotten Virginia and Agnes to Napier. Surely your affairs there need attention.”

  With only a trace of jollity, Cameron said, “You cannot think I’ll leave Glasgow without hearing what you encounter in Boston? ’Tis a grand town.”

  Into the tense moment, Mama said, “I’m told they have a theatrical company that performs an Indian play. I should like to see it.”

  Although Cameron said nothing, Virginia knew he fought to compose himself. Why? Was it Papa’s authoritative tone or his possessiveness toward her? She didn’t know, but then she didn’t know what events had transpired between them during her absence. In her last year in Scotland, Papa had often separated Cameron and Virginia.

  “Would you care for more pie?” Cameron asked her.

  At the simple request, a polite grouping of words she hadn’t heard in years, Virginia’s heart took flight. She’d come through these difficult days, and very soon she’d reclaim her place in Cameron’s life. They’d share a jolly laugh over her faked memory loss. “No. I couldn’t eat another bite and still be able to breathe in this corset.”

  Agnes froze, a fork laden with sorrel hash halfway to her mouth. Mama’s hand tensed on her goblet. Papa stared at the stuffed pheasants that hung from the ceiling.

  Virginia despaired at her conversational error, even as she wished the words back. How could she be so careless as to discuss her undergarments at table? She knew better. She’d gotten too comfortable with them. Too much laughing, too many tales told in good spirit, too much of the rich, fruity wine.

  Only Cameron was unmoved by her mad manners. Putting down his glass, he whispered, “You’ll need help getting out of those laces.” His gaze darted to her breasts.

  He might have said, “That’s a nice dress,” so casual was his tone. Certainly nothing in the cadence or pitch of his voice suggested anything vulgar. She burst out laughing.

  Papa cleared his throat. Cameron grew distant.

  Had she hurt his feelings? Surely not, for the bold remark warranted a slap to his handsome face. Unless she, by speaking so frankly, had encouraged him. Was that the case here? She didn’t know. “A shilling for your thoughts,” she asked him.

  He lifted the wineglass to his lips. A dimple appeared in his cheek, and his eyes danced with mischief. “What I’m thinking is worth more than a shilling.”

  She wanted to know, but another intimacy with him with her family looking on was more than she dared. Later, when she’d stopped wrecking conversations and bringing shame on them all, she’d trade quips and clever rejoinders. Now she used the truth and shielded it in a double entendre. “Perhaps a shilling’s worth is all I can afford just now.”

  He knew what she was saying, for his eyes narrowed. “As an inducement, I’d be prepared to give you three guesses for free.”

  He’d always been tenacious when he wanted something. Being the object of his determination flattered and frightened her. For both reasons, she chose caution. “And if I don’t guess on the third try?”

  “I’ll have to start charging you.”

  Virginia strove for composure when she wanted to toss the contents of her glass in his face. He wouldn’t look so smug with red wine dripping down his chin and staining his perfectly tied silk neck cloth.

  “He’s a martinet,” Mama said, but she was chuckling.

  Agnes tried to engage Papa in a discussion about Napier’s new engine, but he only half listened.

  “Oh, very well. I’ll give you a hint.” Cameron leaned close and said, “I wasn’t thinking about spitting in your hand.”

  When she was completely aghast, Cameron congratulated himself and said to the table, “I was thinking that the Irish MacKenzies in Boston are in for a surprise.”

  Virginia relaxed beside him. Agnes gave up her attempt to distract Lachian, who laughed and said, “The MacKenzies of Boston are Irish and will do as they may.”

  “Of course they will, my love,” said his duchess, “so long as you’re buying them whiskey.”

  His thrifty nature came to the fore. “I’ll not beggar us with coin spent in taverns.”

  “I know.” She patted his arm, but devilment glimmered in her eyes. “Where did your kin go wrong, my lord? Why did some of them move to Ireland?”

  He smiled affably. “My ancestors scared them off.”

  Agnes shook her head in mock pity. “There’s something to be said for being half Campbell.”

  Her father pointed a finger at her. “Nothing a full belly can stomach.”

  Cameron congratulated himself. Theirs was a family suited to gaiety, but he’d noticed a reserve tonight in the duke and duchess and not because of anything that had occurred between Cameron and Virginia. Her parents were hesitant because they knew of Virginia’s pretense.

  Virginia. Back with them again. With Cameron. Joy spiraled through him, and for the tenth time he wondered if he were dreaming that she was here.

  Sitting beside her, he caught an occasional whiff of violets. She’d washed her hair and donned a dress he hadn’t seen before. Of pink satin, with bows at the shoulders and lace at the neck, the gown was well cared for, but years out of fashion. He’d like to see her in a rich green velvet with a daring décolletage. He imagined
the dress trimmed in creamy lace to compliment her lovely complexion. To accent her shiny auburn hair, he pictured a golden belt draping her narrow waist. A golden sporran, of filigree, studded with emeralds and complete with tiny tassels, should hang from a chain, drawing his attention to her femininity.

  At times during the evening he could think of little else save having her. She must have sensed him watching her; she lifted her chin and tipped her head in a way that drew his eye to her elegant profile, and when she rested her hand on his arm, a lightness filled his soul. Feminine to the tiny auburn curls at her temples, she’d always had her mother’s grace and her father’s command of attention. The best qualities of both of them, Lachian liked to say. Cameron had to agree.

  Turning a little more, she gave him a shy smile. Looking into her eyes, he felt as if he were peering through a keyhole in a door of her own locking. The Virginia he knew lay behind that door, the Virginia who made no pretense and told no lies. Would she be as he remembered, or had the years hardened her? Had life robbed them of their destiny or merely postponed it?

  The latter, he hoped.

  “Have I cobwebs in my hair?” she asked. “Or are you looking for new ways to bedevil me?”

  At her spunky questions, her family laughed. “That’s my scrapping lassie,” boasted her father.

  Cameron shined up his charm. “In answer to both of your queries, definitely not. You look lovely.”

  She thought of a stinging retort, her eyes told him so, but she demurred and thanked him.

  Lady Juliet said, “Virginia plans to make the acquaintance of Horace Redding when she gets to Glasgow.”

  “Redding?” Lachian looked from his wife to Virginia.

  “The revolutionary scholar,” Cameron supplied, anticipating a battle even as he said it.

  Her father slammed down his glass. “Troublemaker. He lost his last audience when the colonies prevailed. So he brought his angry pride to Scotland. Heed me well. Sheriff Jenkins will deal with him.”

  Agnes scoffed. “With more success than the good sheriff has had in the past, one can hope. Jenkins couldn’t keep order in a monk’s colony.”

  Lachian pointed at Virginia. “You stay away from Horace Redding.”

  Cameron hoped she’d protest, same as Lachian’s other daughters would have balked. But Virginia looked puzzled. She turned to Cameron. “Scotland has forsaken self-rule?”

  A very interesting question from a woman who could not remember her heritage. But she had mentioned reading the newspaper. “Nay.”

  As if they’d forgotten something basic, she said, “That is Redding’s philosophy, self-rule.”

  “True, but it matters not, for your father has made somewhat of an enemy of Redding.”

  “Oh.” She took a long sip of wine. “I’m sorry to hear that. I thought—”

  “Don’t be getting your temper up over it, lass.” Her father’s placating tone took the sting out of the words. Or was Virginia so encumbered by the facade that she wouldn’t stand up for herself?

  Cameron detected no anger in her. Following a lifelong compulsion to help her, he addressed her father. “Your grace, shouldn’t we hear what Virginia has to say? You interrupted her.”

  Lachian scowled, a reaction he would have condemned in others, but his heart and his pride were engaged.

  “Cameron’s right,” Juliet said, giving Virginia a smile of encouragement. “Finish what you were going to say, dear.”

  Virginia pressed her napkin to her lips and spent a long time folding the cloth. “I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed.”

  That honesty captured her father’s attention. “Why, lass?”

  “For two reasons, Papa.” She faced him squarely. “First, because I didn’t expect to disobey you so soon. Second, because I had hoped you’d understand my side of it.” To everyone at the table, she said, “I haven’t lived in Scotland in ten years, and most of the time I’m not sure I lived there at all.”

  Cameron held his breath. Lachian knew she was lying, and he was angry over her patronage of Redding. Combined, those things might be enough to make Lachian forget himself and challenge her. Hopefully not, for they had years to learn the why behind Virginia’s lies.

  Lachian picked up the goblet and waved it to the table at large. In his legendary, good-natured way, he said, “That Warwickshire poet would have us believe that the pen is mightier than the sword.” He rested an elbow on the table, and as if revealing a confidence, his voice dropped. “But not in any battle that I know of.”

  Agnes laughed, and her humor acted as a spark for the others, except Lady Juliet, who tried to hide a yawn.

  “Find our bed, love,” Lachian said. “I’ll just have a wee stroll with Cameron and then join you.”

  She kissed his cheek. “Come, Agnes and Virginia.”

  The women moved to rise. Cameron got to his feet and pulled out Virginia’s chair. “Shall I have a maid awaken you?”

  “No, I’m an early riser.”

  As she followed her mother and Agnes down the hall, Cameron remembered what Lachian had said about not having the courage to find out if Virginia answered to another name. To test it, he called out, “Duchess.”

  Both Virginia and Juliet turned.

  “Yes?” said the duchess of Ross.

  Virginia bowed her head and examined her hands.

  Behind Cameron, the duke spat a curse and whispered, “Bless the saints, they robbed her of her name.”

  With heartfelt regret, Cameron knew the cooper hadn’t lied.

  “Did you want something?” the titled duchess asked.

  “Just to say good night, your grace,” Cameron said. “And have a safe journey to Boston.”

  “Thank you, lad. Take good care of our Virginia.”

  He willed Virginia to look up. To his relief, she did, and when their eyes met, he said, “I shall.” Tonight he intended to set the tone for the voyage home. Once she arrived in Glasgow and the MacKenzies descended on her, she’d need Cameron; she just didn’t know it yet. But he wouldn’t be a pawn; he’d be her lover. He wouldn’t hold her hand, not without her heart and her soul.

  As soon as he’d conferred with her father, Cameron intended to delve deeper into Virginia MacKenzie, but he’d have to visit the kitchen first.

  * * *

  Virginia dabbed witch hazel on the scratches the kitten had inflicted earlier in the day. Mama always traveled with a chest of medicinals. When the time presented itself, Virginia would acquire her own. She’d have a fine chest made. She’d purchase Fanny Ludstrom’s book as a guide to growing and concocting her own medicinals. One day she’d pass the chest to her own daughter.

  Alone in the confines of her room at the inn, Virginia dropped the facade. No lies here. Just her, free and happier than anyone had a right to be, especially a child torn from those she loved.

  She thought of Saffronia again, the woman who had given Virginia her first wad of rags for her woman’s time. In anticipation of her next menses, she’d acquired new cloths today. Picking up her brush, she couldn’t resist grooming her hair again. The fine bristles tickled her scalp and brought a shine to her hair.

  Her brush. Her dresses. Her comb and mirror. Worldly possessions, but they were hers and stood as tangible proof that she could get her life back. Her heart grew light, and she thought she might fly around the room, touching every item she possessed.

  Instead, she buttoned her nightgown, gave the kitten a good-night pat, and went to the window. Her room faced a darkened alley, but if she laid her cheek against the glass, she could see activity on the next street over. Freeing the latch, she opened the window and leaned outside. The air smelled of the sea and the city, and she could hear the voices of drunken men and sultry women.

  A weight pressed in on her, and she slumped beneath it, her hands clutching the edges of the window frame. She knew what troubled her. She had foolishly thought that her problems would end once she left the plantation, but with sad acceptance, she understo
od that she hadn’t come alone to Norfolk; loneliness had traveled with her.

  Tears filled her eyes, and she had to bite her lip to hold back a sob. She’d been a strong child. When last her family had seen her, she’d been decisive. Because of her lie, she must keep herself apart from them.

  Closing the window, she climbed into bed. She had just fluffed her pillow for the tenth time when a knock sounded at the door. She grabbed her tartan shawl, lit the candle on the desk by the door, and went to see who was there.

  Cameron stood on the threshold, a pail and saucer in one hand and two tankards in the other. His expression sharpened. “You’ve been crying.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” was the best excuse she could think of. “What have you there?”

  His mood brightened, and he clicked his heels together in military fashion. “Lemonade for us and milk for Hixup.”

  He’d exchanged his formal evening clothes for his tartan kilt. He wore the same shirt and silk neckcloth; the latter was still perfectly tied. Dressed casually, he looked different and yet the same. One thing was certain; he didn’t look the least bit sleepy.

  All she could think to say was, “Hixup?”

  “The kitten. ’Tis a better name for a ship’s cat than Mermaid or Balthezar.”

  “Ship’s cat? I thought you gave her to me.”

  “Then we should discuss it. May I come in?”

  Again she was captured by the sound of good manners. Before she remembered propriety, he shoved the mugs into her hands and walked straight to the basket where the kitten slept.

  As if he were talking to an old friend, he chatted to the little cat, picked her up, and held her nose over the pail. The mewling kitten tried to dive into the milk.

  “Whoa!” He separated the two. “I’ll need some help here, Virginia.” He pressed the cat to his chest. The wiry, hungry animal scurried up his shoulder and down his arm to get back to the milk. With no hint that he’d been hurt by those needlelike claws, he said, “Close the door, so we don’t lose her.”

  Virginia did as he asked, then took the pail and saucer from him.