Wedgewick Woman

by Patricia Strefling

  “Have you ever thought to tell Laird Carmichael the truth Annabel?” he asked softly, searching her eyes.

  “I made a vow to my sister…it was her child…”

  “And Laird Carmichael’s.” James reminded her and shut the door behind him.

  Chapter 15

  Three months later

  Annabel tucked the loose ends of her hair into her quickly disintegrating coif for the tenth time in as many minutes. The sun beat down through the stagecoach window and left her sweltering as they bounced along the dusty roads toward Scotland. Smoothing her best dark gray skirt, and patting the offensive dust from the long sleeves, she fussed with the black lace at her tiny wrists. Next she righted her sprigged bonnet once again after enduring yet another bump. Smiling, she remembered how Phoebe, her housekeeper and governess for Eleanor, heedful of her employer’s too simple gray bonnet, had managed to convince her to add bright yellow buttercups picked straight from the field and a few green fern sprigs to “give it a lift.” She had said.

  Thinking thus, she knew she must look a fright by now with the light covering of dust which lay over her entire person like a shroud. Surely the flowers must have wilted and drawn up so that they were now no more than colorless weeds that decorated her gray bonnet. Annabel pulled in a deep breath when she heard the driver’s Scottish accent as he announced, “We’re coming to Dunbeernton, Miss.”

  Hearing the Scottish brogue reminded her of the Laird and what she was about. Perhaps she had made an error in coming, she thought frantically.

  She thought of the sinful kiss he had bestowed upon her lips at the dance. It had not been altogether dreadful. It had been her first and only kiss. Shaking her head, she reminded herself. “He meant the kiss for my demise…not my…honor.” She repeated, shoring up her shoulders. It is fortunate that few in the room knew who I was that day…for if the kiss had happened in London…she would have never seen the end of it. Her reputation would have been ruined. She reminded herself that he was not to be trusted.

  Pulling on her matching gray gloves and then taking them off again, for her hands were perspiring more from excitement than from the heat, she surmised, Annabel peeked out the window and saw the huge drawbridge doors being pulled open at this very minute. It was too late.

  The sounds of clip-clopping rang out into the late afternoon as the horses traveled over the bridge leading to the entryway, her heart beating furiously to the tune of the horse’s hooves.

  “Oh my, what have I done?” she whispered, crossed herself and prayed, “God please forgive me…I’m about to tell a lie.”

  “Please come in, Miss Wedgewick, the butler said kindly. Taking her bonnet, Annabel did not notice that he glanced warily at the wilting flowers stuffed into the ribbon band. He placed the ghastly gray contraption gently on the hall tree, then led the way to the library, swung open two narrow doors and let her pass.

  “Please be seated. Tea, Miss?”

  “Oh yes, thank you, that would be lovely.” Thankful for a few moments of peace Annabel immediately fell into the familiar cream and rose-colored chair with the shiny cherry wood curved legs. The smells and this very room instantly brought back memories of her days as a young girl playing at the castle whose owner was now the handsome Laird who had married her elder sister.

  Closing her eyes and letting her mind recall, she remembered the Laird, as a young husband, how he had looked at his new wife longingly when no one was around. Annabel had concealed her small body among the many potted plants along the balcony, her favorite hiding place. She saw the wild array of field flowers that were fisted in his huge palm and watched dreamily as he straightened and walked toward Helen. Pushing the flowers at her, she remembered Helen, so very young, too, taking them into her own soft, white hands and coloring prettily. Her sister’s clear blue eyes shown with love that day. Annabel remembered it well.

  Annabel dreamed that she, too, might be the one who was the subject of a man’s sincere love. Hearing a sound far off, she came to herself, hurriedly, before she could be found out. Annabel pulled off her shoes and rubbed her pinched feet. Hearing a polite clearing of a throat from a male voice behind her, she quickly inserted her swollen feet back into her too-small old black shoes and stood, wincing at the pain.

  “Blithers.” She said and made to walk into his arms. “How very good to lay eyes upon you again.” She embraced the man she remembered as gentle and grandfatherly.

  Embarrassed by her gentle caress, he stepped back in a most subtle fashion and spoke quietly. “It is good to see you, Miss Wedgewick.” He said politely. “And you are looking lovely.”

  “You don’t have to say it.” she said then silently chided herself for being so negative, for she knew that she had been born the little brown duckling while both her sisters were like graceful swans. He was trying to make her feel lovely when she knew she wasn’t.

  “Miss?” he wondered.

  “Oh never mind.” She forgot her manners. “Tell me all, Blithers. Have you enjoyed your position with your new Laird?”

  “And what is that to you?” A booming voice sounded from the doorway.

  “Excuse me, Miss Wedgewick.” Blithers said and made away with himself, shutting the double library doors as he backed out, head bowed slightly.

  “Laird Carmichael.” She said, finding her voice.”

  This was not going to be as easy as she’d thought heretofore. What had been in her mind to think she should come here she wondered.

  He said nothing more, but his wide stance and the scowl on his tan face told her all. He was not coming any nearer.

  “State your business. I have work to do.”

  He pushed his thick brown hair away from his face, his muscular forearm and large hand added affliction to her anxiety.

  “If you have come here for an apology, I must agree. You have my apology for my improper actions at the dance. Now is there something else?” he looked bored.

  Ignoring his apology and staring straight ahead, she held onto the fact that she was here only to help Eleanor. Her hands fisted in her dress.

  The Laird noted that her narrow back was ramrod straight, her thin shoulders held back stiffly, her hands wrapped tightly among the folds of her dress. He also noticed a bit of dust fly into the sunlit room as she moved.

  After his deplorable behavior at the dance she should have walked into the room, slapped him and demanded an apology. Instead she seemed to want something.

  He stood arms crossed and stared at her. He was in no mood to try to discern her intentions. Today had not been a good one and this woman, a Wedgewick woman, chose this moment to pounce upon him with her foolishness.

  A peasant’s small child had drowned in the river just hours ago. Sadness settled throughout the small village and he’d sent everyone home so they could mourn and help the family with their loss. The lack of rain had wreaked havoc with the crops, not to mention the fact that several McDougal families had left the Carmichael clan this very morn, preferring to move to the Highlands from whence they had come, which left them short of help for the coming winter months and a sense of failure that perhaps they esteemed his leadership less than honorable.

  Seeing he was not going to do anything but scowl, she tried to find the words she had practiced but to no avail. Thankfully the butler arrived with tea and made quick work of setting the tray upon the table. When Lord Carmichael dismissed him immediately, he stood his ground, arms crossed over his chest. She made no move to sit down.

  “May I?” she asked sidestepping his large body and moving toward the tea table.

  “Or course.” He grunted. While she made much work of the pouring, stirring and adding sugar cubes, he thought about Helen and Meredith. Both were tall, Helen had come up to his ears and he measured over six feet. Meredith was not quite as tall. Both were blond and beautiful as she had said to him once.

  And here stood this small female, slender and unwomanly, chest flat as a tree trunk, looking more like a young girl t
han a fully formed woman. He wondered at the state of her birth. She was certainly from a noble family. But she seemed to possess none of the Wedgewick women’s physical qualities, he admitted.

  And that dress. Its dull grayness did nothing to warrant any beauty from her face. The tattered, too-tight collar looked as though she could hardly swallow a mouthful of tea, let alone breathe. Her dark hair was pulled back so severely he wondered if her brain was affected. Soft brown eyes were her best feature, but well he knew that physical attributes did not identify a woman’s true nature.

  In no mood for frivolous discussions, he turned and without warning nearly shouting at her asked, “What is it you want, woman?”

  At this loud noise, she nearly tipped her cup from the saucer, righted it not a moment before it would have crashed to the floor, and quickly put the cup down, too nervous to keep cup and saucer from clanging loudly in the quiet room.

  Gathering her wits, she turned to him, met his green eyes with her own brown ones, “Have you been to see your wife’s, my sister’s gravestone.” She asked sweetly.

  “No.”

  Taking a deep breath, she hoped he did not notice, for she was uncertain of where she would go had he said otherwise. Needing a few moments to collect her thoughts, she walked slowly, recovered her teacup and saucer, which she had only just put down and turned back to face him.

  “Well, it seems, due to some recent vandalism at the cemetery, Helen’s grave stone has been destroyed.”

  “What of it?”

  How could he be so cruel? She stared. Her teacup tinkled loudly on the saucer again. Had he grown so cold as to not care about Helen at all?

  She paused, and he watched as she took in another deep breath. “Surely, you do not wish the grave stone of your wife… a Carmichael to fall into bad repair?”

  “It lies in England. Why would that matter to me here in Scotland?”

  “I thought it might be of some interest to you. You were her husband. Helen was your wife.”

  Her girl-like voice was surprisingly sure, the Laird noted.

  “You came from England to tell me this?” he mocked her.

  She gazed at his very wide shoulders, then unable to look him in the eye, turned to stare out of the tall window, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer to such a vicious question.

  “And you are here to ask for money to replace it. Is that it?” He had lost his mocking voice, took a step toward her menacingly, back to his demanding tone.

  “Yes.” she turned back angrily and stared at him, hoping to embarrass him. “Why the audacity!” she put on her best English air.

  She watched nervously; his face, devoid of emotions, frightened her. For surely now she had overstepped and made him angry. He placed his hands behind his back, she was sure, to keep from striking her, and paced to and fro across the large room. Not a word issued out of his mouth for a long minute.

  “And if I give you this money, you will see to it that the stone is replaced?” His voice showed more kindness now.

  “Yes, my lord, I will.” She glanced sideways at him. He had suddenly changed course.

  Hopeful now, she added, “I have made inquiries and the cost is 100 lira.”

  “What?” he stopped pacing and looked ready to explode.

  “It was a very nice stone.”

  “For which, if I remember correctly, I have already paid…” he stared back.

  “Yes, but as I said, it was broken.” She lied.

  Suddenly he stood before her, gave her a look from a near-foot above her, then a smile that did not reach his eyes.

  “I shall send a man to look upon the stone. If it is destroyed, I will give you the money.”

  Her brown eyes, huge in her small face, gave her away instantly.

  Pleased with himself, for he could see she lied like a child, he continued.

  “Tea, Miss Wedgewick?” He said her name with a great deal of sarcasm.

  She had failed to fool him. Her instincts told her, but she would not let herself fall now.

  He watched while she lifted the tea cup to her lips and also as it fell slowly from her small hand and landed with a tink on the thin cloth that covered the stone floor.

  “It did not break.” She knelt to pick up the cup and dab her handkerchief on the spot where the tea had spilled to give herself time to collect her thoughts.”

  “A woman of culture, such as the Wedgewick’s, would not stoop to clean up what the servants would.” He smiled above her knowing he had exposed her pretense.

  And then she was angry.

  “You…you…” she stood to her full height, which was slightly below his shoulder, he noticed.

  “Watch yourself, Miss Wedgewick, you do not wish to make me an enemy especially if you wish to commit thievery of my personal resources.”

  “I do not wish to commit thievery, as you so thoughtlessly put it. Have you no care for my sister? She was your wife.” Her brown eyes burned into his, guiltily.

  “And what would you know about that?” he mocked her.

  “Because she was my sister. I know she was not always ladylike in her affairs…”

  He interrupted, “You do not know all you think you do.”

  “Be that as it may, I can see why she did not care for you.” Her frustration knew no bounds.

  “She did care for me in her own way and I her,” he allowed, “But I’m afraid she cared more for herself than she did for anyone.” He turned and stomped toward the door then turned back. “Blithers will see you out.” And was gone before he could utter another unkind word to this woman.

  Annabel opened her mouth but not a word issued from it…suddenly she knew he was right. Helen had hurt him deeply and profoundly. He had not meant for her to see the look of hurt that passed over his face so quickly she wondered if she’d seen it at all.

  Looking down at the recovered teacup still held tightly in her hands, she set it down on the table and pulled in a deep breath. She had tried to get the money for Eleanor and failed.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. She was tired, dirty, and worn out from the worry of this entire affair. Ashamed. And she had lied. To God, to the Laird, and to herself.

  Suddenly crushed and defeated, she picked up her reticule, shoved in her sopped handkerchief and walked slowly toward the double doors where she ran directly into Blithers. Quickly turning as though looking out the window she dabbed at her eyes, turned back, and smiled weakly.

  “It appears that each time we meet, I am blubbering.” Her mouth quivered.

  “You are fatigued. Shall I see to your bath, Miss Wedgewick?” he looked past her, busying himself with picking imaginary lint from his coat sleeves.

  “No Blithers…but thank you just the same. Please tell my driver I’ll be out in a moment…If I might have a glass of water…”

  “Oh, but you cannot leave the castle at this late hour…” He looked fair affronted.

  “I am not welcome here.” She said quietly.

  “Fritz,” he called loudly, “Will you please get Miss Wedgewick a glass of water. Excuse me.” He backed away and turned. “Wait here.”

  “Sir, if I might have a word with you.” He caught up to his employer who was now stalking through the courtyard.

  “What is it?” Laird Carmichael sent a look over his shoulder.

  “I have it on Miss Wedgewick’s word that she is not welcome here?” he followed his employer, still respectful, but the Laird saw his determination.

  “I did not say that.”

  “She thinks it so, sir.”

  “What is that to me?” he thundered.

  “It is late and she has traveled a great distance. Could you not find it in your graces to allow her to stay the eve and be sent off in the morn clean, fed, and rested. I will see to her myself.”

  The Laird’s eyebrows raised. Blithers was his valet! Again he wondered if the older man was going daft.

  “If you insist, let her stay this one eve Blithers. And…” he stopped po
intedly, then ordered, “Let Mrs. Pembroke see to her.”

  “As you wish.”

  Blithers hurried back to the castle to do the Laird’s bidding and called Mrs. Pembroke into duty to see to their guest.

  “Mrs. Pembroke will see your needs, Miss Wedgewick.” He bowed ever so slightly.

  “Thank you, Blithers. It is good to see you again. Good eve.”

  “Good eve.” He called out pleased that she was to be rested and fed, for he remembered her kindnesses to others at the castle, even as a young lass.

  Once alone in her room, ensconced in the deep, warm, rose-scented bath prepared by the servants, Annabel let herself cry silent tears. Soon they turned into sobs and Mrs. Pembroke caught her unawares.

  “Child, what could be so bad?” she said tenderly.

  “Oh.” Annabel raised herself from the water and took the offered wrap and covered herself. “Tis only my shortcomings.” She allowed.

  “As we all possess.” Mrs. Pembroke said as she busied herself turning down the bed coverings and patting the pillows into submission, while her guest donned borrowed nightwear. “In the morn all will be well.”

  “Yes.” Annabel agreed and smiled, for she did not wish Mrs. Pembroke to let anyone know she had been found weeping. She must stay strong. For Eleanor. For herself…and even in memory of her dead sister. She would find a way…soon. If only she could tell Laird Carmichael the truth…but thinking of all that had passed between them below stairs, she knew it would not go well. And she had vowed to her sister never to reveal the child’s birth to Laird Carmichael. How then could she?

  Quickly she covered her musings and crawled into the huge bed, burrowing into the fresh scented linens. Her fingers touched her mouth where he had kissed her. Her first kiss and by one who meant it for harm. Tired and beyond rational reasoning she closed her burning eyes and was asleep before another thought could rob her of rest. Mrs. Pembroke, hearing her guest’s even breathing, picked up the sad looking gray dress and slipped out the door and clicked it gently to its close.

  Morn brought the sound of rain at the castle windows. Rain? It had been dry for so long the crops were in danger of failing. Annabel ran to the windows and sure enough raindrops slid down the tall panes of glass making dozens of rivulets through the dust.