Once Again, My Laird

by Angeline Fortin

  Chapter Nine

  Fife region of Scotland

  August 1821

  It’d taken two more Malcolm Mackintoshes at her dinner table to convince Georgiana to give in to Bernie’s idea to hunt for the true Mal herself. As she’d predicted, she’d been on pins and needles for weeks, never knowing when the next prospect might be shown through her door. Each day, she’d lingered over her toilette on the chance Maisie might dig up the right one. Examining every tiny line on her face, plucking at stray gray hairs that seemed to spring up more frequently.

  The uncertainty had been excruciating.

  But not without an element of humor. Both men doddered on the cusp of old age right along with the initial colonel her daughter had brought around. With no hope of dissuading Maisie from her preposterous endeavor and to spare herself the continued—if unintentional—insult to her supposed age, she’d felt there was no alternative but to end it once and for all.

  By finding her Mal. A man who at three and forty years would in all likelihood not require the crutch or ear horn her daughter clearly presumed he’d have.

  Georgiana purposely dwelled on the comicality of the situation as much as possible. Better to bear some disparagement of her age than imagine and reimagine what might happen if she actually found Mal.

  Better to have the control in finding him rather than apprehensively waiting for him to come to her, she’d decided.

  Maisie celebrated with squeals of delight when she’d been told of Georgiana’s decision, though her glee had dissolved to petulance when she’d been informed it would be Bernie rather than she who would accompany Georgiana on the expedition. Of course a woman in her delicate condition could not risk her health for such an arduous and uncertain journey. Ardmore fully agreed with that point.

  Since Georgiana also did not want her daughter present if and when she found Mal, she appreciated her son-in-law’s support on the matter.

  And it was beginning to look more and more of an if rather than a when situation.

  Previously, Maisie had been working with no more than a name and the knowledge of Mal’s position as an officer in the Black Guard. Georgiana provided more details regarding his rank, his battalion within the 42nd, though she couldn’t recall if Mal had ever mentioned his company, and his age, though they chose to search a small range of birth years given the irregular reporting of birthdates throughout the country. With Ardmore’s assistance, they’d narrowed down the list of possibilities considerably.

  Unfortunately, the name Malcolm MacKintosh had proven to be far more common than any of them expected. Despite their struggles to reduce the number, they were left with a list of sixteen men. The MacKintosh clan was vast and the name Malcolm a popular one in Scotland. Leaving off those who died during the intervening years—difficult enough to consider those—there remained eleven men by that name recorded on the census over the past two decades. They dismissed five more due to their listed residences, as Georgiana knew Mal had lived by a large firth, and regionally excluded the borderlands between England and Scotland, as he had been a member of the 42nd Highlanders. By definition, that required a more northerly address.

  Employing that logic, six viable options remained.

  Confronting the first possibility on the list was the worst. Eaten up with nerves over the course of their long journey to Scotland, Georgiana wasn’t able to convince herself to even exit the carriage. She hugged Baird against her. The massive dog commanded more than his fair share of the seat, yet she’d insisted he come along to comfort and calm her anxieties. Also in his favor, he offered no reproach while she presented one justification after another as to why this quest was all a terribly dreadful idea in the first place. Unlike Bernie, who was unrelenting with her recriminations of cowardice and had a pert riposte for each excuse.

  “What if it’s him this time?” Georgiana asked Bernie.

  “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

  “But what if he doesn’t recognize me? What would I say?”

  Bernie rolled her eyes. “You might try hello.”

  “Hello,” Georgiana repeated, not bothering to wipe away Baird’s wet lick of sympathy from her cheek. “What then? Remember me? I’m the woman you claimed to love more than life itself?”

  “That might ring a bell,” came Bernie’s dry reply.

  She clung to Baird as if he might provide an unbreakable anchor to the coach, accepting moral support from any source available. “And what if he does recognize me? Look at me. I’m twenty-one years older than he might remember.”

  “I’ve noticed that is how time tends to progress.”

  “You’re no help at all.”

  “Nonsense, I’m brimming with the grandest advice.”

  In the end, Bernie forcibly pushed her from the carriage and towed her with a firm hand to the entrance of the tidy manor south of Dumfries. Palpitations of her heart nearly had Georgiana in a faint before they reached the door. A moment later, they discovered all her fretting was for naught. It wasn’t her Mal who came to the door. Nor was he at the second residence they visited just outside Glasgow. The wife of that Malcolm was quite vocal in her scolding of both Georgiana and her husband when he leered drunkenly at her and said he wouldn’t mind a duchess for a wife who was a sight easier on his eyes than his current one.

  She’d wondered about it in abstract when considering Mal’s life after they parted, but hadn’t thought out what she’d do if Mal turned out to be a married man in truth. The possibility was added to her point list when debating with Bernie all the reasons against persisting in their pointless journey. Her friend discounted it, naturally. Following that encounter, however, Bernie agreed it might be best to be more discreet in their approach to the men on their list.

  At the next stop, they enquired at the local inn before heading to the large farm east of Glencoe. For their efforts, the innkeeper indicated a man a few tables away. Without approaching, they checked that Mal off the list.

  The most painless encounter yet was when Malcolm number four was pointed out to them on the streets of Newberg. From a distance, she dismissed him by his flaming red hair alone.

  The expedition, now roughly a month in duration, was wearing on Georgiana physically as well as emotionally. Baird frequently plopped his rump in her lap, leaving her crowded and uncomfortable. To boot, he hung his head out the small window taking the meager breeze for himself and allowing her little airflow or view to enjoy. Bernie considered this a price Georgiana had to pay for insisting the beast come along.

  On top of that, having never traveled farther than to London from either Somerset or Bath, she was unprepared for the effects of the long journey north and spent days at a time nauseated by the constant jolting and rocking over the uneven roads even Bridgewater’s well-sprung coach couldn’t cushion. The trip left her wan and without a healthy appetite. To make matters worse, she’d already rotated through the score of gowns she’d packed, making it difficult to feel fresh or look her best after long days inside the carriage despite her maid’s best efforts.

  From lowland to high. From Dumfries and north before circling south again. If she ever did find Mal, he’d be lucky if she didn’t cast up her accounts on his shoes.

  “Are you sure you haven’t had enough, Bernie?”

  “How is it you’re not having the time of your life?” her friend exclaimed. She’d kicked off her shoes hours ago and propped her stockinged feet up on Georgiana’s seat, pinning her in more. “I’ve an army of nannies and governesses back home to care for the children, and we’ve an endless hamper of wine, cheese, and fruit here at our feet. A sunny day and no social obligations. Why, I haven’t been so relaxed in years.”

  Bernie’s good cheer hadn’t wavered at all, although her half-empty wine goblet did with each sway of the vehicle. She tossed a bit of sausage to Baird now and then, ensuring that Georgiana would have no one on her side to win the argument. Never mind that the carriage was hers and all the coachmen and outriders in her e
mploy. Bernie’s will ruled the journey.

  At least her friend didn’t mind riding on the rear-facing seat. There was that to be grateful for.

  Gratitude didn’t stop her from trying once more to reason with her friend. “This is our fifth Malcolm MacKintosh now. Are you prepared to admit yet that this has been a futile exercise?”

  Bernie ignored the question and answered with one of her own. “Are you certain there was nothing else he said that could lead us to the appropriate one?”

  “I told you, all I know is that his family’s ancestral estate is on a firth.”

  “There are hundreds of those.”

  Yes, they were finding that out all too well.

  Bernie refilled her goblet with a frown. “And nothing else?”

  “Nothing that would help locate him. His mother’s name is Margaret. He has two older brothers, and a cantankerous auld bastard for a father. His words, not mine.”

  “I simply cannot believe you don’t know anything more useful.”

  As it was nearing the hundredth reiteration of the same complaint, Georgiana refrained from responding yet again. There was pitifully little information for them to go on. At seventeen, with Mal’s descriptions of his homeland thorough enough to satisfy her, specifics regarding location and direction hadn’t mattered. It was the one topic where he could wax as poetically in speech as he could in writing.

  He loved his home. Just as he’d once loved her. At least she needn’t fear that happening again. She’d made that possibility more than impossible.

  Her stomach grumbled angrily and so vocally, Bernie offered her first show of sympathy. Digging into the basket, she withdrew a small loaf of a honey-sweetened rye bread they’d picked up while passing through a small village called Glenrothes on their journey south from Newberg.

  “Poor dear, here, eat something.”

  The thought of food sent her stomach into somersaults but not in welcome. She tore off a small hunk and ate it anyway, hoping it would stay where she put it.

  “I’ve likely lost a stone or more on this trip and there will be naught to show for it.”

  “At least your daughter will have nothing more to complain about,” her friend pointed out. “We’ve given it our best effort, haven’t we? Oh, my poor darling, you do look rather peaked again. We’ve one more stop in this area then perhaps we might take a day or two afterward in Edinburgh to rest up and do a bit of shopping? What do you think?”

  “Now you’re asking my opinion?” she sighed. The bread was tasty. Rich and sweet. “How kind of you to involve me.”

  There was little chance Bernie could miss the sarcasm in Georgiana’s voice, nevertheless she leaned forward and patted her hand appreciatively. “You’re so welcome, dearest.”

  Georgiana rested her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes. “I will console myself with the fact that we’ve only two more visits to make before we may go home and put this nonsense behind us.” Two more visits to prompt the same rush of nerves as the first four candidates. It hadn’t gotten any easier from one to the next. Would this be the one? Then there would follow the crush of disappointment, fleeting but painful, before the relief.

  She ought to have sent out a letter of inquiry to each name on the list to begin with. The one who failed to reply might have been the correct Mal. And what then? Wonder from afar for years to come what he’d thought or how he’d reacted to hearing from her after all this time?

  Other than shred the letter and toss it into the fire, which she considered a given in that scenario.

  For all her reticence, it was better this way…if it must be done at all. A brief, likely awkward, tête-à-tête and that would be that. Oh, she wanted nothing so much in the world but for this to all be done and left behind once more.

  “Who’s next on the list then? And are we close?”

  Bernie withdrew a creased piece of paper from her reticule. “Quite close. Raven’s Craig Castle near Kirkaldy. Your coachman said at the last stop it wouldn’t be long.” She glanced out the window to gauge the time. “This Malcolm MacKintosh is the Earl of Glenrothes.”

  Georgiana opened an eye. “I’m not certain how that one made the list at all. I told you, Mal was a third son. That’s why he served in the military.”

  “Well, he’s on the list and see, we’ve arrived.”

  The carriage slowed and eventually halted in the shadows cast by an ancient carved stone castle. Georgiana peered through the window skeptically. Raven’s Craig Castle had to be more than three or four centuries old. Rows of low piled stone marked the perimeter of the original curtain wall. Though the center section and taller, rounded tower on the westerly side seemed to be in good repair, the lower eastern tower—or what must have once been a tower—on the slope toward the firth was nothing more than a pile of rubble. Still, it bore a certain charm and an element of noble romance.

  If she were to find Mal here, she couldn’t ask for a more fairytale setting.

  But an earl? She shook her head. There was no chance of that. If Mal had been in possession of a fine family or certain prospects, her father wouldn’t have so summarily dismissed his suit.

  “We might as well at least ask.”

  More eager for a chance to stretch after hours in the coach, Georgiana shoved Baird off her lap and reached for the door handle. A footman dashed over to help her descend with some semblance of dignity, though she would’ve been happy enough to leap to the ground as her dog did and have a bit of a run.

  A breeze lifted the damp hairs at her temples and she inhaled deeply, relishing the cool, crisp air. Baird dodged from one tree to the next, marking each one as his own before dashing around the castle. Spying a hint of blue water beyond, she called for him to return but the dog ignored her. She could only hope he was going for a long drink and not a swim. Neither she nor Bernie would welcome a wet canine in the carriage.

  The second coach bearing their maids and luggage pulled to a halt behind them, while their mounted outriders circled them before stopping. The quartet of men dismounted as one, on guard for trouble, as always.

  Her coachman also jumped down from his seat. “Shall I ring at the door for you, your grace?”

  “No, thank you, William. I can manage a knocker.”

  “Can you?” Bernie asked dryly as she climbed down and made straight for the castle. “No time for your delay tactics today, Georgie. Get on with it or I will. And I shan’t be too polite in begging for admittance. You really shouldn’t let me drink so much wine.”

  As if Georgiana possessed the power or will to stop her.

  She kept pace with Bernie as they crossed a stone arched bridge spanning a grassy depression that she assumed might’ve once been the castle’s moat. Other than a few small windows higher up, there was but one door on the castle face so they headed toward it. Bernie dropped the massive iron knocker on the oak door with a thud before Georgiana could make an excuse not to.

  Momentarily, a stocky, graying man opened the door. His pale blue stare studied them both with open suspicion.

  “Can I help ye?”

  “You might.” Georgiana drew a calling card from her reticule and held it out. Her hand shook slightly as her usual bout of nerves struck when the moment of truth was upon her. She hoped the butler—if he could be called that—didn’t take note. “The Duchess of Bridgewater to see Malcolm MacKintosh. Is he available? I ask only for a few moments of his time.”

  The old man cocked his head, regarding her as if she were a peculiar curiosity lurking in the darkest corner of the British Museum. He squinted at the card but didn’t take it. He scratched at his balding pate.

  “No, mum. He isnae here.”

  “Will he back soon?”

  “Nay.”

  “We could come back tomorrow if you expect him?” she tried again.

  “Unlikely.”

  Unlikely they could come back? Or that he expected the earl? Georgiana shared a perplexed shrug with Bernie.

  “Mi
ght I take a moment to refresh myself before we depart then?” her friend asked.

  “Refresh yerself?” He scratched his head again.

  It took two more attempts and much more plain language for the nature of Bernie’s question to be made clear. In the end, it was her friend’s cheeks aflame and his grumbling complaints Georgiana had the pleasure of enjoying as the old man led Bernie down the central hall of the castle. He hadn’t bothered to invite her in but she didn’t mind.

  Diverted by the odd encounter, she walked away from the castle and called for Baird. Finding some shade among the oaks surrounding the fortress, she enjoyed the serenity of the setting and waited for both friend and canine to return, hoping a footman wouldn’t have to be sent to retrieve either one of them.

  It truly was a lovely old castle.

  “Pardon me, mum.”

  She twirled around to find a squat, middle-aged woman in a cap and linen apron emerging from the castle door.

  “Did I hear ye say ye were looking for his lordship?”

  “The Earl of Glenrothes, yes. Do you know when he’ll return? I require a moment of his time.”

  “Nay, mum.”

  Georgiana sighed, thinking the woman might be as obtuse with her answers as the old man.

  “That is, I dinnae expect he’ll be back any time soon,” the woman went on. “He’s residing at the new manor house these days. If ye wish to speak wi’ him, ye’ll ha' far better luck searching him out there.”

  “Where is that exactly?”

  “Glen Cairn Manor, east of Glenrothes.”

  Glenrothes? The village they’d passed through an hour before. She groaned aloud. There was no chance she’d backtrack at this point for nothing.

  “Thank you…?”

  “Joyce, mum,” she answered, dropping into an awkward curtsey.

  “Joyce, thank you for your time.”

  The woman bobbed again. “I ken it’s a wee drive, but I hope ye’ll take the time to visit his lordship. I ken he’d enjoy it. He disnae get many visitors. Certainly no’ fine ladies like ye.”