Dearest Millie
The Pennington Family Series
May McGoldrick
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Dearest Millie (Pennington Family Series)
Copyright © 2018 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: MM Books.
Edited by Christa Soulé Désir, at EditorChrista.com
Cover by Dar Albert, at WickedSmartDesigns.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dearest Millie (The Pennington Family)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Author’s Note
Excerpt of Highland Crown
About the Author
Dedication
To all who have fought the battle,
to all who continue to fight,
and to the families and friends who support them.
Chapter 1
The Abbey
Western Aberdeen
The Scottish Highlands
DEAREST MILLIE,
I should be working, but the golden sun is descending in the southwest, lighting my work room with a magical glow. In the gardens beneath the window, I hear my patients being brought in for their supper. I cast my gaze around at the disarray in this office and think for the thousandth time: I should keep better order here. Millie would not approve.
My thoughts rarely stray far from you, my love. Every memory of you is as brilliant as this setting summer sun. And like that celestial orb, my living recollection of all our time together only dips beneath the summer horizon for a few moments, it seems, before emerging again to light my day.
Star-crossed lovers! I hear the term often, but it does not apply to us. If fate had any part in our history, dearest Millie, it played a benign role in the end.
Our introduction was not an easy one, to be sure. Chance did indeed seem to be interfering. All those opportunities to meet, thwarted...
The first time you came to the Abbey, I was in Aberdeen on business. You were passing through with the intention of visiting with your sister and her new husband, my fastidious partner, Wynne Melfort. When I returned, I found my office had been completely reorganized. Books and journals were put away on shelves and in bookcases. Files were boxed and marked alphabetically by case. The floors were completely cleared, and my carpets shaken out. And my desk—there you went too far, m’lady—tidy and clean, pens and ink bottles lined up like soldiers on parade. And a fresh blotter! Every surface gleamed. Unheard of doings!
I must admit, I never knew the wood of my desk had such beautiful markings in the grain.
You, however, escaped my wrath, continuing your travels north by the time I returned.
After that, I longed for an opportunity to meet the much talked-about—and yet mysteriously alluring—sister-in-law of my partner, the woman who organized my office. I just missed you when I journeyed to Edinburgh that autumn to confer with old colleagues at the medical college. You were in Hertfordshire with your parents, cowardly lass that you are. Your sister Lady Phoebe happened to be at your family home on Heriot Row. I must say, she delighted in helping me to rearrange your rooms and turn every book in your personal library upside down.
I soon learned, to my dismay, that Pennington women are not to be trusted. You were duly informed of my efforts to disrupt your life. The following spring when I returned from only a short stay in Aberdeen—where I’d gone to engage a new doctor to assist me at the hospital here—I found you had again come and gone like a thief in the night. You can only imagine my surprise to discover the entrance to my office had been stolen. Where the door had once been, I found a row of bookcases that had formerly lined the walls of my work place. And, curiously enough, all the books were in order, by author, an organizational concept I admit I never once considered. I knew immediately the identity of my office thief.
Then, finally, my moment arrived, when I received an invitation to the Summer Ball at Baronsford. I was not about to miss this opportunity again, for you would be there. How strangely fate works, however, that we were destined to run into each other—albeit without introduction—only a few days before . . .
Chapter 2
Edinburgh, Scotland
June 1819
NO TOMBS LINED THE walls of the silent, murky foyer where Millie Pennington stood numb and frozen. This was no ancient crypt with some carved effigy of a crusading knight and his lady lying on a stone slab, blankly staring for all eternity upward into the shadows of a vaulted ceiling. But when the door to the doctor’s consultation room closed behind her, Millie felt sealed in, caught in an eternity of muted desolation, cut off from the world of light and air.
She turned her head at the faint sound of a funeral bell tolling somewhere in the great city. The dark walls wavered around her, moving inward, encroaching menacingly. The distant knell ceased, and her shallow breaths were again the only sound. The small fan-shaped window over the door to the street admitted a brownish light through the soot-covered glass. So far, she’d been able to hold her emotions in check, but now she felt her insides implode. Then the tears came, covering her cheeks and dripping from her chin like ice thawing and pouring from a slate roof.
Not so long ago, her life had been in perfect order, arranged just as she wished it. Twenty-six years of age, she was the youngest daughter to the Earl and Countess of Aytoun. She had four loving siblings, all married with children and another baby on the way. Millie was a creature of tidiness and efficiency, of plans, of thinking through every step she was to take for all the days and months and years ahead. Financially secure, she would be happy to marry if the right man came along, but she could also see herself growing comfortably older and caring for her aging parents. She would be the ideal, doting aunt to a generation of nieces and nephews.
How quickly one’s dreams shattered! Fate had such immeasurable power! It could, in an instant, hurl one from a precipice into a bottomless abyss.
The musty smell of the foyer threatened to suffocate her. Millie couldn’t breathe. She had to get out.
She pushed out the door and stumbled down the stairs. The cobbled lane was slick with the recent rain, and the smoky Edinburgh air offered little relief. The acrid stench of a thousand coal fires stung her nose and lungs, but her mind was elsewhere, filled with countless faces demanding answers.
Millie was a devoted daughter, the most agreeable of all her brothers and sisters. She was a selfless and generous friend. She’d carved out a life path paved with compassion and kindness. She’d walked upon it with a clear conscience.
Still.
She moved forward a few steps, numb and unheeding of where her feet were taking her. Blurred grey and brown brick crowded her on either side.
Why me?
Millie’s knees wobbled as faintness overtook her. She staggered, falling against a wall. Leaning there, she held a handkerchief to her face and tried to force air into her lungs.
Opium, arsenic, salv
e, balms. Prayers. Lots and lots of prayers. At some time during the consultation today, she’d stopped hearing the suggestions.
Fresh tears sprang onto her cheeks. She couldn’t tell anyone. She couldn’t tell her family. Not even Phoebe. Two years apart in age, the sisters were closest in age. They were the best of friends, confidantes. But Phoebe was due to have a child next month. Millie would never ruin her sister’s happiness by sharing her news. What she’d learned today must be her own cross to bear.
Millie pushed away from the wall. At the bottom of the lane sat Cowgate, and the thoroughfare was a blur of pedestrians and vendors, carts and carriages. As she moved toward it, a narrow wynd on her left led into a dismal close. Two ragged children stood wide-eyed, watching her, just inside next to a pile of refuse.
She motioned to them, and they approached warily. Emptying her purse into their hands, they stared, suspicious of such unknown generosity. The younger girl tried to give her back the bank notes.
“It’s yours to share. All of it. Go. Go,” she urged. The two ran off, disappearing into the murky close.
“I won’t need it. Not today.” Her voice shook, her vision clouded. “Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
She was speaking to no one. They were gone.
Still looking in the direction they’d gone, Millie turned to start down the lane again and immediately bumped into a man coming briskly up from Cowgate.
DERMOT MCKENDRY WAS late, as usual, but the sight of a woman emptying her reticule into the outstretched hands of street urchins immediately caught his attention. His mind had been on the meeting with a former medical colleague of his, an anatomist connected with the Surgeon’s Hall, not a stone’s throw from here. The man kept consulting rooms in the building at the end of the lane, and he’d recently published a treatise on erratic behavior following traumatic head injuries. Dermot had founded the Abbey Hospital, a licensed private asylum for those suffering from mental disorders caused by injury or disease in the hills west of Aberdeen, specifically to treat such patients, and he was eager to hear his friend’s latest observations.
The woman never saw him before they collided, and Dermot reached out to steady her. She was medium in height, young, from what he could tell. The words of apology forming on his lips were forgotten the moment his gaze fell on her distraught face. As she recovered her footing, her chin dropped to her chest, and the bonnet effectively blocked his view of the pale visage. But not before he saw the tears.
He was stunned for a moment. He knew her.
They’d never actually met, had never been introduced, but he recognized Millie Pennington from her portrait in the family’s Heriot Row home in Edinburgh. He’d been fascinated by her for a year, eager for the moment when they’d finally be introduced. Her playful sense of humor engaged him, her insistence on bringing order to his life tickled him.
Dermot felt as tongue-tied as a schoolboy, and his words became jumbled as he tried to speak. “M’lady—”
“Pardon me, sir.”
Without uttering another syllable, she disengaged herself and hurried down the lane. Dermot looked after her, speechless, and in less than a moment, she’d disappeared around the corner.
What was she doing here? he wondered.
She was clearly quite distressed. He recalled her words to the waifs. I won’t need it. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
The grey eyes had been full of tears, and her demeanor reminded him of a person in mourning. Dermot immediately thought of the Pennington family and what he’d come to know about them. Lord Aytoun, her father, was advancing in age, as was her mother. But he’d heard no ill tidings about them. He would have, for he’d come south from the Highlands to attend their Summer Ball at Baronsford.
Not that he had any interest in dancing. He’d come for one reason only—to meet Millie Pennington.
He turned to go after her. By the time he reached the thoroughfare, she was gone, lost in the bustling crowds and the traffic. He’d never find her now.
Retracing his steps, Dermot picked up a card he’d seen fall onto the cobblestones when she was giving her money to the children.
Immediately, he recognized the physician’s name.
Chapter 3
BARONSFORD. A FAIRY-tale castle surrounded by farms, meadows, and forest. Riding in his hired carriage along the winding road leading to the front door, Dermot passed a shimmering loch that disappeared into a green grove.
Five days had passed since he’d last seen her. Five days since he’d abused his position in the medical profession and cajoled Millie Pennington’s physician into revealing the truth of why a patient matching her description—for she’d not used her real name—was so upset after consulting with him.
Dermot stared across the fields at the River Tweed, meandering past on its way to the sea. How many poets had written of life as a river, carrying one through the turbulence and trials of this frail existence? He knew sickness well. He’d seen it in its many forms—on the sea, in the surgery, in the hospital bed. He’d tended to the infirmities of strangers and those he’d loved dearly.
Tomorrow offered no promises, regardless of how healthy one appeared or how much worldly wealth one possessed. Change was the only constant, and the same end awaited all. What mattered was that life needed to be embraced. Today. This moment.
His mind slipped back through the years. Millie’s tear-stained face was replaced with another. Susan’s pale and sunken cheeks, and her blue eyes, filled with despair, appeared again like a wandering specter, reminding him, cautioning him about all that could go wrong. He ran a hand over his face and forced down once again the decade-old ache, hiding it from the world, keeping his pain shut up tightly in his heart.
The blur of memories cleared as his carriage approached the gated courtyard. Baronsford was alive and clearly thriving. The grandeur of the place was both inspiring and daunting.
The wealth and power of the Penningtons were legendary, as was their reputation for hospitality. The local gentry and anyone with the slightest connection to the family waited with anticipation for the two days a year when Baronsford opened its doors to outsiders. But the family was also famous for their tight-knit loyalty.
He wondered if Millie had told them. Many people in her situation often refused to share their news with loved ones. They preferred to lock their secret away. Looking at the line of carriages ahead of him, he had his doubts that she’d said anything. If the Penningtons knew of Millie’s illness, this ball would not be taking place.
A few moments later, Dermot ascended the steps past footmen and other servants, and entered a magnificent foyer. He was a first-time visitor, but he didn’t share any of the open enthusiasm being voiced by other guests around him. Before tall double doors leading into the huge Palladian-style ballroom, a crowd dressed in their finest gowns and evening clothes jostled for a better place as they waited to enter. The music of Haydn blended with the sounds of revelers inside.
Realizing he needed to put on a more festive demeanor before entering, he made his way to a window overlooking the courtyard. He was accustomed to presenting an amusing façade to those around him. Over the years, Dermot had mastered the art of hiding pain behind a persona of charm and humor. And in his experience, people saw only what he allowed them to see. Or what they desired to see. Few had any interest in finding out why a distinguished physician from the finest university in Scotland would suddenly choose to become a ship’s surgeon for a decade and then invest his inheritance and education in the founding of an asylum.
He looked away from the other guests.
Millie. He was here for Millie.
He was a doctor, he told himself. He had a duty to help if he could. Any physical ailment was a challenge, and it was natural to feel extreme sadness and even grief after learning the truth. But he knew, better than anyone, the destructiveness of grief.
In the ballroom, the orchestra struck up a waltz. The throng of waiting guests had dwindled, and through the doors, he scanne
d the reception line. The family was together. The mood appeared jovial. Nothing seemed amiss.
Except that Millie was not among them.
“Dr. McKendry, you’re here.”
Dermot turned around and smiled at the son of his partner, Wynne Melfort. Cuffe was dressed like a duke and exuded the confidence and self-assurance of a young man well beyond his eleven years. Though he still had a lock of unruly hair draped across his brow, he was a different person since the family had returned from Jamaica, bringing Cuffe’s grandmother back with them.
Cuffe gestured toward the door. “I can show you another way in, if you don’t care to meet the family right off. Lord Aytoun is a gruff one on the outside, but kindly as an old parson once he knows you. The viscount is exactly the same.”
Dermot knew of the men from information Jo had shared. He also knew of the duel between the viscount, Hugh Pennington, and Wynne years ago. The two stood next to each other now, exchanging friendly barbs as if nothing had ever divided them.
Dermot stared beyond the receiving line, and he could still see no sign of Millie.
“But the women folk in my family are all soft as combed wool.” Cuffe’s brown eyes lit up his face. “Lady Aytoun is the best, warm as summer sunlight.”
He wasn’t surprised to hear this. Those of her children he’d met reflected the same warmth.
Cuffe pointed to another door. “Still, if we go out the library doors, we can get in through the gardens—”
He shook his head. “Thanks, lad. I’m looking forward to meeting the family.” He paused. “But I’d like to see Lady Millie first, and she doesn’t appear to be in the reception line.”
“I heard she’s not coming down for the ball.”
“Why not? Is she unwell?”
“A headache. I heard Lady Jo talking to the doctor. She’s resting in her room.”
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