An American in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  “Are you enjoying your stay in Scotland?” William asked her.

  Thank God he’d changed the topic. Please, don’t make me go back there, even in my thoughts. This time in Glasgow was a purge, of sorts. She was cleansing her mind and maybe her soul. Anything but remembering those years, her helplessness, and her hatred.

  Chapter 5

  Duncan halted at the entrance to the dining room. Rose was already there, just as she was every morning for the last week. Just as he had every morning for the last week, he felt a surge of something curiously like excitement.

  He wasn’t behaving like himself and that fact both confused and amused him.

  For a moment he debated whether he should skip breakfast. They’d managed, for the last week, to eat most of their meals together, but in the morning they were alone.

  He was finding himself in the odd position of being fascinated with a woman. The more he learned about her, the more he wanted to know. He wanted to understand why she got that far-­off gaze in her eyes from time to time. Was she recalling Glengarden? Did she yearn to return there? Or was it sadness for Bruce he saw?

  “Do you like beets?” he asked as he entered the dining room.

  She stopped in the act of extending the napkin across her lap and looked over at him.

  “Is that what we’re having for breakfast?” she asked.

  He had the feeling that if he said yes, she would have planted a perfectly acceptable expression on her face and forced herself to eat them.

  The way she moved was as if each action was deliberate: the placement of a hand, the extension of a finger. She kept her elbows tucked into her sides as if afraid to take up too much space. Even her walk was set and defined. Her skirt never belled like Glynis’s, revealing her ankles when she raced from place to place. Instead, Rose reminded him of a statue come to life, unfamiliar with the freedom once she was no longer bolted to her pedestal.

  He was tempted to grab her hands and swing her in a circle, just to make her laugh or to set her free from her precision.

  Her eyes were level and direct. She rarely looked away from the object of her conversation, as if she had once been told she’d be punished for inattention.

  She fascinated him because she was a porcelain doll like the one Glynis had as a girl, the same one his mother had kept all these years. He’d always thought the doll a little bizarre, but Glynis had set him straight.

  “It’s because you don’t love her, that’s why. You just see that she’s a doll. You don’t see Betty.”

  He wondered if he were making the same mistake with Rose. Was he just seeing what Rose wanted everyone to see, and not the woman beneath?

  “No beets, thank heavens,” he said, sitting opposite her.

  The rectangular table could be expanded with several leaves, but for normal occasions it sat four comfortably. Since his mother was absent, it meant she was either abed, which was a foreign occurrence, or off doing something nice for someone else, which was more likely.

  Lily bustled in a second later with two laden plates, each piled high with Mabel’s choice of breakfast. Between the blood pudding, sausages, toast, and eggs, it was enough to keep him full for most of the day.

  Rose studied her plate.

  “Then why did you ask me about beets?”

  “I suppose it was a test, of sorts,” he said. “They taste like dirt to me. I have tried, on numerous occasions, to acquire a taste for them. I’ve not been able to do so.”

  “Do you have more affinity to those who dislike beets, is that it? What if I asked the same thing about peas? Do you like peas?”

  “Not particularly. Do you?”

  She nodded, then surprised him with a smile, one so bright it took him aback.

  “I don’t like beets, though. Does that put me in your good graces?”

  “I don’t believe you’ve ever been out of my good graces, Rose,” he said, smiling. “Disliking beets only solidifies your place there.”

  She stared down at the plate in front of her.

  Rose was above average height, perhaps even taller than Glynis. Her stillness made her appear smaller. Yet this woman had crossed the ocean on her own in order to barter with him. And barter she had. She’d ticked off every single advantage to purchasing her cotton, even considering the very large drawback of him having to go and procure it.

  She was a born tradesman, a comment he had made to her when they sat in the small parlor one night.

  She’d startled him by smiling in delight.

  “My father was a greengrocer,” she said. “He was so successful he bought out all of his competitors. He always said that it was because most ­people expected an Irishman to only know about cabbages. He could pick up any vegetable or fruit and tell you how it would cure you. How ginger helped the stomach and celery the breath. I think ­people came to his stores not only because of the quality of his produce but to be entertained by his knowledge. He said you couldn’t sell what you didn’t know.”

  She’d taken a deep breath and exhaled it.

  “He was a grand man and I’ve missed him every day he’s been gone.”

  “I feel the same about my father,” he had confessed. “I always ask myself what he would think of my decisions.”

  “I know exactly what my father would say,” she said. “He wouldn’t be happy with me, so I’m not for asking him.”

  “What have you done that he would have disapproved of?”

  “Lied,” she said, staring down at her gloved hands. A second later she’d transferred the look to him. “I’ve sworn at God, I’m afraid. I’ve been angry at Him, and my father would not be pleased.”

  The more she said, the more he wanted to know.

  “You can’t have been all that evil,” he said.

  Would she tell him what she’d lied about? The rage at God was easy to understand. She was a widow. Why wouldn’t she have been angry at the Almighty for taking her beloved husband from her?

  Except that Bruce wasn’t her beloved husband, was he?

  “Why didn’t you like Bruce?” he asked now. “I’m assuming your feelings about him changed after your wedding. Was it slavery?”

  She looked up at him. “Yes.”

  He remained silent, wondering if she would expand on her answer. Getting information from Rose was a patient project, but he was willing to give as much time as it took.

  She looked away, toward the small breakfront, as if fascinated with the display of his great-­grandmother’s china.

  “On my arrival at Glengarden, I was given a personal maid, a girl of thirteen. She, too, was a slave, as were all the servants. I asked Bruce to free her. He refused. Instead of a birthday present or a Christmas gift, all I wanted was Phibba’s freedom. He always steadfastly refused.”

  She hesitated and he waited again.

  “I soon found out that Phibba was pregnant. Being my maid was easier than sending her to work in the field. A few months later she died in childbirth.”

  “Were slaves allowed to marry that young?”

  “Slaves weren’t allowed to be married. Phibba was assaulted by someone before I arrived at Glengarden.”

  “Did you ever find out who assaulted her?”

  She turned her head and regarded him steadily.

  “No. Even my questions were treated with derision. Why was I so concerned? She was only a slave. She was replaceable. She wasn’t important.”

  She stared down at the plate in front of her. “The only comment Bruce ever made about her was that it was a pity her child hadn’t lived because the boy could have fetched a good price.”

  He stared at her. In her story was disgust, sadness, but also the same sort of horror he’d felt reading Bruce’s letters.

  He’d had the sense that Bruce MacIain was firmly fixed in his role as owner of Glengarden, whatever prest
ige that brought him. In one letter the man had listed the acreage he possessed along the Wando River, what a landmark his plantation was, and how many slaves he owned.

  That one comment had made him hold the letter away as if the pages held a contagion.

  Ever since he was old enough to understand how cotton was grown, he’d had a sense of disgust for the process. He disliked being complicit in the continuation of slavery, but the fact was, the mill needed cotton and there were few places to get it, the best being from the southern states.

  Yet until Bruce had bragged of his ownership of other human beings, he’d never been ashamed. A relative of his, a MacIain, owned slaves.

  He didn’t say anything for a long while, merely began to eat a breakfast he no longer wanted.

  “I’m surprised Mabel hasn’t fed us oatmeal,” she said, changing the subject, for which he was grateful. “She seems very fond of it.”

  “She always has been,” he said. He leaned close to her. “I warn you, however, she also likes beets.”

  He was grateful for her sudden smile, even if it was forced.

  “I understand you went to Hillshead yesterday. Did you like it?”

  She nodded, then smiled again. “I think I got a little tipsy.”

  Amused, he said, “Did you do anything shocking?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, putting down her fork. She reached for her cup but didn’t pick it up, her eyes direct on him.

  She was wearing her gloves again, and it occurred to him that he’d never seen her without them.

  “It’s all right if you did,” he said. “We’re family and would forgive you.”

  He was watching her so closely that he caught the flicker in her eyes, the look toward the door of the dining room, as if she wished to run away.

  “By marriage only,” she said, bringing her attention back to him.

  Her marriage to Bruce.

  He should be showing her respect as the widow of a man who’d died in war, not watching for her smiles.

  But for the life of him he couldn’t pretend to have any regard for Bruce MacIain. Nor sadness for his death.

  As their breakfast continued, they spoke of commonplace things, topics that would be perfectly acceptable should anyone overhear them. He wanted, however, to ask her about Bruce, to have her tell him about her marriage. Was that the reason she was so cautious in her mannerisms? Was that why she sometimes seemed so brittle and at others so vulnerable?

  He applauded his mother’s good works and admired her for her compassion toward others. Perhaps he felt that same emotion, but his was more narrowly directed toward the ­people who depended on him to make the MacIain Mill a success and keep them employed.

  Yet at this very moment he wanted to do something he’d never felt compelled to do before: stand and embrace an almost stranger, place his hand against the back of her head and hold her still in the safety of his arms.

  Somehow, he would find words to comfort her and ease her fears. Words he couldn’t fathom at the moment but hoped would somehow find their way to his lips.

  He would promise to keep her safe, to give her freedom, to reward her for every extemporaneous act. He wanted to see her race through the glen like Glynis had once done, skirts and petticoats flying. Or even climb a tree. Perhaps that was too much for such a dignified woman, but he’d like to hear her voice a wish to do something daring and untoward.

  “Have you come close to a decision, Duncan?” she asked, her voice soft.

  Her eyes, green and clear and direct, had the effect of silencing his mind for a moment.

  “I really must return to Glengarden soon.”

  Don’t go. Stay here instead of returning to South Carolina. Don’t go back to a war. Don’t go back to that place.

  “Soon,” he said. “Very soon.”

  He abruptly stood, realizing he was being rude, but felt compelled to leave her as quickly as he could. He said something about a meeting at the mill, grabbed his coat, hat, and greeted Charles as if his driver was the most welcome sight in the world. He hadn’t thanked Mabel for breakfast or Lily, and the way he’d left Rose had been unlike him.

  A sign, then, that he was well on his way to doing something idiotic, and all because of Rose MacIain.

  Chapter 6

  The garden attached to the MacIain house was a lovely place, small and secluded, set near the herb garden outside the kitchen door. Someone had planted roses in a rectangular pattern, and a bench sat in the middle near a cleverly designed birdbath in the shape of a tulip. Rose loved flowers. At home in New York she’d kept an extensive garden. Flowers didn’t make her bite her lips in frustration. When you toiled in a garden, you were rewarded by beauty and order.

  A chilled breeze swept over the lawn, smelling slightly of the sea. The Clyde River wasn’t far away, and from time to time she could hear bells toll. Had the sound originated from the ships moored along the docks, or from one of the many churches in Glasgow?

  “There you are,” Eleanor said, peeking over a hedge. “Has everyone deserted you?”

  “I think it more like I’ve deserted everyone else. I saw this lovely place and just had to sit and read for a few moments.”

  Eleanor joined her on the bench.

  “It’s been my favorite place for years. The light is right and ­people aren’t apt to find you. Except, of course, Glynis and Duncan, Mabel and Lily.”

  Being the recipient of Eleanor’s smile, the woman’s blue eyes twinkling at her, was like being bathed in the sun’s warmth.

  “It’s been so lovely having you here. I think you’re very brave. Like my Glynis, traveling across the ocean on your own. Her first husband was with the British Legation in America, you know.”

  “No,” she said, “I didn’t.”

  Eleanor nodded. “I didn’t like him. A confession I made to myself on this very bench. You’ll find that it’s very receptive to confessions.” Eleanor patted her hand. “But you wouldn’t have many of those.”

  She wasn’t nearly the paragon Eleanor MacIain thought her.

  “Did you enjoy your visit to Hillshead?”

  Rose nodded. “I did. Your daughter is a lovely person. I think she and Lennox are a wonderful ­couple.”

  Eleanor’s laughter startled her.

  “Glynis claimed him from the time she was a baby. Lennox was five years older, but I guess she decided he was hers. Even as a toddler her eyes lit up at the sight of him. It took some time, but they’re finally married. Now all they have to do is provide me with a grandchild and I’ll be eternally happy. And Duncan to marry as well, but he’s had a burden on him for the last few years,” Eleanor said, sighing. “The mill has been struggling and he feels such responsibility for it. Perhaps if he married, his wife would take his mind from his worries from time to time.”

  She really didn’t want to talk about Duncan and his future wife.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to your reading,” Eleanor said, standing. “I’ve agreed to attend another guild meeting. I’m beginning to think we should stop with all the endless meetings and simply do more work.”

  “Thank you for everything,” Rose said. “You’ve been so kind to someone who just appeared on your doorstep.”

  She didn’t know how it would turn out between her and Duncan, but she knew that she’d always remember these days in Scotland and the generosity with which she was treated.

  “Oh my dear,” the older woman said, “it’s been our pleasure. You were a delightful surprise and the very best gift we could ever receive.”

  She bent to kiss Rose on the forehead before leaving the garden.

  Eleanor was the type of woman Rose wished she’d had as a mother. Or perhaps her mother had been as kind and loving. She’d died when Rose was born. Claire had been six and their three brothers seven, eight, and nine years old.

 
She wondered if Glynis knew how very fortunate she was. Eleanor believed that her daughter could do no wrong. She felt that way about her son as well, but mixed in with her affection for Duncan was a large dose of pride. You could see it shining through her eyes when she looked at him.

  These MacIains were nothing like the ­people she’d left behind at Glengarden. They were generous and genuinely caring ­people. She couldn’t imagine any of them acting like Bruce or Susanna.

  The deception disturbed her. She’d been in Glasgow for a week now and in that time had been treated like a beloved member of the family.

  She couldn’t continue like this. Either she had to tell them the truth or leave, one of the two.

  DUNCAN REMOVED his hat and coat, hanging them both in the foyer. He could hear Lily and Mabel in the kitchen chattering away, the sound of their laughter a background for life here in this house. They weren’t servants as much as friends he paid. They each worked very hard, were beyond loyal, and had no qualms about telling him what to do at any time of the day or night.

  Threading his hand through his hair, he surveyed himself in the mirror, then brushed off a few pieces of cotton fiber from his jacket.

  “You need to get yourself a good girl as a wife, Duncan. It’s time you thought less about the mill and more about yourself. Here, have another piece of tart, there’s a good boy.” That advice had come from Mabel.

  “I’ve had a dream,” Lily told him not too long ago. “I saw a girl with bright blond hair and blue eyes, and you’ll see her on the street and make Charles stop right there to say hello to her.” Lily was forever having dreams about his romantic encounters, but he doubted he’d ever ask his driver to pull over so he might accost a stranger.

  What did Rose see, looking at him? According to Glynis, he was getting a bit long in the tooth. Settled in his ways, she’d said more than once. He’d found a gray hair at his temple the other day and plucked it out. Thankfully, it hadn’t been followed by a dozen or more of its brethren. Otherwise, his hair was brown and thick. His eyes were blue, not a remarkable shade or as striking as his sister’s.