An American in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  The bedroom was as luxurious as the sitting room, making her feel out of place. She didn’t belong in this lovely room with its royal blue counterpane and four-­poster bed hung with netting. The draperies were as sheer as the netting, but since the window faced the sea, who could look in?

  A balcony off the window lured her. She opened the window and stood watching as night swept in with the tide.

  Turning away from the view of the sea, she investigated the other items of furniture in the room: a secretary boasting stationery bearing the Viceroy logo, a large armoire smelling of cedar; a bureau of the same wood, highly polished, each drawer lined with a scented paper reminding her of patchouli.

  She sat on the end of the bed, staring at the lovely carved long bureau with the rectangular mirror above it.

  Duncan would sleep in the sitting room again, giving up the bed once more for her.

  She’d never known anyone like Duncan MacIain. He was the most charming, generous, kind, witty, intelligent, and caring man she’d ever met. Although she’d no experience in kissing, she thought he must be a champion in it. Her blood always raced whenever she was near him and her chest felt tight.

  Her emotions, however, were out of control. She wanted to cry, which was silly. At the same time she felt like she was filled up with bubbles, as if lighter than air. She wanted to smile whenever she saw him.

  If that wasn’t foolish she didn’t know what was.

  Although she’d tried to tell him the truth when she could, the heavier lie sat on her shoulders. She had to tell him who she was. If, for no other reason, than because Duncan MacIain was a decent man.

  Tonight, then. She’d tell him tonight. With any luck he’d understand that she had to protect the ­people of Glengarden. He had to go through with the sale. Once he understood, he wouldn’t renege. A man like Duncan would always keep his word.

  She stood and walked into the other room attached to the bedroom. It was a bathing room, but it was unlike any room she’d ever seen. Glengarden had hot and cold running water, but only when the boiler cooperated and there wasn’t a hole in the cistern. Otherwise, they had to depend on the well to the side of the house. At night they used a chamber pot, discreetly emptied in the morning. Her bathroom had a basin and a tap, but little else.

  This bathroom was like a dream, something from the future she couldn’t even imagine. Were all hotel rooms similarly equipped, or only the rooms at the Viceroy?

  There was an indoor commode, one made of polished mahogany. Beside it was a handle mounted on a glass dial. When she moved it experimentally, a gush of water splashed through the bowl, emptying it and refilling it. She twisted the handle twice more, just to see it work.

  The bath was equipped with two taps, which meant she didn’t have to wait for anyone to bring pitchers of hot water for her use. Mounted on the wall above was a shower head at least ten inches long. The sink was marble, set inside a grand mahogany stand carved with trailing flowers along each side. She turned on the hot water tap and in seconds the water was scalding.

  She didn’t wait, couldn’t wait, but grabbed her other dress from her valise and hung it on the hook behind the door. Perhaps the steam would help with the wrinkles, much like an iron would. She didn’t doubt that the Viceroy had maids to attend to their guests, but she didn’t want anyone to see how faded her dresses were getting. The pattern of the material could be seen through the black dye if you looked hard enough.

  The Raven had a bathtub, but she’d only taken one bath in her cabin, conscious of the limited water supply. With this tub, however, there were no such reservations. To her amazement, the hotel had even provided a container of bath salts that she used liberally.

  For the next half hour she was purely hedonistic, smiling to herself as she bathed. Perhaps later she’d wash her hair, but for now she pinned it up out of the way.

  According to the desk clerk, they had only a few hours to take advantage of the restaurant at the Viceroy.

  She didn’t want to be seen in public, as travel tired as she was, but there was no choice. Her stomach was reminding her that the last meal she had was at noon, before they entered the harbor.

  Her steamed black dress looked as dreary as any mourning. She was tired of wearing black. Her grief for her brothers wouldn’t ease if she were wearing another color. She would always remember Jeremy for his laughter and Robert for his somber attitude toward life and Montgomery for his charm. How could she forget any of the O’Sullivan brothers?

  She combed her hair and repinned it. She wouldn’t fare well against the other patrons of the dining room. The women would, no doubt, all be dressed in something fashionable, while the men would either be wearing uniforms that hadn’t seen battle or black suits without a speck of dust.

  Duncan would look his best, but he looked wonderful regardless of what he wore. One afternoon, as she’d come on deck to read, she spotted him with his jacket off, his white shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows and his collar open so that she could see the hair on his chest.

  She’d stared. Whenever anyone glanced at her, she bent her head to her book again, intent on the words her eyes refused to read.

  He wasn’t the most attractive man she’d ever met. She remembered thinking, on meeting Bruce, that he was extremely handsome. She rarely thought of him that way anymore. But the longer she knew Duncan, the more good-­looking he became, as if his character augmented his appearance. He was like a silver flacon inside a glass credenza. You paid it little attention at first glance. Then it became more interesting as you noted the curve of the handle and the embellishment of the spout. Finally, you recognized its perfection, how special it was from the more ostentatious pieces in the credenza.

  She smiled at her thoughts and wished she could be pretty for tonight. She’d dress in a gown with a flowery print and put matching flowers in her hair. She’d wear something sparkly. Not diamonds, because she’d always been taught that diamonds were for older women. Pearls were considered unlucky. Garnets reminded her of death. What would be perfect for the night? Perhaps nothing at all.

  She’d go to Duncan without ornament, simply herself. She’d gather up her hair and pin it in the back, allowing a few curls to fall near her face. She’d wear something soft on her feet so she felt lighter than air.

  That dream died a cruel death as she surveyed herself in the mirror.

  All she had was her day dress dyed black and her clunky, ser­viceable shoes that made a sound no matter how quiet she tried to be. And her hair? Oh, her hair was a mess and desperately needed to be washed.

  She heard the door open and realized that Duncan was back. After taking another look at herself in the mirror, she wished she could have asked someone to bring a tray to her room. She wasn’t ready to see the world or for the wealthy of Nassau to see her.

  “Rose?”

  “Coming,” she said, pasting a smile on her face.

  She would go because they both needed to eat and it would be nice to have a meal without feeling the ocean rolling beneath them.

  Chapter 15

  She opened the door to find Duncan standing there without his jacket, only his white shirt and trousers. At his side was a rolling tea cart, but instead of tea it contained plates. Two plates, to be exact, filled with steak and vegetables, and a bright red circular something that looked like aspic.

  “Instead of going down to dinner, I brought dinner to us.”

  She could have kissed him. For a second she entertained a vision of doing just that, reaching up and winding her arms around him and kissing him to her heart’s content. They might never get to eat the dinner he went to such an effort to obtain.

  “I didn’t think you’d mind,” he said. “If you do, we can certainly go down to the restaurant.”

  “This is wonderful. More than wonderful. This is perfect.”

  She strode ahead of him to the sitting room
and the alcove overlooking the harbor. Moving one of the tables, she made room for the tea cart as he rolled it closer.

  “The restaurant is as well-­patronized as the bar.”

  He sat and he passed her a plate.

  “Is that steak?” she asked.

  “Not just steak,” he said, “but filets mignon à l’americaine with sweet corn and asparagus tips, along with tomato aspic à la Viceroy.”

  After the entrée, a selection of cheeses and wafers completed the meal, along with coffee.

  She hadn’t eaten so well since Scotland, and told him so.

  “Are you ready for the cake?”

  “There’s cake?”

  He laughed. “Your eyes are lighting up like a child’s.”

  Reaching to the bottom shelf, he pulled out the two plates piled high with coconut cake.

  He filled her wineglass again, but she was concentrating on desert.

  “This is wonderful, Duncan,” she said. It was. She hadn’t had coconut cake for months and this version was even better than the one Glengarden’s cook had made.

  “Would you like mine?”

  She eyed it enviously for a moment then shook her head. “That would be unfair. It’s truly a wonderful cake.”

  “It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

  “Then, yes please, I’d love it.”

  He passed it over to her with a smile.

  In minutes she finished the cake and took a sip from her glass. “Wine and cake. We are being decadent tonight, aren’t we? Thank you, Duncan. How did you know that I didn’t want to go to the restaurant?”

  He smiled. “You’re tired. So am I. It becomes tedious being around strangers when you’re fatigued.”

  She looked at him. Two weeks ago he was a stranger, too. Now she’d always remember him. He’d feature prominently in her memories. She almost wanted to tell him, to let him know how important he’d become. Recollections of him would make her smile. Some would make her wince with embarrassment, such as when she’d crawled on top of him with only her nightgown and wrapper on. But that had led to a kiss she would never forget.

  And another on the deck of the Raven.

  Would she ever have the courage to kiss him again?

  A LOCK of her red hair had come loose from its cascade of curls. She fiddled with it for a moment, extracting a pin and putting it back in place to trap the errant curl.

  A woman at her toilette was a fascinating sight, and here in this room, thousands of miles away from his role as mill owner, dependable, dedicated, and responsible, it seemed even more enchanting.

  He grabbed the wine and poured both of them a full glass. After she took it from him, Duncan stared out at the harbor and its lights.

  He felt curiously detached, but maybe it was the wine. Or the distance from Glasgow, allowing him to change from Duncan MacIain of MacIain Mills to someone different.

  A man completely enamored of the woman who sat beside him.

  “This has to be the most wonderful dinner I’ve ever had,” she said, surprising him. “Other than in your house. I did like your home, Duncan. It’s exactly the same kind of home I’d have if I’d been given a choice.”

  “And you weren’t?”

  She smiled. “Women aren’t, all that much. Women are supposed to go along with a man, make a life where they dictate. Women are supposed to be meek and gracious, speak softly or not at all. We’re supposed to know that the men in our lives are superior in every way.”

  He turned his head to study her. “Who told you that?”

  “It’s the code of the South. Or the code of women in the South. Or the code of the MacIains.”

  He smiled, thinking of his sister, Glynis. “I can tell you right now that it isn’t the code of the Scottish MacIains. The women say whatever they wish whenever they want.”

  “It wasn’t the code in my family, either,” she said, holding up the glass and staring through the ruby colored wine. “I had a father and three brothers, and if I didn’t speak up I’d never have been heard.”

  “What about your sister?”

  “Claire? She was six years older than me and was always the sweet one. She talks very softly and everyone shuts up to listen to her. It’s very annoying.”

  She stared at her glass as if to blame the wine for her honesty. What was that expression, in vino veritas? In wine is truth?

  “She was always more feminine. Montgomery used to tell me that I should emulate her. That only made me stick my tongue out at him.” She smiled, but the expression had a sad edge to it. “Jeremy, on the other hand, always said that I was best being myself.”

  “Jeremy sounds like he had a good head on his shoulders.”

  She nodded. “Do you ever get over missing someone? Sometimes I wake up from a dream and I could have sworn he was right there.”

  “I’ve only lost my father,” he said. “But it was the same for me. For years I’d dream of him. Sometimes, in my dream, I’d tell him that he was dead, but he refused to believe it.”

  She looked surprised. “I’ve done the same with Jeremy, but then he stopped coming to me. Why is that?”

  “Maybe there’s something about the dead being given so many visits to the living. A way of saying good-­bye when you weren’t allowed to do so in life.”

  “I wasn’t allowed to say good-­bye to any of them, but you don’t in war, do you?”

  “No. How did you hear they were killed?”

  “Susanna,” she said.

  He was left to imagine how her mother-­in-­law had known, and how, for that matter, the woman had transmitted the information to her. Had she done so with tact or cruelly?

  Rose put her half full wineglass down on the table.

  “Why do you want to go back to Glengarden?” he asked her.

  “I don’t,” she said. “I despise the place.”

  “ ‘Love is sacrifice.’ You said that to me once. Is that why? You have to be a martyr?”

  She smiled. “I’m not the martyr type,” she said.

  “Do you have such loyalty to those ­people that you would endanger your own life?”

  Wasn’t that what she’d been doing for the past weeks? Yet it didn’t sound as if anyone would reward her for doing so or even appreciate her effort.

  “My niece is only five,” she said. “She deserves a chance to grow up, even in the midst of war.”

  “And the others?”

  “They would sit there and genteelly starve to death, never uttering a word of complaint to another soul. They would turn to skeletons while being perfectly dressed and coiffed. The perfect southern lady.” She shook her head. “Someone needs to look out for them.”

  “Do you think yourself responsible? Is that why you’re so dead set on doing this?”

  “No,” she said, looking at him. “I think it’s the right thing to do, that’s why I’m so dead set on doing this. Glengarden was built on all the wrong things, the belief that one man can enslave another, that any joy or happiness can come from that. But would I be any better if I ignored those ­people who need help? Wouldn’t I be as bad as they?”

  “You’re an idealist, Rose, and the world isn’t idealistic.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she said. “It’s cruel and wrong, sometimes. Another reason not to ignore the right thing to do.”

  “Even if you’re a Yankee?”

  She smiled, and her expression held more amusement this time. “That’s almost enough for them to refuse my help. But if you’re hungry enough, you’ll take a piece of bread from the devil himself.”

  He wasn’t sure of that. Of course, he’d never been in the middle of a war, especially one that was dividing families.

  A moment later she turned her head. “Why have you never kissed me again?”

  He didn’t know how to a
nswer her. Perhaps the truth would have to do.

  “Because I’m not a saint. Because I can’t just keep kissing you without wanting more.”

  “I DIDN’T expect to see you here,” Olivia Cameron said, after coffee have been served to her guest.

  The meal had been an excellent one, but that was to be expected at Café Martinique, a restaurant known for its French chef. Most of the dishes were those that could easily be found in New Orleans or other southern cities, a wise move on the part of the owners.

  Most of the inhabitants of Nassau were Confederates. Those who believed in the Union cause knew better than to broadcast it publicly, unless they wanted to be bodily detained en route to their hotel and beaten senseless.

  The very city was a sea of gray, or men wearing light-­colored suits and espousing southern sentiments with thick accents. She wasn’t certain if all those men were simply Confederate sympathizers or very badly trained Union operatives.

  Since the man sitting opposite her was responsible for those operatives, she doubted anyone he’d put in the field would be so poorly educated.

  Matthew Baumann was a spider.

  A very talented spider, but one nevertheless. He spun webs between ­people and events, places and things. She couldn’t help but wonder if spiders saw patterns that were invisible to others. If so, that was another one of Baumann’s skills.

  “You’re looking as lovely as ever, Olivia.”

  She smiled at him. He was very skilled at compliments. Even more so at determining which compliment would suit the recipient the most.

  Perhaps he knew that she was feeling a little drab lately. Her latest relationship, if she might call it that, had faded until she’d taken pity on the poor man and ended it. She was currently without suitors, a fact that alternately amused and frightened her.

  She’d known this day was coming.