“That day,” she began. Remembering the look of desperation he wore as she’d walked up that hill toward him. To link arms with him, whom she viewed as a brother. How wrong she’d been. The shift had occurred so gradually, it had snuck into her heart until it was a living force that could not now be ignored.
But there he’d stood, braving the day to deliver her hand to his own cousin. How much heartache would it have saved them if she’d been awake enough to him to see him this way sooner? How much loss?
Hot tears trickled down her cheeks. In a slow enfolding, she was wrapped in his arms. She leaned into him, cold night air gentling around them.
“What now?” she said at last.
“Now…” Duncan looked at the sky, clearing of clouds and pinpricked in starlight. “‘Tis the same as ever, Meg.” The huskiness in his voice drew deeper the pain in her chest. “I’ll take ye to your brother. And make right what I can.”
Graeme. This did not change the fact that she had this one chance to be reunited with her brother.
They would find him. She would go with him to America. It would be good, and right.
And she would leave her heart behind…with a Campbell.
Chapter Fourteen
Home at last,” Mrs. Bettredge declared. Twelve days since Duncan had first startled Meg in the woods. An entire lifetime ago. If he had not found her, she’d be on the road with the Tinkers right now. Probably gathered ’round a fire on Skye, achingly unaware of her brother’s heart beating a country away.
Yet here she was, just as Mrs. Bettredge said. Home at last. Meg pressed a hand to the warm glass of the carriage and searched for anything that resembled home. But gone were rolling hills and limitless skies. London’s monstrous expanse seized her—a terrain sharpened with rooftops and steeples as far as she could see. She tried to concentrate, but its bigness sent her further inside herself—desperate for a pocket of familiarity. And there was the matter of the empty place across from her that would not leave her thoughts.
Duncan had volunteered—rather too eagerly and without so much as a glance in Meg’s direction—to ride atop the driver’s seat for the remainder of the journey. Kate protested and shot Meg a scolding glance when she did not join her campaign. But she didn’t have the heart. Not when every mile crossed brought her closer to life without him—and closer to the reality that they might be too late even to find Graeme.
Meg breathed deep, drawing up her scattering courage. A low ceiling of mingled smells hung over the city. Mrs. Bettredge moved her fan about, pushing waves of alternating scents and stenches across the increasingly small space.
Meg drew her satchel close against her, feeling the hard form of the bottle through the fabric. SPERO. She ran her thumb over the engraving. Hope. She breathed the word until it became a heartbeat.
“Prepare yourselves, poppets. There are some who think my dwelling a bit fantastique, as the French would say.”
“What, yours?” Kate piped up. “A rogue like you? Never.” She winked.
“See for yourselves, if you will.” Mrs. Bettredge gestured out the window. They were coming upon a low ribbon of gray, a great divide in the city. And across it, a bridge whose surface was packed with buildings. Surely Mrs. Bettredge couldn’t mean she lived on a bridge. Could she?
“The river Thames,” Meg said. “Isn’t it?” In a matter of hours, this water could carry her at long last to her brother.
“Indeed, child. River to all. Livelihood to many. For me? Home.” She opened the door and leaned out while the carriage rolled slowly onward. “Let us off before the bridge if you please, Thomas!”
The coach stopped. Outside, people milled about in their finery. Men strode with canes swinging and top hats reaching into the sky. Women seemed to glide, their silken skirts billowing great widths.
She spread her hands across her own faded blue skirt, its rough cloth suddenly seeming so very thin and rumpled. Duncan would appear any moment to open their door, and there she’d be, a rustic from the wild moors standing plain among such beauty.
“Don’t worry, child,” Mrs. Bettredge spoke into her ear. “You’re lovelier in a frock than any of these women could be in the crowned jewels themselves.”
Bless this woman. A moment of rare subtlety, and it gave Meg just the strength she needed to face—
The door opened. Her heart thudded. A hand reached in and—that same heart sank. ’Twas Thomas. Offering a friendly smile and a “Welcome to the London Bridge, miss.”
Out in the street, she searched for the familiar Blair plaid. She turned in a full circle, the press of the crowd flowing in some chaotic system that they all seemed to know and understand. Behind her she caught snatches of Kate’s voice conversing intently with Mrs. Bettredge. About what, she could not decipher.
“Make way, miss!” a hearty voice hollered, and Meg ducked to the side just in time to avoid being knocked into by a man rolling a barrel labeled SALT.
He wove through the crowd, on past the threshold where the street ceased being a street and became, almost imperceptibly, the famous London Bridge. It stretched across the Thames, laden with homes and shops that even extended over its edges, odd boxes of architecture dropping closer to the river that flowed beneath it. ’Twas a wonder the bridge hadn’t fallen down under such weight. But what did she know of such things? It would probably last for ages to come.
Still, no sign of Duncan. Hollowness dug within her in the sweep of the crowd until she grew dizzy. She knew their plan: he would find out which barge Graeme was to be on this evening for the symphony, and they would meet at Whitehall in time for the boarding.
“Come, love!” Mrs. Bettredge called, and Meg followed, her senses beginning to numb and retreat. They walked partway down the bridge, minding the clip-clop of horses and the roll of carriages. Meg dodged low-hanging arches, nearly like tunnels, these passageways beneath the houses that straddled the bridge. In the middle, they came to one that reached four stories in golden hues. A veritable palace-house, complete with white domes atop its side towers, arched windows with countless panes winking in the afternoon sun.
“Yes,” Mrs. Bettredge said dryly as they stood before it. Meg realized her mouth was agape. She clamped it shut, giving Mrs. Bettredge an apologetic look for such a display. “Say what one will about the late Mr. Bettredge…one can never say he learned the art of blending in. That makes two of us, I suppose. Our humble abode, Miss MacNaughton.”
Inside, Meg took in the sky-blue ceiling doming the grand foyer, adorned with white framework. Mrs. Bettredge doled out instructions to the stream of servants who flowed in and out of the room before them. It wasn’t until Meg was being led past the wide, graciously curving staircase that she sensed something else amiss.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
“Where is Kate?”
“I’ve sent her on an errand,” Mrs. Bettredge said. “And never you mind asking what it is. You’ll know soon enough,” she said with a wink. She led the way into an opulent parlor for tea, talking until the clock in the corner had struck a full hour’s passing. Meg tried to concentrate. But her eyes were on everything but her tea. A newspaper lay before her, proclaiming a new act of Parliament—Transportation Act to Rid England of Large Criminal Population. Criminals of all sorts would be shipped to the American colonies for years of labor. Perhaps she’d share a ship with them.
A white-capped maid entered and dipped a curtsy. “Ah, perfect,” Mrs. Bettredge said. “Martha will show you to your room to prepare, Meg. Spare no luxury, for you’ll be in the presence of kings come nightfall!”
Meg was led into a bedroom on the second story. A porcelain tub in an attached room steamed with crystal-clear water. Dried purple blossoms dimpled the surface as Meg ran her tired hands through it, the soothing scent of lavender swirling.
Meg washed as quickly as she could, fighting the temptation to close her weary eyes in the peace of the room. There was too much to do, yet. Upon a porcelain-tipped brass hook hung a pure
white sark—shift, she corrected herself, for she was in England now. Clad in its light form, she entered the adjacent bedchamber and searched for her dress. She’d use the lavender water to clean what spots she could from it.
But the dress was nowhere to be seen. Not in the ornately carved wardrobe in the corner, nor on the russet-canopied bed. A knock sounded. Kate burst through the door, arms about a large package. She wore a dress of royal blue, edged in black ribbon, with black brocade across the bodice. She wobbled slightly, the dress looking at once becoming and entirely cumbersome upon her free-spirited frame.
“Kate!” Meg steadied her friend. “Where have ye—”
“I am your humble messenger, me lady,” she set the package on the bed and twirled her arm in an exaggerated bow.
“Where did ye find such a beautiful dress?” Meg couldn’t stop smiling, it was such a thing of finery. “Ye look grand, Kate. Positively grand!” Kate’s eyes were as vivid as bluebells, her yellow hair twisted in a halo about her head. Meg gave a hapless look at her own shift then eyed the package. Nay. Could that be for…?
She dared not wish, but such a hope was twirling up in her all the same. More so at the sight of Kate’s mischievous smile.
“Mrs. Bettredge got it into her head to dress me up. I didn’t s’pose there was a chance of making me anything like presentable, but she declares London needs to be shaken up, and a dose of the Highland Tinkers is the way to do it!” She released a happy sigh. “Now! If you will be so kind as to open yonder package.” Kate’s attempted London accent was endearing, if not convincing.
Meg untied the twine about the pure white box and lifted its lid. Nestled inside was a sea of mild green and ivory silk, a soft sheen glancing off it.
“Oh…,” Meg breathed, pulling the dress out and smoothing her hand across the buttery softness. “‘Tis so fine.”
Kate faced her toward the oval mirror that stood in the corner. Meg clutched the dress against herself and felt immediately an impostor.
“I cannot wear this,” Meg said. But even as she spoke, she held it tighter, hand pressed against the cream-colored bodice where beneath crisscrossed golden cord, embroidered blossoms in hues of sunshine, raspberry, and blue sky intertwined betwixt vines. Like a walk in the heathered hills of Scotland, it was. Home, so very far from home.
“In with ye,” Kate said, and she helped Meg into it, layer upon layer. Every detail had been considered, right down to the pockets that nestled against the petticoat and opened discreetly into the folds at her waist.
The cool weight of it against her skin brought such strange comfort. Like an embrace, it was. The sage green of the petticoat and skirt draped like still-form waterfalls over the panniers at her waist, giving the folds a gently curved edge to spill over.
Meg lifted a hand to push her unruly waves of dark hair back. As she did so, she marveled at the lightness of the long, delicate lace cuffs, draping from the sleeves’ ends beneath her elbows.
“What’ll you keep in the pockets?” Kate asked. “Ye could fit a whole island in the likes of them!” She leaned in as if to impart a scandalous secret. “They say some ladies keep all manner of delicacies in them. Biscuits. Sandwiches. Bonbons. Imagine! Ye’d best pack bonbons, whatever they be. Ye’ve not eaten a bite since this morning.”
“I can’t,” Meg said. “These nerves.” She forced a laugh. Retrieving her satchel, she pulled Jimmy’s bottle out, running her hands across the letters, thinking of all that lay within. If her own courage should fail her, she would have this to remind her that there was more at stake than her own wavering bravery. SPERO—hope itself etched upon it and scrawled on the scroll within in Jimmy’s hand. And the tartan, too. “This will keep my strength better than bonbons,” she said with a wink. She removed the scrap she’d been stitching on throughout the trip, slipped her worn needle in and out a few last times, and tied off the thread.
“I hope in God,” Kate read slowly. ’Twas the one thing that embarrassed her spunky friend, her difficulty with words, but ’Twas a wonder she’d learned as much as she had in her years on the road.
“Aye,” Meg said. “Our clan motto.” She tucked the scrap safely back into the bottle, and the bottle into her pocket. “I’ll call it to remembrance often tonight,” she said, braving a smile. A comfort, that the future lay in the hands of a God bigger than all of this.
Kate stood back and beamed at Meg. “Ye’re a picture, my friend. Ye can hardly tell the dress is a mite big. But with no time for a fittin’, and ready-made pieces so rare…”
Meg shook her head. “‘Tis more than I ever hoped for,” she said. “Mrs. Bettredge shouldn’t have done such a thing. So generous…”
“She didn’t,” Kate said, and, lifting a brush, she motioned for Meg to sit.
“But she said you were on an errand for her…?”
“Aye,” Kate said. Her fingers worked Meg’s curls, twisting and weaving. “She did tell us where to go. But not for her.”
“Then who…?” Kate did not have a penny to her name. Neither did Meg, and the only other person who even knew they were here—but that was impossible.
“Oh, a very kind soul,” Kate said. “He’s not one to say much, but he was very particular that I tell ye what he said, and not a word different. Let me see….” In the mirror, Meg saw her look up and to the side as if deep in thought. “Ah, yes. ‘Tell Miss MacNaughton’ “—she took on a theatrically serious face for the recitation—” ‘that a lady such as she must have the white of heather on her day of union. And’…”
Meg turned to face Kate. These words she spoke—a memory rolled out of the past, across the miles, burrowing deep within her. Two young girls, giggling and reciting.
Kate halted. “Daft brain, don’t fail me now,” she groaned. “What were the words…”
“The green grass of the hills of her home to adorn her,” Meg said in almost a whisper.
“Yes!” Kate cried in delight. “How did ye know?”
How could she forget? The words that, moments before the attack, had made her suppose Ian Campbell mightn’t be as coldhearted as he was reputed to be. A wash of panic struck Meg. Was the dress from him?
Kate dug within the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a plain brown paper. She handed it to Meg. “See for yerself,” she said.
The paper crinkled as Meg opened it. Letters straight and solid, dear and familiar spanned the scrap in a single line: “The white of heather on her day of reunion, and the green grass of the hills of her home to adorn her.”
Beneath that line stood a signature that made her heart beat so loud she feared the passersby on the bridge below would feel tremors from it: Duncan.
Meg stood, reading the words again. Hearing them in the voices of the young sisters on her wedding day as they’d thrust a grass-tied bouquet of heather her way. Somehow in all her naïveté and girlish hope back then, she’d thought such a thing had come from Ian Campbell?
“Oh, Kate…” How wrong Meg had been. And oh, how dearly she would pay. How dearly a lone piper had paid for so long. Her heart ached anew.
His words swam before her unspilled tears, and she wiped her eyes.
Kate led her to the window, which looked straight out over the water that carried her destiny. It was a rare moment of silence from her friend. But Meg had to know for certain how this all came about.
“Do you mean to tell me that this”—she smoothed the dress—“is…from Duncan?”
Kate’s smile lifted her blue eyes. “None other. Well, he did have a wee bit of help choosing the actual dress. ‘Green and white!’ was all he could say.” Kate laughed at the way she lowered her own voice. “Every time I asked what it should look like. ‘Green and white!’ Poor man looked like he was being led to the slaughter the moment we arrived outside the dress shop. He would not step foot inside—said it wouldn’t be fitting. Some of the faces he made when I held up dresses through the window!” Kate tossed her head back, laughing. “I declare, the man must think ruffl
es and lace the deadliest combination on earth! But this one…”—Kate leaned in, whispering—“when I knocked on the window and showed him this one, his pacing halted, and he could not look away. I know he was seeing you, Meg.”
Meg could scarce believe it. She fingered the skirt, green like the highland hills she might never see again. Pressed her hand against the stomacher of heather white, thinking of the piper’s kind eyes…and the thought of never seeing them again grieved her deeper still. It would be unladylike of her to ask. But a horrible sinking feeling urged the words from her. “How did he afford such a thing?”
Kate looked away.
“Kate?”
Her friend began working Meg’s hair once more. Meg caught her hands and looked Kate in the eye.
“Tell me,” she said.
Kate pursed her lips then spoke at last. “I gave my word not to.” She tilted her head resolutely.
There was only one possession Duncan had that could fetch such a price—and it was his very livelihood. Or should be.
“His bagpipes,” Meg breathed. Such a wretched tangle this was. For every step that brought her closer to Graeme drove Duncan further from himself. And her further from him.
“Ye do not have to go, ye ken,” Kate said quietly.
“I do.” Meg wiped the sudden wetness from beneath her eyes. “The symphony is the only place I can intercept Graeme before he leaves. You’ve all given so much to make this happen.”
“No, ye goose.” Kate’s brows wrinkled into sympathetic humor. “Ye need not leave him.”
“I won’t leave Graeme.” Meg was pacing now, concentrating. Pushing images of Duncan out of her mind. Again. And again. “You know the plan. I’ll board the barge,”—she ticked the list off on her fingers—“find him before the grand dinner makes it impossible with its crowds, and we’ll sail for America first thing in the morning when it’s all said and done, if he’ll let me.”
“Margaret MacNaughton.” Kate placed her hands on Meg’s arms and stood squarely in front of her. “Ye are the daftest maiden that ever was. Listen closely. Ye do not need to go to America. Ye do not need to leave Duncan Blair. Anyone can see that ye are each other’s very hearts.”
The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection Page 20