“I assure you, I do not need a husband. Go away before I call the sheriff.” That made them get up and move, although they didn’t go far. At least they were downwind, which made her sandwich taste a lot better. When she finished, she picked the candelabra up, took the paper wrapper to a trash barrel and tossed it in. When she turned around, they were right behind her. The duchess gritted her teeth and pointed the sharp tip of her closed parasol at Matt’s chest. “If you do not go away, I shall stab you with this.”
As soon as Matt backed up, she pointed it at Dale. Where was the sheriff when she needed him? She glared, turned around and decided to walk across 12th street.
A block away, an automobile drove past a horse that had not been securely tied to a hitching post. When it backfired, the horse broke free of its binding and tore down 12th street. A woman pulled her two children out of the way, and shouted a warning.
She was too late, for the duchess was already halfway across the street.
CHAPTER 12
The terrified horse headed straight for the duchess and she froze for a moment.
It was a moment too long, for by the time the horse was upon her, there was nothing left to do but dive out of the way. Her parasol flew into the air, the candelabra slipped out of her other hand, and she went sliding across the cobblestone face down. Fortunately, the horse swerved in the opposite direction and missed trampling her legs. The next thing she knew, she was surrounded by people, all of whom were saying something she could hardly understand. With her hands, she pushed her torso up, turned over and sat. A moment later, she let two men help her stand.
“My dear,” said sheriff Jolly, “are you badly hurt?”
“Not badly.” She half smiled to comfort his fears, even though her left elbow and both her knees hurt.
“That horse might have killed you!” Mrs. Jolly said, as if no one else knew that.
“I am fine.” For the duchess, what happened next was even more frightening.
“Ah, here comes the doctor,” said Mrs. Jolly, “right on time as usual.”
“I do not need a doctor,” the duchess assured them. She accepted the candelabra and her parasol from the sheriff, and then started to leave.
“Your elbow is bleeding, Mrs. Lyons,” said the doctor as he hurried to catch up with her. “Let me have a look at it.”
She stopped, twisted her arm so she could see, and indeed, there was blood seeping through the sleeve of her white blouse. “I assure you, it is nothing.”
“Mrs. Lyons, I insist,” said the sheriff. “Roll up your sleeve so the doctor can have a look.”
Her annoyance was fast becoming rage. “I am quite capable of doctoring my own elbow.” She shook free of the doctor’s grasp, opened her parasol, raised it above her head, and trudged away.
“What do you suppose is bothering her?” Mrs. Jolly muttered.
“Most likely the heat,” the doctor answered. “It doesn’t appear she has been out in the sun much.”
In her hotel room, the duchess removed her blouse and then examined her elbow again. She truly could have used a doctor’s assistance, for the scrape was wide and painful. Nevertheless, the one thing she could not do was let anyone see the scar on the inside of that same arm.
What a completely appalling day. The duchess was beginning to think moving to a small town was not such a good idea after all.
*
In just a few weeks, James went from sleeping on a stone cold floor in prison to the lap of luxury in one of New York City’s plush hotels – compliments of the Duke of Glenartair. For a long time, he stared at the telephone in his room. He wanted to hear Jillian’s voice just once more, but then, he did not know her married name. Besides, he had to stop torturing himself.
Instead, he went shopping. James bought a new pair of shoes, a traveling outfit and got a shave and a haircut. He paid extra to have his new trousers hemmed right away. The train would not wait and his ticket was for the next day. After he got back to the hotel, he soaked in the tub in his room until his skin began to wrinkle. To him, there could never be enough soap and clean water in the world.
He was thousands of miles away. Even so, he still wondered if Jillian ever thought about him. Exasperated with his inability to forget her, he got dressed and went to the restaurant downstairs to see what was on the menu.
While he was gone, his telephone rang.
*
“He dinna answer,” Alistair said as he hung up the telephone.
“Well, let him be. He is likely exhausted and sound asleep. We can but wait for his train.” Cameron left Marblestone’s kitchen and went upstairs to see his children before dinner.
*
Mr. Eldridge took a turn for the worse. The pleurisy collected deep in his lungs, and he could not get warm even on warm days. In desperation, Jillian sent for a doctor and paced the upstairs hallway until at length, the elder doctor came out of Mr. Eldridge’s bedroom.
He set his bag on the floor and took hold of both her shoulders. “Jillian, I am afraid it will not be long now.”
“You mean, he is dying?”
“You must be brave for his sake.” The doctor decided she was not going to faint, let go and picked his bag back up. “Give him as many liquids as he will drink and build a fire in the hearth when he is cold.”
“Is that all I can do? Nothing more than that?”
“I left a bottle of medicine beside his bed to ease his coughing some. Give him a tablespoon every two hours and let him sleep, if he can. It is all I…any of us can do.”
She bowed her head. “I have no other family.”
“I know. Someone at the church will help you when the time comes.”
“Yes, of course they will.”
He gently touched her arm again, and then walked down the back stairs.
Jillian took several deep breaths, and then slowly opened the door to her father’s bedroom. She pulled his blankets up a little, tucked them around him and started to move away when he grabbed her hand.
His voice was raspy when he spoke and she could hardly hear him. “Find James.”
She thought him delusional. “Father, James...”
He squeezed her hand as hard as he could to make her listen. It took all he had to give, but between bouts of coughing, he confessed what he had done. “Forgive me?”
It was all she could do to keep the tears out of her eyes. “I do forgive you and I love you so very dearly. Please rest now.”
He slowly nodded and let his head sink into the pillow.
“Where has James gone?”
“Amer...”
“America. He has gone to his family in America?”
Once more, he nodded. She leaned down and lovingly kissed his forehead. “I shall do as you say, Father. I shall find James and be happy.”
He had a tear in his eye when he drew his last harsh breath. Then he could not breathe at all.
A multitude of people came to Mr. Eldridge’s funeral, and although she was going to miss her father unbearably, he left her with his blessing and the greatest gift of all.
Her beloved James was alive.
*
Two days before the wedding, Gloria and Ben were more than a little concerned. Abigail still refused to ask Provost MacGreagor’s permission and wouldn’t even get out of her chair.
“I took a vow,” Ben tried to explain, sitting next to his mother in the Whitfield’s parlor. “I gave my pledge to do as Laird MacGreagor says, and he says I must not go against Provost MacGreagor.”
Abigail rolled her eyes. “I thought the Laird was the head of the clan.”
“He is,” Ben answered. “He can tell us to go to war, to move to another location and to see to the needs of the people. But he cannae go against an elder without…”
“Without what?”
“Without settin’ aside Scottish tradition. An elder has lived longer and is normally counted on to give sound advice.”
“Normally?” Abigail scoffed. “There is
nothing normal about Provost MacGreagor and we all know it. Does Hannish think calling off a wedding is sound advice?”
“I know not what he thinks,” a defeated Ben answered. It was not their first discussion on the subject and he was running out of things to say.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Abigail, I shall go with you.” Mother O’Connell said.
“You would carry a candle and bow down to the likes of him?” Abigail asked.
“Bowing down is not what he is requesting,” said Ben’s mother.
“You are the mother of the groom. Why are you not required to ask his permission?”
Mother O’Connell raised an eyebrow. “Because Ben is already in the clan and Gloria is not. Nevertheless, if it helps, I shall ask permission too.”
Abigail was not persuaded. ”Do as you wish, but I shall not. Gloria must forgo the wedding and run off to Denver to marry.”
“I cannot, Mother. Ben would be thrown out of the clan if I did, and I…”
“Thrown out? Nonsense,” said Abigail. “Who needs a clan anyway? This is America.”
“Ben needs a clan, Mother,” Gloria said, “and I need a happy husband.”
“You are all against me.”
“We are not against you,” said Mother O’Connell. “We are for Ben and Gloria. Truly, did you go to all the trouble of planning the perfect wedding for nothing?”
“I doubt anyone will come, now that they have read that awful book.”
Mother O’Connell picked up the telephone, “Mable, please connect me with Marblestone. Yes, I’ll hold…Alistair, tell Hannish Abigail has agreed to go to Provost MacGreagor’s house tonight…thank you.”
Abigail sat straight up. “Why on earth did you do that?”
“Because, my dearest Abigail, Hannish said if you were still unwilling, he would carry you there himself.”
“Oh he did, did he? Claymore will never allow that.”
“Oh yes I shall,” said Claymore as he came down the stairs. “This is one battle you should lose, and you well know it.”
“Where are the candles?” Ben asked.
Gloria got up, went to a desk drawer and withdrew five candles. “The MacGreagors are bringing their own.”
“You have thought of everything, I see,” Abigail sneered.
Gloria handed out the candles, one of which her mother refused. “Everything but how to get you out of that chair. However, I believe Father has the cure for that.”
Afraid he was going to force her, Abigail tightly clutched the armrests. “What sort of cure?”
“Do you not want a new dining room table and chairs?” Claymore asked.
“Bribery?” Abigail asked.
Claymore watched his wife’s eyes slowly light up, reached out his hand and helped her stand. Right in front of them all, he took her in his arms and kissed her so passionately, it embarrassed Gloria. “Will it work?” He asked Abigail as soon as he stopped kissing her.
Abigail stroked his chest. “The mahogany set we saw in New York City?”
He put an arm around his wife and walked her toward the front door. “Did you not like the oak better?”
“Well, I…”
*
On Scot’s row, people had begun to hold a nightly vigil to see if Abigail would show up. The small crowd grew larger each evening, and on this night, the street was lively with people. Provost MacGreagor had not received this much attention in his whole life, and was enjoying himself immensely. Some nights, he even sold a carved animal or two.
He half wished Abigail would not show up, although he was not quite certain what he would do if she didn’t. While they waited, the Provost used the occasion to entertain his guests with his bagpipes. He stood on his front porch and blew into the pipe chanter, while the air in the bag produced the steady sounds that came out of the second and third pipe. As he played, some of the young people began to dance.
Standing in the dark at the end of the street waiting for Ben to light the first candle, Abigail recoiled at the sound, “Must he play that awful music?”
Hannish didn’t care for it that much himself, but he nodded. As soon as Ben got one of the candles lit, he protected the flame with his hand, lit Abigail’s and then Gloria’s candle. Abigail frowned and seriously considered blowing hers out. Gloria helped light the other candles and soon the end of the street began to light up.
“Must I truly do this?” Abigail groaned.
“Mahogany,” Claymore muttered, “or oak?”
Begrudgingly, Abigail took the first step down the street.
The provost was tapping his toe to the music when someone shouted, “Here she comes!” He turned and sure enough, Abigail Whitfield was walking toward him. He set his bagpipe down, the dancers stopped and everyone looked at the array of candles and illuminated faces coming down the street.
Provost MacGreagor was not expecting what happened next.
“Not so high and mighty now, is she?” someone shouted.
“She is stupid, if you ask me,” a woman yelled. “She let her son marry a bigamist.”
“She probably talked him into it,” another said.
In the back, a man joined in the laughter and then added, “Make her get on her knees and beg.”
“She won’t do it, she is too proud,” the woman next to him yelled.
The provost bowed his head. His little prank had gone too far. He meant it to be a private matter, but it had turned into something far too public. He waited until Abigail bravely stood at the bottom of his porch steps and the crowd quieted. She was about to speak when he raised his hand to silence her. With a glare like none other, he turned to the crowd.
“Have you no shame?” He stared at the men until some of them bowed their heads, but others remained defiant. “Do you pay for food baskets and see they are delivered to the poor on a cold winter’s day? Is it you who gives money and blankets to the orphanage in Denver?” He waited, but none of them answered, so he expressively threw both of his hands up. “Did any of you pay for medicine and a doctor when three of your neighbors fell ill last week? And was it you who paid for Mona Gibson’s casket? Nay, ‘twas not you, ‘twas Mrs. Abigail Whitfield.”
He paused to let his words sink in and watched several more bow their heads. “Never have I known a more generous lass, nor such an ungrateful lot as yourselves. Be gone with you, for I cannae bear to look upon your faces another moment.” He continued to stare at the crowd, until one by one, they began to walk away. Still he waited and when Abigail tried to say something, he raised his hand again to prevent her. It was not until the last one was gone, that he came down the steps to join her. “When I am wrong, I say it. I was wrong to bring such scorn down upon you.”
Abigail waited for him to ask her forgiveness, but that was as far as he intended to go, so she narrowed her eyes. “May I speak now?”
“If you must?” he said, climbing back up the stairs.
Abigail lifted the front of her skirt and followed him. “Now will you let them marry?”
Just as irritated, he turned to face her. “Are ye askin’?”
“Not yet. I have a question first.”
“What?”
“Who told you I paid for Mona Gibson’s casket? It was supposed to be confidential.”
“Your name ‘twas on it when it arrived at the train station. A fine casket it was too, with an angel perched on the top.”
“Oh.”
“I hoped ‘twas for you, but I see ‘twas not.”
Abigail hemmed and hawed, and then deeply sighed for the tenth time so far that evening. “Provost MacGreagor,” she paused when she saw his grin widen. “You cantankerous old goat.”
“There shall be no wedding, if…”
“Oh, very well. Have we your permission to carry on with the wedding?” He thought about it for so long, she actually considered wringing his neck. “Well?”
“I suppose all is in order now.”
Abigail blew out her candle, abruptly turned around
, and stomped back down the steps. “The next casket shall be for you!” she shouted as she headed back down the street.
“See you at the weddin’, Mrs. Whitfield,” Provost MacGreagor shouted.
Ben kissed Gloria, Hannish went up the steps to shake Provost MacGreagor’s hand, and the rest of them tried to catch up with Abigail.
At last, that was settled.
*
In the evening of the next day, instead of going directly home, Hannish went to Scot’s Row to have a private conversation with Ben.
“I am honored,” said Ben when he answered the door.
“I have come to speak as your Laird.”
“I see. Do come in.”
Hannish looked around the house and smiled. It was one of the first built by the construction company he and Claymore owned, and it looked as though it was holding up quite well. The decorations needed a woman’s touch, but that would come soon enough. He took a seat in the parlor, crossed his legs and rested his hat on his knee. “Are we alone?”
“We are.” Ben went to the cupboard and reached for a bottle of wine. He held it up and when Hannish nodded, he got two glasses. “It sounds serious. Have I done somethin’ wrong?”
“Indeed not, and if you had, I would hardly mention it on the eve of your weddin’. Yet, it is important and it concerns me.”
Ben handed a half-filled glass to Hannish and then sat in the chair across from him. “What would you have me do?”
“As I said, I have come as your laird to give you a command. I command you not to speak of this to anyone, includin’ your wife.”
“Very well.”
“I command it because some talk out of turn when they know too much.”
“Ah, you mean Gloria might tell Abigail.”
“Aye.” Hannish paused to take a sip of his wine. “Are you willin’ to obey my command?”
“Did I not swear to obey any and all of your commands in New York City?”
“Aye, you did.” Hannish took another sip and then set his glass on the table. “When our parents were killed, Cameron, McKenna and I were taken to live with our uncle in Glenartair Castle. My father was Laird at the time, and Provost MacGreagor loved him deeply. Therefore, the Provost came to the castle every day to see how we were getting on. One day, when he dinna come, we thought him ill, so Cameron and I set out to see about him.
Marblestone Mansion, Book 9 Page 17