Bull glanced back at the townhouse, then climbed in and jimmied his arse into the seat opposite. They scuffled for legroom until Bull gave way with a sigh. He pounded on the ceiling, and the carriage lurched into motion.
They rode in silence and, for the first time, Magnus wished for Bull’s inane prattle to silence the unhappy racket in his own head.
They left the hack and waited for a post coach outside the tollgate. It had started to rain. In a way, it made sense to Magnus that the dismal day match his disposition.
“Why?” Bulford asked.
He’d expected the question since they’d left the St. James house and was surprised it took Bull an hour to ask it. “The children,” he answered.
“Ah. Mrs. Fannyweather.”
“Her name is Pennyweather.”
“Exactly. Can you imagine? She plans to sell her house to build a home for foundling children.”
Sell the house? Bulford continued to chatter on, but a sudden understanding struck Magnus with the force of a war hammer to the chest. Her home for foundlings. Mrs. Pennyweather. The certainty that she could not be with child. Of course. If Virginia couldn’t be mother to one of her own, she’d be mother to hundreds. She had to send him away because he would never allow her to sell the house to fund her daft promise to the charity. But then, she never considered her promise daft. It was important to her. More important than anything. More important than him.
“She has to keep the house,” Magnus said.
“I don’t even know if it will fall to her or to Jemima. It might end up in Bromley’s hands. Quite inconsiderate of Langley to die and leave such a legal tangle behind.”
“How can I make certain she keeps the house?”
Bull shrugged. “You’ll need an attorney.”
“I have an attorney. Snowdon.”
“And money. Do you have money?”
…
Virginia went to the window and watched the carriage carrying the only man she would ever love drive away. His words stung her heart. I dinnae belong in this wretched place. He hated England more than he loved her. She thought he’d understood her. Langley was dead, yes, but nothing had changed. Mrs. Pennyweather still needed her. The children still needed her.
She was free, now. Once the magistrate was appeased and Bromley had accepted the circumstances of his son’s death, it would be safe for Magnus to return to St. James. He could return to her. She’d tried to explain, but he wouldn’t listen. He hated England. He wouldn’t stay here.
So often she’d pictured herself with the children she and Mrs. Pennyweather would care for—dozens of them. Hundreds as time went by. And always, Magnus had been there with her, lending his gentle counsel, carrying the small ones, teaching the boys about poetry and caring for horses—
His horse farm, his new breed of draft horses, his dream. How could she have believed her dream was more important to him than his own? He’d never meant to stay here. That was her fantasy, not his.
This thing between us, it can never be.
“Virginia? Is something wrong?” Jemima stood in the doorway to the parlor. She’d dropped formalities. After last night, Virginia supposed they were as close as sisters now.
She dashed away tears and faced Jemima. “A lash caught in my eye.”
“Did I see Mr. Sinclair leaving? I wanted to meet him and thank him for last night.”
“He asked me to make his apologies. He needed to get back to his ship.”
“Oh. I thought he would take us to Maidstone Hall to see Lucy.”
Virginia rubbed her temple. “You know, in all the commotion, I’d forgotten.” She sat on the settee. “I’ll invite them to visit us here.”
Jemima took the chair opposite. “Did Bulford leave, as well?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he do that?”
“Do what?”
“Why did he take the blame for…for what I did.”
“Bulford knows the law does not favor women. He’s the son of a duke. The magistrate would take his word as his honor and accept that he acted in our defense and nothing more.”
“But the scandal.”
“I’m afraid we will shoulder the majority of that, my dear. Scandal doesn’t stick to the sons of dukes—even the illegitimate ones. In fact, it rather enhances their reputations, don’t you agree?”
Jemima gave her a weak smile. “Indeed, I do,” she said, shaking off what looked like fear and replacing it with an indignant set of her shoulders. “Actually, I’m glad to see the backside of that ass. Do you know, he still treats me like I’m a girl of fifteen? I’m a grown woman, a widow twice over, for goodness sake. How dare he speak to me like that.”
“Like what?”
“He calls me Lady L.”
“Perhaps that’s his way of distinguishing between us. We are, after all, both Lady Langley—at least until we get that sorted.” Virginia pointed to Jemima’s arm, now in a sling. “What did the doctor say, dear? Is your arm broken?”
“Just twisted and bruised badly. If I keep it still for a few weeks, it will heal.”
“That’s a relief.” Virginia’s eyes were drawn to the stain on the carpet. Neither woman spoke for several minutes. The clock ticked, servants’ footsteps echoed in the hall, and outside, carriages jangled down the street.
Jemima broke the silence. “What will happen next?” When Virginia looked up, she noticed Jemima had focused on the carpet stain as well.
“I don’t know, but whatever lies before us will surely be happier than what lay behind.”
Jemima smiled and for the first time Virginia saw how very beautiful the young woman was. Radiant, really.
“I haven’t said thank you,” Jemima said.
“For what?”
“For rescuing me. For putting my safety before your own. I didn’t realize that at first. When you came to Bromley Hall, I thought you just wanted your title back. I didn’t believe that you were saving me from Langley out of friendship. I admire your courage. I would like to be as good a friend to you as you are to Lucy.”
Virginia fought back the urge to cry. “It’s funny really. I had never been brave about anything. Then this awful thing happened, and I discovered it’s easy to be brave for someone else.” She forced her words around the growing lump in her throat. “I’d never had friends until I was abducted. I’d never loved anyone until the Sinclairs rescued me, and I’d never been loved by anyone before…all this.” She reached out for Jemima’s good hand and squeezed. “So, something wonderful happened after all. And we will be happy. You’ll see.”
Iris came to the parlor door holding a silver salver. “The post, m’lady.”
Virginia took a deep breath and straightened. The post had arrived, she and Jemima were saved, and it was a new day. Iris crossed to her, and she collected the sealed parchment lying alone in the center of the salver. “Thank you. Will you see that the physician is paid after he is done examining Garfield?”
“Yes, m’lady.” Iris curtsied and quit the room.
Virginia broke the seal and immediately recognized the hand. She beamed with happiness from what was perhaps the only thing that could bring her any joy on this sad day. “It’s a letter from our friend Lucy.”
Jemima scooted forward in her chair. She, too, was excited by the arrival of Lucy’s missive. “What does it say? Is she coming here? Oh, do read it to me, will you?”
“She writes,”
My Darling Ginny.
She explained to Jemima, “Lucy’s called me Ginny since school days.”
Papa has fallen in love with our Jemma and she with him. She won’t allow anyone to hold her but the duke. I think Alex is jealous. I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to be here with Papa and Nounou Phillipa. My happiness could only be complete if I could share it with you. So, to entice you to our fair Maidstone Hall, Papa is hosting a ball two weeks hence.
Virginia’s heart stuttered, and the letter slipped from her hand.
“Do
n’t stop reading.” Jemima snatched the letter from Virginia’s lap and continued.
You must come, for Papa is holding the ball in our honor—yours and mine—a way of welcoming us back to Society.
“Oh, Virginia. This is wonderful. Do you think Lucy would mind if I came, as well? Virginia?”
She shook herself. “No. Of course not. You must go. But I can’t accompany you.”
“You have to go to Maidstone. The ball is in your honor.”
Virginia had far too much to do here in London. Urgent things like she and her solicitor settling matters with Bromley and planning for the home with Mrs. Pennyweather. “I’ll write to Lucy and explain. She’ll understand. I have to be in mourning for at least six months.”
“I will not mourn for that monster and neither should you. Please, Virginia. I have to have you with me.”
Virginia’s resolve teetered. Jemima needed her, Lucy wanted her, and she would so love to hold Jemma again.
“Virginia.” Jemima had taken a stern tone. “I don’t know what you are afraid of, but things are different now. You said so yourself. And if you won’t be brave for yourself, be brave for me. I need you by my side if I am to face those gossiping cows that will surely be there to judge me.”
Jemima was right. If the young woman wanted to reenter Society, best to do it with her friends and allies at her side than at some London event where she’d be eaten alive. They wouldn’t have to leave for Maidstone for at least a week. Time enough to see Mrs. Pennyweather, cement their plans and…
She half laughed at the lies she told herself. The truth was, if Lucy was at Maidstone Hall, that would mean Magnus would still be there—or very close by. And, perhaps if Magnus saw her again, he might change his mind. If he saw her again, he might realize he was in love with her and choose to stay in London. At least for a little while longer.
“Well, then.” Virginia stood and held out a hand. “We’d better get to work. The modiste has only days to create the two most gorgeous gowns those ‘gossiping cows’ have ever seen.”
Chapter Twelve
The skies cast down a bucketing rain and continued the relentless downpour well into the afternoon. For some reason, English rain was more loathsome to Magnus than Scottish rain. Not an hour outside of Bexleyheath, the driver slowed for sheep crossing, and the rear wheels of the coach became mired. All six people in the post coach plus the two up top had to disembark. Even the stowed baggage had to be removed to lighten the load. Being the only capable men, Bull and Magnus did the lifting and pushing. It became a competition as to which man could bear the most weight. Neither of them alone could budge the coach from the ruts, but together they freed the wheels.
They arrived at the docks in Chatham that evening filthy, exhausted, and thoroughly sick of each other’s company.
Ian stood in the rain at the bottom of the gangway. He looked Magnus up and down and said, “Well, you’re no’ dead.”
He was right. That was about all that could be said about him at this moment. He was alive. Just.
“Good to see you again, Captain Sinclair.” Bull forced a jovial greeting. “Bloody awful weather we’re having, eh?”
“Ignore him,” Magnus said wearily. “Eventually, he’ll go away. Oh, and he’s got a bloody title now. Just call him Bull.”
“I’m dashed hungry. Anyone for a meal?”
“This way.” Ian pulled his collar up around his ears. They followed, trudging through ever-deepening puddles. The tavern was, thankfully, only a few yards up a side street. Inside the warm, smoky tap room, they peeled off their wet coats and shook the rain out of their hair. The warmth of the day coupled with the damp made the air smell stale and mildewy.
The tavern wasn’t crowded, as it was too early in the evening for custom. He and Bull sat on a bench across the table from Ian. They didn’t speak until the owner brought them ale and bread.
“My missus says the pigeon pie will be ready in thirty.”
“Thanks,” Ian said. “We’ll bide a while.”
Magnus stared at the table’s surface, gouged and worn, exactly like he felt. He hadn’t been defeated. He’d given up. After being sliced and stitched and shot, he was empty.
“Is Lady Langley well? Is she out of danger?”
He couldn’t lift his eyes from the table. Better to let Bull tell the story.
“Everything turned out splendidly, though things didn’t go quite as we planned.” Bull drained his ale. “Lady Langley is a widow, now.”
“Christ, ye didnae kill the man, did ye?” Ian’s alarm bounced off the dimly lit tavern walls.
“Oh, nothing like that,” Bull assured Ian and laughed. “It’s a very funny story—you’ll like this. Langley shot Sinclair in the chest. We all thought he was dead. Actually, I think you were dead there for a minute or two. Anyway, as it turned out the pistol only—”
Ian held up a hand. “Stop.” He leaned in and tried to capture Magnus’s attention. In a low, unusually gentle voice for Ian, he said, “Are you all right, cousin?”
“Aye. Just put me to work and I’ll do.”
Bull slapped the table. “That’s right. I nearly forgot.” He leaned back and spread his hands presenting himself. “Say hello to your new partner.”
Magnus turned to Bull slowly, keenly aware that he was dangerously close to murdering the numpty. “I asked you to wait until I told him.”
Bull lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Yes, but I didn’t think things were going well for you so I thought some good news might lighten the mood.”
At last, Magnus surrendered any hope of ever understanding Bulford. The man made no sense at all.
“What does he mean, cousin?” Ian asked.
He sighed, resigned to tell the whole story, even though he didn’t possess the energy to do so. “I plan to sell my interest in Gael Forss to Bull.”
“He said it was worth a thousand. I thought it was a sound investment. I hope I’m not wrong.”
“Oh, aye. I’d say ye got the right end of that stick,” Ian said. “May I ask why?”
“I need the money.”
“For what exactly?”
“For none of your Goddamn business.”
“It’s a matter of the heart,” Bull interjected.
“Shut up. You’re no’ helping,” Magnus barked.
“Sorry.”
Ian rubbed his face with both hands as if trying to scrub away what he’d just heard. “Ye ken Alex is going to skin you alive.”
“Fine. Less of me left for Uncle John to thrash when I get home.”
“I think you both fail to understand what I bring to this partnership,” Bull said.
“Shut up!” Magnus and Ian shouted.
Bull crossed his arms and pressed his lips together, yet he couldn’t keep himself from adding, “Fine. I won’t say another word. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”
“What of the farm in Latheron?”
Magnus turned away and spoke to the hearth. “I willnae be able to purchase it from Ogilvy.”
Ian grunted, whether in sympathy or disgust, he didn’t know. “In all my life, I’ve never known you to do a rash or foolish thing over a woman. I have to believe whatever you plan to do with that money is justified and necessary for her well-being.”
“I can assure you, it’s a most honorable gesture on Mr. Sinclair’s part,” Bulford stated with sincerity. “Most honorable.”
…
Maidstone Hall was everything Lucy had said it would be and more. Graceful and elegant, yet warm and inviting, exactly the kind of place one would retreat to restore her life. After ten days of rain, the clouds over Kent had burned away on the day of their arrival.
Magnus was not at Maidstone Hall when Virginia and Jemima arrived. Virginia struggled to keep her disappointment concealed. Was he still in England waiting to sail with Gael Forss or had he been so anxious to depart he’d left by other means? No one mentioned him—not Lucy or Alex or Bulford—and her pride made it difficult to
ask about him directly.
After supper that first night, she cornered Bulford in the drawing room. “I trust your journey back to Chatham was uneventful.”
Bulford hedged for a moment, then offered a non-committal, “It was…wet.”
Virginia searched for another avenue of inquiry. “Lucy and Alex will be leaving Maidstone Hall after the ball. I imagine you’ll miss them.”
“Yes. I will.”
“Has Captain Ian given you a tour of Gael Forss, Lord Bulford?”
Bulford inhaled deeply, as if preparing himself for surrender. He sighed and tipped his head at a sympathetic angle. “Sinclair’s wound is healing. I can’t say the same for his heart.”
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. “Is he avoiding Maidstone Hall?”
“I’m afraid he’s not confided in me, my lady.”
She gave an apologetic shake of her head. “Of course. Forgive me for putting you in an uncomfortable position.” And they proceeded to discuss how and when the gardener should prune the rhododendron hedge.
On the afternoon of their third day, they took their luncheon under a folly in the gardens, a three-acre labyrinth of hedges, flowers, herbs, and ornamentals. Jemima seemed to have recovered completely from her ordeal with Langley. Her bruised left forearm had healed, and she showed no melancholy. In fact, she and Lucy had not stopped chattering since their arrival. It seemed they had endless things to discuss, most having to do with plans for the ball only two days away.
“What do you think, Ginny?”
Virginia startled at Lucy’s question. “I beg your pardon. I was…”
Lucy smiled knowingly. “Lost in thought again, darling?”
“Sorry.”
“I asked your opinion about the soup.”
“Artichoke, perhaps?”
“I agree,” Jemima said. “I’m so tired of white soup. A cold artichoke soup would be perfect, as it’s summer and bound to be hot in the dining hall.”
“It’s settled. Artichoke soup.” Lucy made a note and took another bite of plum cake. Her brow furrowed with concern, a condition rare in a woman as confident as Lucy.
Forgetting the Scot (Highlanders of Balforss) Page 27