“Today it’s slate gray.”
He arched a single eyebrow in irritation. “Well, if we’re being precise.”
I shrugged and turned toward the window. “You should have known better than to ask an artist.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Uncle Andrew, Aunt Sarah, and their family and few remaining guests were just sitting down to luncheon when Gage, Trevor, and I arrived at Clintmains Hall. They insisted we join them. So as chairs and place settings were added to the already crowded table in the family parlor, I introduced Gage, suddenly grateful that only a handful of the many members from my mother’s side of our family were in attendance. He was apparently already familiar with my cousins Jock and Andy, and Miss Witherington also appeared to have made his acquaintance. She curtseyed very prettily for him and offered him her hand with a sickeningly sweet smile. I would have liked nothing more than to transform it into one of her withering glares, as it always made her lips tighten into an ugly little moue, but my aunt had news for me.
She linked her arm with mine and pulled me a short distance away from the others. “I’m afraid none of the guests or staff had anything of interest to tell me.” She offered me a sad smile in apology. “I don’t know whether that is because they truly didn’t see anything of importance or because they’re unwilling to admit it, but either way, I’m sorry I don’t have any information to add to the investigation.”
I patted her hand where it rested on my arm. “I understand, Aunt Sarah. Thank you for trying.”
“Of course, dear.” Her eyes rose to just over my shoulder, and I looked up to see that Gage was also listening to our conversation. “But should you wish to question them yourself, please do so. Here is the list of Hogmanay guests I promised you. I made a few helpful notations beside some of the names. Those who are invalids, or were too sotted at the ball to have gotten into much mischief.”
I returned her playful smile and slid the list into the pocket of my walking dress.
“Thank you,” Gage told her and my aunt nodded.
We all settled into our chairs around the table and tucked into the meal of crusty bread, cold meats, cheeses, pickles, and apples—simple fare perfect for my ravenous appetite. It was not until partway through the meal, as I was laughing at something my cousin Jock had said and trying not to spray a mouthful of bread and cheese across the table, that I realized how significant the moment was. I’d glanced at my brother, who was watching me with a curious look in his eyes that I couldn’t decipher. But when his gaze dropped to my plate and I looked down to see half the food I’d heaped upon it gone, I suddenly understood.
I was actually hungry. But perhaps more important, I’d eaten. Not once had the meal turned to sawdust in my mouth or made my stomach clench in knots as it had normally done in the past few months when I tried to dine. I finished chewing the food in my mouth slowly and swallowed, wondering what it meant, and whether I should even be trying to comprehend it.
Did it mean my grief was gone? No. The heavy weight I felt in my chest when I thought of William Dalmay was still there, but it was perhaps a fraction lighter. Just a sliver. Nonetheless it was something. Maybe.
I took a deep breath and forced my attention back to the conversation swirling around me.
“So Young picked up the rifle and fired. Missed the axe by a good ten feet,” Jock gasped, laughing so hard he could barely get the words out. “And . . . and almost shot Shellingham’s ear off. The puir man was as green as this tablecloth.” He slunk lower in his chair, swiping tears away from his eyes as everyone joined in his amusement.
“And what did Mr. Stuart do?” Trevor asked between chuckles.
Jock swallowed and tried unsuccessfully to recompose himself. “He . . . he shook his head and said, as calm as ye please, ‘Well . . . well, at least, Crockett wasna here teh see it.’”
I laughed along with them this time. Apparently, Mr. Stuart’s stories about Davy Crockett hadn’t been enough. Mr. Young had to actually attempt one of the man’s more famous tricks, presumably under Mr. Stuart’s “capable” tutelage.
“Who is this Mr. Stuart?” Gage asked.
“A gentleman from the Coldingham area,” Aunt Sarah replied. “Rutherford met him in Edinburgh.”
Her husband nodded in confirmation, his mouth full of roast beef.
“The silly man claims to be the grandson of Charles Stuart, the Young Pretender,” Miss Witherington muttered under her breath, just loud enough so that we could all hear. I’d noticed she had been the only one to not find Jock’s story amusing.
“Yes, well,” Aunt Sarah murmured, a frown forming between her brows as she looked across the table at her future daughter-in-law. “Let’s leave the man his eccentricities. After all, he’s not harming anyone.”
Jock spluttered. “Except maybe Shellingham.”
Following luncheon, Uncle Andrew escorted us into his study along with his son, Andy, who’d been groomed since childhood to one day take over the massive estate. Apparently, my uncle also hoped those duties included magistrate. I didn’t mind. Andy was a likable, easygoing fellow. Perhaps a bit staid, but that was to be expected with a father like his.
Gratefully, Uncle Andrew got directly to the point.
“My riders didn’t discover anything useful from the inns and taverns along the roads to Edinburgh or Glasgow.” He steepled his fingers in front of him on his desk. “So either the innkeepers and stable lads were paid well for their silence, these men were more stealthy than we anticipated and traveled by back roads, or they did not journey north as expected with the body.”
Gage rubbed his hand over his jaw as he considered the matter. “You’re right. It could be any of those possibilities. And it doesn’t make sense to waste resources sending riders in other directions when we have no credible information to tell us they did anything but travel north. Perhaps later.” He sighed and shook his head. “But not now.”
Uncle Andrew nodded.
“What of the guests?” I asked. “Aunt Sarah said that none of them had any useful information to provide us. But were any of them acting suspiciously?” I glanced between my uncle and my cousin. “Were any of them conspicuously missing from the ball at any point?”
Andy and his father exchanged a look, their brows furrowed as they considered the matter.
“Not that we can recall,” Andy replied. “But there were almost eighty guests here that night. We could have easily missed seeing one leave. Or not.”
“As for not having anything to tell us,” Uncle Andrew began hesitantly. “You’ll notice that my wife said they didn’t have anything useful to inform us.” He grimaced and I wondered just what he was so loath to mention. “Several of the staff, and a few of the guests, suggested the culprit might be . . .” He sighed and muttered, “The Nun of Dryburgh.”
I nodded, having heard this suggestion from Lord Buchan’s staff as well.
“Who?” Gage demanded in justifiable confusion.
“The Nun of Dryburgh,” I repeated. “A fanciful myth they tell . . .” I broke off when I saw my uncle shake his head.
“It’s not just a myth,” he said.
My eyes widened in surprise.
“There’s a real woman who lives in a tiny hut on the property adjacent to the abbey. Though she’s never been a nun, as far as I’m aware, and her sanity is somewhat questionable.”
I glanced at Gage and then my brother, curious if they were as uncomfortable with this new information as I was.
“But she’s harmless,” he hastened to add. “Nothing more than an old woman who prefers to keep to herself.”
“You’ve met her?” Gage asked.
“Yes. Several times. But . . .” he paused, studying Gage and me in turn “. . . although I believe her to be blameless, it might be good for you to meet with her.” He spread his hands wide in explanation. “She may have seen something. Something everyone else has missed.”
Gage placed his hands on the arms of his chair as if to rise.
“Then we shall go to see her now.”
“You can’t.”
Gage sank back with a start.
Uncle Andrew cleared his throat. “That is . . . she’s nocturnal.”
From what I remembered of the myth, I had half expected this answer, but it still startled me. “She . . .”
“Only goes out at night. And as far as I can tell, she only answers her door after dusk.”
Gage’s face was awash with an interesting mix of emotions. He seemed unable to decide whether to frown or laugh. Eventually, he decided on a scowl, just a slight one, that tightened the corners of his eyes. “Then we shall visit her this evening.”
My uncle nodded. “Very good.” He made to rise, but it was Gage’s turn to foil that.
“Are you acquainted with a Lewis Collingwood?”
He sat back in his chair with a frown and lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if the answer were written there. “No. I don’t believe so. Should I be?”
Gage shook his head. “Just curious. He’s a man Buchan mentioned in passing.”
I turned to stare at Gage, surprised he was being so vague with my uncle. The man was a magistrate, after all, and my relative. Did he suspect him as well?
“One last thing . . . Are you aware of any of your guests visiting the abbey ruins earlier in the day on December thirty-first?”
My uncle seemed to have been taken unawares by the question, for he glanced at his son. “I can’t say with any certainty. I know several of the guests took their mounts and carriages out. And, of course, I wouldn’t be aware what the guests who only arrived that day did on their journey here. That was their matter.”
“Certainly,” Gage replied in an effort to placate my frowning uncle. “But would you give the matter some thought and make a list of those who you remember taking their horses out? It might clear them of any suspicion.”
Or do the exact opposite. I resisted the urge to glare at him, knowing he was only telling my uncle what he needed to hear to get the information he required, for indeed, Uncle Andrew nodded and agreed to consider the matter.
• • •
“What was that?” I demanded of Gage as he climbed into the carriage after me.
He stared across the space between us as if he didn’t know what I meant.
“Don’t you trust my uncle either?”
His gaze dropped, suddenly finding something of great interest on the dark fabric of his greatcoat. “To a certain extent. After all, Lord Rutherford’s reputation precedes him. He’s been a magistrate for this Border region for over twenty years.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Then why the subterfuge?”
“Well, Lord Rutherford is also known to be quite . . . strict. Starchy. I thought it best to leave him as much in the dark as possible regarding my methods.” His eyes rose to probe mine. “Was I wrong?”
I swallowed, recalling how reluctant Uncle Andrew had been to allow me to assist in the investigation. How he still disapproved. I’m sure Gage had deduced as much. “No.”
His gaze continued to search my face, and I began to look away when he spoke. “I started to think your brother was a man of the same stripe, but then he allowed you to come away alone with me.”
I, too, had been surprised when Trevor sent me off to the village of St. Boswells alone with Gage. I had expected him to insist on accompanying us, but instead he’d declared he had business to discuss with our uncle. Not for the first time, I’d been left with the uneasy feeling that all was not well with my brother’s estate. It was something I should have been more attuned to before now, but being so wrapped up in my own grief, I’d ignored it. My brother’s demeanor had been oddly solemn since I’d arrived, and I suspected now that it wasn’t only because of my own distress.
“I may have misjudged him,” Gage said, interrupting my thoughts. He lifted his eyebrows in query. “Perhaps he’s just playing the protective older brother.”
This time I did look away to stare out across the winter fields outside the window. “Maybe.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy with our unspoken thoughts, and I suddenly realized this was the first time we had been alone, without the potential of interruption, since Gage had climbed into my carriage in Edinburgh to say good-bye. I swallowed the sticky residue of nerves that coated my throat and mouth and wondered just what he was thinking.
And then I wished I hadn’t.
“Kiera, why did you send for me?” His voice was gentler than normal, but determined. As if he’d been initially hesitant to ask the question, but changed his mind.
Though I’d known it was coming, it was the question I had been dreading. Mostly because I did not know how to answer it. Or perhaps more fairly, did not want to answer it.
“Because of the investigation, of course,” I replied, unable to look at him. “Lord Buchan asked me to.”
My gloved fingers clenched tighter together in my lap during the pause that followed.
“Is that all?”
“I . . . I don’t know what you mean.” I stared blindly out the window while I braced for the onslaught of whatever his response would be, if there was any response at all. After all, I’d risked wounding the man’s pride.
“Liar.”
I jolted at the quietly teasing tone of his voice. I turned to see his pale winter blue eyes twinkling at me as if in jest. But I would’ve been a fool not to also notice the hard edge to his stare, the fierceness.
I sat immobile, not knowing how to reply. Was I glad to see him? Yes. But would I have ever sent for him of my own accord if I had not been prodded into doing so? I didn’t know. Everything inside me was jumbled when it came to Gage. I didn’t know how to sort it out.
So ultimately I settled for the truth.
“You confuse me.”
I could tell I’d surprised him, for some of the surety vanished from his expression. “I confuse you?”
“Yes.”
When he simply stared at me as if willing me to elaborate, I sighed and lifted a hand to my forehead.
“I don’t know what else you want me to say,” I snapped in exasperation. “I don’t seem to know anything when it comes to you.”
His gaze softened, though that edge of fierceness remained. “Surely that’s not true.”
I glared at him.
“You know how I feel about you.”
I blinked at him in astonishment. Was the man daft?
I shook my head. “No, I don’t.”
His eyes flashed. “Then I’ll just have to remind you.”
The next thing I knew I was in his arms, and he was kissing me with all the devastating thoroughness I’d come to expect from him. And yet under all of his skill, there was also a note of urgency, of desperation—and it was that emotion that resonated with me most of all, for it matched my own.
When he pulled back, I could not open my eyes, not with my emotions so stirred up inside me, shimmering on the surface. But I clung to the front of his greatcoat, unwilling to let go. So he pressed his lips to my forehead and held me close.
I had just decided to venture looking up at him when a shout from outside the carriage forced us to separate. We turned to see a man outside the window hailing our coachman as the carriage began to slow and the first row of cottages at the edge of what must be the village of St. Boswells came into view.
• • •
Our first stop was at the Abbot Inn, presumably named for the past heads of nearby Dryburgh Abbey. My uncle had recommended we stop there, recalling an altercation the innkeeper had with a pair of body snatchers several years back. He had not been specific about just what type of confrontation, so I was more than a little anxious about hearing the innkeeper’s tale.
So with my nerves still shaken from Gage’s kiss, I grabbed my sketchbook and let him help me out of the carriage in front of the inn at the edge of the wide village green. The inn stood in a row of whitewashed stone buildings with charcoal gray shingles, sparse and unassuming except for the sign
hanging out front featuring the figure of an abbot in his habit holding an overflowing tankard of ale.
We entered the inn’s front room, which also clearly served as the village’s pub, and I was first struck by the scent of wood smoke, barley, and stale ale. The room was steeped in dark shadows, lit only by the fireplace, a few braces of candles, and the sparse light filtering through the room’s two dusty windows. Probably better to mask the sticky substance that coated the floor fashioned from sturdy planks of wood. The same wood the gouged and chipped tables and chairs were fashioned from. I suspected the establishment had seen its fair share of rowdiness.
The room was empty save for two men hunkered around a table in the corner with their tankards of ale. They stared at us in curiosity as we crossed the room toward the counter. A tall, burly man hobbled through the door behind it, favoring his left leg.
He wiped his hands on a towel, looking us up and down in our obviously well-made and expensive winter attire. “Will ye be needin’ a room then?”
“No. I’m after information, actually,” Gage said.
The man’s gaze immediately turned suspicious. “Oh?”
“Lord Rutherford hinted you might be a good man to talk to.”
He set down the towel and crossed his arms over his chest. “About?”
I tensed at the man’s belligerent stance, but Gage continued on unaffected. He pulled a coin out of the inside pocket of his coat and placed it on the counter. “Tell us about your run-in with that pair of body snatchers.”
Whether because of the money or Gage’s nonthreatening manner, the innkeeper abandoned his surly demeanor, pocketed the coin, and offered to pour us a drink. Gage asked for ale, but my stomach was too tied up in knots to imbibe anything. Besides, a lady never drank in the public room of a tavern, not if she could help it, and that proved to be a more difficult convention to break than I’d expected.
The innkeeper slid a foaming tankard of ale across the scarred counter to Gage and then leaned against it with his not inconsiderable bulk. “’Twas two summers ago. Mr. Harden ’n I was on our way back from Galashiels Fair when we saw this trap comin’ t’ord us.” He shook his head. “Somethin’ ’twasn’t right aboot it. An’ I said as much to Harden.”
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