by Karen Ranney
Irritated that she didn’t know exactly how to treat him, Charlotte stood, pushing back her chair.
“Good morning, Matthew Mark Luke and John,” she said, determined to be the consummate hostess. The man did not deserve the treatment she had set aside for George. It was, after all, not his fault his employer was a snake. Besides, by being friendly with his servant, she might find out some additional knowledge about her errant husband. It was much better to be armed with information than to be confounded by ignorance.
“If it is more comfortable for you, your ladyship, you may call me Matthew.”
She gestured to the empty chair beside her, normally occupied by the French teacher who’d departed for France two days ago. She expected Mademoiselle Douvier back at Balfurin in March, like the majority of the teachers.
Instead of sitting, Matthew bowed from the waist and declined. “I could not, your ladyship. It would not be proper. I came to ask you only if you knew the whereabouts of my master.”
“I insist,” she said. She gently placed her hand on his elbow, pretending that she didn’t feel him flinch from her touch. Her breakfast companions were looking at her strangely. Not one of them had commented upon George’s abrupt appearance the night before, probably because they’d already discussed the matter before she arrived.
“You would do us a service. We’d very much like to know about your travels here from the Orient. How long did it take you? There’s a great deal we would like to know about you as well, Matthew. You cannot deprive us of the opportunity for education. We’re teachers, after all.”
The poor man looked as if he would prefer to be anywhere but here, but she was relentless in her determination. He would sit with them, and she would obtain any bits of information she could about George. As if he’d heard her, another burst of laughter came from the dining room.
As Matthew settled in the chair beside her, she leaned over and smiled brightly at him, an expression that did not come at all naturally this morning.
“How long have you been with George?” she asked.
Matthew stared at his plate, and then at the young maid who was serving him porridge. For the longest time he didn’t answer. The moments stretched out long enough for Charlotte to feel the knife edge of embarrassment. Normally, people were quick to obey her summons and answer her questions. Nothing, however, had been remotely normal since George had come back to Balfurin.
“I’m truly not hungry, your ladyship. I have already partaken of my morning meal. I have just come to find my master.”
“Why do you call him master? You’re not a slave, Matthew.”
“I am, your ladyship,” Matthew said, shocking her. He looked straight at her, and she found her gaze held by his. “I am indebted to my master for the extent of my life. He saved me, you see. My life belongs to him.”
She sat back in her chair, wishing she’d never insisted upon Matthew joining them at the table.
Each of the teachers was staring at Matthew. Not only was he dressed more richly than any of them, but what he was saying was so alien that all they could do was stare at him.
“He saved you?” Charlotte finally said.
“I was being punished, your ladyship. My master intervened, and nursed me back to health. My fate is bound to his.”
“And George won’t release you?” Her hand was at her throat, her thumb rubbing up against the onyx intaglio she’d inherited from her grandmother.
“He has released me, your ladyship. Many times. It is I who refuse to go. My honor would suffer greatly if I had no gratitude toward the man who saved me.”
“Where do you come from, sir?” the music teacher asked.
“From Penang,” he said, staring at the cooling porridge in front of him with a look of revulsion.
“Is it very different from Scotland?”
“As different as the sunset is from a rock,” he said. He raised his eyes to address the teacher. Whatever she saw in his gaze silenced her. She only nodded as if she understood completely. No one at the table was under any illusion that Scotland was the sunset in this case.
“My country is surrounded by a sea of greenish blue water. White sands lead to the ocean. The sky is blue, but when night comes it changes to pink and violet as if the sun cries in despair to leave. The ocean breezes cool the heat and make Penang a place where it is always temperate. When we have rain, it comes like a burst of tears from God himself, quickly over and forgiven.”
“It sounds like a beautiful place,” one of the teachers said.
“Yet you are Oriental,” Charlotte said.
He glanced at Charlotte. “My father was Chinese, yes.”
Matthew was obviously uncomfortable seated with a group of women. She wondered if it was because his society was a patriarchal one. But then, most societies were except for the small oasis of peace women managed to create within the broader world. Such as the school. Here, women ruled, and men were not in abundance. If they were present, they were not in a position of power.
Unlike George. A fox among the chickens. A burst of laughter punctuated that thought.
“Does your master,” she asked, bowing to the inevitable when referring to George, “feel the same about Penang?”
“My master is content as long as he is able to ply his trade.”
“What is his trade?” Exactly what does a Scottish earl do in Malay?
Matthew glanced at her and then looked away, evidently finding the bowl of porridge more to his liking than her gaze.
“I do not speak of my master without his approval.”
“I can only commend your loyalty, Matthew,” she said sweetly, more sweetly than she felt. “In fact, I’d wish the same loyalty of my servants.”
Matthew didn’t respond.
“Your master is probably finding the weather rather dismal,” she said. “In fact, I believe we’re due for a storm soon.” That wasn’t difficult to guess. The autumn had been filled with thunderstorms.
A corner of Matthew’s mouth turned down, but otherwise he made no comment.
“In a few weeks it will be quite cold. Penang would be warmer.”
Matthew glanced over at her. “My master can accommodate himself to the weather.”
Yes, but she couldn’t accommodate herself to George.
“I doubt he can,” she said, as an ember of something devilish curled up in her stomach and fueled her words. “He’ll probably take himself off to Edinburgh. Or London. Not that it’s warmer there. But there are more braziers. And stoves. Here at Balfurin, we are forever shivering.”
To her dismay, three of the teachers tittered behind their hands as the others nodded emphatically. The conditions were not quite so dismal as she’d announced. Evidently, however, the teachers did not agree.
“Once the students leave it’s quiet here. Other than reading or studying or preparing for the next school year, there isn’t anything at all to do. George will be quite bored, I’m certain.”
“I doubt you will find that is true of my master, your ladyship,” Matthew said. “My master occupies himself in great pursuit most of the day. When he is not managing his companies, he is planning on more adventures.”
She felt a slight pinch of irritation at Matthew’s loyalty. “Companies? Well, good for George, then. But he’ll find Balfurin a very out of the way place. It’s not convenient to send correspondence. You’ll find that the world ignores us here, Matthew.”
Another burst of laughter had her looking toward the door.
“Your master is a very entertaining man, it seems.”
Should she go inside? Or send reinforcements—someone sedate and less amenable to George’s charm? Who? She glanced over at Mrs. Brant, an older woman from England who taught decorum. If anyone had an effect on the girls it would be Mrs. Brant. Unfortunately, the woman was smiling at the moment, and glancing longingly at the door from time to time. Charlotte sighed heavily.
“Women find my master to be charming,” Matthew said.
“Do th
ey?” Charlotte forced a pleasant smile to her face, a singular feat since she wanted, at the moment, to snarl. “He has not changed, then. Has he scores of maids in Penang? He seems very partial to maids, as I recall.”
“Many women work for my master. They find him very agreeable.”
“No doubt,” Charlotte said.
If Charlotte had ever imagined a moment as hellish as this, she’d have surrounded herself with flames at least twelve feet high. She’d be bathing in boiling oil. Demons would be assaulting her ears with high-pitched squeals while her flesh was being singed from her very bones.
“How odd that he’s returned home to his wife,” she said, knowing that her smile had an edge to it. It was a very good thing her students were leaving today. They would not serve as an audience for George’s charm after this morning.
She stood, annoyed and near to tears. At this particular moment, she couldn’t tell if she was more angry because she was close to crying, or wishing to cry because she was so angry. Either way, she mentally cursed George MacKinnon in all the languages she knew.
Matthew was wise enough not to speak. He only stood and bowed to her, the perfect servant.
“I pity you,” she said in a low enough voice that the others could not overhear. “You’re loyal to a man who does not deserve it.”
“Your ladyship, you are mistaken about many things. I thank you for your pity, but I think you should keep it for yourself.”
She whirled and left the room, intent on any place but here. She strode through Balfurin, her expression no doubt causing others to look away. Not one person summoned her in the entire time it took to walk from the dining room to the other side of the castle. Her name was not called once, no one solicited her advice, her opinion, or asked a question of her. That, alone, was monumental. The fact that she reached the door and actually exited Balfurin before anyone could stop her was a strange and unsettling event.
She walked out into the morning and kept walking, intent for a nearby hill. No one in Scotland would call it more than a roll of the glen. But from here she could see all of Balfurin’s land. Here was where the carriage had stopped five years ago and where she’d first viewed the ramshackle castle.
Five years had passed since she’d stood and watched her parents’ carriage drive away from Balfurin. She’d made a life for herself, and carved a future from an impetuous decision. True, there had been too many waking hours spent being afraid, but she’d soon learned that it was better to be occupied at some task than to simply sit and worry.
She’d come to love this wedge of Scotland as if it were a person—a recalcitrant, irascible, prideful character who challenged her at each step. The sunsets were magnificent, and the sweeping hills and gray blue skies were signs of home.
As she walked, the chilled wind brushed against her face, summoned forth the tears she’d been so careful to keep at bay. They came, flowing freely down her face to her chin where they dropped to the serviceable dark blue of her headmistress’s dress, soaking into the wool and becoming part of the cloth itself.
She would not be an object of pity. She especially would not be an object of Matthew’s pity. How dare he! She brushed at her tears with the back of her hand as she mounted the crest of the hill.
Ahead of her in the distance, between two rolling hills, were the ruins of the old castle, a place the MacKinnons had abandoned years ago. It stood too close to the River Tam, and had been subjected to periodic flooding whereas Balfurin had been built on higher ground.
For a long moment she stood with her back to Balfurin, wondering at her curious reluctance to view it in the light of the morning sun. She might see him, and his very presence had spoiled it for her. He had left her and she had transformed his family home to a place that was almost magical in her mind, an institution where girls were encouraged to learn, a place for knowledge that was not thought of as unfeminine or ungainly but something to be treasured and cherished.
In one day, George had put it all in jeopardy, had pushed everything she’d worked so hard to accomplish to the edge of the cliff and dared her to watch it fall and shatter upon the stone.
She would not allow him to ruin her life. She would not allow him to ruin the Caledonia School for the Advancement of Females.
Him and his women. How dare he!
She would go and see Spencer. As her solicitor, he would know what to do.
Chapter 8
T he courtyard was a hive of activity. Matthew walked to the outer ring of girls, stopping in front of Rebecca McKnight, who looked wide-eyed as he reached up and plucked an egg from her ear. She clamped both hands over her mouth as her companions giggled. When he did it again to Moira Campbell, the entire group of girls squealed in delight.
“What is he doing?” Charlotte said to one of the teachers, a woman who looked as enamored of Matthew’s behavior as any of the girls.
“Magic,” she said, sighing. “His lordship mentioned at breakfast that Matthew is quite adept at it, and the girls insisted on a performance.”
“Indeed,” Charlotte said, jerking on her gloves.
George stood to the side, smiling fondly at the scene he’d arranged. Had everyone lost their minds this morning?
“The girls should be leaving soon,” she said. “This demonstration will delay them.” In fact, the carriages were all lined up, ready to take the rest of the students back to their homes.
“Oh, I don’t think so, your ladyship,” the teacher said, not turning. “Some of them have a long trip. Shouldn’t they enjoy themselves now?”
Had she lost all authority?
Very well, she had a choice, to stay here and insist upon an orderly transition of the girls from the dormitory to the carriages, or continue with her mission to see Spencer. George turned and smiled at her, solidifying her resolve. The girls would just have to be chaperoned by the attending teachers. Charlotte needed a solution to the problem of her newly arrived husband.
Matthew suddenly began to spin, his wide sleeves bellowing out at his side. He abruptly stopped, and twin tongues of orange flame emerged from where his hands would be. A collective scream emerged from the girls, all of whom either looked at Matthew with amazement or George with too much admiration.
Thank God it was the end of term.
“I put you in charge, then,” she said to the teacher. “I trust you will see them off safely, and not in flames.”
“Of course, your ladyship,” the woman answered, but her attention didn’t veer from Matthew.
Charlotte sighed and descended the steps to her carriage.
Where was she going?
Dixon stood near the circle of girls surrounding Matthew and watched as the carriage left Balfurin’s courtyard, heading north toward Inverness. Where is she going in such a hurry?
He really shouldn’t have teased her so unmercifully this morning. There was something about her that made him want to make her angry, force some emotion into her eyes. She was too controlled, too cool. He’d finally succeeded, and the flash of anger she’d showed had warned him that Charlotte MacKinnon might be the consummate headmistress, but she was also a woman.
A very interesting woman.
Matthew’s words kept coming back to him. What kind of woman mistakes another man for her husband? The kind who didn’t know George well. The kind who’d only been married a week.
His cousin had to answer for her charges—had George really absconded with Charlotte’s dowry? As much as Dixon disliked to admit it, George could well be capable of that kind of behavior.
Their last conversation came to his mind as it had often lately.
“How the hell do you expect me to make it through life with Balfurin to support, not to mention my ancient servants? Thanks to my father’s will, they’ve got a home for life, but even the old man couldn’t have foreseen them living to such an advanced age.”
“I don’t care how you do it, George,” Dixon had said. “But do it honestly. Don’t shame our name by palming cards. Fi
nd yourself an heiress to marry.”
“You really truly do want me miserable, don’t you, cousin? Why, so you can laugh in your whiskey? I’ve got the title, but damn little else.”
“Then, for God’s sakes, be the best Earl of Marne you can. And I don’t mean by cheating at cards.”
Ten years had passed since that conversation. What had those years been like? What, for that matter, had George been doing? Gambling away the rest of his inheritance? Living off a succession of friends and women? Dixon didn’t know, anymore than he knew what George had done since marrying Charlotte.
Intellectually, he knew he wasn’t responsible for George. But Matthew was a walking testament to the belief that one man did owe another. Dixon couldn’t rid himself of the thought that if he left Balfurin today, he’d always feel a measure of guilt. Matthew wasn’t going to be happy, but he had to find out what had happened to George.
In the courtyard, a dozen large barouches were lined up in readiness. A group of women stood huddled on the top of the steps like blackbirds bidding farewell to the girls. A momentous day, the end of term. He remembered when he’d gone away to school. He couldn’t wait to return home to Balfurin.
“If you please, your lordship, I’ve come from Old Nan.”
He turned, pulled out of his reverie by the young maid’s words. He hadn’t seen her before, and as he nodded, she curtseyed, holding out her apron with both hands as if it were the full skirt of a ball gown.
“She’d like it if you’d call upon her.”
“Dear God, is she still alive?” he asked.
The maid smiled and then smoothed the expression on her face as if afraid she’d be punished for her levity. “Aye, your lordship. She’s ninety-two now. A great advanced age. But my granny was near as old as her when she died in her sleep last year.”
“And she wants to see me?”
“Aye, your lordship. She saw you in the window, and there’s nothing she’ll have but for you to come and visit her.”
The very last thing he wanted to do was to call upon Old Nan. The woman had terrorized him as a boy, always insisting on a standard of behavior that he and George mocked behind her back. He, especially, always seemed to be a target of her wrath.