Autumn in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  His ancestor had been a shorter man and slighter of build, but their features were remarkably similar. Dixon’s nose, perhaps, was not so prominent in his face.

  Dixon had seen the world since he’d last stood here, had challenged himself and discovered his flaws as well as his attributes. Yet at this moment, he felt strangely adrift as he’d been as a fifteen-year-old about to be sent back to school. He’d come here then, standing in the crypt and desperately lonely for his parents, for a place to call his.

  There had been nothing for him at Balfurin so he’d been forced to travel the world, only to find himself full circle a decade later.

  For the first time Dixon wondered if this man had been as conflicted as Dixon felt at this moment. Had he ever questioned his actions? Had he debated about his path? Had he felt guilt over his deeds? Had he done things he wished he hadn’t in an attempt to win his earldom and his lands?

  Or had he felt no twinge of conscience at all? Had his every action been noble, his quest pure?

  The first earl was the founder of a dynasty, one that ended with George. For all his faults, for all his selfishness, despite his irritating qualities, George was the last of his family. It felt wrong that he wasn’t here at Balfurin.

  “It is a place of ghosts, master.”

  Dixon glanced over his shoulder to see Matthew carefully descending the shadowed steps.

  “It’s supposed to be. It’s a crypt.”

  “Ah, but here the ghosts are not confined to their burial place. They wander like stray dogs.”

  Dixon smiled. “We’re staying, Matthew, however much you dislike Balfurin.”

  Matthew shrugged. “I have little to do with your decision, master. I merely wished to inform you of what I know.”

  “You can’t know about ghosts.”

  “I am of Penang, master. We are closer to the spirit world.”

  “Have you ever noticed that you take off your nationality like a coat? Some days you’re of Penang, while others you’re more than happy to learn of European ways.”

  “I adapt to my surroundings,” Matthew said, glancing around him. “Is it a rudeness to ask why you are here?”

  “A bit of foolishness on my part, I’m afraid. Revisiting favorite places. Perhaps trying to find a treasure. Evidently, my ancestors hid a fortune for their descendants, to use when needed.”

  “You think this treasure ties in with your cousin’s disappearance?”

  “At this moment, I don’t know what to think,” Dixon admitted.

  “Maisie believes that you—he—abandoned the countess. Is this your belief as well?”

  “It’s possible. Evidently, George hasn’t changed since I left Scotland.”

  “You will try to find your cousin, then?” Matthew asked.

  “Have you any warnings to issue? Angry chickens, fierce storms, signs in the tea leaves?”

  Matthew only shook his head.

  “Come now,” Dixon said. “You can tell me. Better a danger known than one suspected, correct?”

  “I saw only that which confused me, master. I saw joy and prosperity for you, but with it certain danger. I’m uncertain whether or not the danger overwhelms the joy, but it is there regardless. You should be on your guard.”

  “Then let’s hope the joy compensates for it. We’re both due for a little joy, don’t you agree?”

  Matthew didn’t answer him for a moment.

  “I have had great joy in my life, master,” he finally said, “regardless of my outward circumstances. My inner self knows great serenity.”

  “You are a better man than I, Matthew,” he said. “I crave serenity as well, but not as much as physical joy. Preferably with a willing woman.”

  He grinned at the look on the other man’s face. In many ways Matthew was a prude. “Do you not wish the same?”

  “I have nothing to offer a woman, master. My blood is cursed.”

  “So says the missionary.”

  Matthew glanced at him.

  “I hope to God I’m not required to be as pure,” Dixon said. “I’m sure there are a few Irish girls in my background, as well as an Englishwoman or two. Who knows, perhaps the first earl was a Norseman.”

  “You are ridiculing me, master.”

  “Indeed I am,” Dixon said.

  “You do not understand.”

  “I understand, Matthew. I don’t accept. There’s the difference.”

  He turned and began to walk out of the crypt. “You put up a wall between yourself and happiness.”

  “You have done the same as well, master.”

  He didn’t want to talk about his life at the moment. But Matthew, once on the subject, showed no sign of giving it up.

  “You are the one who has not forgiven yourself, master. No one else holds you responsible for her death. Only you.”

  He stopped on the stairs, tempted to forbid Matthew from mentioning her name. Perhaps Matthew was right and this was a place of ghosts and spirits. He could almost see Annabelle standing there, her mouth pursed in a moue of discontent, her eyes swimming with tears.

  Now was not the time to summon her memory.

  “She was under my care. I should have protected her.”

  Matthew was blessedly silent.

  As they walked back to Balfurin, Dixon wondered if Matthew’s plan had been to silence him. If so, the ploy had worked. He would not mention Matthew’s happiness again as long as Matthew didn’t mention Dixon’s dead wife.

  Chapter 11

  T he smell woke her.

  Charlotte turned over on her back and blinked until she could focus on the tester above her. Something wasn’t right. Was Balfurin on fire? She abruptly sat up and looked around the moonlit room.

  She slipped off the bed, thrust on her slippers and donned her wrapper. She jerked the garment closed, tightening the belt before opening her door and looking both to the left and right.

  There was no smoke in the corridor, but something was definitely wrong. She had never before smelled anything quite so…strange. As if a marsh were burning.

  She frowned at the door across the hall, wondering why George had not awakened. A reminder that she didn’t know if her husband slept lightly or heavily. Her ignorance annoyed her. She jerked on her sash again and began walking toward the smell.

  As she descended the staircase, it occurred to her that the odd odor might well be coming from the kitchen. Who would be cooking at this time of night? What could they be creating that smelled so loathsome?

  When she pushed in the door to the kitchen, she half expected to find Matthew there, engaging in some sleight of hand like his magic. But it wasn’t Matthew at all, but George, a towel wrapped around his dressing gown, and a cloud of noxious smoke wreathing his head.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, forced to raise her voice over his muttering.

  He didn’t even glance in her direction. Instead, he was attempting to wrestle a large black bowl-like vessel, the source of all the smoke, off the surface of the stove. “Creating havoc for the moment. Would you care to assist me?”

  “If it means that you’ll cease trying to burn the place down, yes.”

  “I can assure you, it isn’t meant to be quite this bad.” He glanced at her. “I need some water, I think.”

  “I wouldn’t think water would do all that much good.”

  “Are you a cook?”

  “I never thought I would say this, but I think I have more skill in that area than you.”

  He set the large instrument to the cooler side of the stove. “I was in the mood for some soon hock.”

  She raised one eyebrow.

  “Marbled goby—a fish,” he said. “Although, I confess, I’d have settled for some shark’s fin soup.”

  “I’ve never heard of marbled goby, and I can assure you we haven’t any shark.”

  “I know,” he said, sounding like a disappointed little boy as he stared down at the smoking remains of his food. “But I had some dried noodles and thou
ght it would go with the salmon Cook served for dinner.”

  “Are you missing the Orient?”

  “The food,” he said. “Fried eggs with oysters, prawn fritters, sotong bakar, nasi goreng ayam, burbur chacha, or my favorite—muah chee.”

  She sent him another look. He smiled. “Muah chee, a dessert made from peanuts.”

  “It smells hideous,” she said, and then mitigated her comments. “But perhaps I am simply not used to Oriental cooking.”

  “I’m afraid no one is, the way I’ve done it. Matthew’s a better cook, but I didn’t want to disturb him.”

  “You’re very considerate of your servants,” she said, moving to the table. She sat at the bench, propping her elbows on the scarred wooden surface. She clasped her hands together and rested her chin on them all the while regarding him solemnly.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call Matthew my servant.”

  “Yet he calls you master.”

  “Old habits die hard, sometimes. He was taught to call any European master as a form of respect.”

  She remained silent, wondering if he’d explain.

  Finally, he spoke again. “As an infant he was orphaned and taken into the home of missionaries. He was raised more as their slave than their child. Whenever he wasn’t quick enough to do something, he was punished severely. I believe the minister called it ‘beating the heathen’ out of him.”

  “How vile.” She lowered her hands and leaned toward him. “How could he get away with something so horrible? Isn’t it strange, I’ve always considered missionaries the very best of us, those people touched by God.”

  “Perhaps some are,” he said.

  “But not the ones you’ve met.”

  He seemed to consider her question for a moment before finally answering. “The man who raised Matthew was more a barbarian than Matthew could ever have been. But he considered himself superior because he was European. Perhaps he was an oddity, however, one of a kind. No doubt the other missionaries are people touched by God.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said gently.

  He glanced at her in surprise. “You didn’t do anything.”

  “I know,” she said, “but I’m sorry for Matthew. I’m sorry for anyone who must endure cruelty simply for its sake. It’s one thing, I think to suffer for a cause, quite another when there seems to be no virtue at the end of it. Pain for the sake of pain doesn’t seem quite right, does it?”

  “No,” he said, smiling faintly.

  “Did I say something amusing?”

  “On the contrary,” he said, joining her at the table. He folded his arms and regarded her with the same somberness with which she’d earlier studied him. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had such a profound conversation with a woman before.”

  “What do you normally talk about with women?”

  He stared off into the distance and she wondered if he was recalling all those hundreds of conversations he must have had. Even during their abortive marriage he’d been a favorite of her sisters, always flattering them, whispering things into their ears that made them giggle and blush. He was one of those men who knew what women wanted to hear.

  What an idiot she’d been to ask that question.

  But he seemed to take it seriously, and when he spoke, his answer surprised her. “I think, on the whole, men discuss ideas more than women. Women choose to talk about feelings.”

  “That’s a rather broad assumption, don’t you think? I know a great many women who discuss ideas. We’re living in an age of enlightenment, after all. Women are encouraged to think, to do, to more than simply exist for the sake of a man.”

  “You are the headmistress of a school,” he said. “I’d be very surprised if you espoused any other opinion.”

  She shook her head, annoyed at him. “What kind of feelings did these women want to discuss with you?” Now, that was a question she really should not have asked, and she almost called it back the minute it left her lips. But she was more curious than polite at the moment.

  “Perhaps they were madly in love with me,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

  “Or perhaps you wished to believe so. They probably disliked you intensely,” she offered. “And couldn’t wait to tell you exactly how much. That’s certainly a feeling.”

  “Perhaps they were afraid of the strength of their own emotions.”

  “Or they were made nauseous by the power of their antipathy.”

  His smile broadened, and she couldn’t help but answer with one of her own. He really shouldn’t be as charming as he was.

  “If you’re still hungry,” she said, “I could make you something. I learned to cook in a middling fashion when I first came to Balfurin.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “My appetite has vanished for now.”

  “Now that you’ve perfumed the air with your efforts.”

  “I’m sorry for that, but not if it summoned you from your room. I didn’t see you at dinner. Were you avoiding me?”

  If she’d truly been avoiding him, she wouldn’t now appear before him dressed only in her nightgown and wrapper. But she didn’t want to call attention to her attire, so she only shrugged.

  “Am I that frightening?”

  “Frightening?” She shook her head.

  He didn’t argue the point, but left the table and began cleaning the bowl-like vessel.

  “What is that you’re cooking with?” she asked, genuinely curious.

  “It’s called a wok. It’s Chinese.” He began scraping it with a long handled spoon. “Are there any ill effects from your mishap this afternoon?” he asked. “The carriage accident,” he added.

  “I’m a little sore,” she said. “But that’s to be expected.”

  “Franklin arrived safely. I think the horse can be saved.”

  She nodded, having spoken to Franklin before retiring. “Did you find what you wanted in the old castle?” she asked.

  He glanced over his shoulder and smiled at her, as if in praise of her curiosity. “I didn’t. But it was nice to see the old place. It’s been years since I was there.” He didn’t say anything for a moment, and the only sounds were the scraping of metal against metal. “It’s odd to see all those relatives in the crypt. A reminder that I’m only one in a long line.”

  He glanced at her. “What about your family, Charlotte? Do you ever see them?”

  The question so surprised her that she stared at him. “No,” she said realizing it was the first time in all these years that anyone had inquired about her parents. Indeed, of any of her relatives. She might have sprouted, full grown, on the steps of Balfurin five years ago. That’s as much interest as anyone had expressed in her previous life. Even Spencer.

  “No,” she said again. “I sent a few letters.” Two years ago, her last letter had been returned, with no notification as to why. She’d simply been rejected, and she’d felt so affronted that she’d never written to her parents again. “They didn’t seem to want to know me,” she said, giving him the brutal truth. “They left me here, no doubt convinced I would come home in abject misery. I vowed never to do so, of course, and consoled myself with Mary Wollenstonecraft’s words. Have you read her? She wrote a treatise on the rights of women nearly fifty years ago.”

  At his silence, she continued. “She said that: ‘The simple definition of the reciprocal duty, which naturally subsists between parent and child, may be given in a few words: The parent who pays proper attention to helpless infancy has a right to require the same attention when the feebleness of age comes upon him. But to subjugate a rational being to the mere will of another, after he is of age to answer to society for his own conduct, is a most cruel and undue stretch of power; and, perhaps, as injurious to morality as those religious systems which do not allow right and wrong to have any existence, but in the Divine will.’”

  He turned and looked at her, his expression a little bemused.

  “You’ve never seen them since they left you here?”

  “It wasn’
t a case of leaving me here,” she said. “You mustn’t think so badly of them. I refused to go. I simply dug in my heels. My grandmother’s trait, my mother said. I wish I’d known her. We’d probably have been fast friends.”

  “But you’ve never seen them since?” he asked, relentless.

  “No. But why do you care? You never liked my father.”

  “I suspect the feeling was reciprocated,” he said.

  She reluctantly nodded.

  Her father had taken every occasion to avoid George whenever possible. Even at dinner the two men did not converse. The women held up their share of the conversation. Otherwise, the table would have been occupied by stilted, silent people, the only sound the clinking of silverware against dishes.

  “You liked my mother, though.”

  He didn’t answer, but she expected it, coming to understand that there were a great many things that George didn’t say. He left holes in the conversation, as if he didn’t wish to reveal more of himself, or comment in a negative fashion. He was not as petty as he’d once been, perhaps, choosing silence rather than sarcasm. On the whole, she approved of the change.

  “So you lived here all alone.”

  “All alone, without any money,” she added.

  He looked surprised. “I thought you were an heiress.”

  “My father announced that he’d disown me if I remained behind. My mother was shocked and appalled. I had a choice. To remain at Balfurin and be a rebel, or return to England a dutiful daughter.

  “I knew that I had my grandfather’s legacy. It was supposed to be saved for my children, but since it was evident that I was not going to have any since my husband had disappeared, there was no reason not to spend it on Balfurin.”

  “So you became the chatelaine of the castle.”

  She smiled. “Queen of the mice.”

  He turned and faced the stove again making a great deal of noise as he beat at the wok. Was he angry at it?

  “There were more mice here than people at the beginning,” she said. “I grew accustomed to the sound of them squeaking in the corners. Every other creature had decided that the castle was inhospitable. There was not one single part of the roof that was lacking a hole. In the rainy season, it was like living in a sieve.”