“Some never had them to begin with,” she said coolly.
Mr. Finch peered at her in the faint light and then pulled back. “Oh, well, surprise. It’s you . . . the injured garden waif.”
Jenna smelled the strong reek of alcohol on his breath too. “Perhaps this woman is doing the best under her circumstances. Can you not conjure up a sliver of pity for someone who has clearly traveled a path in life full of hardship, Mr. Finch?”
He shrugged. “It is her destiny. Not a shred of pity will change that.”
“I cannot agree. I would encourage anyone unhappy to wrestle with their fate until they find a more agreeable circumstance.”
He shook his head once, decidedly. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about it. My fate is as agreeable as I could have it. And as a word of warning, the old woman is the town’s ancient fortune-teller. If anyone should be aware of her predetermined course and the futility in fighting it, it should be her. Good day, miss.” He made a quick nod of his head and walked toward his friends.
The elderly woman began to whimper. Jenna bristled with anger and searched for her leather purse with its shilling and pennies. She tried shushing the woman. “Here,” she said, holding out a few farthings. “It may not cover all, but it should help.”
The old woman’s grizzled hand shot out, snaking cold, tuberous fingers around Jenna’s wrist as she took the coins.
“There will be trouble,” she croaked. “It cannot be avoided, but the Great Soul will guide you.”
Jenna yanked her hand from the grasp of the woman. She stared at her and felt the young boy, Tavish, slide back, away from the stall. “What did you say?”
Her withered lips pursed and whispered. “These are wicked times.”
“Indeed they are,” Jenna said, backing up and leading Tavish to the horse. “Worrisome too.”
Alex stood in the courtyard and stared up at the glassed windows of the house. He had spent yet another evening avoiding. Avoiding people, avoiding responsibility, avoiding action. The girl was right. Somewhere there was a path within him that begged for his determined footfalls. One that would quiet everything—that spoke to him of duty and obedience—that encouraged him to ignore the track that had been selected for him.
He wondered if he’d ever have the strength to follow it.
Miss MacDuff. He’d never had a conversation like that with a woman before. And that had him wondering if she would ever exercise the invitation to wander the shelves of the family’s library. It stood to reason that she could find the threshold of the main house an obstacle too high to surmount.
He gazed at the one window which hampered his own success. Unlike those that surrounded it, with their faint candlelight and flickering shadows suggesting drowsy movement, this one released a vivid glow. His father’s study. Determined to remember the sweet release of truth, he decided to speak with the duke regarding his future.
He pondered his father’s state of mind, and noted with each step closer to the room, he left a sizable amount of courage behind. By the time he reached the study’s doorway, he had all but decided against having a discussion on the subject of anything with the man. His palm rested on the wooden door. His fingers refused to curl. They would not make a fist to knock, to ask permission for entrance.
The door swung open and Alex leapt back. A wild-eyed young maid dashed from the room, clutching the top of her open garment to her chest, and disappeared down the hall. The Duke of Keswick was also at the door, housed in a plush indigo dressing gown, and holding an empty decanter. He too appeared disconcerted at seeing someone unexpectedly.
“Alex? What is it?”
“I only came—well, I was about to knock. . . . I wondered if we might speak?” He tried slowing his breath to stay his pulse.
“Fine,” his father said. “I’d intended to refill my port decanter, but I shall wait as long as you are brief. Take this from me, Alex. I need the chamber pot. And fill my glass with sherry.” The duke caught the heavy door with the back of his foot and kicked it closed. Candled sconces flickered with the wind and a few pictures hiccuped on the walls.
Alex took the vessel from his father and searched for a place to set it down. He attempted to find an audible distraction—anything to prevent the disturbing sounds of his father relieving himself behind the Chinese screen from reaching his ears. With nothing else to do, he eased the stopper out of the sherry decanter and poured the wine. The duke came from behind the screen just as Alex replaced the crystal cap. He offered the glass to his father, who nodded curtly and settled into a chair.
“What is it, then? What have you come to see me about?”
The duke’s tone was a familiar sound to Alex’s ears: one of brevity and aloofness. If he were asked to pinpoint the exact time in which he and his father had lost any vestige of warmth in their relationship, it wouldn’t be difficult. He’d seen his father court many a mistress as he was growing up. In some ways, he’d grown immune to its shock. It wasn’t until the duke cast aside all consideration for his wife, sometimes dismissing her presence all together by flaunting his affairs, that he began to feel hostile in his presence. He’d never been certain as to the cause of his father’s callousness, but he’d assumed it was the result of the duchess’s increasing apathy toward the man she married, the slow unraveling of the marriage knot.
“I wanted to speak to you regarding my schooling.”
The duke sighed and took a deep swallow from his glass. “It does not amuse me to discover that my son believes he has a choice in the matter of education.”
Alex shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “It’s not an issue of declining education, but rather the line of instruction, if you will.”
“Whatever line you have set your sights on, if it differs from mine, it will not be entertained. Although at present, your school may not even extend an invitation for your return.
“Your future was laid out with great care. To secure the continuance and prosperity of this family name. But as I recall, you have little respect for those in search of success.”
Having prepared for this type of discourse, the words stung less than Alex figured they had intended to. Thus, he ventured further. “I assure you, sir, I have the greatest respect for those seeking triumph in their endeavors. I understand your concern for lineage and its survival, but I feel I have a capacity for subject matter other than politics. In particular, medicine.”
“No,” was the curt reply. “I shall not support anything other than the schooling route prepared for you—even with this disastrous delay. You have no idea the amount of work you’ve cast in my direction. The things I will have to do—or, more to the point, the people I will have to pay—to get you readmitted makes my blood boil, a malady no medicine has been able to cure.”
Alex pressed on. “What if I were to school in both subject matters?”
His father leaned over the table and set his glass down with a jolt. “If I have failed to make it clear, let me take advantage of this most important moment. You are being groomed for a life of public service in the House of Lords. A prestigious position where you will legislate law—not work in a hospital where you will leech blood and lance boils! When I step down, you shall take my place. You shall carry on fulfilling your duty to your country and king. And you shall do it in the same vein of mind-set as your father and my father before me. You will not be a snag in the tapestry of this family’s carefully woven dynasty. Its members have built their accomplishments with solid allegiances to meticulously selected allies.” The duke sat back, the veins of his forehead protruding and purple. He took a few restorative breaths, poured another glass of sherry, spilling half the contents onto the table, and guzzled the remainder.
Alex eyed his father and felt the tendons in his arms tighten. He envisioned his hands clutching the man around his neck and constricting the flow of air, imagined a plea for mercy. He felt his heart pounding in his rib cage, but then he slowly gained control of his rage. Although he
had anticipated this reaction from his father, he hadn’t realized how much it would affect him physically. He thought he would at least have the opportunity to discuss his interests. He had not expected complete dismissal.
Myriad thoughts flew through his mind, conversations with countless endings—all of them finishing poorly. As usual, I have no control over my life. He stood and made a quick nod to the duke. “Thank you, sir.”
The duke made no acknowledgment, but rose and faced the picture above the fireplace mantel. He gazed at it in quiet reflection. Alex turned and walked the length of the room. When he reached the door and pulled it open, his father spoke. “Your life has little to offer you with regard to preference, Alex, but remember this: choice comes with power. You will not be graced with one until you are triumphant with the other. And at this point, you have neither.”
Alex left without further delay. His father’s words stung like little daggers. Obviously, there were still chinks in his armor.
The fire crackled in the hearth when Jenna and Tavish arrived at the cottage. The men were clearing the table while Malcolm and Ian spoke, details of the building site strewn before them. Angus was the first to greet them and gave Jenna a smothering bear hug, then warmed her icicled fingers. When he discovered his enormous frame was intimidating Tavish, he bent down on his knees to make his introduction.
“How do ye do, lad? I’m Angus,” he said with a tenderness Jenna hadn’t remembered he possessed.
Tavish pulled himself up to his full height and thrust his hand forward. “I’m well. The name’s Tavish. My father was Buchanan. I’ll work hard and be no trouble. My mother always said, Stay nay longer in a friend’s house than you’re welcome. And I intend to be welcome for a while.”
The men and Jenna broke out in rollicking laughter, and Tavish’s face beamed back at them.
After the introductions, Jenna showed Tavish around the cottage and upstairs to the loft, where she and Colin had prepared a little cot in her room. They’d hung an old quilt so the boy could have a space to call his own, just as the men had for her years ago. He gushed over the cozy nook and thanked Jenna repeatedly until she put a hand on his shoulder to quiet him. “You’re welcome. Now, I’ll not hear another word of your good fortune until we’ve had a proper supper. Are you hungry?”
His eyes widened at the suggestion of food.
“I’m sure Angus kept something warm for us, so let’s . . .” Tavish was out the door and down the stairs before she could finish.
“The lady Jenna mentioned something about food perhaps still round from suppertime? Is it so, Mr. Angus? For if it is, I’d be willing to do a bit of work for it—whatever it may be—no complaints.” Tavish skidded to a halt before Angus, who was stacking the last of the bowls into the rough wooden cupboard.
Angus turned around with a look of pure bewilderment. “You’ll do no such thing, lad.” He paused as Tavish’s face crumpled. “You’ll not work a second for this meal. It comes wi’out need for payment.”
Jenna saw the look of confusion surface in his eyes. “Tavish. If you’re hungry, you’ll be fed.”
He grinned, again showing his missing teeth.
“If there’s one thing Angus can’t stand, it’s a growling tummy somewhere within earshot. He’s determined to cure the countryside of hunger—belly by belly.”
Angus whipped the edge of his dish towel at Jenna, snapping the air at her shoulder. He turned to Tavish, his face grave. “You know, lad, everything ye feel shows on your face, and ye should never let everyone ken how ye feel all the time. It looks as if we men have a lot to teach you.”
Tavish nodded with enthusiasm.
“Perhaps we’ll have to start wi’ a few games of cards.”
“You’ll do no such thing, Angus McGregor,” Jenna chastised him. “I think it’s adorable Tavish hasn’t yet learned to hide what he feels.” Her stomach twisted with sorrow. But she enjoyed the idea of having someone younger than herself around.
“Did ye hear that, son? Jenna thinks you’re adorable.”
Tavish turned from peeking inside the massive cast-iron pot and responded earnestly, “I am adorable—my mother told me of it all the time.”
“And what mother wouldn’t?” Angus winked at Jenna. “Sit ye down, lad, and let’s see if we can fill your wee belly. Ye need plumping.”
After Tavish devoured his supper, Jenna and Angus watched the boy’s head grow heavy with sleep as he gazed into the glowing fire, a hand wrapped around his cup of watered-down ale. Even weakened, it proved too strong for Tavish to stay awake. Malcolm, having come in from his frosty late-night chores, scooped up the languid child and took him upstairs.
One by one, the men bid their good nights. Jenna and Angus sat in front of the fire drying wooden bowls and spoons, preparing the table for tomorrow’s breakfast. The fire was quieting, its embers hot and glowing. It still warmed the room and released the odd pop and spitting crack.
She listened to Angus hum a mindless tune, and found herself weaving through the memories of the day. “Angus?”
“Umph?” His dirk lay between his teeth, and he bent under the sideboard. She watched him settle back with his chunk of whittling wood.
“Who is the Great Soul?”
He chuckled. “Why do ye ask?”
Jenna shivered. “I ran into a spaewife today.”
“A fortune-teller?” He looked up at her.
She nodded. “She said I’d see great trouble and that—”
He held up a hand. “Rubbish. They all say that. Pay her no mind.”
“She said the Great Soul would guide me.”
Angus laughed again. “Well, maybe this one wasn’t such a charlatan, as we do know someone of that name. But, lass, ye need only follow your heart as a guide and your head as counsel. Together they’ll not steer ye wrong.”
She was quiet again, remembering the men from outside the tavern. They seemed to make a habit of ignoring all sound wisdom. She smiled at Tavish’s stories of his parents, how happy they’d been. Perhaps they had been meant to find each other, their marriage destined from the start.
“Did you ever want to get married?”
He smiled without looking up and answered, “Not a lass in the world would want a burly old fool like me, Jenna.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“’Tis true; I’m set in my ways, dinna like to stay in one place for too long—and I snore like a great bear!”
She stared into the fire. “But don’t you wonder what it would be like to love someone so much you’d want to spend the rest of your life with them? Maybe even die for them?”
“I do have that.” He stopped his knife. “I’ve surrounded myself wi’ people—whether related by blood or not—whom I consider my family. People I love wi’ my whole heart, and I would do anything for each of them.” He began carving again. “I consider myself a lucky man.”
She was quiet again, her thoughts wrestling for attention.
“Are ye thinking ’bout yourself, then, lass?” Angus eyed her briefly.
“Not so much. . . . Well, maybe sometimes.” She would never have said this to anyone else. Nothing she said to him ever raised an eyebrow. “Do you think that odd?”
“Odd? Nay. In fact, ’tis the most natural thing in the world. Although we love you like ye belong to each one of us, we ken ye deserve a life of your own—a place to call home and likely a husband to go wi’ it.” He set his dirk down and looked hard at Jenna. “You’re a young woman now. Your da’s made it so ye can have a say in your future. Not many have that option, lass, so use it wisely.”
She paused. “What if what I want isn’t available to me? What if my future was determined by . . . fate?”
Angus set his carving aside and turned to her. He picked up her hands with his own deeply calloused ones. “Jenna, look at all the things that would normally have been denied to you because of who ye are—a woman, I mean. No schooling, no chance to develop the sharp brain . . . and th
e tongue to match. The travel—even though ye dragged your feet through much of it. It let ye see how others lived . . . gave ye something to compare your own life with. Are ye telling me we havena set a good enough example of what can be done if ye put your mind to it?” He looked at her from under his great brows, a challenge in his gaze.
“Your life is what ye make of it, and sometimes that means you’ll sacrifice in other places. Whether you’re giving up a dream because of promises made to your kin, or you’re giving up your life because of pledges made to your king. ’Tis much the same in the end. Ye have a choice, though. Ye have a choice, always. Dinna be foolish wi’ it.”
“Did you give up your dreams for this life, Angus?”
He took a deep breath and rose. “I’m telling ye that I gave up everything else to make this dream my life.” He bent to kiss her head. “Good night, sweet lass.”
She listened to his heavy feet make their way down the hall. She sat for a long while afterward and heard Angus’s words repeat themselves in the empty room. It was the one greatest gift her family had given to her, beyond that of education, or a keen mind. It was that of choice.
SEVENTEEN
“LORD PEMBROKE, I DO NOT THINK YOU PAY ME ENOUGH attentions,” Lady Lucia said.
“Whatever do you mean?” Alex scanned the library’s bookshelves.
“I mean, the other suitors I have had. They gave me things to keep me interesting.”
He smiled. “Surely, you mean interested, milady.”
“Regardless. You haven’t given me anything,” she said through pouting lips.
He pulled a book from the shelf and turned to look at her sitting on the settee, a puffy cloud of blue silk ballooning around her. He had made the effort, at his mother’s request, to spend time with the young lady each day. He noticed how she preened herself wherever they were. Most of the time, she was busy arranging her dress, presenting it in the most flattering way, or glass-gazing to fix her hair—whichever one was out of place.
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