by Karen Ranney
Papa! Papa! Penelope was there, tugging at his legs, making her presence known with no decorum at all. He’d treasured that about her—she was too young to be proper or to care what the world thought.
At this homecoming, however, there was no one to welcome him. No one to whom he should send word he might be delayed. He was simply home, accompanied by a troop of his brother-in-law’s men.
He must step forward. He must step onto the path leading to the front door. He must open the door and enter the house he’d not seen for three years.
One step. There, he’d accomplished one step. Another, then, and he would soon be done with this. The wagon would have to be unloaded; the foodstuffs put away. He would have to instruct the two new maids about the house, and he must ensure there were accommodations, however temporary, for the men who’d accompanied him across France and Scotland.
He must find somewhere to sleep tonight.
Another step taken, another milestone achieved. He’d already accomplished a great deal, according to the French physician who’d treated him. If he was limping now, it was to be expected after days in the saddle.
He was at the door, his chest so tight Robert wondered if his heart was about to burst.
Delmont had pressed an object on him at the last stop, and he’d stared at it dully, not comprehending the oversized iron key in his hand was to his own home. How odd that a servant wouldn’t admit him. How very strange he was here alone.
He was never alone, though, was he? Nor was he ever without his companions of the spirit.
Robert extracted the key from his jacket and inserted it in the lock, turned it, and heard it click. To the best of his knowledge, this was the first time he’d ever opened the door to Glengarrow himself. There had always been a servant there, always a majordomo, someone to whom he’d entrusted the key.
How had Delmont gotten it?
He stepped into the house, closing the door behind him. Resolutely, he turned and faced the past.
Papa? Penelope would expect a present. She always did. He’d always found something interesting to give her. A rock resembling a kitten curled up asleep. A bit of candy from a shop in Edinburgh. A piece of glass swept onto the beach by the sea.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an acorn he’d found on the road. The nut was larger than most, with a cap that twisted off perfectly, revealing a hole. A house for fairies. He might have told Penelope a story about one, a tiny little girl with infinitesimal gossamer wings and gold hair trailing down her back, possessed of a smile as bright as a new morning. Penelope would have clapped her hands in glee to hear about a sprite so resembling her, and Amelia would have smiled at him with love on her face.
He closed his eyes and opened his hand, allowing the acorn to drop to the floor.
Robert climbed the stairs slowly, knowing he had as long as he needed to explore Glengarrow. His companions would not enter the house until he let them know he was ready.
If he were truly a good host, he’d make arrangements now to unload the wagon, assign one of the maids to air out the bedrooms, ready water for washing. But he wasn’t interested in his companions or their comfort at the moment. He was selfishly intent on greeting his ghosts.
At the landing he stopped, his hand clenching his upper right thigh. The pain proved he was alive, the twisting of the muscle to be expected. He would not, however, allow himself to limp as he climbed the rest of the stairs. At the top, he turned and looked around.
He’d always liked this view of Glengarrow. The house was only three hundred years old, not appreciably fixed in nature’s memory as some houses he knew. His ancestors had created it for comfort, not for defense, for status instead of an imposing presence, although it was impressive as well.
From here he could see the gathering area—in an earlier time it would have been called the Great Hall, and the space was large enough for it. Two couches sat across from each other, perpendicular to a fireplace large enough to roast a full-grown pig. Above the white-marble Adam mantel was a framed scrap of pennant carried into the last battle of the ’45. Because his family had been one of the numerous Highland clans against the uprising, the McDermott fortunes had not been decimated like so many other families.
Memories stretched long in the Highlands, however, and it had taken a hundred years to be forgiven their decision not to support Prince Charles.
Other than the pennant, there were no weapons in his home, no reminders of the Earls of Linnet’s colorful past.
“A man holds his memories inside him,” his grandfather had once said, and Robert had known only too well the truth of the remark.
He was the last of the Glengarrow McDermotts in Scotland. His brother had immigrated to Australia, of all places, and his sister had married and moved to London. He thought of them often, wrote to them occasionally, but never lacked for their companionship.
There was too much quiet here, too much silence. Glengarrow had never been a quiet place. Instead, it had been filled with laughter, conversation, and life itself. Now it was empty, a shell of what had once been his home, his place of refuge, his haven.
He was delaying again, wasn’t he? To the left was the wing they rarely used, and only for guests. To his right was the family wing. Penelope’s room was only a few doors away. His chamber—and Amelia’s—was at the end of the corridor.
His suite would look just as it had the day he’d left Glengarrow. He’d sent word to Tom it should not be altered, regardless of how long he remained in France.
The bed would be the same four-poster with its old-fashioned velvet curtains. The windows would still hold a view of the orchard. The world had gone to ice, yet the panorama would be beautiful, a winter-colored scene.
The furniture in his suite was mahogany, pieces all made in France, with lion-claw feet and gently sweeping lines. Two wardrobes sat next to each other, one for his clothing, and the other for Amelia’s. Twin washbasins sat in the washroom, with porcelain fixtures above a copper bath.
The suite was a mausoleum for his memory, a container into which he could pour all the various recollections of his life, a perfect place to reflect upon his barren future.
Not a place to sleep, however.
He’d find another room to call his, something facing the long approach to Glengarrow.
Robert turned, ignoring the pain in his right leg as he descended the stairs. He wound his way through the house, deliberately dulling any recollections threatening to flood into his mind.
The rear entrance was through the kitchen, and he was startled to find both of the maids had already taken up residence there. One of them was poking at the firebox through the top of the stove, while the other was seated at the table, opening one of the crates from the wagon.
“Can you start it?” he asked, realizing he’d no training in the tending of cold stoves.
She turned, an annoyed look on her face. “Yes, sir, I can, but it will take hours before it’s hot enough to cook on.”
He nodded, unsurprised. “There’s a good amount of wood just outside,” he said, knowing Tom would have kept Glengarrow stocked in readiness for his return.
“Tea will be late, sir,” the maid said. “Might not have it at all.”
He left the women alone, realizing as he exited the kitchen that Janet should have been there to supervise the maids.
“Your Lordship.”
Robert looked up to find Tom standing on the servant’s stair, lanky and loose-boned, his angular face transformed by a pleasant and welcoming smile.
“It’s good to see you, Your Lordship.”
The last three years had not been kind to Tom. His hair was now white, and the lines on his face had deepened to furrows. The shoulders, once wide and strong, were stooped with age.
For the first time since they’d approached Glengarrow, Robert felt drawn outside of himself.
“Are you well, Tom?”
The older man smiled. “A bit of aches in the joints, Your Lordship. But it�
��s you I should be asking after. Was it a good journey from France?”
Traveling from Paris to the coast had been an endless slog, and the distance from Inverness to Glengarrow had been marked by delays. Days of riding on horseback had worn him down, exhausted him in a way Robert hadn’t expected. But all he said was, “It was a long one.”
He placed his hand on the nearest piece of furniture, a cabinet sitting in this particular place for decades. Normally used to store linens for the dining room, it now served as a brace. He leaned against it, taking the weight from his right leg.
“Tell me about Glengarrow, Tom.”
“I tried to keep it in repair, Your Lordship, even when the money stopped coming.”
“Is that why the weathervane is missing? Why the cupolas haven’t been painted? One of the steps is chipped and hasn’t been repaired.”
Tom nodded. “Yes, sir. I wrote the Dowager Countess. I never got a reply.”
“You should have let me know sooner, Tom.”
“I didn’t want to bother you, Your Lordship.”
If Tom had written him a year ago, would he have returned? Or would he have remained in France, as loath to part from Amelia’s family and his last memories of her as he was to return to Glengarrow? A moot point, because the letter from Tom had reached him two months ago, a summons to return to his obligations, to his life.
He nodded and turned away, then glanced back as a thought occurred to him.
“What about your wages, Tom? Have you been paid?”
Tom stared down at the floor. “No, Your Lordship. Me and Janet, we’ve taken another job, just to keep a little soup in the bowl, so to speak.”
“Another position?”
“It don’t pay much, Your Lordship, but it’s not much to do at Blackthorne Cottage. We work for Miss Dalrousie. Janet cooks for her, and I do what odd jobs are needed around the place.”
“Blackthorne Cottage has always belonged to Glengarrow,” Robert said, frowning. “Did my mother sell the property?”
Tom looked away, then back at Robert. “There have been a lot of changes since you’ve been gone, sir.”
“Evidently,” Robert said, straightening, and wishing the muscles in his leg weren’t tightening ominously. Tonight would be pain-filled if he didn’t do something now to prevent it.
“Tell me about the Dalrousie woman.”
Tom smiled. “Little to tell, Your Lordship. She keeps to herself, reads a lot, and takes a lot of walks.”
“Around Glengarrow,” Robert said.
Tom nodded again.
“The only thing odd she does is that shooting of hers.”
“Shooting?”
Tom nodded again. “She asked me to arrange several bales of hay for a target, and she practices near every day. She’s not very good at it, but I’ve never seen anyone as stubborn as that woman.”
“Why the hell is she practicing shooting?”
Tom shook his head. “I don’t know, Your Lordship, but all I can say is I’m glad it’s not me. She gets a look on her face that would give the Devil second thoughts. She wants to shoot someone, that’s for sure.”
“Well, thank God she didn’t have her pistol with her an hour ago, Tom, or I’m certain I would have been her target.”
“Was your stay in France not long enough, beaufrere?”
Robert turned to find his brother-in-law, the Compte de Guallians, standing on the other side of the kitchen.
“Surely you could have charmed the woman. Instead, you speak of guns.”
A teasing smile curved the younger man’s lips. Amelia always said that neither old women nor young girls had the power to deny Delmont anything. Even the maids were looking at him now with wide-eyed awe, as if they’d never seen a man with blond hair or blue eyes. The fact that Delmont had absolutely no interest in anyone other than his married lover was a secret he shared with only three people, Robert being one.
Robert straightened, walking back into the kitchen, taking each step deliberately so he didn’t limp.
“The woman was trespassing,” he said. “At least she will not do so anymore.”
Delmont raised one eyebrow but didn’t comment.
Robert turned to one of the maids. “We need to air out a dozen rooms for our guests,” he said.
“My men can bed down in the stables. It’s no worse than what they’ve experienced on this journey,” Delmont said. A small smile curved his lips and robbed the words of their harshness.
Delmont’s view of Scotland was that it was rugged and barbaric, inhabited by tribes of naked clansmen armed with cudgels and broadswords.
“That’s not necessary,” Robert said now. “Glengarrow has plenty of empty rooms. And by the look of the sky, we’ll have snow by morning.”
He glanced at one of the maids, and she nodded. A good Inverness girl, hired but two days ago, she’d already impressed him with her willingness to work.
“We can’t stay,” Delmont said.
“A day or two to rest, surely.”
Delmont nodded. “A day or two, then. What can I do now?”
“Assign some men to finish unloading the wagon. I need to see if the cistern is sound.” He turned to face Tom, who still stood on the staircase. “Have you checked it lately, Tom?”
“Yes, Your Lordship. I’ve checked it every week.”
Still, he wasn’t going to abdicate his responsibility any longer. Robert would check on the cistern himself, despite the effort it would cost him. He turned and walked to the door, intent on the attics and the approach to the roof.
“Are you happy to be home, Robert?” Delmont asked before he made it to the door.
He turned at the doorway and looked at Delmont, not a challenging stare as much as one that simply acknowledged the depth and breadth of their mutual loss. Even if Tom had not been standing there, he would have been hard-pressed to answer the other man.
“I’ve been home less than an hour, Delmont,” he said, answering his brother-in-law in French.
“I am concerned, Robert, that you will do something to damage your recuperation.”
“I have just ridden horseback over two continents,” Robert said, almost amused. “Stop being an old woman. I am fully healed.” He held his arms away from his body and turned in a slow circle. “See? I can stand without falling, and I can walk just fine. And the only true discomfort I feel is occasionally when my scar itches, as if to remind me that I am among the living while others are not.”
How quickly his humor faded.
Delmont nodded, his Gallic face revealing his thoughts only too well.
How many looks of pity was he supposed to endure? Robert turned and left Delmont and Tom standing in the kitchen with the two maids. Suddenly, the attics and the roof were more preferable places to be.
Margaret raised the heavy pistol and sighted it. She didn’t have to use both hands anymore; one was adequate. However, there was hay strewn ten feet or so on either side of the fence, which meant her aim had not improved. But then, she’d only been practicing a matter of a few months. One day, and hopefully soon, she’d begin to hit the target, a bale of hay the size of a man’s chest.
She closed one eye, lined up the target, and pulled the trigger. The gun recoiled, but she was prepared. The first dozen or so times she’d fired the pistol, she’d been knocked to the ground.
Lowering the gun, she squinted at the target. Drat! All she’d done was hit the hay to the right of where she wanted.
She reloaded the gun, sighted it once more, and moved the barrel slightly to the left. Instead of the target, she envisioned a face, one whose features were obscured. This time, when she pulled the trigger, her arm barely moved with the recoil.
She was cold, and her feet were wet, and the wind was rising again, but she wouldn’t quit. Her aim was abysmal, but she would practice, just as she practiced for hours to get just the right shading on the pearls around the Grand Duchess Alessandra’s throat.
The pistol was one of a se
t of dueling pistols, a gift from an ardent admirer in Russia. He’d bowed low before extending the velvet-lined box to her.
“I make this for you, Mademoiselle. You see the pretty engraving on the ivory handles? It is nowhere near the talent in your fingers, Mademoiselle Dalrousie. It is but an approximation. You honor me with its acceptance.”
“Dueling pistols?”
“My only claim to fame, Mademoiselle. I earnestly hope, however, there is no occasion for you to have need of them.” He smiled shyly. “Despite the fact that any number of men would relish the notion of championing your honor.”
Under normal conditions, she would have refused the gift. But the man had been so earnest, and her monogram had been inscribed in the ivory handles. Now, she was grateful she hadn’t refused the pistols. No one had ever even hinted at fighting a duel for her, but she had plans for the guns herself.
Today, of all days, when it had come rushing back at her, she must never forget. First, she must protect herself, then she must prepare.
Robert retraced his steps up the grand stairs to the second floor. At the end of the corridor, he took the smaller set of stairs to the attic. Here, generations of Glengarrow’s inhabitants had stored furniture or other detritus of well-lived lives.
The attic was a dull and dusty place, surprisingly well lit by porthole windows. He drew his greatcoat around him as he ascended a short ladder leading to a trapdoor in the roof.
Luck, never one of his allies, was with him as he pushed the trapdoor upward, easily breaking through a thin layer of ice. He climbed out onto the roof of Glengarrow, a task he’d not set for himself for many years.
The cistern was made of wood, constructed of planks of wood tightly banded together like a barrel. For a hundred years, it had rested on top of Glengarrow, collecting rainwater and sending it down through well-maintained pipes to the sinks and baths throughout the house. In winter, the snow and ice melted and served a similar function.
The cistern looked the same. No doubt the wood had darkened since his great-great-grandfather had it built. His ancestor had reasoned that to make it any taller than three feet would put too great a strain on the roof, and had made up for the lack of depth by extending the cistern until it stretched over most of Glengarrow.