A Scotsman in Love

by Karen Ranney

  Instead, she stoked the fire, added some more coal, and sat at the window in the overstuffed chair where she normally read during the day. A moment later, she stood again and walked to the bed, grabbing a pillow before returning to her chair. She wrapped her arms around the pillow even as she mocked herself for finding comfort in such a silly object.

  She pushed open the drapes with one hand, unsurprised to see that ice had formed on the inside of the windows. She leaned close to the glass, blew on it, then traced a pattern with her nail.

  Margaret drew up her legs and turned in the chair, laying her cheek against the back, still clutching the pillow. The lights of Glengarrow were a beacon for her eyes and her thoughts.

  She’d lied. Would he know? Would he also know she’d told him the absolute truth? She’d never fallen in love, unless what she felt when she was painting was love. That much was true. But she’d lied about taking a lover.

  That night had been chill and damp, a harbinger to spring. The weather was an impetus to stay abed until the dawn sun warmed the bite of the air and turned the mist into fleeing tendrils of fog. Not that the nobles of St. Petersburg needed an excuse to avoid morning. Unless, of course, they were still celebrating from the night before, as Margaret had been.

  She remembered smiling gratefully at the young maid who’d fetched her cloak and let her assist in the placing of it around her shoulders. Even the cloak could not warm her—it seemed as though the night air seeped into her bones. She shivered again, nodded in the affirmative when the majordomo asked if she wanted her troika summoned.

  The ball had been interminable. Her face ached from smiling fatuously at her dance partners, her wrist felt permanently bent into a fan-holding position. Her corset, a torturous device lined with whalebone stays, felt embedded in the tender flesh of her torso. But most of all, she wanted to sit down, to dispense with the tattered and worn slippers covering her aching, swollen feet.

  She sighed, glanced at the departing guests, and smiled slightly in greeting. She cupped one hand over her mouth to stifle her yawn and wished there was a retiring couch somewhere in this stuffy, crowded foyer.

  A few moments passed and she yawned again, then glanced around to see who might have spied her rude gesture before smiling at herself. Half the guests were nodding off—she was just one of many who yearned for her bed. She stood on one foot, then the other, like a graceful stork, knowing her birdlike gestures could not be seen beneath the flowing skirts of her gown.

  Suddenly, the lure of solitude and relief for her aching feet was something she could not resist.

  The stone steps bit into her tender feet, and she could feel the fabric of her slippers falling away as she walked to the corner where the carriage stood, waiting its turn before the entrance to the magnificent mansion. She would have called up to her driver for assistance in mounting the carriage steps, had not a hand swooped around her neck and pulled her backward into bushes as tall as the wheels of the carriage. She would have screamed then, in shock, or sheer surprise, if a gloved hand had not been clamped over her mouth.

  Her first reaction was anger. Nor was it tempered by the harsh, grating laugh behind her as another hand snaked around her waist. She twisted in her captor’s grasp, rage adding an impetus to strength that came from youth and health. She kicked backward, but her barely shod feet encountered legs as strong as trees, and her flailing movements did nothing but bring another chuckle from her assailant.

  Within moments she was covered by a suffocating cloth, dark and smelling of horse. Muscular arms clamped around her tightly, a band of flesh and muscle and bone she was powerless to dislodge. Hands grappled at her legs, pushed up the floor-length gown, and gripped her ankles tightly as she was hauled through the bushes like a hog, trussed and kicking. She screamed, but the blanket was quickly forced between her open lips by a ruthless hand, and the only sound emerging was a stifled moan.

  Two sets of hands hefted her up into a carriage, and she was roughly dumped upon the floor. She spat out as much of the foul blanket as she could, enough to draw in deep gulps of air through her mouth. Her lungs felt near to bursting. Margaret knew, in that moment, that she was in grave danger.

  She remembered everything. How could she ever forget?

  She’d been a virgin, perhaps past her prime, but a virgin all the same when she’d been attacked. They’d taken her virginity, but at least they had not given her a child or the pox, and for that alone she’d learned to be grateful.

  All they had bequeathed to her was a series of memories, and the ever-present nightmares. In her dreams, she was attacking them, she was fighting back and winning whereas in reality it had not happened that way.

  She’d been blindfolded so their faces were unknown. Nor could she recall anything they said, words not being important anyway. The physician who’d been called by her maid also treated the Russian court, and he’d said nothing at all while he’d treated the scratches on her face and her bloodied fingers. She’d been a mass of bruises for weeks, and sometimes, even now, she thought she could see the shadow of them still on her skin. It had taken months until she could touch herself and not recall the intrusive fingers of strangers who’d used her body as if she were more no more than a receptacle.

  How many baths had she taken? Enough that the maids had commented on how many buckets of hot water it had taken. Enough that the footmen had to summon more wood for the fire. Enough that her own maid had looked worried.

  She couldn’t wash the attack away, however.

  Somehow, it had pleased her to play at being more worldly than she was. Let the Earl of Linnet think she was a shocking woman, a woman given to taking a great many lovers, then abandoning them. Let McDermott believe she was cold and fearless, that she had no compunction against saying what she wished and doing whatever she wanted.

  He didn’t need to know about her nightmares or the fact she was terrified more often than not.

  Terror, however, had an immolating effect, and she refused to give in to it. Instead, she practiced her shooting until the day came when her solicitor reported he had, indeed, found the owner of the signet ring she’d sketched and given him.

  A light blinked out, and she concentrated on Glengarrow again.

  She’d been too direct with him. Mostly, she held her tongue, restraint coming not naturally, but a lesson learned after a number of years. Only with McDermott had that bond been loosened, and she’d allowed her opinion and her comments free rein.

  But she’d spoken too candidly, revealing too much of herself. For that revelation, he’d labeled her cold. Perhaps she was, in a way. She’d fought long and hard for what she wanted. In Paris and Italy, she’d denied herself affection, friends, and relaxation. When others danced and laughed, she was practicing the slant of an eye or the eternal damnable nose. Noses were her difficulty, and she’d practiced them endlessly until they were right.

  “You have a great deal of internal strength, my dear,” one of her instructors had said. “After all, it is not many women who would throw away a certain future for an uncertain one.” He’d been speaking, of course, of becoming a wife versus her future as an artist.

  She’d not known, then, how to articulate that painting was the one thing she very much wanted to do in her lifetime. Even a sliver of a chance was enough, and worth more than a hundred guaranteed futures. In the end, she’d been one of the fortunate ones. She’d attracted the attention of the Grand Duchess, and she in turn, had mentioned her to the Empress Alexandra Feodorovna. After that one commission, her future was assured.

  Another lesson she’d learned—life changed, sometimes too rapidly to understand fully. Nothing was ever guaranteed or promised forever.

  She knew that only too well.

  The four men who’d attacked her had not felt lust as much as a sense of entitlement, a greed overwhelming any human feeling. Perhaps they hadn’t even wanted her but had settled for any woman. She’d been available. Never mind that she’d screamed until her voice
was hoarse. Never mind that she’d gouged at them until her own fingers bled. Never mind that whenever she thought of any of them, she wanted to be sick.

  No, futures could be changed, couldn’t they? Sometimes, they could be altered by a single act.

  The Earl of Linnet understood that, didn’t he?

  Another light blinked out, as if Glengarrow agreed.

  He was not the only one awake on this winter night. Why was he unsurprised to see the light on at Blackthorne Cottage?

  He shouldn’t have called her cold. If anything, she was restrained. She rarely smiled, and when she did, the expression was half-surprised, as if amusement was the last thing she expected to feel. From the moment he’d met her, she’d been an enigma. The only time she’d appeared alive was when she was angry. Perhaps he should endeavor to anger Miss Margaret Dalrousie more.

  Evincing curiosity about another woman made him feel as if he were being unfaithful to Amelia. The logical side of his mind understood only too well that what he was feeling was idiotic but probably normal. Another oddity, that her death had felt so new when he’d first returned to Glengarrow. As the days passed, he was only too aware of the fact it had been three years since he’d lost Amelia.

  All he could remember clearly was the sound of her laughter.

  “It’s been long enough,” Janet said in the darkness.

  She reached out and grabbed Tom’s hand. When he squeezed it in return, she smiled. They had an affinity in their wakefulness, it seemed.

  Being married twenty years eliminated the need for questions. Tom didn’t ask the meaning of her comment. All he did was turn his head and look at her.

  “He’s grieving, lass, leave him be.”

  “If he doesn’t let her go soon, Tom, he never will. The painting isn’t helping.”

  He sat up, began to argue with the pillow as he did every night. Try as she might to convince him, he would not trade his old pillow for a new one or new stuffing either. She thought he’d liked the ritual he went through every night pounding it into shape with both fists, then shaking it in the air only to fold it in half beneath his neck as he looked up in disgust at the ceiling.

  “I’m thinking the painting is helping Miss Margaret more than him,” Tom said.

  She sighed and turned to him in the darkness. “She’s grieving too, Tom, but I don’t know what for. She holds her thoughts inside so tightly it’s like they’re locked.”

  “Perhaps they’re good for each other. Besides, how long would you have him grieve? How many years does it take? How long would it take for me to get used to you not being around, Janet?”

  She smiled. “I’m not saying you get used to being without me. But you begin to believe it’s true, that death has come between us. Sometimes I see him look up when I come into a room, and it’s like he expects Amelia to be there. She isn’t, and she’s not going to be.”

  “Don’t you think he really knows? I think it’s a game he plays with himself. He’s a smart man, Janet, and we knew his coming back to Glengarrow would not be easy.”

  “Do you hate him, Tom?”

  “For our wages?”

  She shook her head. “No, for the other.”

  “Janet, how can you ask that? Of course I don’t hate him.”

  “Still, he didn’t treat you the best.”

  Tom nodded. “I understand it, Janet. He had no time for thoughts of anyone else.”

  They lay quiet next to each other. Finally, Janet spoke again. “If it’s a game, Tom, it’s a foolish one. He’s alive and should be among the living. Even Amelia would want that for him.”

  “Aye, lass, and it’s probably why he came home. Not to revel in his pain as much as to say good-bye.”

  She turned to him in the darkness and placed her hand on his chest, needing the connection between them, and feeling grateful for the life she felt beneath her palm.

  Chapter 18

  “I have always loved this room,” Janet said, entering Amelia’s sitting room. “Did you know it was called the Winter Parlor? No doubt because the sun warms it most of the day.”

  “I imagine there’s a room that’s known as the summer parlor?” Margaret asked, carefully arranging her brushes for the day’s work. She would be concentrating still on the background, a little delaying tactic on her part. She was approaching her subject very cautiously, giving herself enough time to actually think about how she wanted the portrait to appear in its final state.

  She’d never before been so tentative with her work, but she’d never before tried to paint a ghost, either.

  Janet only smiled at her comment.

  “Amelia liked the conservatory on warm sunny days. It was always cool, what with all the plants there. But she was good at growing things. I never saw anyone like it.”

  Margaret peered around the canvas. “Is there anything she didn’t do well? Was she ever impatient or inattentive?”

  Janet’s smile grew wider. “She wasn’t a saint, Miss Amelia, but she had a way about her. She made people want to be around her. You would have liked her, I think.”

  “I find saints too virtuous to endure for long.”

  Janet only shook her head, as if Margaret’s comment was laced with amusement.

  She was truly tired of hearing about Amelia the angel. Granted, it was an all-too-human characteristic to ascribe virtues to those dear ones who’d died. But surely someone could think of a moment when Amelia had been annoying, or when she’d been insufferable.

  “How is your painting coming along, Miss Margaret?”

  Normally, she never answered questions about a work in progress, but she didn’t want to be rude to Janet. So she answered as vaguely as she could.

  “It’s going well,” she said.

  “His Lordship has tasked you with a difficult chore, I’m thinking. To paint something you can’t see, I mean.”

  “The task would be easier, if His Lordship were less tardy.”

  Janet looked surprised. “Are you waiting for His Lordship, then? He’s not here, Miss Margaret.”

  She put down her brush.

  “Has he gone to Inverness again?” she asked calmly.

  Janet shook her head. “No, he’s off to Edinburgh, miss.”

  She knew better than to ask Janet for details. Janet would smile and be amiable, but she wouldn’t divulge any more than the earl wanted Margaret to know. Since he hadn’t told her himself he would be away, he evidently didn’t want her to know anything.

  And in the meantime, her painting would suffer.

  She really shouldn’t be angry, but the swiftness of the emotion took her by surprise. How dare he leave. How dare he go without saying a word, without even so much as a note of explanation.

  He’d violated her rules. Again.

  “Very well,” Margaret said, taking all of her brushes, one by one, and placing them in the leather case where they were stored. She folded the flap over them, then rolled them into a tight tube she tied with the enclosed ribbon. “I see no reason why I should remain here.”

  “Why ever not?” Janet asked. “He’s made Glengarrow at your disposal. This room, especially.” Her gaze encompassed the room, touching on the various pieces of furniture with more than a housekeeper’s perusal. Margaret couldn’t help but wonder if she saw Amelia reclining on the chaise or sitting in the chair beside the window.

  If so, she sincerely hoped Janet wouldn’t mention it. Margaret had no difficulty whatsoever picturing Amelia as the ghost of Glengarrow.

  Despite what the older woman said, she and Amelia would probably not have suited well at all. She would have been slightly derisive of Amelia, and Margaret might have been a curiosity for the Countess of Linnet, or God forbid, an object of pity.

  Single women were always excessively pitied by happily married women, and only envied by those miserably wed.

  Each of them would have probably thought herself vastly superior to the other woman.

  Did Amelia have the power to see Margaret as she
stood here now? Was she angry that life had been taken from her and perhaps wasted on a woman like Margaret? A woman who, in the last year, had sometimes wished that life had been taken from her as well?

  Margaret said, “I would be happier back in the cottage, I think. I’m less likely to be interrupted.”

  Janet’s smile cooled. “Whatever you wish, Miss Margaret.”

  They both knew the chance of her being interrupted in the Winter Parlor was negligible. With only two servants employed in addition to Tom and Janet, Glengarrow was not overrun with servants. In fact, each of them had a full day of work just to maintain the large house.

  Janet left the room, and the moment she was gone, Margaret wanted to call her back and apologize. Her anger was at the Earl of Linnet, not Janet.

  Why was she surprised he was gone? After yesterday’s conversation, it was a wonder he hadn’t banished her from Glengarrow.

  She placed the brushes in her valise, looked at the palette of colors she’d already arranged, and sighed inwardly. Pigments cost money, money she couldn’t readily spare. It would be better not to waste what she’d already prepared for today’s work.

  The least he could have done was explain he was leaving, that he would be unavailable. How long was he going to remain in Edinburgh?

  She scraped off the brilliant red Dragon’s Blood pigment with her palette knife and put it into the jar set aside for the mixture. After she carefully wiped off the knife, she repeated the process with the Orpiment, Egyptian Brown, and Alizarin Crimson. Once the pigments were stored, she placed the jars back in her satchel and studied the work.

  Every morning when she was actively working on a portrait, she stood in front of the canvas, whatever state of completion it was in, and closed her eyes, envisioning the final painting. She remained there however long it took to fix the image in her mind. Once she opened her eyes, it was as if she knew exactly what brushstrokes were needed to complete the work to fit her vision.

  This portrait, however, was different. This was more challenging than anything she’d ever begun.