A Scotsman in Love

by Karen Ranney

  No one looking at the canvas would be able to discern the final product. Even the background was barely formed. Still, it belonged to her now, a product of her imagination and her talent, something infinitely personal and private.

  She’d never before carried an unfinished painting back to her quarters, trusting, instead, in the rules she’d set down before a commission began. There was a time when she’d had more potential commissions than she could possibly accept. People had clamored for her to paint their portraits. Those who were fortunate enough to engage her were also wise enough not to disobey any of her rules.

  The Earl of Linnet, however, had freely admitted to looking at the painting. He was an arrogant, stubborn, independent man, and reveled in any opportunity to prove that fact. Therefore, it was better simply to remove the painting and keep it close beside her.

  She grabbed the canvas with her right hand, and her satchel with her left, leaving the Winter Parlor with a feeling too much like relief. At the doorway, she had the strangest feeling she should turn back and look at the empty room. Instead, she refused to do so, telling herself there was nothing there. No ethereal body wafting in the air, wings fluttering, an enchanting smile bidding her farewell. No disembodied presence hinting at life but smelling of the grave.

  There was nothing of Amelia there.

  Why, then, did she feel so much better after leaving the room?

  The satchel was heavy, and the canvas cumbersome. She took her time walking down the corridor, studying the landscape murals painted on the walls. Were they of Italy? Or the south of France, perhaps, with their stunted trees and rolling hills. A peaceful vista, each of them, nothing garish or unsettling.

  When she’d first arrived in Russia, she’d been assaulted by the magnificence of the Russian court, and their many palaces. Toward the end of her stay, however, she’d been surfeited by the excess. There was too much gold and gilt, too many Florentine cupids and Raphael-like statues. There had been too much of everything, and it had jaded the palate.

  Glengarrow wasn’t a palace, but it was lovely in its way. Beauty was there in unexpected places, like the carved cornices and the detail of roses and thistles on the wainscoting.

  Even the doors were carved, and she hesitated at one featuring trailing vines around the outside of the frame, culminating in a large rose at the handle. She placed the satchel and canvas on the floor, and traced the petals of the rose, amazed at the skill of the wood-carver.

  Each door in this corridor was graced with some type of decoration, and she began to wonder if the rooms themselves were decorated to match. Was the room with the rose patterned door called the Rose Room, and were all the furnishings pink?

  At the end of the corridor, she was surprised to find a door adorned not with flowers but animals. A small raccoon sat beside a log and in a pond in front of him swam three baby ducklings. A young fox peered furtively between tall fronds of grass.

  Once again, she placed the canvas up against the wall and set her satchel beside it. Slowly, she tried the handle. The door wasn’t locked but swung open easily. Margaret entered, keeping the door open behind her.

  Although the room was dark, the light from the corridor made it possible for Margaret to see the draped bed, the dolls arranged on the shelves against one wall, a rocking horse on the carpet in the middle of the floor. A series of blocks had been carefully stacked together near the fireplace.

  This was a child’s room, a little girl’s room, a room no longer occupied. She noticed the door in the far wall, but she didn’t move, didn’t cross the floor to open it. No doubt it led to a nurse’s or governess’s room. How old had Penelope been? She wasn’t entirely certain. Young, from the arrangement of the toys, and small bed.

  She’d never had a child, and it occurred to her she’d never been one, being a strange and solitary little girl. In her family, she’d always been the odd one, the different one. But the painful experience of her childhood was a very long way away.

  This child had been loved and cherished, and probably would have been loved for the whole of her life no matter her nature or her character. Children died, that was a fact of life. A great many children died in infancy. But this child had not died of illness. This child had died in an accident, something that shouldn’t have happened.

  She could almost hear Penelope’s laughter, could almost envision the little girl with long blond hair shaking her head when her nurse would have put her down for a nap.

  “Truly I’m not tired. Why must I sleep?”

  “Because it’s time,” the nurse would have answered, a patient smile on her face. And despite Penelope’s protests, the room would be darkened in the middle of the day, just like now.

  Penelope’s upbringing wouldn’t have been relegated solely to a nurse. No doubt Amelia was a devoted mother and would have cared for her daughter herself.

  Did she select the little girl’s wardrobe, standing in front of the armoire every morning?

  “I think you should wear the pink, Penelope,” she’d say. “And don’t forget that apron. You have a tendency, my love, to become more than a little dirty during the day.”

  “Could you read me a story, Mama?” Penelope would have asked her mother at bedtime. Together they would have sat in the overstuffed chair beside the table with its little lamp topped by a pink-and-green lampshade. Penelope would have sat beside her mother as Amelia read, and perhaps Robert joined them, and perched on the end of Penelope’s bed. Or perhaps the roles were reversed, and Robert was the reader.

  Did the shadows in the room move? At that moment, Margaret wouldn’t have been surprised to smell Amelia’s perfume. There were ghosts in this room. Ghosts that pulled at the heart and tugged at her tears.

  How did McDermott bear this?

  She’d never met Amelia, or Penelope, yet somehow their deaths weighed on her heart as strongly as if they were dear friends. How did McDermott endure this pain day after day?

  She’d spoken to him so foolishly about grief, mentioned idiotic words such as payment and envy. Was it any wonder she’d angered him? She hadn’t known what she was saying. She’d never experienced the depth of his anguish.

  Turning, she left the room, closing the door behind her. She grabbed the canvas and her valise, intent on her cottage.

  Why did it feel as if she were running away?

  Chapter 19

  “It’s the potatoes,” James Nottingham said. “Damn blight.” He took a sip of his wine and sat back in the chair, solemnly regarding Robert. “The whole damn crop’s touched by a fungus. Never seen anything like it, myself. Been going on for the last three years.”

  Robert had known the other man most of his life, had respected him as an able legislator. Now, however, the other man’s look was almost chiding. Even if he’d returned to Glengarrow three years ago, Robert couldn’t have saved the lives of his fellow Highlanders single-handedly.

  “Has anyone done anything to feed the starving?”

  Nottingham stared off into the distance, took a sip of wine, and resumed his stare. Robert waited, his impatience curtailed only by a desperate need to know. The silence ticked by for long moments.

  The sitting room was a comfortable chamber, one he knew well from his childhood. His father had loved this house, preferred it over living at Glengarrow, but then, his father thoroughly enjoyed the company of others. The sixth Earl of Linnet had loved parties, even more so than Robert’s mother. The two of them were renowned in Edinburgh for their entertainments, and this town house was almost a landmark in the city.

  He knew his mother retained a full staff both in Edinburgh and Inverness. Although he hadn’t yet reviewed any bills for the London house, he was hoping that residence was in good order as well.

  Nottingham seemed to know the house well. The majordomo had greeted him by name and taken his coat as if the man had been a constant visitor. The most telling circumstance, however, was that after they’d greeted each other, James had led him unerringly to the bac
k parlor.

  A few minutes later, a maid entered bearing a tray filled with tea and a selection of biscuits and cakes. Nottingham thanked her by name, and sampled the offerings as if they’d been chosen with him in mind.

  Just how acquainted was Nottingham with this house? Had he ever visited the bedrooms, for instance?

  Whom his mother entertained was not a thought he wanted to hold in his mind for long.

  Nottingham finally placed his cup down on the table beside him.

  “Sir Edward Wallingford tried,” Nottingham said. “Used his own ships to bring in oatmeal and other supplies.” His mouth turned down. “Problem was, he expected the poor blighters to work a nine-hour day for what they received. Some of them could barely stand up. In the end, it’s easier for a man to agree to go to Canada or Australia than to build a road to nowhere.” He sighed. “At least the clerks don’t starve.”

  “A great many of them are reduced to living on the streets of Inverness.”

  That was a mystery explained, then. His mother would have known of their conditions. No wonder she was so incensed. Regrettably, this wasn’t the first time Highlanders had been pushed to the edge of the sea. Sheep now outnumbered crofters. But the combination of smaller plots of land and their staple crop rotting in the ground was a death sentence for the men, women, and children living in the Highlands.

  “Some landlords have offered their people free voyages to Canada rather than see them starve. The newspapers are taking them to task.”

  “And the landlords working to lessen the effects of the famine? Tell me there are some of those.”

  “Most of them have refused to accept any responsibility, McDermott. Those who have are, unfortunately, in the minority.”

  Robert leaned forward, selected a biscuit more for something to do than from hunger.

  “I might have been one of those,” he said. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t received word back from my steward.”

  The other man nodded.

  “And Parliament? Do they give a flying farthing about starving Highlanders?” It felt wrong to finish the biscuit in his hand when discussing his starving countrymen, so Robert put it back on the plate.

  Nottingham looked uncomfortable. “They have other things on their minds.”

  “Which means no.”

  Nottingham nodded. “But you could.”

  Robert glanced at him.

  He didn’t think he could go back into politics. He lacked the stomach for it. Nor did he have any desire to compromise with idiots or meet in darkened corridors with the opposition to wrangle over some idiotic word in an obscure law that wouldn’t alter people’s lives one whit.

  “You were very persuasive, McDermott. Your speeches could sway the hardest Tory heart.”

  He didn’t want to talk about the past.

  “What can I do now, Nottingham?”

  Nottingham looked doubtful. “Use your influence with some of the larger landowners. Perhaps you can do what others have not.”

  “Short of buying enough food to feed a country, I’m not as certain of my influence as you.”

  The two men looked at each other. What a damnable mess. He might as well have spared himself the effort of coming to Edinburgh.

  The whole trip had been a nightmare, and this discovery didn’t make his journey any easier. Instead, he had the oddest feeling he would have been wiser to remain at Glengarrow and face Margaret Dalrousie head-on. She, at least, was not an insurmountable problem, just a woman with an annoying penchant for remaining in his mind too long.

  What would Margaret say if faced with this situation?

  And why the hell did he think she would even have an opinion? No, he was foolish to think Miss Dalrousie would be free of an opinion about anything.

  “What do you find so amusing, McDermott?”

  At his look, Nottingham explained. “You’re smiling.”

  “Not about starvation, Nottingham,” he said. “Simply a thought.”

  That was all she was. A thought, and an errant one at that.

  Two hours later, Robert was in his solicitor’s office, waiting for the man to return. Impatient, he stood, walked to the window, staring out at the Edinburgh street. Carriages crowded the streets; the cobblestones were wet and shiny in the evening light.

  He turned at the entrance of the older man, waiting impatiently for Augustus Tapin to read through a sheaf of documents he’d brought with him into the room.

  The minute Margaret had said his name, Robert had known the identity of her benefactor. Augustus Tapin was the head of the firm employed by the McDermott family for generations. His mother hadn’t sold the cottage at all. She’d simply given it to Margaret Dalrousie. The question was: why?

  “It is indeed true I agreed to perform the transfer as requested by your mother, Your Lordship,” Tapin said now. “She had the legal right to do so, conveyed by your own hand.”

  He simply regarded the older man for a few minutes until the solicitor looked away. This was the man to whom Robert had entrusted his estate while he remained in France. The same man who, on his mother’s wishes, had withheld funds to Glengarrow, and by extension, Janet and Tom.

  “Do you have a personal interest in this matter, Your Lordship?” Tapin asked.

  “If I said I did, would that inspire you to redouble your efforts? Or shall I send my mother to plead my case?”

  Instead of angry red spots appearing on the man’s sallow cheeks, Tapin grew paler. His hunched frame, more inclined to accountancy than the law, seemed to shrink even farther.

  “Your Lordship,” Tapin began.

  “Spare me your protestations of innocence, Tapin,” Robert said. “I’m not entirely certain that your firm will continue to represent me. It’s entirely up to you.”

  “What can I do, Your Lordship, to justify your faith in me?”

  “I understand that you’ve agreed to act as Miss Dalrousie’s solicitor in other matters. The amount of money due her from Russia.”

  “I have done so,” Tapin said finally, peering over his pince-nez at Robert. “However, Your Lordship, the task is a Herculean one. In fact, I might even say it is an impossible one. Relations with Russia are not exactly amenable at the current moment, what with the situation in the Crimea.”

  “Then you’ve been unable to acquire any of her funds?”

  Tapin drew himself up, his bony shoulders squaring beneath his ill-fitting black suit. “I have not, Your Lordship. That is not to say, however, that I will cease in my efforts.”

  “What is the amount owing Miss Dalrousie?” Robert asked, taking a chair near the desk.

  Tapin returned to his desk, consulted yet another sheaf of papers and named the amount.

  The older man smiled when Robert made no comment. “It is indeed an enormous amount of money, Your Lordship. Almost impossible to conceive Miss Dalrousie being owed such a sum.”

  “She’s reputed to be a famous artist, Mr. Tapin. Do you not think her deserving of her fees?” How very odd that Tapin’s remark irritated him.

  The expression on the solicitor’s thin lips was more a smirk than a smile. “Your Lordship, she’s a woman. A rather shocking one, I gather. What could a woman need with such an amount of money?”

  “To live her life?” Robert asked. To his great satisfaction, Tapin frowned in displeasure. “Do what you can to assist Miss Dalrousie. So, yes, you can say that I have some interest in the matter.”

  The older man nodded. “I will do what I can, Your Lordship.”

  Robert stood. “As for the other, you will see to it with dispatch?”

  “Ten ships, yes, Your Lordship. Stocked with food. It will be done as you wish.”

  “There will be no recompense, Tapin,” he said. “Not one penny charged. Not one single compensating effort. No one is to have to pay for food. Do you understand?”

  Tapin put down the documents on his desk and regarded him somberly. “I do indeed, Your Lordship.”

  Was there a way to
intimidate the other people in his life as easily as Tapin? Perhaps if they had as much to lose. Tapin was attempting to make up for his previous poor judgment and stay in his good graces. But how the hell did he intimidate Margaret Dalrousie?

  She had to leave, that was all there was to it. She had to leave Glengarrow and go somewhere else.

  Amelia’s portrait was suddenly not as important as Margaret Dalrousie’s absence. She was too much on his mind. He thought of her when he awoke at night, curious to see if her light was on as well. He thought of her when he awoke in the morning, oddly energized at the thought of sparring verbally with her. Too many occasions, he’d been seated only a dozen feet away from her, watching her skirt as she moved from side to side behind the easel. She sometimes tapped her toe, her skirts bouncing forward, the movements fascinating him almost as much as her thoughts.

  He found himself listening for her soft exhalations of sound, the clucks of her tongue, almost as if she chided herself in the execution of a brushstroke.

  What was she doing living in the Highlands of Scotland anyway? She needed the excitement of other people. She needed to be around laughter and joy. She was too somber a woman, too controlled, and she had an effect on him that was disturbing. So disturbing, in fact, that the idea of buying Blackthorne Cottage from her suddenly struck him as being particularly apropos.

  The minute she was gone, he would raze it to the ground and stand in the shadow of the flames and watch as the memory of her burned away also.

  He wouldn’t be able to recall her. He wouldn’t be able to remember that she had a way of walking, almost sauntering, that he found disconcerting. She made a parade of it, one hip going up, then the other, her derriere no doubt pert and round beneath the hoops of her skirt.

  Did she walk like that on purpose to entice him?

  The squeak of hinges called him back to himself. Tapin stood beside the open door, his lined face appearing too eager to please for comfort. Robert felt oddly sorry for the man his mother had charmed and used so capriciously.

  “Women can sometimes be dangerous creatures,” he said to Tapin.