by Karen Ranney
Who was seeing things that weren’t there now?
Nan dropped her valise on the floor, coming to her side. She took Lorna’s hand and led her back to the chair.
“You make yourself comfortable here and I’ll unpack.”
“I don’t want you to do everything,” she said, a weak protest she recognized even as she sank back down into the comfortable chair.
“Nonsense,” Nan said. “You can talk to me while I work. I can hear you fine.”
She disappeared into the bedroom and proved that by barraging Lorna with questions.
“What did the duke say to convince you to leave Wittan?” she asked. “Did he meet that terrible landlady of yours? You won’t ever have to go back, will you?”
“I doubt I’ll be welcome,” she said, and told Nan about Reverend McGill.
Nan emerged from the room wide-eyed.
“Oh, Lorna, I am sorry. How awful for you. I’m so glad we don’t have to go to his church, aren’t you?”
As a member of the staff, she’d been expected to attend services at Blackhall’s chapel. They’d always had a visiting member of the clergy, and on the rare occasions when no one could make it through, because of inclement weather or a scheduling conflict, either the duke or the dowager duchess read the lesson.
If Reverend McGill had ever officiated, she’d missed that service.
“Well, that’s done and it’s over. You’re home now and that’s all there is to it.”
Home? She supposed, in an odd way, Blackhall was her home. After her mother’s death, when she was ten, she’d followed her father all over Scotland on his quest to learn everything there was to know about Scottish herbs. They’d never stayed longer than six months in one place. She’d lived at Blackhall for two years.
Emotion overwhelmed her. She was grateful to Nan for many things, but mostly her friend’s loyalty. Nan had helped her do her work when early pregnancy had made her sick, helped her pad her dresses so she looked like she was gaining weight, hiding her pregnancy. Even leaving the note for the duchess might be considered an act of friendship.
When she began to cry, it was a relief.
“It’s going to be all right, Lorna,” Nan said, coming to her side. “It truly will. Plus, we’ll be together. We’ll have a grand time of it, the two of us.”
“He bowed to me,” she said, wiping her tears away. “The duke bowed to me.”
“He did?”
She nodded. “Why did he bow to me?”
“Don’t dukes do that?”
“I have no idea what dukes do,” she said.
“Well, Lorna, you know more than me,” Nan said, smiling and staring pointedly at her stomach.
Because she had no answer to that, Lorna retreated to silence.
“Have you lost your sanity, Alex?”
Alex glanced up from his desk in his library to find his uncle striding toward him.
When he was five, Alex realized that his aloof older brother wasn’t his brother at all, but his father’s. Thomas was an uncle, a relationship that took a while for him to understand.
Thomas made a detour to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy.
Alex put aside his work, moving to one of the wing chairs in front of the fire. Thomas joined him there, stretching out his feet toward the hearth and regarding his snifter of brandy the way a jeweler appraises a fine diamond.
In a way, perhaps Thomas was an expert of sorts when it came to spirits. He drank so much and so often that he’d acquired a tolerance for alcohol and the ability to mask when he was drunk. Most people didn’t realize that the fascinating conversations they were having with the Earl of Montrassey wouldn’t be recalled by the man in the morning. Or that his seduction of a certain female would disappear from his memory with the dawn.
“I think it’s a blessing, really,” Thomas had once said. “The Almighty evidently doesn’t want me to suffer a guilty conscience. Poof! He wipes it all away. Each morning I am as sinless as a babe.”
Thomas was a charter member of Beggar’s Blessings, a club founded for libertines in Edinburgh in 1750. The club went on to have branches in Inverness and then London, where the membership extended to include working men as well as the nobility. The only requirements of membership were to pass the marathon masturbation initiation and to add to the club’s collection of pornography. His uncle had done more than that. Thomas had come up with the idea of having lectures to teach advanced carnal arts and hired various “posing girls” who acted out pornographic material for the enlightenment of the membership.
Nor was Thomas the least discreet about belonging to such a club. Or about his drinking and wenching, either.
“Are you really going to lecture me on my behavior?” Alex asked.
“You’re an absolute fool to bring your mistress to Blackhall,” Thomas said. “It’s as much an admission that the child she carries is yours.”
“I believe it is,” he said calmly. Unlike his uncle, he had a conscience, and it still reminded him of events of a certain stormy night. Not to mention how Lorna had been living since leaving Blackhall.
“That’s no reason to be saddled with its support for the whole of your life. My God, if I had to pay for all the children I’ve created, I wouldn’t have two farthings to rub together.”
“How many children do you have, Uncle?”
“Five at last count, I think. Although, there was one girl in Inverness who was rumored to have given birth to twins. I don’t know if it’s true or not. Perhaps I should check.”
His father had been one of the most moral men Alex had ever known. He often wondered how his uncle was so different. The man served as an object lesson of sorts. On the rare occasions when Thomas offered an opinion about something at Blackhall, Alex chose the opposite solution. That he objected to Lorna’s arrival was a point in Alex’s favor.
“Bed the girl if you must, Alex, but do it away from Blackhall. You don’t want the whole countryside to know you acknowledge the child. You’ll have the old biddies wagging their tongues from morning until night. It isn’t done. A man’s get is his business. It isn’t paraded around like you’re proud of it. Hide the girl away. If you’re determined to support the child, do so, just not at Blackhall.”
“You don’t disappoint, Uncle,” he said. “I thought you would react this way and you have.”
“I’m giving you good advice, Alex. This will come back and haunt you. Have you any thought for your mother? What is she going to do when she learns what you’ve done?”
“Mother knows.”
Thomas frowned. “What do you mean, Louise knows?”
“Just that. She’s aware of the entire situation.”
He’d had a meeting with his mother the minute he left the cottage. He hadn’t wanted one of the gossiping servants to tell her the tale.
He wasn’t altogether surprised when she didn’t look upset. In fact, she appeared pleased with the developments. She’d even kissed him on the cheek when he finished explaining what he’d done.
Thank you for that, Alex. I can’t wait to see my grandchild.
Thomas shook his head now. “Don’t you think you’re taking confession to extremes, Alex?”
“She was the one who originally informed me of the circumstances, actually. Someone wrote her.”
Thomas finished off his brandy and placed the empty snifter on the table between them.
“Good God. What did she say?”
“You mean after the weeping and the gnashing of teeth?”
His uncle smiled. “Yes, after that.”
“She surprised me,” he said. “I think it’s because she’s given up hope of my ever marrying again and she wanted grandchildren. She’s looking forward to the child.”
Thomas stood. “Get rid of the girl.”
“She’s not going anywhere, Thomas,” he said, his annoyance spiking.
“I’ve found that conscience is a damnable task maker. It pokes and prods and reminds me, a good deal,
of your mother.”
He was the one to smile now. Louise was the only one who dared to lecture Thomas on his drinking. Or when he tried to be overly friendly with the maids. Thou shalt not bother the staff was one of her commandments.
He had certainly broken that one, hadn’t he?
At least his uncle hadn’t made that point. It was only a matter of time until it occurred to him.
When his mother upbraided Thomas, the man’s behavior changed, if only for a few weeks. Lately, he’d taken to remaining away from Blackhall more often than not. It was evidently easier than being subjected to Louise’s lectures.
“I’ll take your words under advisement, Uncle.”
“Which means you’ll do no such thing, of course,” Thomas said. “Your father used to say the same thing often enough. Maybe I should use those words to your mother and see if they’re successful.”
Alex didn’t bother hiding his smile. “I doubt it,” he said, “but I’d like to see you try.”
Chapter 13
Lorna was dozing in the overstuffed chair in the cottage’s parlor, the sun warming her and making her as indolent as a kitten. She slept better here with her feet on the needlepoint ottoman than she did in the bed in what she considered the Virgin’s Room.
The dream she was having was lovely. She was sitting on a knoll of earth on a blanket. Her infant son played beside her, intrigued with each of the delicate toes his father praised.
She drew up her legs, wrapped her arms around them and placed her cheek against her knees, watching the two of them. In the depths of her sleeping mind she knew that what she was seeing wasn’t real, just as she sometimes dreamed of her dead father.
Nan said she saw things as she wanted them to be, not as they were. This was most definitely a case of doing exactly that.
This dream could never come true.
The duke would never sit on a blanket and play with a baby. Nor would he ever glance over at her with a look of love in his eyes. She wouldn’t reach out and touch his face with her fingers, trailing a path across his bristly cheek. He most certainly wouldn’t smile at her exploration, grab her hand and kiss her fingertips.
She felt so much love in those moments that she thought she might burst with it.
“Lorna.”
She heard her name, knew she was being called, but she didn’t want to leave her delightful dream.
“Lorna.”
Someone was gently touching her shoulder. Blinking open her eyes, she saw Peter bending over her. A moment later she realized she’d fallen asleep, again, in the parlor.
“Lorna, the duchess is here.”
She blinked up at him, trying to make sense of his words.
“The duchess?”
He nodded, a lock of blond hair falling over his brow.
“Yes, my dear, and I’m so sorry to interrupt you.”
They both glanced toward the doorway where the Dowager Duchess of Kinross was standing, removing her gloves. Her face was arranged in a pleasant expression but her eyes didn’t miss anything.
“Your Grace.”
The duchess removed her heavy black wool coat to reveal an emerald silk dress padded with a simple hoop. The skirt was gathered up in several places and adorned with black braid, as was the corset. The hat was emerald as well, with a black feather sprouting from the rakish brim.
The duchess was fashionable, wealthy, and more than a little frightening. Lorna would have been intimidated by the woman’s presence had it not been for memories of the other woman’s kindness.
“Your Grace,” she said again, feeling inept.
She truly wanted to curtsy to the woman, but there was no possibility of that. In the last few days, Peter had to assist her in standing. Besides, she didn’t want the duchess to see that her blue dress—the only one she could still wear—was much shorter than propriety allowed.
She felt like one of those huge hot air balloons she’d seen in the newspaper.
“My dear,” the duchess said, “I’ve interrupted your nap. I’m so sorry. I remember how hard it was to fall asleep at night. Should I come back at a better time?”
“Of course not, Your Grace,” she said.
The duchess sank into the chair next to Lorna, reached out and took Lorna’s hand, holding it between hers.
“All three of my children were as large as your child. I was quite ungainly by the time I gave birth.”
“I waddle like a duck,” Lorna said, smiling. “And I’ve outgrown all my clothes.” She couldn’t even fit into her shift, a comment she was not about to make to the duchess.
“As did I, my dear. My husband told me that I was radiant and graceful. I laughed uproariously. But he was like that, a kind and good man even in the most difficult circumstances.”
The duchess glanced down at their joined hands, then back up at Lorna. Tears pooled in her eyes. She shook her head as if to negate her momentary grief.
“Look at me, going back into the past. But when I saw you, my dear, it reminded me so much of that time. I’m sure there were petty annoyances and irritations, but thinking back I don’t remember any of those. I was filled with such joy.”
Her smile was watery and bittersweet before she cleared her throat, sat up straight, and released Lorna’s hand. “I’ve come to welcome you back to Blackhall, not regale you with tales of my past. How are you settling in?”
“I’m very comfortable here,” Lorna said. “The duke has done a lot to make me feel pampered and privileged.”
“He thinks highly of you, you know.”
She didn’t respond to that. The duchess was attempting to be polite, and sometimes, in the absence of other compliments, people manufactured some. She was more than certain that the duke thought no such thing. She doubted if her name ever came up in conversation. How did he discuss his soon-to-be illegitimate child with his mother?
Lorna glanced at Peter. The weather was too cold for him to stand outside the cottage. He’d made the kitchen his base of operations, spending the time sitting at the table carving.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked, hoping Peter would jump in and offer to prepare it.
She knew that the duke had installed him there to run errands between the cottage and Blackhall, but he’d been personally helpful as well as kind to her in the past few days.
“That would be nice,” the duchess said, standing.
To Lorna’s surprise, the duchess insisted on making tea, bustling around the small kitchen as if she were familiar with such tasks. Lorna overheard the conversation she and Peter had about his carvings and his working with wood.
In a matter of minutes the duchess returned to the parlor, followed by Peter carrying a teapot and two cups on a tray. After placing it on the table in front of the chairs, he bowed and retreated into the kitchen again.
“Such a tactful young man,” the duchess said, sitting in the adjoining chair once again. “I’ve always liked him.”
“Why don’t you employ a lady’s maid, Your Grace?”
The duchess glanced over at Lorna. Her smile was genuine and warm, but then the woman had always been gracious to her.
“What an odd question. Is it because I’m no stranger to making tea?”
Lorna shook her head. “No, it’s because we always wondered in the servants’ quarters. You should have had a lady’s maid, but you never employed one.”
“Privacy,” the duchess said. “I quite like my own company, and I’ve found that the more servants one has around, the less privacy you have. I did have a lady’s maid once, but she developed a tendre for my husband’s valet. It became a comedy of errors, I’m afraid. Besides, it’s not all that difficult to dress yourself if you don’t lace yourself too tight or insist on those ludicrous hoops that make it impossible to enter a doorway.” She glanced over at Lorna again. “I’m afraid I’m not all that fashionable.”
“I wouldn’t say that at all, Your Grace. I, on the other hand, haven’t been able to contemplate wearing a c
orset for several weeks. Nor have I been able to see my feet.” She looked at the other woman and made another confession. “I’ve only been able to fit into this one dress,” she said, looking down at herself.
“That is as it should be,” the duchess said, giving her a smile. “You’re going to have a child. No one cares what you wear. Are you feeling well?”
Lorna nodded. “Very well. The first weeks were difficult, but only two things bother me now.”
“I’ll bet I can guess what they are,” the duchess said. “Sleepiness and a need to use the necessary every quarter hour.”
Lorna nodded, smiling.
“While time and nature may blunt the memory of a great many things, you remember those last months quite well.” She sipped at her tea. “I understand Miss Geddes lives with you. Is she here?”
“No.” Nan went to work every morning, just as if she lived in the servants’ quarters.
“Good. That will give us time to talk.”
The older woman didn’t speak for a few minutes, and when she did, she surprised Lorna again.
“My son says that you’re an artist. I didn’t know that. Would you be willing to show me some of your work?”
This morning she’d been reading through her father’s book, carefully inspecting each drawing to ensure it was what her father would have wanted.
“Over there, on the table,” she said, pointing next to the tray.
In seconds the duchess had retrieved the journal.
Directing her gaze out the window, Lorna concentrated on anything but the duchess thumbing through her father’s journal. No one else had ever read it.
On one page, following her father’s instructions, she’d listed the herb, its common and Latin name, and where it could be found. Below that she explained how the plant was efficacious for which ailment, and then provided a selection of recipes her father had chosen. She drew the plant on the facing page.
In all her editing of the journal, she never changed her father’s words, but she had added to the original drawings, making each the best she could.
“I confess that I’m amazed.”
She glanced at the duchess.