by A.J. Dixon
Chapter 7
Her breath caught.
If libraries died and went to Heaven, this is what it would look like. Dark, mahogany shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, neatly filled with books of all shapes and sizes. There were black-cloth Bibles, leather-bound histories, treatises on botany, and much more. A pair of dark leather chairs sat on either side of a gently crackling fire, and a pair of mahogany side tables finished the scene.
She stepped across the elegant oriental carpet to place her plate and cup on one of the tables, then began on the left hand side of the door. She ran her finger along the spines of the books on each shelf, marveling at the array of titles available. It must have cost a fortune to assemble this many books. She found Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad, Plato’s Laches, and then more recent works.
Her eyes lit up. There, before her, was a red leather-bound copy of Robert Burns’s poetry.
She took the book reverentially from the shelf and brought it over to her chair. She turned open the first page and began to read.
Sorcha lost all notion of time, immersed in the words. One poem in particular caught at her, and she found herself re-reading the poem out loud.
Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
A warm voice came from the doorway. “That was always my favorite poem. I’ve never heard that recited with a Scottish accent before. It makes the piece even more powerful.”
Sorcha blushed, turning in her chair. Jonathan was standing there, a flute of Champagne forgotten in his hand, gazing at her as if she held deep secrets within her soul.
He stepped in, moving to the chair opposite Sorcha and taking a seat. He put the flute on the table, then leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees.
“So, what do you think of it?”
Her cheeks warmed even more. “What, the poem?”
A smile came to his lips. “Yes, the poem.”
Sorcha gathered her thoughts. “Well, I think it tries to remind us that every person has worth. The wretch huddling in the stoop might have been dealt a harsh blow by life. The maid in the kitchen could have been a lady of high renown, praised for her artistic skills, if simply born to different parents.”
Jonathan nodded. “There is much that is beyond our control. One woman might be born with classical beauty and another with a homely face. Their potential for marriage – and thus their fortunes - could then vastly differ because of something completely beyond their ability to change. An accident of birth.”
Sorcha’s brow drew together. “Men have it easier,” she muttered. “They can go off where they wish. Roam the world.”
Jonathan held her gaze. “But maybe they would prefer a loving home,” he pointed out. “Maybe they stray because life did not give them what they craved the most. They have to find what solace they can elsewhere.”
The comment hit a little too close to home. Sorcha had never discussed her father’s absences with anyone. She had barely acknowledged her fears even to herself.
She looked down at her hands. “That doesn’t make it right.”
Jonathan’s gaze shadowed. “No, it doesn’t. But not everyone is strong. Men – and women – have weaknesses. Sometimes they fail.”
Sorcha’s throat was tight. “He should come home to me. To his only daughter.”
Jonathan reached forward a hand, taking hers. “Yes, he should,” he agreed. “And that is why I refused to marry Theodoria, despite all the pressures pushing me to comply. I knew the family we created would not be one of complete love.”
The warmth of his fingers spread through Sorcha, giving her a sense of security she’d rarely known before. “I wish for that with all my heart,” she murmured, her voice rough. “A family with love. That and …”
She looked down, blushing.
His voice came, gentle, into her tense fear. “Sorcha, trust me. Please tell me. I promise, I won’t laugh.”
Sorcha hesitantly looked up at him. “Your ancestor was a crusader. He was able to explore Cairo and Jerusalem. Can you imagine how thrilling that must have been? He gazed on the ancient pyramids. He stood before the wailing wall.”
She sighed. “I do love the Scottish highlands. I adore the craggy mountains and the deep glens.” She waved a hand in the air. “But there is so much else to see. This one trip to Bath is the only time I have left Scotland.”
She shook her head. “When this trip is through, my mother will escort me back to Edinburgh. I’ll then be trapped in my mother’s home for all my remaining years.” She wrapped her arms around her body. “It saps my soul; withers it into a dry reed.”
His brow creased. “But surely at some point you’ll marry. If you are fortunate, your husband will enjoy traveling. The two of you can explore this Earth together, side by side.”
Sorcha dejectedly shook her head. “My mother often talks about marrying me off to the highest bidder, so that she can have even richer coffers or perhaps a new, noble connection.” Her shoulders slumped. “But I’ve come to believe that those are idle threats. After all, if she had truly intended to sell me off, she would have done it by now.”
She sighed. “It seems all too clear that my mother will never allow me to marry. In the end, what she wants most is for me to remain in the house to take care of her. And with the attention she invests in her health, I can see her living to be one hundred. There I’ll be, eighty years old, hobbling around, still tending to her every need. One day I’ll drop dead by her side. And even then, she’d scold me for doing that.”
A small smile lit his face. “Surely, you’re teasing about that.” But when Sorcha’s gaze didn’t change, his eyes became serious. He reached out to take her hands.
“Sorcha, life is short. It is the glimmering of dew on a petal – and then it’s gone. My crusader ancestor in the eleven hundreds lived, loved, sweated, fought, and died. And that is now all ancient history. His children, and his children’s children, all toiled painstakingly for decades for tasks we don’t remember at all now. The things they felt were critically important are not even a faint blip in history.”
His gaze held hers. “We are granted this one, momentary breath of life. We feel the sun, we soak in the warmth, and then we are gone again. Our frien
ds can vanish in an instant.”
His eyes became distant. “That afternoon my sister and Thea were in trouble, what if I was just one minute later? Just a brief sixty seconds? They could have been killed. Our families’ lives could have changed forever, all because of one tiny change.” He shuddered. “I have had nightmares about that since that afternoon. Terrible, vivid dreams that I didn’t make it there in time and that everything altered.”
His amber depths latched into hers. “What I am saying is life is too short to live it by someone else’s rules. Others have their own lives to lead. You have yours. When you are sixty, or seventy, and you look back on life, you won’t remember the times you gave in and did what you were ordered to. You’ll dream about the opportunities you missed. The adventures you never got to take.”
Sorcha gave a wry smile. “You make it sound so easy.”
“Ah, but it is,” he responded. “Think of all of those out there who are born with challenges. They cannot walk, perhaps. Or perhaps one of their arms doesn’t work right. And here you are, able to run about, and you’re complaining about a minor issue like a controlling mother? Many would dream that that was their only challenge in life! They would count their blessings every morning they awoke.”
His gaze held hers. “You – and only you - have to decide your own destiny.”
Sorcha’s mouth quirked up. “Like you and Theodoria?”
It was his turn to redden, but he nodded. “Yes, exactly like that. I knew how much it meant to my parents and to hers. I gave it long, serious thought. I spent years trying to come to terms with it. But, in the end, I just wouldn’t have been happy. And I don’t think she would have been, either.”
He looked through the doorway for a moment, toward the noise of the party. “Now she’s with a man who treasures her, and it seems she’s found contentment.”
Sorcha found a smile coming to her lips. “And you are still free.”
He gave a low laugh. “And I am still free,” he agreed. “There is still so much I want to explore in this world. While I have seen England, I’ve never been to Paris. I’d love to see the dark forests of Spain, the sun-swept vineyards of Tuscany, and walk in my ancestor’s footsteps.” He looked down at the ring on his finger. “Imagine all the things he experienced in his life.”
Her brow shadowed. “He experienced the raw violence of war,” she pointed out. “I imagine he had to watch his dearest friends be slain and witness horrific atrocities.”
He nodded. “I would not wish that on any person. There was certainly great grief that went with the joys and beauty he was able to experience.” His eyes lit. “Still, there must be a way to find a balance. To treasure the beauty of our world while being able to bring peace and understanding at the same time.”
Sorcha chuckled. “So you would not want to strut and stare?”
He grinned at that. “I am a lord by birth. I cannot change that. But maybe I can change how I use this privilege – and responsibility – to help others. Maybe I can learn as much as I can from the other cultures around us and find a way to share that with those I love.”
Sorcha’s heart warmed. “That is an admirable quest.”
He leant forward to twine his fingers into hers. His voice dropped low. “Thank you for understanding.”
He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe she was there in front of him. His voice was a reverential whisper. “I’ve been waiting all this time, and to think, just one Scottish lass …”
Time hung still …
A sharp voice sounded from the doorway. “Jonathan, there you are. Your parents are looking for you.”
Sorcha guiltily spun her gaze. Julia was standing in the doorframe, her lips frozen in ice, her eyes spearing into Sorcha’s.
Jonathan nodded and picked up his glass. He stood and looked down to Sorcha. “Shall we continue our conversation later?”
Warmth eased through her. “I would like that.”
“As would I.”
Then he turned and left the room.
Julia paused to drill an ice-tipped spear through Sorcha’s core, and then she smoothly followed after her quarry.