Scotsman of My Dreams

by Karen Ranney

  He’d just been damn lucky.

  As a British citizen, he was initially viewed with suspicion by the men in his regiment. He couldn’t blame them. When he was done playing at war, he could go home, sail away from the sound of incessant gunfire, scavenging for food, and the paralyzing fear of standing there watching as waves of men kept coming and coming despite volleys of gunfire.

  The fields on which they marched belonged to someone. The crops they trampled had been grown to be food, not mattresses for thousands of men.

  Death had won in most instances.

  Nor was Death content with simple victory. Instead, it seemed to chortle with delight, rubbing bony hands together with glee until Dalton could swear he heard the clicking sound.

  In those months in America, life had seemed something special, to be cherished and noted each passing minute. When he woke at dawn, he appreciated the air, heavy with dew. On some mornings there was fog, the low lying cloud of it obscuring his feet. Hunger was something he’d rarely experienced before leaving London. In America he grew to appreciate any food he received, no longer the epicure who demanded perfection from his cook.

  He found himself interested in the stories of the men with whom he fought. Some of them had surprising ties to England: a niece here, a second cousin there. They all seemed intertwined somehow, members of long lost families.

  There was nothing like knowing he might die tomorrow to make him appreciate every day. He should have taken up Arthur’s habit of writing in a journal. Sometimes he wanted to share ideas, but the men around him were a laconic sort, exchanging tales of battles with more ease than they discussed their own lives or philosophies.

  The euphoria abruptly left him the day he was shot. Several times since, he’d considered doing himself in. His anger had stopped him. He was damn well going to win this undeclared war: Death vs. Dalton.

  Now he had another battle to join: Dalton vs. Todd. Minerva Todd, to be exact. Strange, that this one filled him with anticipation.

  Chapter 15

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Howington suddenly said.

  Dalton turned toward the door. At last, Howington was announcing himself. Was the man out of sorts because he’d asked Mrs. Thompson for help the other day?

  “Your brother is here.”

  For a fleeting second his mind produced the image of Arthur standing there, tall, thoroughly English, with that slight frown above his nose. Arthur, forever solemn . . . and dead.

  “You mean Lewis,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He decided not to try to interpret Howington’s tone, but he hoped he was mistaken about the note of humor he detected.

  “Shall I show him in?”

  “No,” he said. “To the parlor, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He could almost feel Howington’s confusion. He wasn’t about to explain it.

  This room was his sanctuary, where he went to hole up. Here he brooded. He knew every inch of the space and could walk without stumbling from one side to the other. It was, like his suite, private.

  He didn’t want Lewis in his library.

  Standing, he made his way to the door.

  Lewis had called on him when he first returned to London. His brother had expressed horror at the tragedy that had befallen him, a sentiment Dalton didn’t believe. Lewis had never cared about anyone but Lewis.

  He let his fingers trail over the wainscoting, counting his steps to the parlor door. He’d never considered, before being blinded, that he could sense the size of an area simply by the feel and sound of it. He wondered if he’d now be able to tell whether a room was occupied or empty.

  Ahead of him were voices. Mrs. Thompson offering refreshments, no doubt. He would have to thank her for her constant hospitality. She made up for his deficits in being a host.

  He hesitated at the door to the parlor, the sound of Lewis’s chuckle immediately alerting him to his brother’s location. Lewis was seated on the chair to the right of the fireplace, near the fern he’d toppled the night Minerva Todd had broken into his house.

  “Do I amuse you?” he asked.

  “On the contrary,” Lewis said. “I approve of the patch. It hints at a foreign appearance. But other than that, you look well. I’m glad to see it.”

  He knew condescension when he heard it. He allowed a small smile to curve his lips. He had no doubt that Arthur would’ve come up to him, clapped his hand on his upper arm and said something like, “Damn, Dalton. What the hell have you gone and done to yourself?”

  Lewis, however, buried himself in false flattery.

  “If I had known I was so attractive, I would’ve had a tintype taken.”

  Five small steps. He reached out and grabbed the back of the chair, his hand trailing down to the arm. A moment later he sat, facing the direction of Lewis’s voice.

  Another chuckle from his brother. “You haven’t lost your wit, I’m glad to see.”

  “Are you here to check on my appearance, Lewis?”

  “I only came to see you. You’re my only relative, after all.”

  I’m his only relative.

  Minerva Todd was loyal to a fault to her brother, while he felt only irritation toward his. Neville Todd didn’t deserve his sister’s fidelity, but could he say the same about Lewis? His brother was his mirror, which meant he was the embodiment of a wastrel, a man whose only occupation was to find pleasure.

  Shame drifted down on him like a soft blanket.

  “Thank you,” he said, trying to be more gracious. “I’m fine.”

  He made a wager with himself, though, one he hoped he lost. Lewis would ask him for money before he left, thus revealing the reason for his sudden brotherly affection.

  “Are you still having headaches?”

  He was surprised Lewis remembered that.

  “No,” he said, realizing it was true. He hadn’t had a headache for a week now.

  “Have you seen any of your old friends?”

  “No.” No one had visited him. Nor had he sent anyone an invitation to do so. He’d realized that they belonged to a time that existed before America, one that he couldn’t replicate now. “Is that why you’ve come? To make sure I don’t shame the family name by venturing out into society, exposing my foreignness?”

  “I haven’t seen you for three months, Dalton. Do you begrudge me caring about you?”

  Had he ever been as clever with words? No doubt he had or was even more talented in the easy quip, the meaningless assortment of syllables. Words meant more now than they ever had. Words had flavor, something he’d never mentioned to anyone else. A certain tone, a way of speaking, could coat a word with sarcasm, derision, a mean amusement. Just as easily, a word could connote compassion, understanding, even friendship.

  But Lewis wasn’t his friend.

  He’d never been as close to Lewis as with Arthur. He was five when Lewis was born. Arthur had been six. The years stretching between them had been an eternity to them as boys. They’d never wanted Lewis to tag along or participate. When he’d done so, it was solely at their mother’s urging.

  Even back then, Lewis had been whiny and grasping, taking credit for accomplishments he’d never done.

  Although they both lived in London, and had some common acquaintances, they didn’t travel in the same circles, just like himself and Arthur. But he would occasionally see Lewis at an establishment or encounter him at a ball or dinner. When they spoke, their conversations were shallow. When his mother was alive, they spoke of her or Arthur or Gledfield. Rarely did they talk about anything deeper. Perhaps there hadn’t been anything deeper to speak about then.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said.

  Silence met that remark. Lewis was one of those ­people, like Howington, who hadn’t yet figured out that he couldn’t see visual clu
es.

  Half of conversation, he’d realized since being blinded, wasn’t comprised of words at all, but expressions and gestures. Without being able to see, he participated in only half the conversation. Unless the person was like Mrs. Thompson, who seemed to understand.

  He realized, with a measure of surprise, that Minerva Todd was another woman who made it easy to converse.

  When Lewis still didn’t speak, he smiled. “You need money, is that it?”

  “If I do?” Lewis asked. “Are you disposed to loan me a little?”

  “Have you applied yourself to an occupation, brother? Some way of earning money?”

  “Damned if you don’t sound like Arthur.”

  “Did you solicit funds from him as well?”

  When their mother was alive, Alexandra had funded her youngest son. If she lectured him as well, Dalton wouldn’t have been surprised, but she never said no to Lewis. It must have been a shock to Lewis after her death not to have a ready source of cash.

  “From time to time,” Lewis said. Each of his words was tinged with anger. What had it taken Lewis to come here today? He must be desperate indeed.

  Luckily for Lewis, he knew something about pride and its loss.

  “How much do you need?”

  Lewis named an amount, one that knocked the smile off his face.

  “How long will that last you?”

  “Long enough.”

  “Make sure it does,” he said.

  “You’re going to give it to me?” Lewis’s words were coated with surprise.

  “What’s a brother for?” he said, smiling. “Just don’t come to the well again. You’ll find it’s dried up.”

  “You’re more like Arthur than you know,” Lewis said.

  Once, he might have considered his brother’s remark an insult. Now, oddly, it felt like a compliment.

  “MISS MINERVA,” Mrs. Beauchamp said, after knocking on the storeroom door. “This just came for you.”

  The housekeeper held out a note.

  She thanked the woman, took it and opened it, conscious that Mrs. Beauchamp hadn’t moved. She didn’t often get notes. In fact, this might be the very first, and the fact it was hand delivered was even more unusual.

  I am visiting my brother’s solicitor this afternoon at one. If you would like to accompany me, I will pick you up at twelve. Please don’t make me wait.

  What an absolutely arrogant note. But at least he had made good on his promise. If she wanted to accompany him she would have to hurry.

  She glanced up at Mrs. Beauchamp, stood up from behind the table, and explained as quickly as she could.

  “It’s from the earl,” she said. “He wants me to accompany him to his brother’s solicitor.”

  The housekeeper looked as if she wanted to ask a question, but she didn’t give the woman a chance. She raced up the stairs thinking to change, but realized she didn’t have the time.

  She grabbed her bonnet from the dresser, wishing she didn’t have to wear the blasted thing. When she was on an expedition, she wore a wide straw hat fastened to her head with a broad, soft ribbon. By the end of the day, when the ribbon was damp with sweat, she either replaced it or did without the hat.

  At exactly twelve o’clock she went to the front door. To her surprise, the carriage was already there.

  She glanced toward the Covington sisters’ house and almost waved. One of them was sure to see the earl’s carriage. Quite an equipage it was. This carriage wasn’t the one he used the day before. This one was a larger vehicle, a shiny onyx and pulled by two beautiful matched horses.

  Wasn’t he doing it up a bit too much?

  She greeted him with that question when the driver opened the door for her.

  “I can’t imagine who you’re trying to impress,” she said. “Do we really need as large a carriage? Are we going to Cornwall?”

  “Do you have a yen to go to Cornwall, Miss Todd?”

  “I’ve never been,” she said. “Is it lovely?”

  “Windy,” he said. “But the views are magnificent, especially if you like the ocean.”

  “Do you like the ocean?”

  “I’m rather ambivalent about it, Miss Todd. I think of the ocean as the ground, something to travel over. Although, I will have to admit that a storm on the ocean is something that should be experienced. But only when you can see it. Otherwise, it’s intensely frightening.”

  That surprised her, that he would admit to being afraid.

  “Is it very frightening being blind?”

  “I am growing accustomed to your pointed questions, Miss Todd.”

  “While I am growing accustomed to the fact that you deflect most of them.”

  He smiled.

  “On the contrary. I’ve probably been more honest with you than with most ­people.”

  She wanted to say something cutting to that remark, but for the life of her the words would not form on her lips. She wasn’t sure she believed him. Nor was she sure she should.

  He was dressed as he had been the last time she saw him, in a black jacket and trousers with a snowy white shirt. His shoes were polished to a shine and his appearance impeccable. The man was impossibly handsome, and the black eye patch only added a certain dangerous appeal.

  “Why are you going to see your brother’s solicitor?”

  “I agreed to allow you to accompany me, Miss Todd, only because you seem determined to do so. No part of that agreement stated that you were to be privy to private matters.”

  She felt her face flame. He was a master of the put down, wasn’t he?

  “Does it have anything to do with Neville?”

  “I can assure you that the conversation will not touch upon your brother in any way.”

  “Are you sad about the meeting to come? Your voice sounds different.”

  He laughed, surprising her. “I’ve confessed to feeling fear, Miss Todd. Do you want the entire gamut of emotions from me?”

  “If you did tell me anything, I wouldn’t share it with a soul.”

  “So you want me to consider you my father confessor.”

  “I’m wearing trousers,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I feel you should know. It isn’t fair to take advantage of your blindness. You don’t know what I look like, but you should at least know what I’m wearing.”

  “Should I?”

  “It started off as a skirt,” she said. “I have two seams stitched down the middle, sewing it together. After that, the seamstress cut it. So it’s like a voluminous pair of trousers.”

  “Is it?”

  “It’s quite shocking. I’m sure I shocked the seamstress by requesting it. If I’m seen by anyone, they would no doubt make a notation of it, but I didn’t want to be late so I didn’t change.”

  “It might be an article in the Times tomorrow, is that it? The blinded Earl of Rathsmere was seen in the company of a scandalous woman who took advantage of his affliction to parade about in a pair of trousers. Something like that?”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  “Most ­people don’t notice things unless it’s forced on them. They’re mainly concerned with themselves.”

  “I think you’re entirely wrong when it comes to you,” she said. “I suspect all of London is still curious. They want to know if you can see anything at all, and why you carry that walking stick with you. How is it that you still manage to be handsome? Are you even more of a rake now than you were before? How has America changed you?”

  “All that? Do you feel the same curiosity, Miss Todd?”

  Oh dear. Should she tell him the truth or hide behind some deflection of her own?

  “I think you carry the walking stick to maintain your balance. I blindfolded myself the other night and the first thing I noticed was that I ke
pt wanting to topple over.”

  “Did you?”

  His voice had taken on a strange note and his features were still, as if he commanded them to be like stone.

  “I quite hated it,” she said. “But I sat in the middle of the parlor and I heard the most amazing things, things I didn’t pay any attention to before.”

  “Unlike you, Miss Todd, I don’t hear amazing things.”

  “Was your hearing damaged? Or are you simply not trying?”

  He turned his head and stared at the carriage window as if he could see through it.

  “I can see light with my left eye. A few shapes. For example, in the garden, I could see your shape but nothing else.”

  “Will your vision ever improve?”

  “I don’t know. I have a physician who is entirely too optimistic. I suspect it won’t.”

  “You must be more positive, Your Lordship.”

  “Why must I be?”

  “Because you simply must believe that tomorrow will be better. If it’s raining today, it will be sunny tomorrow. If your mood is foul today, you will be happy tomorrow. You must always have hope. I think living without hope would be the most terrible thing in the world.”

  He didn’t answer her. But at least, she reflected, he hadn’t disparaged her beliefs like Neville had. Her brother made fun of her sometimes, saying nobody could be as innocent or naive as she. She wasn’t, either, but did believe it was important to look forward to things.

  When their parents died, it had been the most terrible time in the world for her. Neville was the one who made it possible to wake every morning, to go about the business of living. She never knew what he was going to say or do. His laughter charmed her down to her toes. His smile banished her despair. How very strange that he should later ridicule what he himself had taught her.

  The carriage slowed, and she thought it best that they didn’t continue this conversation. She always said too much around him.

  “Where are we going after your brother’s solicitor?”

  “Why should we be going anywhere else?”