by Fiona Monroe
It was going to make things even more complicated and damnable if she had.
Before John entered the drawing room, he made a hasty diversion to the study and unlocked a drawer in the writing bureau to retrieve a souvenir of his Venetian days—a tiny dagger, with an ornately fashioned silver hilt and a slender, deadly blade. It was designed to be carried covertly and was most definitely not the weapon of a gentleman. But as his behaviour had proven him to be no gentleman, John thought grimly, he may as well have the trinket about him. It gave him a certain comfort to know that it was nestled in his waistcoat.
The Latin letter, which he had found eventually, dropped behind the desk, was now securely locked in the bureau. He did not want it falling into the wrong hands.
The girl might have told him that his mysterious visitor was a lady, alone, but he was prepared to find almost anyone when, thus armed, he opened the door to the drawing room.
Seated in the armchair next to the fire, tense and upright and poised to greet him, was Arabella, Dowager Marchioness of Crieff.
He froze.
He had been wrong. He had not been prepared to find absolutely anyone waiting for him.
"John!" She sprang up, as if released from a spring, and rushed at him. "Oh, John, I am so sorry. Can you forgive me?"
John had to stop himself taking a step back as his sister-in-law wrapped herself clumsily around him. She smelled of wood smoke and morning rain.
"Uhm." He patted her back. She definitely felt damp. "Have you been outside? Is it raining? You should not distress yourself—you should sit down." He tried to lead her back to the chair.
"I am not made of glass. I have been sitting down these past two days. I have been glad to vary it with walking."
"Walking—where have you walked from?"
"Only from Charlotte Square."
He became aware of the presence in the room of another black-swathed figure, who rose and made a very brief bow. It was Arabella's severe-looking French maid, Fontaine, whom he had often reflected must have been beautiful in her youth. "My lady," she murmured, "my lord is right, you should sit."
"Fontaine, will you leave us, please?" Arabella said pleasantly.
The Frenchwoman's brows drew together, and she made a tiny disapproving noise in her throat then swished her skirt as she left the room.
Arabella clung on to his arms and looked up at him. Her face was white against the black lace widow's veil which hung around her head and shoulders. It reminded him of the mantles worn by dignified matrons in Venice, and it looked pathetically incongruous on a girl so young and fresh. "I saw your letter," she said.
"What—that note I wrote to Gordon?"
"He received it at breakfast and flung it aside in a fury. I should not have read it, but it landed on my plate and, well, I am human. Your kindness, when I have been so cruel to you." Her face crumpled, and she put a hand over her mouth. "Oh, I am so sorry."
John was seriously alarmed. Her ladyship's whole body had tensed as he held her at arms' length, and she had bent forward as if bracing herself. He knew little first-hand about such things, but common sense suggested that she must be very near her time and that two days' coach travel from Dunwoodie to Edinburgh could not help someone in that situation. What if she had the child right there in his apartments? He did not even know how to call for a nurse.
"Look, you were not cruel. I was a cad. I deserved it. Please, your ladyship, don't worry about it." He walked her back to the armchair and made her sit down, which she did without protest this time.
"No," she said, waving his hand away once she was seated. "John—let me make my apology—I was not in my right mind. That is not an excuse, but to accuse you of killing James, that was unforgivable. It might have happened at any time. I have read what books I could find and spoken to a physician. James had an excess of choler, which predisposed him to apoplexy. He might have got angry with a housemaid for dropping soot on the bedroom rug, and the result would have been the same. You were not to blame." She took his hand, without looking at him. "But I! To throw you out of your home, your very own home—not even mine, as Gordon has made amply clear since—not even knowing if you had the means to support yourself—that was an act of unforgivable malice on my part. Of madness. I have been troubled in my mind about it almost ever since, and I felt that only a personal apology would suffice, but then I could not leave Dunwoodie. I dared not."
"Of course not, in your state of health."
"No! Not because of that! Because if I left, I would be ceding the ground! You have no idea what has been happening at Dunwoodie since you went away."
"Gordon's letter gave me an inkling."
Arabella rested a hand on the side of her swollen stomach, making John nervous once more. "When I saw your reply, I knew that I had to see you at once, without delay. Gordon tried to stop me, of course, but I was determined to do what was right. If I die—"
"Come now, no need to be morbid."
"No! I am not being morbid, I am being realistic. I might die. And I might never therefore have been able to tell you that I was sorry and to obtain your forgiveness."
"Good Lord. And so, you risked your life for me—for that?"
"I do not care so very much about my life," she said after a long pause.
"The life of your child, then." He gestured impatiently in the direction of her midriff. "I assure you, I am not worth that."
"Poor little one." Arabella began to stroke her stomach, which made John shudder. "To be born without a father—it is such a cruel way to come into the world. I wonder if it will be a girl. James wanted a daughter; he said he wanted to make amends for Elspeth."
"Amends? How so?"
"He felt he must have done ill by her, or she would not have turned out so wild. I think he was wrong. I think Elspeth would have gone her own way regardless of anything James did or said to her."
"Arabella?" John had been kneeling beside her chair, and now he took her other hand. "Do you know what happened to Elspeth?"
Arabella blinked at him. Her eyes were dry but faintly red-rimmed, as if she had no more tears left. "James said we were never to tell anyone."
"But you don't think that was right, do you?"
She drew in a breath. "She left in the company of a sea-captain, to whom she had already surrendered her virtue. There was no marriage, as far as we know. And the sea-captain gave a false name, because, although we met him, he did not exist in the navy or merchant fleet records. She left Dunwoodie in the middle of the night, the night your father died, leaving us a letter but no clue as to where they were headed. We think they sailed from Aberdeen that morning. We never heard from her again."
John got to his feet and went to the window. Rain was streaming down the panes, monotonously, punctuated by occasional flurries of icy fury. "So she is alive."
"Oh, yes! Unless any misfortune has befallen her in the past three years, she is alive. I hope she is happy. I hope she married her sea-captain, whoever he really was, and that however irregular the start of their union, I hope its outcome was good."
A tension in his heart had shifted, had eased. He had not realised how a sadness, and a suspicion, had haunted him all this time. He had been too proud ever to tackle James about it, while he had been alive. "She left a letter. Does it still exist?"
"I thought James had destroyed it, but I found it in his bureau, with all his most precious papers…" Her voice trailed off bleakly. "It is at Dunwoodie. You may have it and keep it, gladly on my part. I have certainly not shown it to Gordon. Oh, John, return with me straight away. Let us set off this very hour. Come home, and help me. I thought I could do it alone, but—I cannot."
"Hang it. Arabella, I would, like a shot, as they say. But I cannot right now. Things are complicated for me."
"Right now is all I have. I cannot delay. If I do not return now, immediately, if I stay in town a week, a day longer—I do not know how much time I have, but it cannot be a great deal. I must return to Dunwoodie b
efore I am confined, or I shall be away too long. And I left little Henry there."
It was useless to remonstrate with her again about the folly of her expedition. She had done it, and she was here, and he was, in fact, very glad that she had come. Both her forgiveness and her news about his sister had eased his heart. If she had only come a week before, he would not have married Margaret, and all would now be well.
Except, damn it, he wanted to be married to Margaret. He knew that for certain now, all at once.
"All right," he said. "To return frankness with frankness, sister, I cannot go back with you to Dunwoodie, because Count Contarini is in Edinburgh, and if I leave town, I am fearful that he will go after my wife."
"Your wife?"
He had hoped that by slipping it in casually, she might match his insouciance and not react with such alarm.
"Yes. I married. Last week."
"Oh, John! Who is she?"
"Nobody you'd know, nobody in particular. The niece of a country laird, from Fife. James would not have considered it much of a match."
"Oh, John, this makes me so happy! I always thought that the best thing—the only really good thing that could happen to you—was marriage to a sensible, amiable girl."
"You take it as read that she's sensible and amiable."
"Yes, I think she is, merely from your manner of mentioning her. But where is she?"
He considered saying, she has left me, and is currently lodging in a house of ill-repute. "Contarini called here while I was out, so I have sent her to a friend's house for her own safety."
"In town?"
"Yes."
"Then, let's fetch her, and we can all go back to Dunwoodie together!" Arabella was actually rising out of the chair in her eagerness.
"It is not as simple as that," Lord John said with a sigh. Then he wondered if it could, indeed, be as simple as that. Would Margaret consent to go with him, if Lady Crieff were there to chaperone and protect her? It would certainly be safer for all of them to remove to Dunwoodie, where they would be surrounded and guarded by an army of manservants, impregnable in the centre of hundreds of acres.
But how could he explain to Arabella why Margaret would need to be talked into coming with them? He could not tell her the truth. And, of course, Margaret might adamantly refuse. Her tender missive to him of the day before had been decisive enough.
"Very well, Arabella." He turned back to her. "I'll send—"
He broke off because he heard a clattering of boots on the stairs. There was something about the urgency of the footsteps that arrested him, tensed as he was for trouble. The door banged open.
John snatched out the stiletto.
The pockmarked maidservant screamed as she found herself inches from the blade.
"John," said Arabella reprovingly and went to reassure the girl.
"Sorry." John tucked the blade away. "You should knock."
Arabella extracted a piece of paper from the girl's hand, while she sobbed, "Oh my lord, there's a dark man at the door; he looks wild, he spoke so strange, I'm sure he must be French. He said I had to gie that to your lordship right away, and that he'd wait for an answer!"
John opened the note.
Your Excellency
I write on behalf of my master, il Conte Contarini. We have as our guest the young lady who was kind enough to entertain us at your home yesterday. My master is certain that you would like to assure yourself of her safety in person, and so wishes to extend a cordial invitation to his residence. If you are not otherwise engaged this morning, and he trusts that you are not, the servant who brings this note is charged to escort you.
I remain Your Excellency's most humble and obedient servant, Nicolo Raffaele Contarini
Margaret had only begun to feel nervous when the agent, for she took it that he must be an agent, led her to the far end of Princes Street and turned onto the North Bridge.
This was the long, wide bridge that separated the two worlds of Old and New Town, the link that spanned the chasm between the steep ridge of the medieval city and the flat former farmlands where the beautiful, orderly, expensive new vision was taking shape. It was a dark, windy and increasingly cold night, and once she stepped onto the bridge, she knew she was leaving the relative safety of modern, genteel Edinburgh and venturing inexorably toward the filth and chaos of the city's past.
In the past, rich and poor alike had lived in the towering, tottering tenements, some built as high as fourteen stories into the air. Now, the gentlefolk had escaped to the New Town, and the Old had degenerated into a stinking warren of crumbling stones and open sewers inhabited only by the impoverished, desperate, or stubborn.
Margaret followed the Italian through ancient narrow alleyways, with walls towering up so high that she could not see the night sky. It was like being buried underground. Dim lights burned behind hundreds of tiny barred windows, broken shutters flapped, and babies cried far above.
"Where are we going?" she whispered to her guide.
"Si, si."
Margaret divined that conversation was not going to be extensive.
She was not very familiar with Old Town and had never been there after dark. It was extremely disorientating. After a few twists and turns down dark and darker passages and up a long, steep stone stairway, they came out suddenly into what felt like the open air again, the comparatively broad expanse of the High Street, where the stars were visible above them at last. Margaret, holding her skirts high to avoid as best she could the filth trampled into the cobbles, followed her sinister guide uphill past the Mercat Cross—the old centre-point of the city, where people still gathered during the day to exchange news—and the dark bulk of St. Giles Cathedral, which was the High Kirk of the Church of Scotland.
They were climbing up now toward the Castle. Before they reached Lawnmarket and Castle Hill, the bandit turned into another close and took her up a twisting staircase built onto the side of the wall. Margaret followed behind him cautiously, trying not to look down too much at the sheer drop to the cobbles far below. At the top of the staircase was a solid, barred wooden door, and she could see lights glimmering behind the shuttered casement windows above them.
The agent raised his cane, which was, after all, merely a cane, and rapped a series of rhythmic knocks on the door.
A voice within shouted something in Italian and seemed satisfied with her guide's barked answer, for bolts flew within and the door opened a crack.
It had begun to rain a little, spits of ice that flew in squalls onto Margaret's flushed face. She was glad when they were admitted out of the cold, wet, dark night, even though, as the door slammed and was fastened shut behind her, she knew she was trapped.
The interior apartments belied the squalor of the city without. She saw at once that she was in one of the superior floors which had once belonged to a wealthy merchant, perhaps even a nobleman. The room was compact but not cramped, richly furnished with rugs and wall hangings, paintings, and carved oak furniture. The ceiling beams, though low enough to reach up and touch, were decorated with elaborate gilt patterns. Doors led to further rooms, and there was an interior staircase rising to the next floor. The soft blaze of dozens of candles and a good fire in the hearth gave the room a warm and welcoming atmosphere.
They had been admitted by another swarthy individual with the look of a ruffian about him. Margaret's guide and the door guardian conversed rapidly in Italian, casting uncertain glances toward her.
"I wish to see Count Contarini," she said firmly, speaking loudly and clearly.
Before the two retainers had come to any conclusion, a pair of immaculate embroidered house-slippers appeared on the stairs, followed by the stately bulk of the count. His Excellency exclaimed as he recognised Margaret and fired an angry invective at the agent who had brought her there.
As she quelled her nerves, Margaret stepped toward him and curtsied. "Forgive my intrusion so late, Your Excellency. I asked your servant to bring me to you, so please—do not blame hi
m. I have something urgent and personal that I wish to discuss with you."
The count looked at her with blank, expressionless eyes. To Margaret's relief, his aide had followed him down the stairs and now muttered a stream of Italian.
After an exchange, the aide bowed to Margaret and said, "Step this way, madam."
Margaret was ushered down a few steps through a door behind the internal staircase, into an irregularly shaped room with another blazing fire, a high-backed wooden chair before it, a table and mostly empty bookshelves built into the walls. There was a window facing the back of the building, completely shuttered. It looked like this was what the count was using as his study.
Contarini took possession of the chair and left Margaret standing where she was, like a servant. Margaret waited for a moment to be invited to sit down, but there did not seem to be another seat in the room. The count's aide positioned himself at his master's elbow.
"His Excellency would like to know, madam," said the aide, "to what he owes the honour of this visit."
"I have come to ask His Excellency," said Margaret, tipping up her chin and clenching her fists in her skirts, "to consider forgiving Lord John Dunwoodie for marrying his sister without his permission, and not to fight him. I do not want Lord John to be hurt. If His Excellency objected to the match because of Lord John's lack of means, then I would like him to know that Lord John has just come into a comfortable enough fortune. Lord John would not tell you this, himself, because he is proud, but I assure Your Excellency, it is true. Twenty thousand pounds—I have no idea what that is in lira, but anyway, it is quite enough to live on respectably in Scotland, at any rate. Please, Your Excellency. Lord John and your sister are already married—nothing can undo that—they have a child! Your sister must love him, or she would not have taken such a step. Think how happy she would be if you withdrew your opposition and gave the match your blessing."