by Nichole Van
He would say nothing to Alex.
Even so, Ewan suffered in his silence. He hated being so far from Kieran and unable to do anything to help.
A quick glance through the remaining letters confirmed that Kieran had not written.
Ewan would write both Alex and Kieran immediately.
In other developments, Andrew had met with the magistrate in Aberdeen.
He wrote:
The magistrate was excessively polite and conciliatory. His questions were direct and straight-forward. Clearly, the government does not wish to blow this entire affair out of proportion. They are merely acting rationally upon information they have received. I answered all his questions to the best of my knowledge, making it clear that we had assumed everyone aboard ship was lost based on our experiences. I also noted that Rafe had seen Captain Cuthie last autumn in Aberdeen.
During our discussion, the magistrate let slip a vital piece of information. He mentioned that he had been able to independently confirm that at least one other member of The Minerva (aside from ourselves and Cuthie) had survived. When I pressed him to know who, the magistrate insisted the information is confidential, as he is still gathering testimony.
Obviously, this bit of news troubles me greatly. I immediately notified my Runner in Aberdeen. He thinks he might be able to unearth an address for this survivor from the magistrate’s office. If he does so, Rafe and myself are planning to call upon this other survivor and knock loose what information we can. Specifically, I want to know who is posting these notices in the newspapers and why. It might be a foolish hope to think we could learn more about Jamie’s death, as well, but it’s hard to dismiss the idea either.
We were hoping we could persuade you to join us, if and when we have an address for this other survivor, as you are always a help in such situations. I pray Sir Joshua will be willing to spare you. Also, I’ve been in contact with Alex regarding Kieran, and we’ve decided not to tell him about this development, for obvious reasons . . .
Ewan nodded. Of course, he would accompany his friends. He would speak with Sir Joshua about it over dinner.
And, yes, they were wise to keep the information from Kieran. Their friend did not need more hope and worry poured onto the smoldering fire of his grief.
Ewan set Andrew’s letter aside and picked up the final letter.
It was . . . unexpected.
I must apologize for my tardy reply. I found your inquiry buried in my predecessor’s correspondence. Unfortunately, I do not have favorable news to impart. I do not, currently, have a parishioner by the name of Mhairi McDoughal. There was a family by the name of McDoughal in the area years ago, I am told. I do not know if this is the same family to which you refer. That said, I will pass along this request to others in the diocese, as I am a relative newcomer here . . .
Ewan took in a deep, slow breath.
And then he reread the words, more slowly this time.
It confirmed nothing. Mhairi was simply no longer living in that parish. She had likely moved away.
She could still be alive.
Of course, even if she lived . . . what did it signify? She had made her position agonizingly clear all those years ago—
He was not wanted.
Ye need to stay gone, Ewan. I dinnae ken tae see ye again.
What did he hope to gain by trying to contact her? Anger her further? Add more disruption and tension to her already difficult life?
He snapped the letter, clenching his jaw, swallowing back the emotion thick in his throat.
Because he knew the answer:
Nothing.
Even if she yet lived, it would gain him nothing.
“We have both been invited to dine with Lord Graham and his mother, Lady Graham, tomorrow evening,” Sir Joshua announced over dinner.
They were dining alone in the great hall, as usual. Sir Joshua had not employed a cook. Dinner often was whatever Ewan and Sir Joshua could warm over a fire (usually cheddar and toast). Occasionally, the cook in Kilmeny Hall sent down some braised lamb or roasted beef. Thankfully, tonight was one of those evenings.
Ewan chewed his roast beef. Sir Joshua fixed him with his blue gaze . . . the same aqua-blue as Lady Kildrum’s eyes, Ewan noted. Which also happened, at the moment, to match the vivid blue silk of Sir Joshua’s waistcoat.
“Lord Graham?” Ewan asked.
“Yes, he is the nearest neighbor to Kilmeny Hall—an English lord who purchased the adjoining estate a few years ago.” Sir Joshua cut into his slice of beef with a decisive motion. “Lord Graham thinks to make himself cozy with our Violet.”
Our Violet.
Heaven help him. Ewan liked the sound of that.
“Violet hasn’t shown excessive interest, but it was her mother’s wish that she and Lord Graham marry,” Sir Joshua continued with a shrug. “My niece will turn twenty and six in October. My brother feels it is high-time she chose a husband. The trick, of course, is finding the proper gentleman.”
Ewan nodded, the roast beef sticking in his abruptly dry throat.
Of course.
This was the state of her life.
He was an eejit to be astonished that Lady Kildrum had suitors. She must be one of the most sought-after ladies in all of Britain. It therefore followed that men courted her.
Ewan felt, yet again, the embarrassment of his unwelcome attachment to Lady Kildrum.
Yes, she had taken pity on him nearly eight years before and shown him remarkable kindness when he needed it most.
Yes, he admired her intensely and sensed that they viewed the world through a similar lens.
Yes, she was clever and kind and stunningly beautiful, and a man would have to be dead to not wish to hold her in his arms.
But it was all entirely one-sided.
She would marry elsewhere. Someone of her class, as well she should.
He would not allow his wayward emotions to paint him a fool. Or worse, impede him from achieving his goals.
Ewan mentally took her glittering strands of red and gold and forcibly cast them from his mind.
Sir Joshua continued on, “Between you and me, Violet needs to look farther afield than Lord Graham. The man is a bit arse-headed. Violet could do better.”
“Ah.” Ewan dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “And why should an English lord, even an arse-headed one, invite a man such as myself to dine with him?”
“Never doubt yourself, my boy.” Sir Joshua pointed his fork at Ewan. “You are here as my assistant and a skilled painter in your own right. ’Tis only natural that you should be invited.”
Ewan raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Sir Joshua met his gaze and then shrugged.
“It could also reflect the fact that another family who was to attend had to cancel due to poor health. I imagine Lady Graham is keen to even numbers at her dinner table and satisfy her ladyship’s curiosity regarding yourself,” he acknowledged. “Still . . . do not doubt yourself or your right to dine with the greatest of the greats. That’s the secret to long-lasting success. Act like you belong, and soon, you shall.”
Ewan nodded his head, chewing on a bite of meat.
Act like you belong and soon, you shall.
It was actually sound advice.
Ewan had attended formal dinner parties before. Andrew would never allow Ewan to sit out of such events, no matter how Ewan pleaded. Instead, his friend had (rightly) pointed out that Ewan needed to feel at ease mingling with those of all walks of life. And Andrew’s wife, Lady Hadley, had been kind enough to tutor Ewan further on social niceties last summer.
Sir Joshua echoed the thought. “It will be a good opportunity for you to mingle in Polite Society, such as it is around here. Moreover, you are to start Lady Kildrum’s portrait the day after next, so this will also be a chance to witness my niece in her typical milieu and develop ideas for your session. I trust you have been making some preliminary sketches?”
Ewan froze, a forkful of beef roast halfway to his m
outh.
Preliminary sketches? Of Lady Kildrum?
Hardly. How was Ewan to dwell upon her portrait when he had been forcibly forbidding himself to even think the lady’s name?
But what else could he say?
Painting Lady Kildrum’s portrait was an important commission for him. He could not afford to make a muck of it.
And so, he swallowed his bite of beef, smiled at Sir Joshua, and said, “Of course. I cannae wait to begin. Dinner will be an excellent opportunity, as ye say.”
Now, he simply had to make it true.
9
I say, Sir Joshua, how long will Mr. Campbell be assisting you?” Lord Graham asked from the top of the table, fixing a polite smile on Sir Joshua.
Ewan suspected the question was meant to be small talk between the two men, but Lord Graham had spoken loud enough for the entire room to hear, his voice carrying to Ewan himself at nearly the opposite end of the table. Lord Graham’s behavior had to be deliberate.
They were few in numbers this evening, as Sir Joshua had said.
Lord Graham and his mother.
Ewan and Sir Joshua.
Lady Kildrum, her father, and her sisters.
The local vicar and his wife.
As such, table manners were more informal. Or, at least, that is what Sir Joshua had stated in the carriage earlier. People talked across and even down the table to one another.
Ewan sat beside the vicar’s wife, who kept nodding her head as Lady Graham deplored the paucity of decent lace. According to Lady Graham, Venetian lace was of such Poor Quality this year that her ladyship simply Could Not Countenance it. Lady Rose sat on Ewan’s right, speaking about a novel with Lady Aster across the table.
Was it any wonder, then, that Ewan’s attention had drifted toward Lord Graham seated at the opposite end of the table with Lady Kildrum at his right and Sir Joshua at his left?
Ewan took a small bite of loch trout, trying to decide how he felt about Lord Graham. The man was different than Ewan supposed—younger, handsomer, taller. But it was more than just his lordship’s appearance.
On the one hand, Lord Graham had been welcoming to Ewan, shaking his hand and saying all the customary polite phrases.
On the other, his lordship kept asking these loud, prodding questions that felt weighted. As if he were determined to underscore, time and again, that Ewan’s presence here was temporary, that Ewan was not one of them and never would be.
“I cannot rightly say how long Mr. Campbell will be with us, my lord,” Sir Joshua replied cheerily. “I do not wish him gone anytime soon. Mr. Campbell is an extraordinary talent.”
Lady Kildrum smiled across from Sir Joshua. “You speak truth, Uncle. I believe we have all been impressed with Mr. Campbell’s skill as an artist.”
Something in Ewan’s chest loosened at the praise.
But her words morphed Lord Graham’s smile from polite to a strained slash. His lordship did not appreciate losing any part of Lady Kildrum’s attention. Ewan had already noted the rather covetous way his lordship looked at Lady Kildrum.
Granted, Lady Kildrum was astonishingly lovely this evening. The yellow satin of her dress glittered in the candlelight, casting gold reflections onto the pearls around her neck. Though as was their wont, the curls framing her face had begun to slip their shape. Did Lord Graham find that fact as charming as Ewan did?
“I predict Mr. Campbell will be the talk of London after the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition is through.” Sir Joshua pointed his fork at his niece. “Mark my words.”
“Will Mr. Campbell be submitting then?” Lord Graham asked.
“Absolutely!” Sir Joshua beamed. “It would be a travesty for him to keep such talent hidden under a bushel, as it were.”
Lord Graham shifted his gaze to Ewan down the table—not surprised to find Ewan listening in on their conversation—maintaining that same tight smile that did not quite reach his eyes.
Clearly, his lordship was not enthusiastic about Ewan’s presence in the neighborhood. Knowing this, why his lordship had decided to include Ewan in the invitation to dinner remained a mystery.
Lady Kildrum followed Lord Graham’s gaze, locking eyes with Ewan, expression unreadable. Granted, they had hardly exchanged a word beyond pleasantries.
But as they had sat down to dinner, Ewan had noticed the lemons and limes artfully displayed in the center of the table. He snagged Lady Kildrum’s gaze and darted his eyes to the citrus, subtly pointing them out to her. She shot him a small, amused grin in return, silent awareness humming between them.
Given how Lord Graham’s gaze had bounced quickly between Lady Kildrum and Ewan, his lordship was not blind to that awareness. Was that the source of his lordship’s animosity?
“A talent, you say? How interesting,” Lord Graham replied to Sir Joshua, his tone light but belied by the tense set of his jaw. “And here I was, unaware that behemoths could specialize in painting.”
Ewan’s expression froze, mimicking the sinking feeling in his stomach.
This was Lord Graham’s third jab at Ewan’s size. As if that solitary note were the only one worth playing where Ewan was concerned. As if his out-sized body were a problem that needed to be solved.
Ewan imagined swirling bands of a dark yellow-green around Lord Graham. It wasn’t the bright green of jealousy, but rather the corrosive color of bile.
Or perhaps the hue was more a reflection of Ewan’s own resentment. That this man would likely win Lady Kildrum’s hand for himself. That Lord Graham would spend the rest of his life basking in the glory of her red-gold light.
“I cannot say that physical size has ever been a factor in determining one’s artistic talent, my lord.” Sir Joshua’s words were mild but sheathed in steel.
“Excellent point, Sir Joshua,” the vicar joined in with a gruff laugh. “The Good Lord reveals our talents irrespective of our physical features.”
“Be that as it may, certain professions are dependent upon size.” Lord Graham reached for his wine glass and looked down the table, fixing Ewan with a steely stare. “Would you not agree, Mr. Campbell?”
It was a rather absurd question, Ewan supposed. But he could hardly say as much.
“In some cases, my lord,” he said instead.
There. A nice, diplomatic reply.
Ewan caught Lady Kildrum’s gaze. A wee dent had appeared between her fine eyes. But she averted her face before he could examine it further.
“Perhaps,” Lord Graham said, his tone indicating that he was not ready to drop the topic, “some would say that a man of Mr. Campbell’s stature should pursue a different career, one more commensurate with his size. Seems a shame for so much brawn to be wasted on daubs of paint. Why Mr. Campbell would be well-suited as a soldier or body-guard. Or with the proper training, a career in pugilism. Have you ever considered doing such a thing, Mr. Campbell?”
The blunt directness of the question was not unlike a sharp jab to the solar plexus. Ewan barely held back a gasp.
Every eye swung his way.
Only one person in this room knew of his past as a prizefighter. Ewan forcibly avoided meeting Lady Kildrum’s gaze.
The burn of a tell-tale blush climbed his cheeks.
What was the good of being six and a half feet tall if he blushed like a school girl at every turn? Particularly in a setting such as this?
Worse, how to answer without telling an outright lie? Or giving further offense to Lord Graham?
Or allowing his eyes to drift to Lady Kildrum and reveal more than he should?
Violet watched the blush climb Mr. Campbell’s face, the painter clearly discomfited by Lord Graham’s pointed questions.
She understood what Lord Graham was doing. She had witnessed the scene countless times over and over from others of her class. The ‘polite’ questions that emphasized the hierarchy of society and cemented everyone’s ‘proper’ place.
All with the intent of relaying a decidedly-pointed message—
&
nbsp; You do not belong here. You are not one of us.
Mr. Campbell, like most, had received the message loud and clear. And now was in the awkward position of having to reply without offending his host.
Worse, Violet knew how much the painter detested prizefighting.
Swallowing, Mr. Campbell replied, “I cannae say my temperament is suited tae prizefighting, my lord. I dinnae ken tae the sport myself.”
“Pardon? What isn’t there to admire about prizefighting?” Lord Graham sat back with an affronted huff. “When removed from the rookeries, ‘tis a noble sport. Even the king himself is a devotee. Many a lesser man has raised his name and prospects through appearances in the ring. Were I to have been born without privilege, I would have sought skills as a prizefighter post-haste.” Lord Graham smiled widely, as if to say, Such a concept is absurd as, of course, I would have been born to privilege. “As is, I spar at Gentleman Jack’s when I am in Town and with my valet when I am not. One never knows when such skills will be necessary. If you find your interest in painting waning, Mr. Campbell, say the word. My valet could provide you with a list of pugilists who could assist you in establishing a true career.”
Mr. Campbell’s face grew more and more remote as Lord Graham spoke. The man was fully aware that Lord Graham was insulting his intelligence, his craft as a painter, as well as attempting to squelch any thoughts that Mr. Campbell had of rising above his station in life.
Violet felt Mr. Campbell’s anger and embarrassment keenly.
It was bullying, pure and simple, and Violet always found it distasteful. Moreover, Lord Graham’s pettiness did not recommend him to her. It was an ugly side of his lordship that she had never seen on full display.
She knew of only one infallible way to stem Lord Graham’s words.
Violet loudly cleared her throat and pressed a hand to her chest. “Heavens, Lord Graham, all this talk of prizefighting has quite overset my nerves. I cannot imagine what my poor sisters must think of such conversation. Prizefighting, indeed!”