by Nichole Van
She did indeed. In his heart of hearts, Uncle Joshua was a showman. He lived for the oohs and aahs that accompanied a well-planned reveal.
Sir Joshua motioned toward Ewan. “But Ewan should show you what he has been working on. It is quite brilliant.”
Ewan managed a smile, but it appeared strained at the edges. “Ye flatter me, Sir Joshua, but I rather like the idea of being more like yourself. Keep the mystery until the painting is nearly finished.”
“Nonsense! The painting I saw yesterday was nearly complete.”
Ewan squirmed. “Perhaps I feel a wee bit bashful about it, sir.”
Violet was torn between empathy for his shyness and a small sense of frustration that Ewan Campbell would wish to downplay his talent in front of his friends.
His work was brilliant and his friends would surely wish to celebrate that fact with him.
“Was it the painting of his mysterious woman, Uncle?” Violet asked.
“The very one.”
Ewan’s head snapped to attention, eyes flaring in alarm.
“Which mysterious woman is this?” Sir Rafe asked, obviously curious.
“Mr. Campbell is not saying,” Violet said, “though she is extremely pretty.”
“Aye?” Sir Rafe’s smile was all mischief.
“Aye,” Violet replied, joining him in mischievousness. “Dark curly hair, pale silvery eyes, and a smirking mouth. She appears to almost jump off the canvas at you, so forceful is the sense of her personality.”
She had described the painting in an attempt to divert everyone from Master MacTavish’s persistent questions. Given the teasing banter back and forth between Ewan’s friends, she expected that they would move to ribbing him good-naturedly about the woman and the story of her would come out.
But Violet’s words had a decidedly sobering effect upon the gentleman. The more she described the woman, the quieter and more somber they became until the room bounced with strained tension.
Oh, no. Violet’s stomach plunged. What had she done?
“What . . .” Master MacTavish licked his lips. He turned to Ewan. “What did she just say? Is she describing—”
Ewan’s expression was stone. A granite slab of reticence.
His silence was apparently all the answer Master MacTavish needed.
“I want tae see this painting.” Master MacTavish rose from his chair.
Ewan leaped to his feet, intercepting him. “Kieran—”
“No!” Master MacTavish’s voice reverberated through the room, a gunshot of sound. “If ye willnae tell me what has happened, ye will no’ deny me this, too.”
He and Ewan exchanged a long, tense look. Master MacTavish glared up at his larger friend, the size difference between the two nearly comical.
Finally, Ewan’s shoulders sank.
“Very well,” he whispered.
Ewan walked over to the easel against the wall. With a sigh, he turned the entire thing around, revealing the portrait that Violet had seen that day in his studio several weeks ago.
He had continued to work on the painting. The woman’s hair now billowed as if buffeted in the wind, and she looked out at the viewer with coy mischief. Violet could almost hear the woman’s magical laughter.
Violet had been so caught up in the painting that it took her a moment to register Master MacTavish’s reaction.
Or, rather, his inaction.
He stood, staring at the painting, transfixed. His body was held at rigid attention, but his eyes danced over the image, not unlike a thirsty man guzzling water from a fountain.
He blinked.
Once.
Twice.
And then Master MacTavish collapsed. A marionette doll with its strings abruptly cut.
Ewan lunged, his preternaturally fast reflexes catching the man before he hit the floor.
Instead of releasing his friend, Ewan gathered him into a hard embrace.
A low keening filled the room.
Master MacTavish was . . . weeping.
A desolate, anguished sound. A soul broken and pained beyond sense.
The rest of them had come to their feet. Violet bounced her gaze between Lord Hadley and Sir Rafe, noting the somberness of their expressions.
What had just happened?
What had Violet unleashed?
Master MacTavish screamed. Primal. Feral in its anguish.
Violet pressed a hand to her sternum.
Oh, heavens!
Her careless words had somehow lanced the festering wound of Master MacTavish’s grief.
Master MacTavish pushed to his feet, his hands threading into his hair, pulling on the strands.
Ewan rose with him, hands out-stretched, as if in supplication.
But Master MacTavish was paying him no heed. He paced the room in agitated steps, eyes darting again and again to the painting, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Kieran . . .” Ewan continued to hold his hand out.
Master MacTavish shook his head not stopping pacing. “No!”
“Kieran, this is destroying ye,” Ewan’s voice turned pleading, pained. “We all miss her—”
“NO!” Master MacTavish whirled to face Ewan. “Dinnae talk like our pain is the same!”
He began pacing again, hand in his hair. Ewan stepped in front of him, placing two hands on his friend’s shoulders—
“She’s dead, Kieran. Ye have tae let her go—”
Master MacTavish pushed his hands away and when Ewan didn’t give way, he placed both hands on Ewan’s chest and shoved.
Ewan, of course, did not move. He merely looked at his friend, unshed tears in his eyes.
“Jamie is dead, Kieran—” Ewan’s voice cracked. “She’s dead. She’s no’ coming back—”
Violet gasped.
Jamie was the woman in the portraits?
Jamie was a . . . she?
She locked eyes with Uncle Joshua across the room. He shook his head in astonishment.
“How do ye know that for sure?!” Master MacTavish beat a fist against Ewan’s chest. “We thought Cuthie was gone, too, but here he is! She could be alive.”
“Kieran,” Lord Hadley said, tone somber. “Ye know that is unlikely—”
“But it is possible! What God would allow a bastard like Cuthie tae live but send my Jamie tae her grave?”
“She would have contacted us by now. Ye know that,” Sir Rafe joined in. “We’ve said this again and again—”
“But what if—” Master MacTavish’s voice broke once more. He continued on, his tone hoarse. “But what if she lived? Anything could have happened to her. She would have been this wee, fiery woman tossed onto the mercy of the world! There are caliphates in the Dutch East Indies, only a week’s journey from Vanuatu . . . do ye not see? She could have ended up captured and sold into slavery there. She could have been forced into a caliph’s harem, or be chained in a prison somewhere. And the thought that she might be alive and hurting somewhere, pleading for me tae find her—”
“Kieran,” Sir Rafe said, “we understand this. We do. But you’re grasping at straws. This is destroying ye, and ye know it.”
“No!” Master MacTavish swiped a sleeve over his eyes, as if the motion could banish his tears. “Ye say that from the safety of your marriage, Rafe! Ye have your Sophie. Andrew has his Jane. Your loves live and breathe! Ye will both go home tae them in a day or two and hold them in your arms and thank the heavens that your lot is not mine.”
He paused, gasping, chest heaving, eyes bloodshot and pleading. “But Jamie . . . my Jamie . . . is gone. And I cannae piece my heart back together without her.”
Lord Hadley bit his lip and swiped a thumb underneath one eye.
Sir Rafe folded his arms, looking up at the ceiling.
Uncle Joshua sat stone still.
Master MacTavish turned to Ewan. “Ye know how it all happened, Ewan. She was alone on that ship. Cuthie knew she was a woman. He knew at the end. He kept her aboard for that very reason, trappe
d her and sailed away like the rat he is. When I think what might have happened tae her—”
Master MacTavish broke off, his harsh breaths filling the room.
Ewan stood with his hands on his hips, head shaking back and forth.
Violet longed to wrap her arms around him.
Silence hung.
“They deserve tae know,” Ewan finally said, voice like gravel.
Master MacTavish pressed his fingertips to his eyes, his chest heaving, gusting breaths wracking him.
“Kieran . . .” Tears filled Ewan’s eyes. “Please. Tell them. Let us all share the depth your grief.”
Lord Hadley and Sir Rafe looked back and forth between their friends.
Violet wiped her cheeks, not surprised to find them wet. Uncle Joshua passed her a handkerchief.
“What is it, Kieran?” Lord Hadley asked, tone soft. “We would grieve with you.”
“Aye,” Sir Rafe agreed.
Master MacTavish gasped, grabbing for air, as if the pain of the words choked him.
He swallowed convulsively.
“Jamie . . . when we were in Sydney . . . we were handfasted,” Master MacTavish hiccupped. “Ewan . . . Ewan stood as witness.”
Oh! Violet pressed a hand to her throat. They were married?!
Jamie had been his wife?
Handfasting was a traditional form of irregular marriage still common in the deep Highlands. When witnessed, it was considered as legal as a church marriage.
Master MacTavish dropped his hands, looking at his friends, that terrible deadness returning to his eyes.
“Jamie was . . . expecting,” he continued. “I lost two loves that day.”
Violet closed her eyes, the agonizing loss a weight on her chest.
This poor man! To lose his wife and child in one dreadful blow—
“Bloody hell,” Lord Hadley swore. “And here we’ve been absolutely callous bastards, celebrating my own Jane—” His voice broke.
“Oh, Kieran.” Sir Rafe wiped his eyes. “Ye should have told us.”
Master MacTavish shook his head. “What did it matter, once she was gone—”
“We could have grieved with ye!” Lord Hadley bellowed. “We could have been more sensitive tae yer pain!”
“If ye want to help me with ma grief, stop keeping things from me!” Master MacTavish roared. “Youse found something in Aberdeen, and ye willnae tell me! Did ye find out something about her? Is that it? How can I even sleep when—”
“There was an explosion, Kieran,” Sir Rafe interrupted. “The ship exploded.”
Master MacTavish froze, eyes bouncing between Ewan and Lord Hadley.
“What?” he whispered.
“The ship exploded.”
“But . . . how could ye know that—”
“Massey survived, too. He and Cuthie were tossed clear of the blast,” Ewan said. “That’s what we discovered in Aberdeen.”
“Did ye bloody Massey?!”
“No, we only spoke with his wife. She didnae know where he’d got hisself off to. But he described the events tae her, how the ship exploded and how they survived.”
Master MacTavish stared at each of his friends in turn, eyes sightless and full of such anguish.
“I’m so sorry, Kieran,” Ewan whispered. “But if the ship did indeed explode . . . Jamie . . . and your child . . . they have tae be gone.”
20
So . . . Jamie is a woman,” Violet said.
“Aye,” Ewan replied, swallowing back the emotion of the past hour.
“I feel terrible that my attempts to diffuse the situation resulted in so much pain for Master MacTavish.”
“Och, the conversation was long overdue. The others needed to know the true extent of Kieran and Jamie’s relationship.”
He and Violet were walking the moonlit path to Kilmeny Hall. Ewan had left Andrew and Rafe to console Kieran and coax him to sleep.
Violet had said a maid could walk with her back to the house, but Ewan insisted on accompanying her. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her to manage the way alone.
The truth of Kieran’s words had struck him hard—
Your loves live and breathe! Ye will go home to them in a day or two and hold them in your arms and thank the heavens that your lot is not mine.
Not that Ewan had a lady love, per se—
He liked Violet.
He admired her and thought of her constantly.
He adored her throaty laugh. The quick turn of her mind. Her care and desire to help others. Her general optimism and cheery spirits.
But did all these things amount to love?
As Andrew loved his Jane? Or Rafe loved his Sophie?
Or as Kieran loved his Jamie?
Ewan pondered the thought.
His heart hammered in agony at the thought of never seeing Violet again. Or at the idea of her being hurt and him far away and unable to help. The sheer devastation of such a pain . . .
So . . . perhaps Ewan was closer to true love than he had supposed.
Ewan could not fault Kieran for his grief and despair.
“Jamie was . . . a force of nature,” Ewan said, darting a glance at Violet, walking at his side. Her skirts rustled the grasses which grew along the path’s edge.
Night had finally fallen. Fortunately, a full moon hung in the sky, light glinting off the ocean. The bright moonlight turned the path through the gorse into a milky stream, easily traversed without a lamp.
“I imagine she would have had to be,” Violet agreed. “How did she come to be aboard the ship? I thought Jamie was the carpenter’s mate.”
“She was. Jamie’s father, Charles Fyffe, was Kieran’s mentor. On his deathbed, Mr. Fyffe wrote a letter requesting Kieran to hire his son, James. Kieran felt an obligation to his mentor and wrote back, agreeing to hire the lad, sight unseen. But it was Mr. Fyffe’s daughter who came aboard in place of her brother, James. Her true name was Eilidh.” Ewan leaned into the syllables—AY-lee. “But she was only ever Jamie to us all.”
Ewan stepped over a larger stone on the path. He half-turned, ensuring that Violet saw the hazard.
“I have read of such things,” she said, jumping lightly over the stone. “Stories of women donning trousers and joining the Royal Navy. Wasn’t there a book some years ago? The Female Shipwright or some such?”
“Yes, there are many tales of women taking to the sea, though Kieran claims it is rare. He was the first to discover Jamie’s true gender. As the journey progressed and we all became better friends, Kieran and Jamie took us into their confidence, enlisting our aid in protecting Jamie’s secret from the rest of the crew. We formed a brotherhood. A misnomer, of course, as Jamie was not a man, but it felt fraternal, nonetheless. Only Kieran ever saw Jamie as anything other than a sibling. Their love was a slow growing thing, but by the end, it felt almost unbreakable.”
“And you witnessed their marriage? But . . . why did Kieran not invite the others to join in witnessing it? And once Jamie died, why not tell the rest of the Brotherhood?”
Violet stopped on the path, causing Ewan to pause. The moon rose behind her, casting her face into purple shadows. Violet shadows, he supposed.
“Jamie wished to keep the marriage a secret. Kieran respected her wish. It is as simple as that,” Ewan replied. This was an old argument between Kieran and himself. “Once Jamie died, Kieran continued to honor her request. I think he saw it as an act of devotion, to carry on as she had intended. I’ve been trying to convince him for over four years to tell the others.”
“That poor man. To carry such pain alone.” Violet wrapped her arms around her waist.
“Aye. Kieran was finally starting to truly heal from the grief of Jamie’s loss last summer. We all hoped that he would finally be able to move on. Then Rafe discovered Cuthie alive in Aberdeen.” He paused, shaking his head. “The results are as you saw tonight. Knowing that others survived the wreck rekindled hope, ripping open the wound of his grief. I fear Kieran will te
ar the world apart trying to find answers, eventually killing himself in the process.”
“I am sorry you lost a dear friend in Jamie,” Violet whispered. “It is as you said about Dahlia, such a death . . . it stings. A thousand tiny cuts reminding us of what we have lost.”
“Aye,” his voice rough with emotion.
She lifted her hand at that, stretching out as if to touch him. The motion almost involuntary. As if his pain were something she simply had to soothe.
Just that wee act lent him such . . . strength.
He extended his arm, encouraging her to thread her outstretched hand through his elbow. She readily did so, the press of her fingers a burning weight through his sleeve.
Seizing a deep breath, he turned and motioned for them to continue.
“I admire how you harnessed that pain into visual form,” she said, squeezing the hand wrapped around his elbow, sending shocks up his arm. “Your painting captures a woman of spirit and life. Both paintings, in fact, are a beautiful echo of the person Jamie was.”
“Thank ye,” Ewan’s reply was reflexive but then he frowned. “Both paintings?”
“Well, yes, the one I caught you painting that day atop the cliffs. The one with the blackhouse. That painting had Jamie in it, too, did it not?”
Ewan’s breathing abruptly tightened, a vise gripping his chest.
Agree with her.
Just say it, ‘Why, yes, of course that was Jamie, too.’
But . . .
Did he wish to lie?
Or rather . . . did he have the courage to tell Violet the truth?
He could sense that sinking, cold feeling creeping in, its salmon-tinged edges grasping at him.
They walked on for a moment, the ocean waves a distant murmur against the stark silence of the evening.
He had never realized how quiet a Scottish night could be until he had ventured to other parts of the world. As it turned out, in most places, nighttime teemed with sounds: crickets, frogs, birds, alligators in the tropics, and an almost endless rustling of nocturnal animals.
But even in the height of summer, Scotland was silent. A deathly hush that was nearly a hum unto itself it was so still.
Now the silence rang with a damning condemnation.