by Nichole Van
They both looked back at the old man as he tossed another two bricks of peat onto the fire, sending sparks cascading up the chimney.
A gust of wind battered the windows opposite the fire, sleet hammering the glass.
The man stood, wiping his hands on the tartan wrapped around his chest. Reaching for a taper, he lit it in the fire, carrying it over to a candelabra atop the large table. The old man attempted to light candles, but his trembling hand made the task nearly impossible. Rafe took several steps forward and gently took the taper from him, lighting the candles himself before blowing out the taper and setting it on the table.
The fire crackled merrily, and the candelabra sent much-needed light into the dim space. The flickering light illuminated the furniture, glimmering across the claymores and shields and family portraits on the walls.
Abruptly, Sophie gasped beside him.
“Oh! Good gracious me!” she whispered.
Rafe whirled around.
Her jaw was slack in shock, her eyes wide and fixed on a point to the left above Rafe’s head. Turning, he followed her gaze, looking up.
His eyes snagged on the enormous portrait above the fireplace, finally illuminated by the cheery candlelight.
“Bloody hell,” Rafe gasped.
The portrait featured a woman in the satin and silks of the previous century—small corseted waist, voluminous skirts, hair pulled across one shoulder in a cascade of dark curls. Rafe was quite sure there was a similar portrait of his mother and her sisters somewhere, painted by Gainsborough or Reynolds or the like.
But this particular painting spoke of more exotic climes, of a skilled artist from Paris or Rome. The lady stared at the viewer with a bemused expression, eyebrow slightly raised, as if challenging the artist to fully capture her personality in mere paint.
More to the point . . .
“Th-that’s not m-me,” Sophie stammered, still staring at the painting. “I know it looks like me, but I haven’t sat for a portrait in nearly a decade—”
“She is your very image,” Rafe breathed.
It was true. The woman in the painting could be Sophie’s twin. The same wide green eyes, high cheek bones, and pointed chin. The same courageous spirit in her eyes.
“Well, I am utterly unnerved now,” Sophie shook her head.
“Aye. Quite the coincidence.” He gestured toward the painting.
“Coincidence?” Sophie snorted. “Or, more likely, we will find more answers than we had anticipated here. I wonder who she is.”
They both stared at the unknown woman for a moment, Rafe scrambling to make connections from all the pieces of this puzzle.
“Ye are sure Lady Mainfeld is your mother? Because this woman . . .”
He didn’t need to say anything further. He was quite sure Sophie understood the implication of his words.
The woman in the portrait could easily be her mother or sister.
“Yes, Lady Mainfeld is truly my mother.” Sophie nodded her head, eyes never leaving the portrait. “I am as sure as anyone could be about that fact. I do resemble her in many ways. Despite my odd parentage, I have never doubted that she is my Mater veras.”
“Yes, but—”
“Why are ye still standing there blethering with that rakeshame?” the old man growled from across the room.
Rafe and Sophie turned toward him.
The man was glaring at Sophie. “I told ye tae stay away from the likes of him.” He jabbed a finger at Rafe. “Only bring ye heartache, a man like that.”
“Pardon?” Sophie breathed.
“Ye must be more mindful of yerself, Catharine. I willnae see ye hurt again,” the man said, beckoning her forward. “Come.”
25
Sophie froze, staring at the old man.
“Catharine?” she repeated. She shot a glance at Rafe before cautiously crossing the worn carpet to where the man stood beside the now-roaring fire. “Who is Catharine?”
“Eh?” the man cocked his head. “Catharine?”
“Yes, you called me Catharine just a moment ago. Is the lady in the portrait Catharine?” Sophie motioned toward the portrait looming overhead. It abruptly seemed imperative that she know the identity of the woman in the painting.
Having spent her entire life as an outcast—her origins unknown—to discover an image of a woman who could be her twin . . .
Well, it felt impossibly momentous.
If only someone here could help her understand.
The elderly man studied her and then took a step out to better examine the portrait. He paused, looking back and forth between Sophie and the painting. He frowned, confusion clouding his eyes.
“Is that Catharine?” Sophie repeated.
The old man stilled before licking his lips, turning back to the fire.
“I cannae rightly say.” His voice had a wondering, wispy quality to it. “I cannae remember.”
Oh.
“I don’t ken that he’s lucid enough tae answer,” Rafe said at her elbow, startling her.
Sophie swallowed the disappointment in her throat. “You are likely right.” She shivered, pulling her earasaid tighter around her shoulders, grateful for the warm wool. She regarded the elderly man, now fussing with fire poker. “His memory appears gone, poor dear. Hopefully the boy returns from the stables soon—”
“Och, brother, what scrape have ye gotten yerself into this time?” A woman’s voice sounded from behind them, nearly startling Sophie out of her skin. “Ian said ye had guests, a fine gentleman and his lady.”
Sophie turned to see an older woman rounding the large central table, crossing the room. Dressed in a blue morning dress and a white mobcap, she pulled a Paisley shawl tighter around her shoulders, warding off the chill. Something about the woman tugged at Sophie’s memory, as if she knew her somehow. Had they met previously?
Sophie stepped toward the table, the light from the candelabra washing her face.
The woman raised her head at that moment, locking eyes with Sophie and coming to an abrupt halt, skirt swinging forward with her momentum. The woman blanched white, her knuckles clutching at her shawl.
The woman’s gaze darted to Rafe at Sophie’s side, expression sagging further, if possible. She gasped, a hand covering her mouth, before swaying, almost as if she would faint.
Rafe darted forward, possibly thinking to catch her should the woman actually crumple.
But the woman caught herself with one hand on the back of a dining chair, the other palm outstretched facing toward Rafe—stay where you are.
Still wild-eyed, the woman pulled the chair out and sat down, hands shaking, chest heaving. The poor lady seemed equal parts horrified and stunned, her gaze swinging back and forth between Sophie and Rafe, up to the painting behind them on the wall, before coming back to Sophie.
Was it simply the resemblance between Sophie and the lady in the painting that caused this reaction? Or was more going on here?
And why did the woman appear familiar?
“Uhmm, we mean no harm.” Sophie took a slow step forward. “The kind gentleman here let us in and showed us upstairs.”
“Yes.” Rafe smiled his charming smile. The one that deepened his dimples and took his handsomeness from simply dashing to utterly devastating.
But instead of softening, the woman’s expression became more withdrawn and severe, her lips drawing into a straight line. Deep creases lined her face, wrinkles that spoke to a life of stress and strain.
Rafe, bless him, would not be deterred.
“We wish to speak with Dr. John Ross,” he said. “We have journeyed from London with questions for the good doctor and were told he resides here.”
The woman took in his words, her face closing off. She gave the impression of one not given much to emotion, that the shock she had experienced was a great one to cause her composure to slip so thoroughly. This aloof expression seemed to be her more accustomed mien.
But her hands betrayed her. They still shook, clutching
her shawl like a talisman.
The elderly man hummed behind them. A quick glance showed that he had sat in a chair before the fire. Who were these people? They appeared to be near one another in age. Was it too much to hope they might be a husband and wife who cared for the good doctor in his illness?
“Who might ye both be?” the woman asked.
Sophie swung her head back around, meeting Rafe’s raised eyebrow. She nodded at Rafe to make introductions.
“I am Lord Rafe Gilbert, at your service madam.” He bowed, the courtly gesture at utter odds with his dress and the room in general. “And my companion here is Lady Sophronia Sorrow Fulstate.”
He winced slightly as he said her full name, shooting Sophie an apologetic glance. Her full name truly was ridiculous.
“I imagine ye are,” the woman replied, her tone unclear as to whether she was referring to Sophie’s identity or the comical absurdity of her name. Perhaps both?
“Mainfeld’s lass?” the old woman asked, shrewd eyes on Sophie.
The question set Sophie’s heart to pounding. The woman recognized her last name. Not everyone would, particularly in this remote corner of Scotland.
“Yes.” Sophie bobbed a small curtsy, as it seemed appropriate.
The woman turned to Rafe, eyes withdrawn and cool. “And ye are Kendall’s son?”
“Yes.”
“The heir?”
“No, that would be my elder brother.”
She sniffed in reply.
So this woman knew of their respective fathers. Enough to tie a last name to a title. The woman must be a lady in truth.
The mystery surrounding this castle and its inhabitants only deepened.
Why had Kendall not wanted them to come here?
Silence hung for a moment, the old man still humming from behind. The woman studied them, eyebrows drawn down.
Sophie understood the feeling.
“I find your presence here most odd,” the woman said, a hard wariness crossing her face. Sophie guessed this was a woman who trusted very few people. Now that she had absorbed the shock of their arrival, the lady retreated behind an impassive facade. “Ye say ye wish tae consult with Dr. Ross, but that seems almost . . . absurd. What questions would be so urgent as tae compel ye to travel so far and in weather such as this?” She waved a hand to indicate the sleet spattering the window. “Forgive me for not trusting ye, but your explanations are, in a word, improbable.”
Sophie barely repressed a grimace. The woman was wise to be suspicious. Their pilgrimage did appear foolhardy.
It was just . . .
Desperation drove one to extremes.
She shot a look at Rafe. He returned a tight smile before speaking.
“You appear to have the advantage of us, madam,” he said, laying his words with exquisite politeness. “You know of our respective families. May we have the pleasure of your name?”
Ever the gentleman, Lord Rafe. Sophie did not think a situation existed that the man could not navigate with charisma and a carefully laid smile.
The woman shook her head, eyes lost for a moment.
“Ye truly came tae see our John?” she asked instead.
Sophie swallowed back a triumphant crow of delight. At last confirmation that perhaps they were in the correct place.
“Yes,” Rafe said.
“We have questions, you see,” Sophie added. “I know it appears absurd at the outset, but our questions truly have warranted a journey such as ours.”
The woman drummed her fingers on the table top, looking back and forth between them, as if trying to determine the truthfulness of their words.
Finally, she sighed, shoulders slumping. She tugged on her shawl.
“I fear ye have journeyed in vain,” she said, voice soft. “John cannae help ye.”
Sophie’s heart sank. “Is the good doctor no longer with us, then?”
“After a fashion.” The woman rose and motioned toward the fireplace behind them.
Sophie and Rafe turned.
The old man lifted his head, gaze unfocused.
“May I present my brother, Dr. John Ross,” the woman continued.
Sophie gasped, her hand pressing to her throat, her eyes fixed on the dottering old man attempting to pull a blanket over his knees.
Oh!
Oh, gracious no.
This?
This helpless, elderly man, struggling with dementia, unable to hold a thought from one moment to the next?
Dr. John Ross was alive.
And yet . . . not.
“I would introduce ye, but he will not recollect ye in two minutes’ time,” the woman said.
So many pieces of the puzzle slotted into place. Kendall’s actions came into sharper focus. Once Dr. Ross’s dementia had become pronounced, having him as a tenant in Edinburgh would have been a burden. So Kendall had sent the doctor to live with his sister. Much better to cast him aside.
Sophie closed her eyes, disappointment stinging.
Perhaps Grant had spoken truth, after all. Perhaps the brute’s actions had simply been as he said—a wish to keep them safe.
There likely was nothing here that would help Rafe.
They all watched Dr. Ross . . . John . . . as he tried one more time to pull the blanket upon his lap, his hands shaking and clumsy.
Rafe stepped forward and assisted him, lifting the wool and gently tucking the blanket securely to John’s side.
No trace of monumental disappointment showed on Rafe’s face. How did he do it? How could he hide his dismay?
Sophie bit her quivering lip, breathing in measured time . . . anything to stem the tears that threatened.
How could Rafe’s hopes have come to this? What was he to do now to help his mother?
And as for herself . . .
Sophie turned back to the sister.
“I am Miss Catharine Ross.” The woman pulled her shawl, her knuckles white where they grasped the fabric.
“Catharine?” Rafe asked, head snapping upright.
Sophie stared at the woman. As in, truly stared, taking in every feature. The pepper gray hair peeking out from underneath her mobcap, the point of her chin, the mossy green of her wide-set eyes.
Ah.
No wonder she had seemed familiar.
At least Sophie herself would likely find answers here. She swallowed before darting a glance at the portrait over the fireplace.
“That Catharine?” she asked.
Miss Ross nodded, a slow, almost mournful movement. “The very same.”
Rafe had just finished pinning his great kilt when a knock sounded at the door.
Sophie stood on the other side.
“I can scarcely think at the moment,” she said, walking straight into his room.
Miss Ross had said little after her announcement earlier, only a promise to discuss more over dinner.
A harried maid had shown them up a narrow spiral staircase—another ubiquitous feature of Scottish castles apparently—to a pair of guest rooms on the third floor. Small and rather spartan with only a double bed and washstand, the rooms were at least clean and relatively cosy once the fires were lit. Ian, the lad who had stabled their horses earlier, delivered saddlebags to their rooms.
Sophie crossed to the fireplace, warming her hands.
The earlier snow had melted back into rain, an incessant drizzle against the window panes.
“What are we to do, Rafe?” She turned to him, gaze imploring.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he responded truthfully.
She had changed out of her riding habit and into a simple dress of green wool, the color capturing her lovely eyes. She had wrapped Jamie’s tartan around her upper body, forming a sash.
Even dressed so simply, she was almost breathtakingly beautiful.
“I feel ill.” Sophie bit her lip, gaze going glassy before she reined back her emotions. “We had hoped to find answers for your mother.”
“Aye,” Rafe bit out.
He turned to look in the mirror, adjusting the pleats of his great kilt, smoothing the fabric.
His heart was a leaden weight in his chest.
Grant had likely spoken truth. There was nothing here for him.
Dr. Ross was alive. But no longer . . . Dr. Ross.
Rage and helplessness flooded Rafe in equal measure. All that learning and wisdom just . . . gone. Erased by old age and dementia.
Why had the man not published his knowledge in papers? Shared what he knew with others?
He caught Sophie’s eye in the mirror. She, at least, should find answers here. Surely the resemblance between herself and Catharine was more than just chance. Sophie had to have some biological connection to the Ross family.
As for himself . . .
He had not realized how much hope he had until it was dashed—a delicate Venetian goblet that Fate had crushed into a thousand jagged shards.
At the outset, his quest had seemed so clear cut, so simple:
Find the doctor. Explain the situation. Discuss treatment options.
But now, faced with the reality of having traveled nearly the entire length of Great Britain to no avail, he had reached the end. There were no more solutions to chase.
He wanted to fight his father, but a fight required ammunition, a weapon of some sort.
At the moment, Rafe had only his anger. Nothing more.
He turned around, taking in the steadiness of Sophie’s green eyes, the determined jut of her chin.
Longing swamped him, a sharp ache behind his ribs.
Why could this lovely creature not be his?
His father would never agree to a marriage between Sophie and himself, even if Sophie were amenable to the idea. Sophie knew nothing of the history there, Rafe’s love of her, his father’s vehement hatred of her specifically.
Moreover, how would Mainfeld feel about a union between them?
Even if Rafe’s mother were hale and hearty, it would still be fraught.
But without something to improve his mother’s health, a future between himself and Sophie was impossible. He could not leave his mother to bear the brunt of his father’s cruelty.