Kirstin was wrong to deprive her daughter of a father. She was wrong to deprive Cameron of his daughter. And he was right. She’d finally acknowledged the sickening fact, less forcefully put to her by Marianne too, that she could not force Eilidh to fight her battles against a judgemental society. It was selfish of her and very wrong. Logic and reason, as Cameron had predicted, must prevail.
Next February, when the year was up and Cameron returned—and she didn’t doubt he would—she would marry him in name only, for the sake of their daughter.
But Kirstin didn’t want to marry Cameron for Eilidh’s sake. Yes, she wanted him to be a father, but she wanted—longed, yearned—for Cameron to be her husband. But, given they lived such different lives it seemed as impossible as ever. And yet she was just about to have dinner with three remarkable women who had achieved that feat for themselves.
Her pocket watch pinged the hour. A few seconds later there was a rap on the door. Her dinner guests had arrived.
She got to her feet, shaking out the skirts of her scarlet gown. No black apparel tonight for this momentous occasion, the first time The Procurer had ever come face-to-face with some of the women who had, with her help, rescued themselves. They had achieved it, all three of them, in the most surprising manner. She wanted, desperately wanted, to learn from their experience. To find a way to make the impossible possible, and so grant her heart’s desire.
* * *
This was one dinner which would not be reported in the press, though it was hosted by one of the most powerful women in London, and her guests, in very different ways, wielded a great deal of power of their own. All three had, thanks to The Procurer’s intervention, escaped very different tragic fates.
None of them knew each other. Kirstin had chosen them carefully. They were strong, feisty, in at least two cases, and extremely intelligent women. Each one had been determined to find a way to support herself and live independently. Yet every one of them had married the man The Procurer had despatched them to help.
Kirstin wanted to know why. She wanted to know how. She wanted to know if they were happy. She wanted to know if she could benefit from their experience.
‘I am asking a great deal of you,’ she said, when the champagne had been poured and the introductions made. ‘Perhaps not as much as when we last spoke,’ she said with a smile, ‘but I am asking you to be completely frank. I’m aware I am breaking my own rules by asking you to share your history.’
‘You’ve already broken your rules by revealing your true identity to us and inviting us into your home, Madam Procurer.’ Madame Bauduin, whom Kirstin knew as Lady Sophia Acton, looked at her fellow guests for confirmation. ‘I think I speak for all of us when I say that we are very much aware of the honour you do us, Miss Blair, and the trust you have invested in us.’
‘And I also speak for all of us, I’m sure,’ said fiery-haired Allison Galbraith, Countess Derevenko, ‘when I say that anything we can do to assist you, we will do. We owe you not only our lives, Miss Blair, but our happiness.’
‘No, you owe me nothing. Whatever you have achieved, you’ve achieved through your own efforts. I merely provided you with the opportunity.’
‘Precisely—when no one else would.’ Becky Wickes, the former card sharp who had very lately become the Contessa del Pietro, beamed. ‘I’d like to propose a toast.’ She raised her glass, and the other two women followed.
‘To The Procurer, who makes the impossible possible,’ they said, as one.
Deeply affected, Kirstin made no attempt to disguise her tears. ‘Would that I could weave such magic in my own case. The one thing I am lacking and cannot have is...’
‘Love,’ Sophia said softly. ‘The last thing I thought I was looking for, if you recall. I cannot imagine living without it now.’
‘Being only recently married,’ Becky said, with a wicked smile, ‘I am not ashamed to say that it’s the one thing I can’t get enough of.’
Sophia chuckled. ‘I’ve been married to Jean-Luc for almost a year, and I still feel exactly the same.’
‘Three years and two little bundles of joy since I was married,’ Allison said with a tender smile, ‘and with every passing day I find myself more in love with Aleksei.’
‘Miss Blair...’
‘Kirstin, please.’
‘Kirstin,’ Sophia said, setting down her champagne flute, ‘are you telling us that you are a victim of unrequited love?’
She had never said it aloud, but it was surprisingly easy in the company of these remarkable women, each of whom was quite transformed. ‘I am in love,’ Kirstin said, ‘with a man called Cameron Dunbar. As to whether it is unrequited, there’s the rub. He does—or rather did—love me, but I fear I have ruined everything.’
‘And you would like to remedy that?’ Allison asked.
Kirstin nodded. ‘But his business is in Scotland. His life is travelling the world. And mine...’
‘Is making the impossible possible,’ Becky said, chuckling. ‘What is it they say? Physician heal thyself?’
‘That is exactly what she’s trying to do,’ Allison said. ‘Ladies, The Procurer wants to learn from our experience. That’s what you meant, isn’t it, Kirstin, when you said you wanted us to be completely frank with you? I’m willing to bet that we swore to you that all we wanted was the chance to lead our own lives, and yet each of us opted instead for marriage.’
‘Marriage and independence,’ Becky said.
‘Kirstin wants to know how that might be achieved,’ Allison concluded. ‘And the answer is, not without difficulty.’
‘And a lot of compromise—which I confess did not come easy to me,’ Becky added.
‘I think that we would all do very much better discussing this over dinner,’ Sophia added. ‘Judging by the delicious smells, I think it has arrived.’
‘Shall we?’ Kirstin got to her feet. ‘With your reputation for serving the best dinners in Paris, Sophia, I took the precaution of engaging Monsieur Salois for the evening.’
‘The Duke of Brockmore’s chef?’ Sophia’s eyes gleamed. ‘I have heard great things about him. Ladies, we are in for a treat.’
November 1819, Oban, Argyll, Scotland
Cameron stood on the jetty where he had been deposited, gazing out at the Isle of Kerrera which was, presumably, his final destination. A small island—he judged it to be no more than four or five miles long—it was dwarfed by the majestic Isle of Mull and, as far as he could see, uninhabited.
Each step of his journey from Glasgow, every connection from post-chaise to ferry, and onwards by pony across drover’s roads, had been carefully co-ordinated by the unseen hand of the person who had summoned him here. Unseen, but not unknown.
He knew of only one person capable of orchestrating such a complex trip. Though he had absolutely no idea why he was here, he had been certain, from the moment he broke the seal on her letter, that it was Kirstin he would be meeting.
A little boat was making its way from Kerrera towards him across the choppy waters of the sound, and Cameron’s iron grip on his nerves loosened. He had steeled himself to wait the full year before allowing himself to contact her, but he had thought of her every day and missed her more with every passing moment.
Knowing her as he did, he was sure that she would agree to a marriage in name only for the sake of their daughter. Knowing her as he did, he was certain that she would wait until the very last moment to do so. He very much regretted his ultimatum, but she had left him no choice. He had been very sure that she would make good on her vow never to love him.
Then the letter had arrived, and with it hope. He’d tried to manage that hope, but now, as he stepped into the little boat and the taciturn boatman headed back towards Kerrera, Cameron surrendered. Kirstin wouldn’t bring him all the way to an island on the Inner Hebrides to agree to a marriage of convenience. This wasn’t about Eilid
h. Nor was she bringing him here to tell him that she wanted nothing more to do with him.
His heart began to hammer as the boatman beached the dinghy and pointed to the track which led up the slope and along the shoreline.
‘It’s about three miles’ walk,’ he said. ‘You’ll know where you’re headed when you see it.’
With this cryptic comment he set off again, back to the mainland, and Cameron set off too, glad of the sturdy brogues he was wearing, along the stony track.
The views back to the little fishing village of Oban were spectacular, but he did not waste his time on them, focusing only on walking at a brisk pace which became almost a run. The path wound inland, up and over what he reckoned must be the southern tip of the island. A farm lay in the glen below him, but a wooden arrow pointed him along another path.
The castle loomed suddenly into view, perched on the cliffs—though it was more of a ruined tower than a castle, with half of its roof gone. The approach was a steep scramble down what must have once been a bridge, judging by the crumbling remains.
Kirstin was waiting in the empty doorway, wrapped in a thick black cloak, bareheaded, tendrils of her glossy black hair blowing in the breeze. She was trying to smile, but her eyes gave her away. His heart soared as he looked at her, her expression a mirror of all he’d been feeling himself, so full of hope and yet utterly terrified.
‘You came,’ she said, by way of greeting.
‘Of course I did,’ he said, pulling her into his arms. ‘How could you possibly have doubted me?’
‘After all that I said...’
‘Let’s not rake over it. I love you, Kirstin, and if you—’
She threw her arms around him. ‘Oh, Cameron, I love you so much.’
‘Of course you do,’ he said, beaming like an eejit, wondering if his heart might burst.’
Kirstin’s smile was dazzling. She reached up to smooth his hair. ‘Of course I do,’ she said softly.
He kissed her. Her lips were salty, with sea or tears or both. She was trembling in his arms, clinging to him as if he might vanish, and he kissed her again, soothing kisses, whispering that he loved her, would always love her, touched to the core by the very fact that this bold, brave, fiercely independent woman needed to be reassured.
‘I love you,’ he murmured, kissing her forehead, her tear-stained cheeks. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too. I love you so much.’
His arms tightened around her. Sheer untrammelled joy filled him as their lips met again, tenderness heating to passion as their kisses deepened. Only the shattering of a slate, blown by a gust of wind from the roof, made them jump.
‘Kirstin, my darling, could you not have chosen a more convivial place for our reunion?’ Cameron said ruefully. ‘Somewhere with a roof, at least, if not a bed.’
She laughed. ‘I didn’t bring you here to make love to you.’ Her face fell. ‘After all the terrible things I said to you, I couldn’t even be sure that...’
‘I thought we’d agreed not to go over that? You were frightened I’d take our daughter from you. You were frightened that I’d start making all sorts of demands...’
‘I should have known better—’ She broke off, biting her lip. ‘I know better now.’
‘And I know that we’ve a lot of talking to do, a lot of sorting out to do. It won’t be plain sailing, Kirstin, and I’m not making any promises...’
‘Oh, no, please don’t. That is one of the things I’ve been warned against.’ She smiled at his obvious confusion. ‘You’ll be astonished when I tell you who has advised me. But before we talk about the future, Cameron, please let me make up to you for the things I said. Not by making love to you—not yet, anyway—but by telling you why I have brought you home.’
He eyed the castle doubtfully. ‘Home? It would take a great deal of work to make this into a home. Were you thinking we should buy it?’
She chuckled. ‘I’ve already bought it. For you. Here, come in under what little shelter there is and read this.’
She ushered him through the empty doorway and into what was left of what must have been the great hall, under the remainder of the roof. The thick parchment she handed him was a deed of sale for the Island of Kerrera and all its goods and chattels.
‘Why?’ he asked, completely puzzled.
‘Until the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745 this was the ancestral home of the Laird of Kerrera,’ Kirstin said. ‘Finlay Cameron, Laird of Kerrera, to be precise. He fought with Bonnie Prince Charlie at Culloden, and was forced to flee not long after, returning first to Dunbar Castle to rescue his wife and his baby son, Lachlan. They sailed for the East Indies, their passage having been arranged by Lachlan’s best friend, a government man playing a very dangerous game.’
‘Wait a minute, did you say Dunbar Castle?’ Cameron interrupted. ‘This is Dunbar Castle?’
Kirstin nodded, smiling. ‘Finlay and his wife never returned to Scotland, but their son, Lachlan, had grown up hearing such romantic tales of Dunbar Castle that in the early seventeen-eighties he made the bold decision to try to recover his ancestral home. He came first to Edinburgh, to make good on a long-standing promise to his father to seek out the man who had helped the family escape retribution for the Rebellion. John Campbell was dead, but his daughter Sheila was living in Edinburgh.’
‘Sheila...’ Cameron stared at Kirstin incredulously. ‘That was my mother’s name.’
‘Sheila Ferguson. Née Campbell.’ She caught his hand between hers. ‘I know that Finlay wrote to her, for he kept copies of all his correspondence and left the copies behind at his home in the East Indies. I have those for you, Cameron. But when he sailed for Scotland the trail went cold. Clearly when they met they fell in love—for she must have loved him, to contemplate giving up her daughter and her husband for him. They would have planned to return, I would guess, to live in the East Indies as man and wife.’
‘But my mother didn’t elope. My father abandoned her—that is what Louise told me.’
‘Your father came north, heading for Kerrera. He made it as far as Oban. The parish records show he died of the plague before he could either see the place of his birth or make good on the promise he’d made to the woman he loved. I’m so very sorry, Cameron. I doubt he even knew of your existence.’
‘How did you manage to find all this out? How long has it taken you?’ Cameron asked, utterly stunned.
‘I started with your name. It was the one thing, you told me, that your mother gave you.’
‘So I come from a long line of merchants. The sea is in my blood. I can’t believe it—what you’ve done, it’s impossible.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘Though not impossible for The Procurer. I don’t know how to begin thanking you.’
‘I don’t want your thanks. I want...’
Kirstin drew a shaky laugh. ‘It won’t be easy, we both know that. We must make no promises we can’t keep. We will have to compromise. But it’s not about giving up independence, Cameron. It’s about finding room in your life for someone to share it with, someone who respects you, and who loves you so much they wouldn’t change a hair on your head.
‘No, wait,’ she said, when he made to speak, ‘I’m not finished. I want you to be a father to Eilidh in much more than name. You’ve already missed out on so much of her life. She’s our child, not just mine. I want us to be a family, Cameron, all three of us, but before that there’s something every bit as important I need to ask you.’
She dropped to her knees. ‘I love you exactly that way. I know you love me too, in the same way. We can make it work as long as we have each other. Will you marry me, my darling?’
He was dumbstruck for all of a second. Then he dropped to the ground beside her, pulling her into his arms.
‘You can have no idea, my love, of how very, very much I would like to marry you. Yes,’ he said, kissing her. ‘Yes,’ he s
aid, kissing her again, ‘and yes,’ he said, kissing her for the third time, but most certainly not the last.
Epilogue
Excerpt from the Town Crier, December 1819
The End of an Era!
We can exclusively reveal to you, our loyal readers, that today marks the end of the reign of the legendary London icon hitherto known only as The Procurer.
The woman who makes the impossible possible quite literally lifted the veil of secrecy from her most exquisite countenance today when she stood before the altar of St James’s Church to plight her troth to Mr Cameron Dunbar, Merchant of Glasgow.
In true Procurer fashion, she has been harbouring an astonishing secret—they are tying the knot for the second time! The pair, it seems, made a match the first time around when they eloped to Gretna Green seven years ago.
For reasons they would not entrust even to someone as discreet as yours truly, they kept their marriage private. Today, in The Procurer’s own words, they celebrated their love for each other in public.
For the ceremony the bride wore a full-length pelisse of crimson velvet trimmed with swansdown, which perfectly complemented her striking beauty. Her adorable little daughter, playing bridesmaid and carrying a bunch of heather sent all the way from the family’s Scottish estate, was identically dressed.
Both daring toilettes were created exclusively for this momentous occasion by the Bond Street modiste Madame LeClerc. The groom, a Scot with rather splendid shoulders and an excellent pair of legs, was disappointingly not clad in the kilt, though the more observant among us noticed a sprig of heather in his lapel pinned there, the clearly doting father informed us, by his little daughter for luck.
A light dusting of snow began to fall as the happy family entered the church, much to the delight of the youngest member of the party. A more romantic winter’s day or a more romantic wedding cannot be imagined. I am not ashamed to confess that the magical scene brought a tear to my eye.
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