Borrowed Dreams (Scottish Dream Trilogy) (15 page)

  Her
challenge was answered with a defiant flash of the man’s blue eyes. Millicent
ignored the strange flutter of excitement inside of her and sat down on her
chair, reaching for the first volume. “Dr. Johnson’s
Rasselas
.”

“You
might as well burn that blasted book, for I refuse to listen to anyone reading
it.”

“Why?”
Millicent managed to keep her calm.

“The man
insulted the entire Scottish people in his dictionary, equating us all with
horses.”

“With
horses?”

“Indeed.
Look at his definition of ‘oats’ sometime.”

She glanced down at the book in her
hand, not truly sure of the truth behind the assertion. Finally, she put the
volume aside and reached for the next one.

“Well,
here is one written by a Scot.
Ossian’s Fingal, an ancient epic poem
.
Very exciting, I’m told.”

“Written by James Macpherson. He is
a Scot, but man is a fraud. He made the entire book up of old Gaelic poems.
There is not a shred of truth to it being by any Ossian. What else do you have
there?”

 Scowling
at Aytoun, Millicent put this volume aside as well. She picked up the next. “Laurence
Sterne’s
Tristram Shandy
.”

“Never. Open that book. I defy you
to find a page that is not blotted with rows of stars and dashes and hand-drawn
diagrams and every other bit of nonsense the author could contrive. Totally
unintelligible! You call that a story? A wandering plot—if you can find it—and
most of the tale is in the character’s block shaped head. Give me laudanum or
read that book. The effect is the same.”

“Very
well,” she replied shortly, putting this book aside, too. “But I am telling you right now, m’lord, that there is nothing you could possibly find wrong with
this next book.
Nothing
.”

He raised
a brow, waiting.

“Mr.
Pope’s
Imitations of Horace
.” 

“You must be joking.”

“What do you mean?”

“The man was a virulent, malicious
dwarf.”

“Pardon
me?”

“I refuse
to listen to anything written by a man of his disposition.”

“And is it the man’s stature or his
temperament that…” She glared across the room and then rose to her feet. “Oh,
never mind! I don’t even want to know. Just tell me, are we trying to read to
broaden our minds? Or must we demean ourselves with trifling
concerns
about the authors that have nothing whatsoever to do with what it is written
between the covers?”  

“I cannot
understand why you are getting so upset over something as
trivial
as finding a readable book,” he said calmly. “All you have
to do is ask me what it is that I would like to read this morning.”

“How could I have forgotten? Oh,
pray tell, what would you like to read, m’lord?”

“I do not
know a thing about your collection.”

“Other
than the dozens of books I have already carried up here.”

“Other
than those. What else do you have?”

She sank back down on the chair.
This was exactly where they were two hours ago. She would name the books, and
he would find some fault with each of them.

Millicent
knew she had to find a way to occupy this man’s mind before he drove her so
insane that
she
would be the one in need of laudanum. She picked up
Rasselas
and started to read. If Aytoun was representative of the Scottish people, then
she was beginning to see some merit in Dr. Johnson’s definition. But she wondered if the man hadn’t meant to say “mules” in his dictionary.

As always, the morning routine
dragged on interminably. Lyon muttered his customary curses at his two valets
as they helped him wash and dress. John, the turtle-shaped, flap-jawed
rapscallion, and his scarecrow of a partner, Will, had both been somewhat tongue-tied
when he harangued them for appearing in his chambers in “country” clothing
rather than their customary livery. The poor devils had barely been able to
utter an explanation about decisions the mistress had made about dressing the
combined households. And Lyon made certain that he grumbled incessantly at
Gibbs over the breakfast of which he refused to eat more than a bite.

But he was saving the worst of his
temper for Millicent, knowing full well that she would be walking into his room
about ten o’clock. Already weary from rising early to attend to the pressing
affairs of the estate, she would no doubt be quite irritable after a nearly
sleepless night. He knew that she would also be ready to deliver as hard a
verbal punch at him as he was ready to afflict her with. 

As the serving women finally
cleared away the dishes in front of him, Lyon considered his wife. He couldn’t
fully understand it, but those moments when she was here arguing with him and
berating him for his continual transgressions were the only moments of the day
that he felt truly alive.

Of course, those were also the most
frustrating times as well, for she never did what he told her or even asked her
to do. She insisted on reading aloud despite his objections to her selection of
books, ignoring him and only reading louder. She had even suggested that he
leave these rooms occasionally. He’d argued bitterly against it, of course,
flatly refusing and telling her that as the resident cripple, he had no wish to
be paraded about for a houseful of gawking rustics.

Then, three days ago, with no
regard to his wishes, she had bribed his own weak-livered servants into
carrying him down to her drawing room. Naturally, he had made enough noise and
caused enough damage that she had ordered him to be brought back less than half
an hour later. Lyon had won the battle that day, but he was convinced she would
launch another assault any day now. Vigilance was called for, without a doubt.

Ten o’clock came and went, but
today there was no sign of her. Lyon felt his irritation rise. Half an hour
later, when Millicent still didn’t appear, he began venting his wrath in other
directions. A young serving girl coming in to tend the fireplace fled teary-eyed
after he hurled only the mildest of insults at her. Both John and Will tried to
tiptoe about the chambers as they saw to his clothing, but when he upended a
tray next to him and then flung a bound edition of the
North Briton
at them, the turtle John ran off, only to appear a couple of minutes later with Gibbs
in tow.

“Can I fetch anything from the
armory for your lordship?” the Highlander asked dryly.

“Indeed. Bring me my dueling
pistols. I’d like to use these two dolts for target practice.”

“Begging your pardon, m’lord, but
perhaps ‘twould be easier if ye’d just ask me where she is.”

Lyon snorted and stared at him as
if he were the village idiot.

“Very well, sir,” Gibbs continued
when Lyon said nothing. “Since ye insist on my telling ye, Lady Aytoun has gone
to Knebworth to visit with the Reverend and Mrs. Trimble. Mr. Trimble is the
rector at the church there. Quite the friends of your wife, they are. Her
ladyship has been delaying this visit for two weeks now, on account of seeing
to your needs. But today, it being bonny and warm for a late winter’s day, she
decided to take a horse out and ride over.”

Lyon glanced at the beautiful sunny
day outside the window. Of course she would be tired of being trapped in here
with him day in and day out. 

“When she gets back, I’ll tell Lady
Aytoun ye were pining after her,” Gibbs offered with an innocent expression.

Lyon glared at his man. “And I will have your head on a platter for dinner.”

“Ye shall have to be up and about
before doing anything like that, m’lord.”

“I should have let those dog-faced Edinburgh drunks at that oyster house in St. James Close hang you, Gibbs.”

“Aye, m’lord, but that still
doesn’t put my head on any platter.”

“The truth is, though, that all I
have to do is tell my wife that I’d be sure to find my appetite if she’d only
hang your ugly skull on a pole over my fireplace.” The dark beard hid the trace
of a smile. “Tell her that, and I have no doubt that she would make any
necessary arrangements.” 

*****

Mrs. Trimble’s limp from an old
carriage accident appeared more pronounced this winter. But to Millicent’s
delight the older woman’s lively wit and high spirits were unaffected by the
old injury. The two women sat together in the parlor, sipping tea and waiting
for the rector to return from the village. Millicent was told when she arrived
that he was expected momentarily.

“Things are happening in the
village, m’lady,” the kindly woman said. “Reverend Trimble took a walk to speak
with the stonemasons who are building the grange. He was hoping to employ one
of them in their off-hours to work on two of the rectory chimneys that are
cracked and drawing poorly. But I am so glad you were able to come by this
morning. Despite my bad knee, we were ready to drop by for a visit at Melbury
Hall earlier this week. After talking to Mrs. Page last Sunday, however, we
decided you might not be ready for any company just yet. She mentioned that
Lord Aytoun’s health is still a concern for you. Has his lordship shown any
improvement yet?”

“Indeed, he has. Thank you.”
Millicent told herself she was not exactly misrepresenting the situation. Lyon’s health had certainly improved in recent days. 

“We were not envious of your
position, my dear, in being faced with what must have been a very difficult
decision to make. Not envious at all.” Mrs. Trimble took Millicent’s hand in
hers and lowered her voice confidentially. “Lord bless you to take on such a
responsibility. Caring for anyone crippled so badly is a true test, I’m sure. Both legs and an arm, I hear.”

Millicent nodded.

“And a severe case of melancholia,
too?”

This time she shook her head
emphatically. Now that she had spent two weeks constantly in his company,
Millicent was certain that Lyon’s present temperament was not severe enough to
be considered melancholia.

“Whatever my husband was suffering
from when he first arrived at Melbury Hall, I believe his condition was being
aggravated by the medicines he was being given.”

“So you changed his treatment?”

“I did, and I believe he is feeling
much more himself at present.” Loud. Obnoxious. Occasionally bizarre. Awake practically
around the clock. And Millicent liked him much better this way.

“You do look quite tired, my dear.
If I might be also so bold to ask, how are
you
faring with this new
arrangement?”   

“I am doing quite well,” Millicent
answered honestly. “The changes have required some adjustment on the part of
everyone, mostly due to the increase in the size of the household. But a shortage of living space has been my greatest problem right along.”

Mrs. Trimble poured Millicent some
more tea. “And I was so sorry to hear that in the midst of all this, you had to
let go of your steward.”

“That was inevitable. Mr. Draper
and I did not get along from the start, and with each passing day things just
seemed to get worse.”

“But finding a replacement has been
difficult.”

Millicent nodded and took a sip of
her tea before putting the cup back on the table. “I have interviewed three
people thus far, but none of them seems to be the right person for Melbury
Hall.”

 “And spring shall be upon us quite
soon.” She shook her head. “So much of the day-to-day responsibilities of the
steward, then, are squarely upon your shoulders.”

“Indeed, there is a great deal to
do.”

“And you were planning to improve
the cottages on the estate, as well as building more. How can you possibly be
holding up, my dear?”

“Fortunately, nothing has fallen to
pieces yet.” Millicent smiled. “Lord Aytoun’s personal manservant, a very
capable Scotsman who has been with his lordship for years, has been seeing to
those responsibilities vacated by Mr. Draper for the past few weeks. Selfishly,
I suppose, I’m hoping that he might consider taking over the job of steward
permanently. Of course, I still have to convince Lord Aytoun of that.”

Millicent thought that just asking
the question should be good for at least a half dozen overturned dishes. Lyon was quite fond of doing that.  

“Your description of everything is
so much more pleasant than the rumors that were initially floating around the
village.” Mrs. Trimble squeezed Millicent’s hand affectionately. “I am so happy
for you. I do hope we get a chance to meet his lordship soon.”

“Well, perhaps once the weather
improves, I’ll persuade him to come into the village with me.” She would have
to do this persuading on the same day that she asked his opinion of Gibbs becoming
the new steward. And perhaps the same day that she asked him to stop destroying
the household furnishings. And the same day she asked him to talk rather than
shout. Perhaps that would be the day to ask him to shave off that hideous beard
as well.

Millicent glanced at the handsome
clock above the hearth. It was approaching the noon hour, and she began to
worry. She sincerely hoped Lyon had eaten some breakfast. She wondered what his
reaction had been this morning when she had not come to his room, or if he had
even noticed her absence. If he had eaten nothing for breakfast, she wanted to
be there to encourage him to have something now. Well, either encourage or
bully him. 

“I cannot imagine what is detaining
Reverend Trimble.” The rector’s wife, following the direction of her visitor’s
gaze, pushed herself stiffly to her feet and went to the window. She was a tall
woman, and Millicent could see her looking out past the garden at the village.