Borrowed Dreams (Scottish Dream Trilogy) (19 page)

****

It was past midnight when Millicent
saw the shadowy figure of Ohenewaa trekking up from the stables. A couple of
hours earlier, when she had gone to her own bedchamber to change out of her
gown, Millicent had heard from Violet about Moses’s injured dog.  

Millicent’s time had been so
consumed with Lyon that she hadn’t spent much time with the old woman. She had
barely had the opportunity to thank Ohenewaa for the tea that she believed had
helped Lyon through the first nights of going without the laudanum. 

She thought back to the day that
they’d spoken about the letter from Jasper Hyde. Millicent had listened to
everything Ohenewaa said. She had already heard such horrors. And she had seen the same superstitious ignorance in others that might very well drive a man
like Hyde to hold Ohenewaa responsible for his suffering.

Millicent’s refusal to the plantation
owner had been clear and direct.   Ohenewaa had no desire to meet with him, and
neither did she.

The old woman was no witch, of that
Millicent was certain. The fact that she obviously had a knowledge of herbs and
medicines did not make her evil.  No matter what others chose to think,
Millicent felt deep inside that Ohenewaa could be trusted. She had felt it from
the first day the old woman had entered Melbury Hall.  

That was why Millicent had to see
her again tonight. She needed her advice.   

Turning away from the window, she
watched Lyon breathing comfortably in his sleep for a moment. He had been
correct in saying that he didn’t need her. There were no more nightmares. No
staying awake just to be difficult. 

Millicent went to the door and quietly
opened it. The hallway was immersed in darkness, and she stepped out of the
bedchamber, pulling the door partially closed behind her. Almost immediately she
saw Ohenewaa appear at the top of the stairs. The old woman’s dark eyes shone
like a cat as they fixed on her.

“How is Moses?” Millicent asked
softly when the woman drew near.

“He was worried about the animal,
but he is doing better.”

“Did the dog live?”

“She has a broken leg, but Moses
was taught how to tend it.”

“We are fortunate to have you here.
Thank you.”

With a nod, Ohenewaa started past
her.

“Would you consider, at some point
in time, examining my husband?” Millicent paused when the older woman turned to
look at her. “From what I can tell, none of the English doctors have seen any
hope in him ever improving, in mind or in body. But we have already proven them
half wrong. He is awake, aware, intelligent.”

“And loud.”

“That too.” Millicent smiled. “This
is why I cannot help but believe there might be something else—in his legs and
arm—that they might be overlooking. So would you consider it?  When the time is
right, of course, and when I can convince him of it?”   

The old woman studied her for a
while and then nodded slowly. “When the time is right.”

Millicent was astounded.

No other word could describe her
feelings at the flawless perfection of manner with which Lyon greeted and
conversed with Reverend Trimble, despite the lengthiness of the visit.

Settling into a chair in the
library as if he planned on spending the remainder of winter there, the
minister touched upon one topic of discussion after another. Like a pair of old
university friends,  the two managed to engage themselves in occasionally
heated discussions on everything from the political and social struggles in
Ireland, to the changing face of industry under the visionary and exploitative
influences (Reverend Trimble’s phrase) of such people as Josiah Wedgwood, to
Hugh Williamson’s recent assertion that comets were positively inhabited.
Having covered the rumors of land clearings in the Scottish Highlands, they
moved easily into the latest news of the growing unrest in the American
colonies. In someplace called the Carolinas, she heard Reverend Trimble say, British troops had recently been needed to suppress open rebellion there. And things did not
look to be improving. 

During the entire time, Millicent
had remained attuned to Lyon’s mood. She was ready to jump in at any time that
her husband suddenly decided that it was time to be rid of the visitor. She did
not want her old friend to be offended.

Despite his customarily talkative
nature, Millicent maintained a great affection for the minister. Mr. Trimble
had been a great ally to her and to the workers at Melbury Hall for a long
time, even while Squire Wentworth held the whip over them all. It had been
because of Reverend Trimble and Mr. Cunningham, the village schoolmaster, that
a routine of tutoring the slaves had been established on the estate. Because of their perseverance and watchful intervention, more lives had not been lost to the
brutality of the squire’s bailiffs.

Mr. Cunningham
.

Millicent’s chin sank. A knot the
size of a fist formed in her chest as she recalled for the thousandth time how
the young teacher had lost his life while trying to protect her. She had asked
him to come to Melbury Hall in the early hours of dawn to help take the
frightened Violet away. But Squire Wentworth had thought the man was taking
Millicent away with him. He had killed Mr. Cunningham that morning. And after all this time, she still could not free herself of the guilt. 

She blinked back the sudden tears
and tried to not think of the young man’s affection—of how he had been her
friend, her salvation during those horrible years. During his last days he had
even thought that he was in love with her. But Millicent had discouraged his
declarations. She had feared for her own life, but never guessed Cunningham
would be the victim.

When Millicent looked across the
room, she found Lyon’s gaze focused on her face. The conversation between the
two men appeared to have become one-sided. She realized they were talking about
building construction—or rather, Reverend Trimble was. What he had just
proposed, she had missed his point, and an awkward silence fell over the room.

“Would that be satisfactory to you,
Lady Aytoun?” the clergyman asked.

Millicent had no idea
what
was satisfactory. She sent Lyon a silent plea.

“Has anyone checked this
stonemason’s references?” the earl asked, never taking his eyes off her.

“I believe so, m’lord," the
minister replied. "He would not have been hired to work on the grange
otherwise, and his work looks entirely satisfactory.”

“And with the grange work nearing
completion, you said he is willing to begin working here two days a week.”

“That is correct.”

“And after he is finished in the
village, he can work a full schedule here?”

“That is what he says, m’lord.”

“What do you think of hiring him
then, Millicent? You have been anxious to start on your projects.”

She gave a grateful nod to her
husband and then turned to Reverend Trimble. “That would be wonderful. Thank
you for seeing to this.”

“My pleasure, m’lady. Well, I
suppose I should be getting home, though I must say I have thoroughly enjoyed
my visit.”

The clergyman pushed himself
reluctantly to his feet and said his farewells to the earl. Millicent escorted
him out of the room.

“Once again, m’lady,” he started as
soon as they were heading down the hall toward the front foyer, “I must
congratulate you on this union. Lord Aytoun hardly matches his reputation. I am
so eager for Mrs. Trimble to meet him. What an intelligent man! So well spoken
and such wonderfully progressive views. Very edifying, indeed.”

“He is a surprising man.”

“And I understand that Lord and
Lady Stanmore are returning to Solgrave in a fortnight. It will be such a happy
occasion to have both your families here. Quite happy, indeed.”

“Please send my regards to Mrs.
Trimble,” Millicent said before the clergyman could start in on another topic.
A servant helped him into his coat and handed him his gloves and hat. “By the way, what is the name of this stonemason?”

“Ned Cranch. He is eager to start
at this second job. He told me confidentially that he could use the work and
the extra wages.”

“Could he?”

Reverend Trimble gave a nod. “I heard
all about his two wee ones and his wife in Coventry. Says she’s expecting their
third child any day now. The man has mouths to feed.”

“Tell him we shall have work ready
for him as soon as next week, if he is free.”

“I am certain he will be here.”

*****

Goldsmith’s
The
Vicar of
Wakefield
, the book that Reverend Trimble had brought for Lyon, lay on the
edge of the table before him. As he reached for it, though, the heavy volume
slipped through Lyon’s fingers and struck his leg. His left foot jerked along
the carpet, and the volume landed on the floor. Lyon stared down in
disbelief.  

The sensations running up and down
his leg were real. His leg had moved. He tried to move his foot again, but he
could not repeat the movement. Then, as quickly as they had come, the feelings
disappeared. No matter how hard he concentrated, he was not able to move his
foot so much as an inch.

“Thank you for your courteous
treatment of Reverend Trimble.”

As Millicent came back into the
room, the soft voice drew Lyon’s attention away from his legs. Her smile dimmed
a little, however, when she saw his face. He simply nodded curtly and looked
down at the book at his feet.

“While I was watching you with him,
I began to doubt that you were the same man I married. So I immediately became
a student for the rest of his visit, trying my best to observe the techniques
the good reverend employed to keep you in so agreeable a state.” She crouched
down beside Lyon’s chair and fetched the book. “Did you wish to read this?”

“No.”

At his sharp answer, Millicent put
a hand on his arm. She continued to kneel beside his chair. “Is something
wrong?”

“No.”

After a moment of close scrutiny
that he tried to ignore, she rose to her feet. “I am going to fetch Reverend
Trimble before he leaves. I am going to ask him to stay and dine with us.” She
started for the door. “There must be something that I lack in—”

“Millicent!”

Lyon’s call turned her around.

“Nothing is wrong. However, I want
you
to read this book to me.”

*****

Violet
gasped as Ned shoved her hard, pinning her against the wall. His eyes were
flashing with anger. She tried to get a hand between his forearm and her
throat, but he pushed harder.

“I am
sorry,” she cried. “I am so sorry. But I heard you were going to St. Albans, and I thought you might want me to follow you here. Ned, we did plan to come
together so you could meet with my—”

“
Ye
planned,” he shouted
into her face. “I did no plannin’. And by the de’il, woman, I should give ye a
bloody lip for sneaking into this tavern and hiding in my room.”

“I was just trying to make you
happy, Ned,” she whispered tearfully. “We’re always sneaking off to your little
room in the village. I thought here…well, I have two whole days off and—”

“Here I might just whistle and
bring a few o’ the lads up from the taproom and have ye play whore to all of
us.” He took his arm from her throat and grabbed her chin roughly in his hand.
“Or maybe I’ll just bind ye on that mattress there, with a gag for your mouth,
and have my way with you a hundred different ways without never havin’ to
listen to your whinin’ at all.”

The young woman spoke through her
sobs. “You are scaring me, Ned Cranch. You know you shouldn’t say such things.
You know I’m no whore. I only came because I thought you would be glad to have me
here.”  She gathered the front of her cloak tightly around her. “I’ll go. I am
sorry to upset you like this. I was a fool to think you meant all those sweet
things you said. I know now you only said them to find your way under my
skirts.”

“Mind your bloody tongue or I’ll…”

When Ned raised a threatening fist,
Violet cringed against the wall. She was relieved when he didn’t hit her, and
instead dropped his hand to his side.

“Get out o’ here, ye brazen chit,
before I change my mind and decide to teach ye a hard lesson.”

There was no doubting his words.
The anger she saw in those green eyes was sobering. It was as if he hated her.
Violet moved away, circling around him and then running for the door. Outside
in the dark, foul-smelling hallway of the inn, she let the tears fall.

What a wretched fool she had been,
she thought, trying to get her bearings. She had believed every word he had
told her. She had believed him when he’d said he loved her. Behind her, a woman laughed a drunken, salacious laugh, and Violet turned around in alarm.  In
the murky light of a shuttered window at the far end of the hall, she could see
the woman bent over, while a tradesman with his breeches around his knees held
her hips and slammed into her.

Violet felt her stomach rising into
her throat. She was no different, she thought. The tears came faster. She had
become a whore. She pulled the hood of the cloak over her head and hurried down
the hall.

At the stair landing, she ran into
a small man coming up. Kid gloves steadied her. She stared down at the man’s
shiny boots. 

“Pardon me, sir,” she whispered.

One glove took hold of her chin and
raised it. Violet shivered as she glanced into the coldly amused eyes regarding
her. There was no escaping him.

“Aren’t you a pretty thing? And what a fortunate wench,” he exclaimed, glancing toward Ned’s door. “Come with me, girl. This
will take just a minute.”

On impulse Violet pulled her face
away and backed up a step. He continued to hold her arm. “The stonemason just
had me, sir. Perhaps you’d care to take me someplace else?”