Edwina (8 page)

Her musings quickly gave way to thoughts of
moving into a larger apartment. Perhaps she ought to think about
making a real home for herself, not just a come-hither-and- rest
place to lay her head until the next day’s duties.

Funny, she’d never thought about that before.
What had prompted her to think about it now? She should know some-
thing about herself, with all the psychology books and magazine
articles she had read.

Strangely enough, she had
no idea why she wanted a cozy home at this point in her life. She
had planned to keep the apartment until—or if—she married. Now it
seemed to take on a sense of urgency. Edwina shrugged.
Just when you think you’ve figured out who you
are and what you’re about, something as simple as a slight
emergency trip to Scotland changes your whole way of thinking. And
after only two days!
Perhaps she was
overly tired.

She lifted herself out of the tub and to her
surprise found a beautiful, satiny white dressing gown lying across
her pillows. Had Bertie left it for her? Perhaps there was a new
guest and she needed to leave the room tonight.

Still in her cherry pink towel, she picked up
the heavy garment, and it slid across her fingers like silk.
Perhaps it was silk. She had no clue. But it felt wonderful as she
rubbed it across her cheek. The scent... what was it? Lavender? She
fanned the fabric underneath her nose and sniffed. “Ah, it is
Lavender, my favorite.” She whispered.

A tap followed by Bertie’s now familiar
presence interrupted her thoughts. “Ye like it?”

“Aye,” she answered and saw Bertie’s
smile.

“Lass, ye are not Scottish are ye?”

“Oh no, Bertie. Irish on both sides.”

“Ach.” Bertie said no more.

“I see how it is,” she teased and let the
towel slide off while Bertie slipped the gown over her head. “It is
so beautiful.” Her hand ran along the smooth fabric.

“Silk, lassie. Pure silk.” Bertie’s eyes
skimmed her. “Ya know ye’d be a right pretty lass if ye’d... well,
walk the hills a bit.”

“Ah, so you think I’m fat?”

“Fat? Such a nasty word, lass. If I thought
so, I wouldna say it.”

“Well, you’ve got eyes. I’m not exactly a
willow stick.”

Bertie made great work of punching the
pillows into shape.

“What does it matter? I’m just a librarian in
a small town back home. I doubt I’ll marry. . . Edwina didn’t
exactly like where this was going.

“Oh puff and stuff. Ye’re a young gal. A good
man would like a woman with some flesh on ’er. Just ask my
William.”

“
You have a husband?”
Edwina knew her shock was showing.

“Ye think me incapable?” Bertie’s familiar
hands-on- hips stance was unrepentant.

“It’s not that, Bertie. Would you please stop
putting words in my mouth?” She sat on the side of the bed and
nearly slid off.

“See lass, a smart-tongued one ye are. Nearly
fell to yer death with that slippery silk.”

Suddenly the absurdity of their conversation
struck Edwina and she began to laugh. She laughed until her sides
hurt. The usually sharp-tongued Bertie had joined in and neither
could stop themselves.

“I can see me tellin’ Laird Dunnegin that ye
slipped off the bed and died, right at my feet, cause of the
nightdress. And ye being an American . . .”

“Now Bertie, that’s not nice.” They were off
again. For several minutes neither could gain their composure.

“Bertie, stop. Stop!” Edwina held her sides
as she rolled on the bed.

“Lass, ye are the grandest child in a woman’s
body I ’ave ever witnessed.”

“Well, you’re not so bad yourself, Bertie...
when you lighten up a little.”

Finally they settled down, and Edwina could
ask the question she longed to say.

“Bertie, tell me about your William.” She
settled herself under the covers and allowed Bertie to tuck her
in.

“Now lass, what ye be wantin’ to know aboot
me old man? He died and left me penniless, ye know it.”

“He did? Did you love him, Bertie?”

“Aye. Till I wanted to die for not having him
with me.”

“What did it feel like—to love someone that
much, I mean.”

“
Lass, there are no words.
Even Shakespeare, bless his English soul, was not able to pin it
down about the way a man loves a woman, even though he
tried.”

Edwina gazed into the woman’s sad eyes. “And
as a woman also loves her man.”

“Ah... I see. Did you have children?”

“One lad, but he died afore he was three. And
no more came after that. It was our lot in life, I suspect. We must
have sinned too much, for the good Lord gave us no more babes.”

“Oh Bertie, God doesn’t do things like
that.”

“Puff and stuff.” She waved off Edwina’s
comments.

“Well, He doesn’t.”

“And ye—the little lass from America—thinks
she knows all things?” Bertie made work of smoothing the covers and
plumping the pillows.

“No. I don’t really. I just know that God
loves you. And you must trust Him, no matter what’s happened to
you.”

“What easy talk, child. Ye have no senses yet
about how ye might feel if’n ye was in my shoes, poor as they might
be.”

“You’re probably right, Bertie. Just remember
one thing for me?”

“Aye, child, say ye’re piece and let me
be.”

“God loves you no matter what you’ve done
right or wrong. Just ask Him to forgive you and He will.”

“There, now ye’ve said it. I’ll think on it,
lass.” Bertie patted her hand and left.

Lord, please let Bertie
know that you love her
.

Chapter 14

“R
ise up, lassie. It’s half past six.”

“What? Morning already?” Edwina groaned and
then remembered it was Monday. Funny how the days flew by so
quickly.

“I’ve made ye a good breakfast today, lass,
so be aboot yer business.”

“Bertie, I have nothing to pack, it’s all in
my suitcase. And thanks for cleaning my clothes the other day. They
were laid out on the bed so nicely ironed, I hated to fold
them.”

“An iron is readily
available, lass, anytime
ye
need to use it,” she spoke smartly.

“Aye, and then what would ye do?” Edwina
caught the pillow that Bertie threw.

“A child. A wee child is all ye are.”

Suddenly tears came unbidden to her eyes. She
would be gone from Bertie in just a little while. Why should that
bother her so?

She missed her mother—that was it. College
psychology classes had given her some sort of help after all.

And since her father had married Cecelia’s
mother, things had not been the same. Victoria Rose was an actress,
not the mother type in the least. Cecelia was her mother’s pride
and joy.

But Edwina didn’t mind. Victoria Rose would
never take the place of her mother, and thankfully, had never
tried. Besides, she’d been eighteen, already a freshman in college
when her father remarried.

Cecelia was in her third year at Oxford, so
there was no family unit for several years. Her father, a professor
of history at the University of Michigan, and Victoria Rose had
stayed in Ann Arbor where they’d purchased a small condominium.
Victoria had plenty of opportunities to appear on stage in plays in
the bigger cities like Detroit, Chicago, and New York.

Cecelia returned to the States, stayed in a
simple apartment for one week, and moved into an elegant town house
via funds from her well-to-do father. Upon graduation, Edwina had
chosen to take an apartment on Bond Street in the small Michigan
town where she was raised. The house she lived in had once been
owned by a family whose son became a prolific sports writer, Ring
Lardner, so it was not without distinction in the community. She
occupied the second floor, complete with a separate outdoor entry.
The windows of her bedroom faced west, and she enjoyed a clear view
of the St. Joseph River across the street. Practically, and perhaps
best of all, it was only a seven block walk to the library.

Her life had been so unremarkable as to be
almost nonexistent.

Edwina scolded
herself.
Now a planned, practical life is
nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of people would like your job and
a decent home to come to every night.
At
least, that’s what her father always said.

But there is a vast
difference in a decent place to live and a warm, welcoming
home
, she decided.

Sighing, she tossed the cheerless thought
from her mind. Plenty of time for changes later. She was in
Scotland and due in Edinburgh. The tour bus was scheduled to leave
Holyrood Palace at exactly 10:45, and she planned to be on it. For
the next ten days she would be hustled around at various hotels
around the country, visiting points of interest and seeing more of
the beautiful hillsides, which would also translate into material
for her Scottish setting in the story already forming itself in her
head.

For the first time in her life, Edwina
actually looked forward to meeting new people and seeing new
things.

She chose her best black dress pants, a
matching jacket with three-quarter sleeves and a cream blouse for
the first day. It was simple, and she hoped it would make a good
impression.

Her favorite shoes accompanied her as she
raced down the stairs, her luggage left at her room’s door for
Reardon.

Practically running, she stopped and made her
way to the dining room. It was quiet. The elderly couple must have
left, and with the Scot gone, she wondered who would be eating with
her.

“Sit ye down.” Bertie signaled to the single
place setting, not at the head, but at the side.

“I’m to eat alone? Can’t you join me,
Bertie?”

Bertie huffed. “Lass, haven’t ye learned
anything about the Scottish ways? The help does not eat with their
betters.”

“See Bertie, that’s your problem. You people
have to remember that folks are all the same, at least to God. None
are better than others.”

“That’s not what I said to ye lass. We call
our landowners betters. Tis just a term, lass, just a term.”

“Oh, I see.” Edwina was truly contrite.

“I have spoken carelessly.”

“See to it ye don’t do it again, lass.”
Edwina’s eyes shot up, and she caught Bertie’s look.

“Now... don’t you start... stop... we can’t
start laughing again, Bertie, or I will never be ready for
Reardon.”

Bertie, to her credit, said not a word, but
hurried through the swinging door to the kitchen. Another servant
came back with her breakfast, and Edwina smiled. She was going to
miss the saucy Bertie. Tears burned again.

As soon as she laid her fork on the plate,
Reardon appeared at the door.

“Ready, Miss Blair?”

Well, he is bright and
cheery
, Edwina thought. Not half as
friendly as when she’d first arrived, though. Perhaps the good
valet did not like the American.

“I’m ready. My bag is—”

“Your baggage is in the car, miss,” he said
unsympathetically.

“Thank you. Then I will say good-bye to
Bertie.”

“Bertie?” he nearly snarled. Edwina thought
it best not to try and explain and slid through the door to the
kitchen. She found the woman sweeping the floor furiously.

“Bertie, I just . . .” Uh oh.

“Now don’t cry, Bertie. Please.”

“I’m not crying, lass. I have only just this
moment peeled a bowl full of onions.”

“Let me smell your hands,” Edwina shot back.
Bertie looked horrified.

“Oh don’t worry. I hardly ever cry. It’s not
practical, you know.” Edwina tried to be funny. The two exchanged a
look, and Edwina threw herself into the woman’s ample arms.

“I’ll see you again... maybe. Bertie, take
care, okay?”

“Be off with ye lass. And don’t let life pass
ye by.”

“I won’t.” Edwina felt a catch in her throat.
She busted through the kitchen door, walked quickly toward the
entryway and there stood Reardon, face as hard as a stone. She
glanced at him but walked past wiping her cheeks seeking the safety
of the car. He opened the door. Edwina took one last look at the
castle, steeled her heart, and slid across the leather seats.
Reardon did not offer his hand or a kind smile this time. She
watched the rolling blue-green hills pass, a lump in her throat the
size of Texas.

Chapter 15

E
dwina sniffed and blew her nose and wiped her eyes all the
way to Edinburgh.
Get ahold of yourself,
you were only there two days, Edwina Emily Blair.

Reardon didn’t say a word. Either he had a
heart of stone or his employer had filled him in on her shenanigans
and he wanted no part of her. They pulled up to Holyrood Palace,
and even though it was grander than the Scot’s castle by three
times in size, she did not like it at all. It couldn’t possibly be
as homey as Castle Dunnegin.

Reardon set her bag at the entryway, bid her
a quick good-bye, bowed slightly, and drove away. He’d never once
looked her in the eye.

“So much for protocol.”
Edwina sighed and carried her bag to the front desk, ready for the
fight. While waiting for other customers, she found a chair, pulled
all her papers from her purse and smoothed them across her knees.
They were in for a good one because she
would
get on that tour bus. There
was nothing else to be done. She sure couldn’t traipse back to the
Scot’s place, no matter what trouble she got herself
into.

Several minutes passed while she waited in
line. She prayed for kindness and for wisdom... because at the
moment she did not feel kind or wise. The trip was paid for. Why
did they care who went? Her reasoning skills kicked in, and she was
ready.