So in Love (13 page)

The more she learned, the greater her regard for Douglas grew. He evidently treated people with fairness and with affection they both felt and appreciated.

Breakfast finished, she stood, smoothing her skirts down. She folded her hands in front of her. “Thank you,” she said to Cook. The other woman nodded, and a moment later Jeanne left the kitchen and the warm and welcoming group.

What was she to do in the meantime? She didn’t want to return to her room and remain there as she had all day yesterday. Turning, she walked down the hall, hearing her footsteps on the polished oak boards.

She stood at the entrance to the parlor, realizing that she hadn’t truly noticed her surroundings when she’d been here before. The room was lovely. There was not one discordant note about the entire chamber, and it had evidently been decorated with comfort in mind. The damask curtains were draped from the top of the window to the floor, the material matching that of several pillows arranged along the upholstered furniture in front of the large marble fireplace.

Two blue and white Chinese urns flanked either side of the fireplace. Now, of course, there was no fire, since the morning was warm. But the room was saved from stuffiness by the two windows open to let in the breeze. Below her feet was a richly patterned carpet that reminded her of the Lalange tapestry that had hung at Vallans. A creation of unimaginable beauty and age, it had faded over the years, acquiring a rich patina of beige, soft blue, and rose.

The parlor was both modest and luxurious, small touches like the gold bibelot boxes on the table between the chairs attesting to the wealth of its owner. But as warm and hospitable as it was, there was nothing here that revealed Douglas’s taste. Nothing that revealed anything intrinsically personal about him, and that lack was what she noticed the most.

She would have been surprised to see anything out of place, a pair of shoes under the table or a book carefully waiting for a reader, a half-empty cup.

Retracing her steps, Jeanne walked into the morning room. Smaller than the parlor, it boasted a wall covering of patterned silk in tones of pale yellow. A settee sat against one wall, while a chair sat adjacent to it, the two pieces of furniture separated by a heavily carved circular table. A sideboard sat against one wall opposite a row of windows. She went and stood there, looking out at the view facing the garden.

Not a garden, she realized an instant later, but rather a wild place filled with overgrown bushes and brambles and half-grown saplings. In the middle of the space was a tree, an oak with massive branches heavily laden with spring leaves.

There had been a tree on the convent property, set out in the field, all alone. There wasn’t anything about it to mark it as unique from other trees—it wasn’t appreciably larger, or endowed with more magnificent branches. Birds congregated there before a storm or at nightfall or daybreak and then flew away in a swift rush of uplifted wings.

But she could see the tree from her cell, and it had become a lodestone for her eyes, a way to mark the seasons. In winter it appeared stark, with its grayish-colored branches clawing at the sky. Spring saw it adorned with curling green leaves spiky with new life. Summer was the time of lush growth, when a canopy of sheltering leaves hid the branches from view. Autumn was the dying time of year, and the tree—her tree—seemed to grieve in the season. The branches hung lower; the leaves fell with a slow and solemn certainty in a soundless dirge as they covered the ground.

How strange to be reminded of that single, simple tree, and how sad that it was her only happy memory of nine years.

Turning, she walked back to the door of the morning room. A young maid emerged from behind one panel into the hall, startling her.

“Good morning, miss,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. With her clanking bucket and scrub brush, she disappeared into the morning room, leaving Jeanne standing in the hall.

The door to her right was closed, the brass handle newly polished and shining brightly, almost a lure for her to open it.

The combination of curiosity and loneliness proved too difficult to ignore. Jeanne pushed the door open and stepped into the room, closing the door hurriedly behind her.

Heavy velvet drapes obscured the windows and darkened the room. Here was, if not the soul of the house, then the mind of it. Mahogany bookshelves filled with gilded leatherbound books lined the walls. A massive carved rectangular desk faced the door.

Standing in front of it, she reached out and touched the wood, her fingers sliding over the satiny finish. In the middle of his desk lay a leather blotter, all four corners adorned with tooled leather. At the edge sat a crystal inkwell and next to it a set of quills all sharpened for his use. To her right was a curious lantern fixed with a black shade. Bending down to examine it, she realized that the amount of light could be adjusted by moving the central metal cylinder up and down.

On the left side of the desk sat a branch of candles, each contained within a shapely glass globe, the better to maximize light while keeping any wax from falling on the surface of the wood.

Slowly, she circled the desk and carefully pulled out the tufted burgundy leather chair. Resting her hands on either side of her, she felt the lion heads at the ends of the chair arms.

Douglas sat here, resting his hands in the very same place.

The house felt lonely without Douglas, and this room especially. Leaning back in the chair, she closed her eyes
and breathed in the scent of leather. A masculine room, one that mirrored Douglas more than the other chambers she’d seen.

When would he return?

Coming to this house, being with Douglas again, had already altered her life so that she felt caught between the past and the future, in some nebulous present that had no shape or form. Her mind counseled restraint—being here with Douglas was an interlude, no more. Yet her heart could not quite concur. Love didn’t remain dormant for long; it struggled to survive or it died.

In all this time, it had never died.

Opening her eyes, she surveyed the darkened room. Opposite the desk on the far wall was a fireplace, and this one was as ornately carved as the one in the parlor. Brass fireplace tools sat on one side of the hearth, while a large copper urn sat on the other. An upholstered fender welcomed the chilly visitor, urged him to come closer and sit before the fire. Farther back were two wing chairs, each covered in a deep burgundy cloth. Between the chairs was a curiously carved table in the shape of a crouching lion. On the marble top sat another branch of candles.

She stood slowly and made her way to the fireplace.

Above the mantel was an exquisite portrait of a young girl. The artist caught her smiling, almost as if she were getting ready to burst into laughter and restraining it by the greatest effort. Her brilliant blue eyes were dancing with mischief, her black hair hung in ringlets to her shoulders. In one hand she held a basket whose contents were revealed by a pair of shining eyes. A girl and her kitten.

Jeanne found herself smiling up at the picture. Going to the window, she drew back the curtains. A shaft of sunlight illuminated the portrait and as Jeanne stared into the vivid blue eyes of the little girl, she realized that it could only be Douglas’s daughter, Margaret.

The surge of grief she suddenly felt surprised her. Reaching out, she gripped the mantel to steady herself. The resemblance to Douglas was startling. The little girl had the same shade of hair, the same blue eyes, and his stubborn jaw. There was a tilt to her head that reminded Jeanne of Douglas, and even her mouth, formed in a smile, brought him to mind.

If she’d lived, her daughter would have been nine this year. The child in the portrait looked older.

Jeanne only had flashes of recall from the morning of her daughter’s birth. She remembered lying there marveling at the wrinkled infant on her stomach, tenderly covering her with both hands so that she wouldn’t be cold. Everything about her was perfect, from her wizened little face to the fists flailing in the air.

The midwife, however, had noticed something, some imperfection that she’d gleefully announced to the assembled women. “There’s a mark on her leg,” she called out. “A sign of the devil’s touch. A sure sign that she was conceived in sin.”

An indication of Jeanne’s fall from grace, that none of the servants in attendance around her had chastised the midwife for her words. Even Justine, tall and spare and judgmental, had not ventured to silence the old woman.

Jeanne had ignored them all, so entranced with this miracle that she hadn’t wanted anyone to sully it. True, there was a small birthmark, a crescent-shaped purple mark on her daughter’s leg, but it would no doubt fade in time.

Time, one of those precious commodities she’d taken for granted in those halcyon days of her innocence. What a foolish girl she’d been.

As she stared at the portrait of Margaret, Jeanne felt as if she’d been knifed, the pain so real that she glanced down at herself to make sure she hadn’t been wounded. She felt the same sense of horror standing there that she did on that
morning so long ago. Only moments after Jeanne experienced wonder at the tiny creation she and Douglas had created, Justine had taken the baby, wrapping her tightly in a swath of linen and leaving the room. Jeanne’s throat had been raw with her screams before she’d been force-fed a draught from the midwife.

Now she felt the same sense of helpless grief.

She stood there until her heart stopped pounding so hard and her breath came a little easier. The tears were more difficult to contain. Finally, she walked toward the window with the slow, heavy steps of an elderly person. Once the curtain was closed she stood in the darkness for several long moments, head bowed, trying to regain her composure.

Hearing a sound behind her, Jeanne glanced over her shoulder to see Betty entering the room. Before she could be chastised for being somewhere she shouldn’t be, she asked a question. “Did you know her mother?” She nodded toward the portrait, suddenly desperate to know more about Douglas’s wife.

When Betty didn’t answer her, Jeanne turned.

“It’s not a subject we discuss, miss,” Betty said, her expression guarded. “From the stories I’ve heard him tell Miss Margaret, he loved her very much.”

Jeanne brushed the fingers of both hands over her face, straightened her bodice, and forced a smile to her lips. “Thank you, Betty,” she said, once more composed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

The nurse nodded.

“You should enjoy this holiday,” Betty said. “Mr. Douglas said you were to be treated like a valued guest in his absence.”

“Then I shall,” Jeanne said, feeling herself warm at the comment. She left the room with Betty, deliberately not glancing at the portrait again.

Charles Talbot made his way to the Hartley home, returning the silverware he’d repaired. The bill was also discreetly attached, and he fervently hoped the housekeeper was prompt in paying it.

His most important reason for this errand, however, was to meet with the Comte’s daughter. If he was fortunate, he could convince her to allow him to handle the sale of the ruby without involving her father.

Five years ago, Talbot had married a lovely woman, a widow who was as charming as she had been wealthy. She had sickened and died a year ago, leaving him a rich man. Or so he’d thought. The interview with her solicitor had been startlingly simple and disconcerting.

“You’re not listed in her will,” he’d said, looking too amused for Charles’s peace of mind.

“I was her husband,” he’d protested.

“She left her estate to her sister.”

“But she can’t do that.” But to his amazement, Charles had discovered that she could.

These last years had not been prosperous ones. With the influx of French émigrés, he’d been hard-pressed to charge as much as he had previously for one of his designs. He’d had to dismiss two of his apprentices, and kept one only half days. Even that arrangement looked doubtful in the future unless he came up with a way to make some money.

The Somerville ruby might be exactly what he needed.

He didn’t, however, trust the Comte du Marchand, which was why he was here, knocking on the kitchen door of the Hartley home.

A young maid, her hair trapped in a starched white cap and her round face watchful as she bobbed a curtsy, opened the door to him.

He explained his errand, was directed to the housekeeper. Once he’d turned over the silverware and had his
work approved as well as his bill, he returned to the kitchen and asked a question of the same young maid.

“Is Miss du Marchand available?” he asked.

She frowned at him but answered nonetheless. “Oh, no, sir, she don’t work here no more. She left.”

He stared at her, uncomprehending. “What do you mean, she left?”

“She just walked out. No one knew until they went to her room. She wasn’t there.” She glanced behind her and then looked both ways as if afraid of being overheard. “I’ve never seen Mr. Hartley so angry,” she whispered.

“Where did she go?”

She shrugged, and then shook her head. “No one knows. Not a letter, not a word.”

Had the Comte du Marchand gotten to her first? He withdrew a coin from his pocket, one he could scarcely afford to part with, and smiled at the young maid. “Take this,” he said, putting the coin in her hand. “If you hear anything, send word to me, and I’ll match that coin with another.”

She bobbed another curtsy, her eyes wide. “I will, sir,” she said. “I promise.”

He gave her his name and address, and left the house, annoyed and dispirited by the fruitlessness of today’s errand. Not only was he desperate to locate the Somerville ruby, it now appeared that he also needed to find the Comte’s daughter.

T
he sky was deep blue and cloudless. The wind came out of the north, blowing him home to Gilmuir. Douglas stood at the bow of the ship and watched as they approached the fortress, recalling, as he always did, his first sight of the restored structure his brother Alisdair had brought back to life.

He’d been seventeen, recently recalled from France by his father. The elder MacRae had been annoyed at the length of his youngest son’s stay in Paris and more than willing to take Douglas to Scotland. Ten years ago, aboard the ship with his mother and father, Douglas had looked up and seen, as he did now, the great golden rock topped with a magnificent edifice. Towers on all four corners marked the perimeter of the peninsula on which it stood. Closer to the loch was the priory, its arched windows gleaming with stained glass.

Six years ago, they had held the memorial for their parents in that place, and it had felt hallowed, almost as if he were standing in the shadow of God. All five MacRae brothers had been there, solemn and adult, yet all of them feeling bereft and abandoned.

The journey down the firth was a slow one. It took three days to reach Gilmuir by land from Edinburgh, and only a day by water. But he still had hours in which to view the sights before him, time enough to wonder at the fact that he’d escaped Edinburgh and was at Gilmuir a week early. He chose not to think of Jeanne. Instead, his memory conjured up his first visit here, when he’d been seventeen and miserable. He had known, then, that Jeanne was with child, but that was all the information he had. He had gone to see her one last time before he was due to meet his family. He’d wanted, fool that he was, for her to come with him. An elopement, if the Comte would have it no other way.

Instead of seeing Jeanne, however, he had only met Justine.

He’d finally divulged the story to his parents, and they, in turn, had sought fit to spread the entire tale to his brothers. The MacRae family had, as they always did, banded together. If hurt was imposed on one, it was felt by all. A few weeks later, he’d left Gilmuir with his brother Hamish and Hamish’s wife, Mary, determined to return to France as soon as he could.

The ship, one of his own fleet, rode the currents of the firth with ease. Alisdair had designed the
Edinburgh Lass
; the MacRae shipyards had created it. Now he braced his legs apart, his hands behind his back, easily keeping his balance while his mind recalled his one and only visit to Vallans.

Seven months, four days, and three hours after he’d vowed to return to France, he’d reached the du Marchand chateau, only to discover that Jeanne was gone. He’d spent a week trying to find out what had happened to both Jeanne and his child. A young stableboy had finally succumbed to a large bribe, telling Douglas what he’d seen. Jeanne had left Vallans weeks ago for an unknown destination, but the child was located nearby.

The memory of finding his daughter would remain with him forever. The woodcutter’s hut was located not far from Vallans, on the edge of the forest. The doorway into the cottage was so low that Douglas had to stoop in order to enter. After his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he realized that the space was even smaller than it had appeared from the outside. The bricks were loose in several places, allowing patches of light, the only illumination in the hovel. The furnishings were sparse, a rough-hewn wooden table, two chairs, and a sagging cot located behind a curtain.

“What do you want?” a quavering female voice had asked. She was pressed against the brick wall, gripping her apron with her fists, a look of fear on her face. Beside her stood a stoop-shouldered man clutching a pipe between both hands as if it were the greatest treasure of his life.

He’d not expected the inhabitants to be so old.

“You have a child here, the daughter of Jeanne du Marchand. Where is she?”

The couple glanced at each other, but neither moved to speak.

“Is your silence worth dying for?”

He heard Mary’s surprised gasp, but didn’t move to reassure her that he had no intention of killing the old woman and her husband. If they didn’t produce his daughter he might kill them after all.

“We were given the child,” the old woman said, sending him a quick, appraising glance.

“I’m taking her back.”

“She’s like our own daughter.”

“She
is
my daughter.”

The old man began to sidle away. A tiny mewling cry from the cot alerted him, and Douglas pushed back the curtain and stared down in revulsion at the sight that met his eyes.

He bent closer, a wave of nausea passing over him. He had not been around many infants in his life, but Douglas knew that what he was looking at was unnatural.

The infant was little more than a skeleton. The flies that buzzed around her face no doubt weighed more. Tufts of black hair covered her tiny head, and when she blinked up at him her MacRae blue eyes silenced any doubt he might have had about her parentage.

Mary came to his side and would have reached out and scooped up the child in her arms had he not stopped her.

“No,” he said, nearly incapable of speech. Emotions flooded through him—joy that his mission had succeeded, horror that his daughter looked as if she would not live the night. Above all, he was filled with rage for Jeanne du Marchand, who had left Vallans with no thought for her child.

“I’ll carry her,” he said and gently lifted the infant, ignoring everything but the look in her brilliant blue eyes. She fixed her gaze on him as if she knew he was saving her. Her head was too big for her body, and as he stared at her emaciated form in disbelief, one tiny hand reached out and almost touched him. He cradled her in his arms, bent his head and kissed the tiny fist.

She couldn’t be more than a month old or maybe two and lighter than a breath; such a small and weightless burden that when she closed her eyes he thought she’d died. His heart pounded in a rapid, panicked beat until she moved again. Only then did he lift his gaze to the old couple.

“Did you never feed her?” His voice sounded calm, almost rational, a remarkable feat considering that he wanted to kill both of them.

“She’s a picky eater, sir,” the old woman said. She bent her knees in an awkward curtsy. “And the money the woman gave us ran out. We couldn’t hire a wet nurse.”

Mary used her kerchief as a makeshift blanket, covering the baby in his arms.

“Can we save her?” he asked, glancing at her.

His sister-in-law’s look was too compassionate, her brown eyes revealing the truth.

But then the baby blinked her eyes and looked up at him. There, in his daughter’s face, he saw the shadow of his parents and his brothers. She was a MacRae and he prayed that she had the strong will of all MacRaes.

“Live,” he whispered to her. “Please, live.”

She was his child, but he had never expected to feel the overwhelming sense of protectiveness that he did at this moment. Nor had he thought to love her instantly and completely.

“We’ll save her,” Douglas said to his sister-in-law. “We will.”

Instead of speaking, instead of giving him countless reasons why such a miracle would not happen, she only nodded, tears swimming in her eyes.

“What is her name?” he demanded of the couple.

The old man merely shook his head while his wife shrugged, the outline of her bony shoulders showing beneath her shawl.

“We’ve never named her,” she said. “But you can, if you wish, sir,” she added, grinning at him, revealing the brown stubs of her teeth.

He shook his head in disgust. Settling the infant in his arms more firmly, Douglas headed for the door.

“You can’t be taking her, sir,” the old woman said, clearly alarmed. “What if someone finds out that she’s gone?”

“I doubt anyone will come looking for her.”

Anger for everything French nearly overpowered him. He hated the country, the people, even the language.
Everything except for the child he cradled in his arms, so slight that she might have been a ghost of herself.

A moment later he emerged from the dark hovel to the sunlight, Mary following. The old woman followed them to where his brother Hamish stood beside their horses.

“Pay them,” Douglas said and waited until Mary mounted before handing up his daughter.

Hamish withdrew a small leather bag from his waistcoat and tossed it to the woman. She opened it quickly and gasped at the amount of gold coins resting inside. There was enough money to keep her and her husband for the rest of their lives.

“You don’t deserve it,” Douglas said, glancing over his shoulder. “But this amount will buy your silence. Tell anyone, if they bother to ask, that she died. I doubt anyone will want proof.”

The old woman nodded eagerly.

“Bless you, sir,” the old man called from his position by the door.

Douglas didn’t turn at his words. Instead, he mounted and then held out his arms. Mary reached over and gave him his daughter.

“It’s a miracle she’s alive,” Mary said, one hand smoothing his coated arm, the other resting lightly on the kerchief covering his daughter.

Weeks had passed before they’d known if she would survive.

Douglas had never considered that he might hate as deeply as he loved. Not until the moment he’d taken his daughter into his arms and looked down at that tiny, wizened face. He’d known then that he would forever hate Jeanne du Marchand for what she’d done.

Where had that hatred gone?

As if he’d summoned Margaret with his memories, he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. The blur be
came a green dress and flowing black curls as she raced across the glen, followed by two bigger boys.

He felt the door to his heart creaking open once again.

Watching impatiently as the sailors lowered the anchor, he waited until they approached the dock like a lumbering and cautious tortoise. Before the ropes were lowered and tied off, Douglas swung himself over the side and climbed the rope ladder down to the pier.

Margaret had disappeared, but he knew where she would be, the same place she always was when he came to take her back to Edinburgh.

He didn’t have the affinity for Gilmuir that Margaret had. She reminded him of his mother, and the tales she’d often told of the old fortress when he was a boy. Or perhaps she was more like Moira MacRae, his grandmother, who’d been a skilled horsewoman, married an English Earl but still returned every summer to her home in Scotland.

Sometimes, when Margaret spoke of the fortress, her eyes lit up and her face glowed. To his daughter, there was no place in the world as grand as Gilmuir.

Alisdair had spent years restoring the ancestral home of the MacRaes. Douglas often suspected that Gilmuir was more magnificent now than it had ever been.

Every summer, the brothers, their wives, and their children united at Gilmuir. All of the MacRaes made a point of coming together for a month in order to strengthen familial ties. None of them wanted to forget the legacy that had brought them home to Scotland.

James returned from his village of Ayleshire. Brendan and his brood traveled in two coaches from Inverness. Even Hamish and Mary scheduled their voyages in order to return to Scotland in time. Because Mary would never set foot on Scottish soil, they made a point of meeting aboard Hamish’s ship to greet her, a reunion Douglas never missed. He would always be grateful to Mary, cer
tain that Margaret was alive today because of his sister-in-law’s knowledge and skill with healing.

Although he saw his brothers often during the year and their wives occasionally, returning to Gilmuir was special. Douglas always felt a surge of memory—recollections of his parents, his great-uncle, and all the tales he’d been taught as a boy growing up in Nova Scotia. His MacRae heritage was here in the soil, the very air of Gilmuir.

He left the dock and took the cobbled path. To the right it wound up to the top of the hill and to Gilmuir. Straight ahead lay the trail to the land bridge and the glen. Below him was the necklace of rocks, a chain of massive blackened stones emerging from the bottom of the loch. Beyond the rocks was a cove once kept secret but now used to test new hull designs for the MacRae shipyards. The sunlight glinted off the deep blue water, the reflection striking the cliff walls.

Chips of silver embedded in the stone reminded him of Jeanne’s eyes.

Once, he’d wanted to punish her, as if by inflicting pain he could right the wrongs she’d caused. As the years had passed, gratitude for Margaret’s survival and love for his daughter had softened his rage, only to have it return at the sight of her.

Before he left Edinburgh he and Jeanne had not yet admitted their past to one another, as if each knew what must follow if they did so. Jeanne would have to confess what she’d done, and he would have to destroy her.

He should have held her at arm’s length. Instead, he’d bedded her not once but twice. She’d proven to be such an irresistible lure that he’d found himself fleeing from her, arriving at Gilmuir before he was expected.

She was there in his mind, however, so strong that she might have stood beside him, her hand on his arm. In fact, when Alisdair suddenly stepped into the path to greet him,
Douglas was surprised that his older brother didn’t remark upon her presence.

“You look tired,” Alisdair said, clapping him on the back. “You’ve been working too hard, Douglas. Don’t we have enough money?”

He smiled in response to Alisdair’s familiar quip.

“Mary will have you drinking all sorts of possets and potions to keep up your strength.”

“They’re here?” he asked, surprised.

Alisdair nodded. “They’re as early as you.”

The years had been kind to Alisdair. His hair had a little more silver at the temples, his face bore a few more lines, but other than that he didn’t look appreciably older. Iseabal, his wife, had the same good fortune. Her hair hadn’t changed color, and only a few lines appeared at the corners of her eyes, a testament to her habit of smiling often.

Alisdair reminded Douglas of their father, capable of achieving a commanding presence without speaking a word. Perhaps it was because he was the oldest brother of five. Or maybe because he’d inherited their father’s title, and was an English Earl in addition to being master of Gilmuir.