So in Love (21 page)

D
ouglas had never thought himself a man needing to bolster his confidence by boasting, but he found himself ordering his best barouche to be readied. Ever since Jeanne had sent him a carefully worded note, he’d been preparing for this outing. The journey to his warehouse was neither a difficult nor a long one, and could easily have been accomplished in a lesser carriage. But he wanted to impress her, only one symptom of losing his mind.

He had found reasons to go to the schoolroom often. A precaution, he told himself—as a girl, she’d turned her back on Margaret. But the governess seemed to genuinely care for her young charge.

The two sides of her character were not easily fit together, and he had some bad moments attempting to do so.

It was as if she knew, somehow, that every word she said and every act she performed was measured against a memory. The Jeanne of his youth in many ways matched with the woman she had become now. But there was still something wrong, and that disparity was keeping him awake at night.

Who was Jeanne du Marchand?

The girl he remembered had wanted to know everything. She was genuinely curious about his studies, and they argued vociferously about certain points of Immanuel Kant and other philosophers, finding themselves equally matched in education and intelligence. This Jeanne was more circumspect but just as curious. He’d discovered that she’d borrowed several books from his library, subjects that he found himself wanting to debate with her.

The younger Jeanne had loved with abandon, and so did this woman, shrouded as she was in mystery and an almost palpable aura of sorrow.

At times, though not often enough, this woman had the same tilted sense of humor, seeing the ridiculous and glorying in the absurd, not unlike the girl she’d been.

The discordance came when he attempted to understand her actions. Once, he’d thought her heartless and uncaring, but now he could see the warmth and gentleness she evinced when she taught Margaret. She’d been as nurturing with Hartley’s child, he remembered.

Then what had happened ten years ago? Had he been wrong all this time? The longer he spent in her presence, the more questions were unearthed, until Douglas wasn’t entirely certain what the truth was.

He gave them a quarter hour, consulting his pocket watch from time to time and pacing in front of his house. The day was a fine one, the air warm out of the north, the breeze such that he could almost imagine himself far from Edinburgh and its thickly populated streets.

Hearing a sound, he turned to find Margaret racing down the steps, a bright and expectant smile on her face. A surge of love overwhelmed him and he opened up his arms. She jumped into them, just as she had since the time she learned to walk.

“One day you’ll get too big for this, Meggie,” he said,
knowing that he should expect much more decorous behavior from her. But there was time enough for growing up, a hundred years from now when he could bear the thought of losing her to adulthood.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. “Sometimes,” she said, sighing, “I think I’ll never grow up.”

“Do not hasten the years, I beg you, Meggie,” he teased. “I do not wish to be acquainted with the prospect of old age quite yet.”

She tilted her head much like an inquisitive bird. “You shall always be the most handsome man in the world, Papa, even with white hair and a beard trailing down to the floor.”

He laughed, wondering when she’d become so adept at flattery. “You are hinting at something, I think,” he said, settling her on the step. “Could it be because it’s your birthday soon?”

Mary had chosen her birth date, both of them uncertain exactly when she was born. With a touch of irony, he realized that the woman standing there so silent and demure was the one person who knew the correct date.

“How old will you be, Margaret?” Jeanne asked. “Ten?”

Margaret only giggled. He studied Jeanne as she smiled down at his daughter, and wondered why she couldn’t see what was so obvious. Reaching out her hand, she brushed her fingers over Margaret’s shoulder. A telling movement, an almost protective gesture.

Surprisingly, it infuriated him.

He speared a hand through his hair and told himself that he was being an idiot. He should be pleased at Jeanne’s show of affection, and her solicitousness toward Margaret. Instead, he wanted to go to ask her why it had taken her so long to feel protective about her daughter. Why had she never done so before? Why had she nearly killed her?

She was the only person in the world who could push
him past the boundaries of his restraint. She had that power when she was a girl, and she still retained it. Perhaps that’s why he was suddenly enraged.

He was not some poor dumb beast to be led to the slaughter. But he was acting the besotted fool, vacillating between lust and irritation. Entering the carriage, he sat with his back to the horses, surveying the two of them.

Anyone would know, seeing them, that they were related. Although Margaret looked more like his side of the family, she had gestures that reminded him of Jeanne, a quick upturn of her chin, a bright white infectious grin, and a laugh that was strangely echoing of her mother’s.

Sometimes he thought Jeanne was willfully blind to her own child.

He frowned at her but she didn’t look in his direction. She had never, until a few nights ago, discussed the past. Nor had she once mentioned the child she had carried. He couldn’t help but wonder, though, if she was ever awakened with nightmares like Margaret. Did she ever feel the pinch of her conscience? Did she never once wish that she had acted differently, with more regard, with more compassion? With more charity?

“What are we going to see, Papa?”

“You’ll have to be patient,” he said, forcing a smile to his face.

She turned to Jeanne. “The last time I went, there were these beautiful carved masks, Miss du Marchand. And balls that sounded like the wind when you shook them.”

“I believe they had sand in them,” Douglas contributed.

“There are skins from lions and tigers, and great tusks from elephants. But you must take care, Miss du Marchand, never to get lost,” she said, repeating the very instructions he had given her on her first visit to the warehouse. She had been five, he recalled, and overwhelmed with the sheer size
of the buildings. Now, however, she knew every single nook and cranny of them.

The sound of the horses’ hooves on the cobbles was oddly loud. There wasn’t that much traffic in this part of the city. They traveled west on Princess Street, the thoroughfare seeming unbalanced because there were buildings only on the south side, giving the residents an unfettered view of Edinburgh castle.

New Town was comprised of straight streets, crescents, and squares, carefully planned in order to provide spacious surroundings for the more affluent of Edinburgh’s inhabitants. Those who could not afford the Palladian structures lived in the narrow streets and closes of Old Town to the southeast.

As he watched, Jeanne smiled at something Margaret said and pointed to Edinburgh Castle nestled on the hill above the city. He didn’t hear her words, but it was no doubt some bit of lore or legend she imparted. Her eyes were lively now, and her smile quick. No mystery surrounded her, no sadness. The role of governess fit her well enough, while that of mother had, no doubt, proven too difficult.

The more he knew about her, the more confused he became.

L
eith was Edinburgh’s seaport, a bustling scene of both oceangoing and coastal vessels. The MacRae docks took up a sizable portion of the harbor, and today a series of ships sat ready to be offloaded. Nearby, the warehouses had
MACRAE BROTHERS
painted on the roofs in black letters large enough that they could be seen for miles.

There was no doubt that the MacRaes were a presence in Leith and the whole of Scotland.

The newest goods were stored in the far warehouse to the right. Fifty-seven clerks employed by MacRae Brothers worked in the building to the left. The middle structure was set aside for sorting the offloaded cargo. Some items would be stored and other merchandise would be delivered to shopkeepers and individuals who had pre-ordered it. The most precious freight, including gold bars and silver ingots, was kept locked in the vault in Douglas’s second-floor office.

Douglas had always believed that the success of MacRae Brothers was based, in large part, on the seventy-odd men who worked for him. Each individual, Douglas
believed, wanted two things in his life—some measure of contentment and his freedom. He provided a portion of the former by providing a decent wage for a decent day’s work.

Once, he’d thought that sailing with Hamish had taught him the lessons he’d needed to know about men and life. But the last six years had become a schoolroom for him, and his establishment of MacRae Brothers a daily lesson. The Edinburgh community had looked on some of his ideas with surprise and occasionally some criticism.

When a man was experiencing financial hardship, Douglas felt he should offer a helping hand. After learning of a man’s loss of his home, Douglas had established an emergency fund available to any man in his employ who needed it. Surprisingly, it was rarely touched except in cases of extreme hardship.

Additionally, Douglas began a rotating schedule, making it possible for a man to earn a day’s pay without working from dawn to dusk. An employee could choose his own hours within a certain framework of time. Sundays were always holidays, and if a ship arrived, it waited to be offloaded until the next working day.

He gave a man time off when a child was born or a loved one ill, innovations that were not replicated elsewhere in Edinburgh or Leith. He attended every wedding, funeral, and christening for family members, and had been named the godparent of nine children in the last six years.

The changes he’d instituted had not only led to a stable work force but a feeling that MacRae Brothers was a large and friendly family. Men did not leave his company, and when there were positions posted, it was normal for a hundred men or more to apply.

The barouche halted in front of the middle building. Douglas exited the carriage first, followed by an impatient Margaret and, lastly, Jeanne. He held out his hand to help
her from the carriage, and she laid her gloved fingers upon it. He could feel the heat of her hand through the linen and wondered if the rest of her was as fevered to the touch. Paradoxically, he was glad she’d dressed with such restraint today, and yet wished she had not. Not one button was undone, not one tress of hair loose. Even the ribbon of her bonnet was tied with a tight little knot beneath her chin.

A proper woman, past the first blush of youth, perhaps. But a woman with knowledge in her eyes, wisdom, and other emotions that he couldn’t decipher. She was a mystery, a riddle, and an irritant.

They shared a look and then she withdrew her fingers. Not quickly as if she were offended, but one by one, drawing them across his palm in an almost taunting gesture.

He squeezed the tips of her fingers, noting her quick look of surprise. Her gaze dropped, shielding her eyes from him. Only the sudden bloom of color on her pale cheeks revealed her reaction.

Releasing her hand, he stepped back, turning and leading the way.

Margaret, however, had another idea. She tucked her hand into his, and then grabbed Jeanne’s until they walked three abreast. The fact that Margaret linked the two of them disturbed him on an elemental level. His daughter, unknowing, was replicating the truth.

Of the three of them, Margaret was the only innocent. She held nothing back, revealing to the world a lexicon of emotions. When she was excited, enthusiastic, or joyful everyone knew it. Nor was she shy about letting anyone know she was in pain or hurt, whether it be a physical ailment or an ache of the heart. He never wanted to dampen that great joy she felt about life, nor did he want to force her into hiding her emotions like her mother so ably did.

The convent had done that to Jeanne, or perhaps life itself. He’d never asked her about those days and now he
wondered if she would have told him. There was a reticence to Jeanne that his curiosity couldn’t shatter.

“Good afternoon, sir,” a man called out from a booth in front of the center warehouse. Douglas approached him, smiling.

“Good morning, Jim.”

The man who greeted him had a tanned face filled with wrinkles and neatly queued white hair. His bearing was that of a much younger man, with level shoulders and a ramrod-straight back. Jim was proud of his military past, having served for many years in one of the Highland regiments.

“Good morning, Miss Margaret,” the older man said. “Have you come to see the new goods?”

“I have, Mr. McManus,” she said, slipping her hand from Douglas’s grip and waving to him. “This is my governess, Miss du Marchand.” She pointed toward the dock. “Is that
The Sherbourne Lass
?”

Jim tipped his hat to Jeanne, and then turned to answer Margaret. “It is, miss. Came in a few hours ago.”

“Jim is our watchman,” Douglas said in an aside to Jeanne. “He performs security for the company. Jim guards the warehouse and makes sure no one enters who should not.”

“Then I should feel fortunate to have been invited.”

“I never thought you a thief, Jeanne.”

She glanced at him curiously.

“Is Henry about?” he asked Jim.

“He is, sir. He’ll be at the pilot’s house. Do you want me to fetch him?”

“No,” he answered. “I’ll find him if I need him.”

“I’ll tell him you’re here, sir.”

“Do that,” he said. “And say hello to Paulina for me.”

The other man nodded, evidently pleased. “I’ll do that, sir. She asks about you every time I go home.”

“Jim’s wife,” he explained to Jeanne. “She’s a sweet lady who bakes me tarts.”

“Does she?” she asked, looking amused.

An archway topped the two massive doors of the warehouse. As he pushed open one of the doors, he saw Jeanne read the Latin inscription. A moment later, she smiled.

Her education had been eclectic and extensive.

“I speak the English of England and the German of Germany,” she’d said once.

“Is that why you don’t have an accent?” From the beginning he’d been fascinated that she sounded as proper as a duchess when she spoke English.

She had nodded, looking serious and sober, and altogether too kissable. “I’m not to have one,” she’d replied. “To have an accent is to offer insult to the person with whom you’re speaking. Besides, my mother was English, although my father would rather forget that fact. And my nurse was German.”

“What about Latin?” he teased.

“You know as well as I that no one speaks it anymore. The closest I come is Italian.”

She would be able to easily translate the motto inscribed in the stone above the door. The five MacRae brothers had taken the original clan motto of
FORTITUDE
and expanded it to
OUR FAMILY, OUR STRENGTH
.

He stood aside as Margaret entered the warehouse, followed more sedately by Jeanne. At first the place was dark, a sweet-smelling cave of unimaginable riches, of pungent aromas and shimmering fabrics. After his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Douglas led them down the center aisle.

“Do you not employ anyone here?” Jeanne asked.

“It’s lunchtime, Miss du Marchand,” Margaret said. “Everyone’s in the dining hall.”

“Do you think me a poor employer?” Douglas asked at
Jeanne’s look of surprise. “I value the people who work for me. Or did you expect to find people in chains?”

She shook her head but didn’t say anything, which was, to him, a thoroughly unsatisfactory response. He wanted to impress her, another clue to his mental instability around her. He wanted her to stop and stare around her in wonder. Seven years ago MacRae Brothers hadn’t existed and he had built it all with his own sweat and sleepless nights. Although any of his brothers might have assisted him had he asked, he had preferred to accomplish his goal by himself, a certain independence of spirit that characterized him as a MacRae.

She didn’t realize, of course, that he’d never brought another woman here. Only his sisters-in-law, and their opinion of him and what he’d accomplished, while valuable, wasn’t as important as hers right at this moment.

Another reason to be irritated, he discovered. Because in the next few moments she didn’t say anything, didn’t exclaim in wonder, didn’t even look appreciably impressed. After all, she was the Comte du Marchand’s daughter, and used to the finest of everything.

Margaret was asking him a question, and he shook himself mentally, directing his attention toward his daughter.

His mood had soured, and that further irritated him. These outings to the warehouse had always been filled with amusement and Margaret’s delight. He didn’t want anything to spoil that, not even his disappointment at Jeanne’s reaction.

He watched both of them as Margaret accompanied Jeanne down the main aisle of the warehouse. His daughter exclaimed over the various things she saw, new acquisitions since her last visit.

“Look, Miss du Marchand.” Her fingers trailed over the surface of an intricately woven carpet. “Look at all the colors,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

His daughter was a born merchant, her eyes lighting with interest on the shipment of silk. But she stopped in front of the ironwork, newly imported from West Africa, her small fingers trailing over the filigree.

Huge sacks of pepper perfumed the air as they passed one aisle. Crates of carved ivory and finely worked iron fishhooks led to a row of curiously wrapped articles.

“What are those, Papa?” Margaret asked.

He unwrapped the brightly patterned cloth, revealing a weapon worked in iron.

“It’s a short sword,” he said, reaching for another, taller wrapped bundle. “This is a spear,” he said.

“It’s not from Benin in Africa, Papa?” Margaret asked, evidently recalling his lectures during other visits to the warehouse.

“No,” he said, proud that she remembered. “Although the workmanship is similar.”

Margaret nodded before peering around him. “Papa doesn’t trade with Benin, Miss du Marchand. No one who sails for MacRae Brothers is allowed to trade with them.”

Jeanne looked inquiringly at Douglas.

“The major economic activity of Benin is slavery,” he explained. “They make raids on their own people, and then sell them to Europeans.”

“MacRaes don’t buy slaves, Miss du Marchand,” Margaret said, sounding far more advanced than her years.

Jeanne smiled at Margaret, and it appeared to Douglas that her look was filled with approval.

“Uncle Hamish was a slave once,” Margaret confided to Jeanne in a voice that was meant to be a whisper, he was certain. Nevertheless, he heard her well enough, and turned to give her a censorious look. “Papa doesn’t like to talk about it.” Another confidence. This time, he didn’t bother glancing at her.

“Benin seems a barbaric country,” Jeanne said.

He smiled thinly. “Do not think Scotland so free of barbarism, Miss du Marchand. Dissent is not allowed here. And France has not proven itself to be civilized of late.”

And what about her form of barbarism? Now was not the time for a confrontation, but he found himself wanting to ask why she’d acted as she had, handing over her newborn infant to be fostered when it was so evident that the child wouldn’t survive. How dainty of her to commit murder with no blood on her hands. But it wasn’t the place, especially with Margaret looking at the two of them with such unabashed interest.

He replaced the spear and short sword, making a mental note that they should be unwrapped and polished before delivering them to the collectors who’d ordered them.

Edinburgh was a wealthy city. Curiosity about other cultures and a desire to collect items from other countries had led to the continued success of MacRae Brothers. Originally, the warehouse had held only the staples and necessities of life. In the last five years, however, their inventory had increased to incorporate the odd and the unusual.

Turning, he led the way deeper into the building, Margaret at his side. When he didn’t hear footsteps behind him, he glanced over his shoulder to see that Jeanne had stopped and was looking about her with interest. Several large rugs were arrayed on top of bundles of hemp and large kettledrums.

“You really do import everything, don’t you?”

“Wait until you see the spice locker, Miss du Marchand,” Margaret said. “And the tea chest. It’s a huge room with hundreds and hundreds of tiny little drawers. And the gold vault.”

Douglas laughed and placed both hands on Margaret’s shoulders. “Perhaps your governess is not as fascinated as you or I, Meggie.”

She tilted back her head to look at him. “Oh, Papa, how could anyone
not
be?”

“There you have it,” he said, glancing at Jeanne. “You are hereby commanded to be enthralled.”

“But I am,” she said, smiling at both of them. She looked at Margaret. “What do you think I should see next?”

His daughter seemed to consider the matter. It would be the gold, he knew. She was fascinated by the array of ingots, not for the wealth they represented but their color and heaviness. He waited until she spoke, and when she announced her decision, he hid his smile.

“The vault, I think. The gold first and then the spice locker.”

“The vault it is,” Douglas said.

He turned and led the way to the stairs. This staircase was wide, the steps deep, purposely designed this way to make it easy for the workers to transport heavy merchandise up to the second floor.