Chapter 9

9

J une arrived with as much inspiration as Scotland could muster. Amid the lush green in every direction, Orin spent time hawking and riding with the laird, content to lay down his pen but for the unwelcome reminder of the king's birthday. He countered this with thoughts of how to bring books to the Lowlands but thus far he hadn't any idea how to begin. The prospect seemed overwhelming yet whet his determination to see it done.

For now, the social season loomed. Wedderburn Castle's ball was a day away and the servants were busy transforming the public rooms into spotless, fragrant bowers by bringing in the outdoors. More crystal vases than he could count adorned the space, waiting for cut flowers from both garden and summerhouse.

Lord Lovell hadn't returned but Charis seemed too preoccupied to dwell on his absence. Dressmakers and milliners came and went with all their colorful goods. Daughters were expensive, Orin decided. Moreso than sons.

"Is this your entire trousseau or simply dresses for the season?" he teased his niece after finding her in the family drawing room in a rare idle moment.

She smiled. "Perhaps both."

"As for me, I believe I've brought my tailored best." But he wasn't sure as he had no manservant to confirm. What he wore or anyone else wore for that matter had never concerned him till now.

With a sigh, Charis bit her lip. "My fear is that you'll find us a rustic backwater after London's drawing rooms."

"Refreshing, rather." He had few fond memories of society. "Protocol is stifling."

"Needs be I ponder something other than this debut." She sat at a table spread with newspapers and magazines. "Have you read the latest issue of Tatler ?"

"Nay, but something tells me you have."

"You forgot to point out it contains a bit of your own verse."

"Hardly worth mentioning."

"I beg to differ … " She began thumbing through the magazine. "There's another worthy here who caught my eye called the one-armed poet ."

"Another anonymous writer afraid to pen their own name?" Orin took a chair across from her. "There's a rash of them."

"Do you know of any poet missing an appendage?"

"Nary a one." He took the magazine from her and read a stanza. Pretty. Witty. Even elegant. And startlingly familiar—or was he only imagining it? It made the dry well of his own creativity even drier. He feigned disinterest.

She took back the paper. "I saw you coming out of the tower. Inspiration abounds there, I hope."

"The auld library always draws me."

"Father has threatened to tear it down but Mama won't hear of it since it was her place of refuge during the rebellion."

"Where she was secreted after fleeing England, aye. And where I discovered her after originally believing her to be a water kelpie in the garden."

"A charming story."

"I side with your mother about preserving the place and attest your father is more sentimental than he appears."

"Beneath that gruff soldierly exterior lies a tender heart, yes. I ken my leaving will go hard on him as the only daughter."

He winked. "Only till you bring home grandchildren."

She smiled and crossed her arms, just like the laird would do. An unladylike pose, though Charis was thoroughly ladylike. "I want you to pray Lord Lovell back."

He chuckled despite the sudden soreness in his chest. "The Almighty and I are not on the best terms lately."

"Oh?" Compassion shone on her lovely face. Charis had the rare faith of a child.

"God seems … distant," he admitted.

"God never moves, Uncle. You are too much in the world, perhaps."

Was he? He loathed London. Mayhap there was the rub as Shakespeare said.

"Mama says there are seasons of life." She looked at him searchingly. "Perhaps 'tis a change you need, and I'm not talking about a social season."

His gaze swung to a window, the day beckoning them outdoors. He should go for a ride. Clear his head. Not confide in Charis as an equal when she was his much younger niece.

"What do you wish for, Uncle Orin?"

"Wish for?" A fanciful question. "I ken what I don't wish for–the city. I want to live far from London and Edinburgh and surround myself with books."

"As a lonely bachelor?"

"Nay. Society hasn't pushed me that far. I not only want to surround myself with books, I want to make books available to others." The more he entertained the notion the more firmly it took hold of him. If he pursued that ambition he could more easily bow out of being Poet Laureate. Forsake England altogether.

"You're ready to return to Scotland, sounds like. I overheard Father offer you one of his lesser properties—or the gatehouse."

"The gatehouse full of ghosts."

She laughed. "No one's lived there since Grandmother's lady's companion half a century ago." She tugged at his sleeve. "Let's go have a look, shall we?"

Maryn sat in the now familiar chair at the now familiar desk in Grandfather's cabinet. The round chamber was at its best bathed in light. Now almost summer, crimson blooms smothered the upper windowpanes as climbing roses reached summer heights. But it was the desk that drew her … or rather the letters.

A low fire burned in the grate, enough of a blaze to burn the stack of letters that gave her no rest. No need to read them, just be rid of them and thereby close the door on the past with such finality it could never be reopened.

Quickly, lest she change her mind, Maryn pulled the handle of the main drawer, reached to the back for the fleur-de-lis and pressed it, springing the lock. Letters in hand, she got up and went to the hearth, a marvel of marble that momentarily distracted her with its ornate cupids and festoons of flowers. Pressing the letters to her bodice in a moment of angst, she extended the stack to the flames.

And then snatched them back.

Indecision pummeled her. Worse than burning them was never knowing what Orin had said. But old as they were, what did it matter?

Pulling the topmost letter free of the ribbon tie—were they in order?—she secreted the rest in their hiding place. Her fingers nearly shook as she broke the seal. Five years had faded the ink and deeply creased the paper.

17 December, 1735

Dear Maryn,

Mayhap I should address you by your title of lady but in truth, we are long past any formalities. I'll cut to the heart of the matter and say I shall never be the same for Herschel's loss nor absolve myself of my part in his death nor your injuries. For the rest of my life I will want to turn back time and take away that rash moment and spare you and your family the shattering consequences. I can neither forgive myself nor ask for your forgiveness. All I can offer are a few broken-hearted sentences here.

Your entire, Orin Hume

The words blurred and Maryn blinked back tears. The carefree life they'd once shared had been lost to them. There was no returning to it. And no logical reason to cling to the letters.