Chapter 12

12

O rin took a saddled Septimus from the stables, past the arched west gate and mile-long drive onto the Merse. He skirted a spruce wood to gain open parkland and then Langton Burn, a winding stream near the burial place of a medieval Hume. Here he halted, looking down at the pile of stone atop a fallen warrior of long ago. A reminder of Fast Castle, another ancient relic that hugged the coast. An oft repeated couplet from boyhood came to mind.

Fastcastle, firm and sure,

On the rock will aye endure.

It belonged to the Humes still, a shattered hulk battered by incessant winds that threatened to topple what little remained into the North Sea. Once he'd fancied restoring it but the laird had laughed heartily and called him daft. A dreamer. He was certainly guilty of the latter.

He rode toward the sea, past tenants bringing home dried peats or laboring in the fields amid grazing livestock. He breathed in a dozen earthy scents, moor grass and Lady's-mantle rising to his horse's flanks. He nearly trespassed on Lockhart land. Midsummer was at hand, the stuff of poetry and legend and … romance.

No sooner had he thought it than a figure on horseback appeared and headed straight toward him. Ivory Lyon? Aye, followed by what seemed to be a groom. It took only a trice to see what an expert horsewoman she was. Spying Orin, she spurred on her sleek chestnut mare all the faster.

"Mr. Hume." Undisguised delight shone in her eyes. "Fancy meeting you across this wide expanse of Merse."

"The bonny day seems to call for it," he said, squinting in the sunlight.

"Where are you headed?"

"Nowhere in particular. And you?"

"The same. Perhaps we shall ramble together."

He eyed the groom, a Duns lad he remembered who swore like a coachman. Orin's desire to ride alone dissolved like the moor's mist as they took off at a canter east, the groom trailing.

"You've a fine mount bred for the hunt, I take it." He wouldn't say he couldn't stand the sport. Chasing down the Almighty's most vulnerable creatures was not something he stomached.

"Papa hunts his hounds four days a week from November to March." She looked about as if getting her bearings. "I get quite worn out, though I do relish a good race now and again. Shall we?"

Was she … challenging him?

They had unwittingly come near the site he avoided. He'd not been here for years, not since the accident. Distracted by her company he'd nearly ridden right up to it. Summer's verdancy was in no way similar to the bite of a blizzard that long ago day but her playful words were the same.

Shall we?

The dare echoed in his ears, switching from her high lilt to Herschel's wind-battered shout. In a trice the landscape shifted. Orin felt transported with such force he grew lightheaded as the sun faded and winter rushed in. The chill that hit him was akin to a snow-sharded wind.

Shall we? Shall we? Shall we?

And then came the sickening thud of colliding sleighs. Screaming. No one was where they should have been, neither horses or humans. All was bloody madness—

"I dare you!" Miss Lyon had slowed and spun round beneath the tree that bore the brunt of Herschel's collision.

Orin stared past her to the Birnam oak, the fissured bark still bearing telltale scars. The tree had recovered far better than he. Better than Maryn. It had taken Herschel's life. The horror was etched deep in his being but he knew for Maryn and family it was far worse. They had lost a beloved brother—the heir to a duchy—

"Mr. Hume?" Miss Lyon approached, near enough to place a gloved hand on his arm.

Her gentle touch grounded him but he still felt choked. Frozen. Mired in the moment. Forcing his gaze from the tree, he fastened it instead on a carriage coming down the distant road. With its large wheels and ducal coat of arms, Orin knew it immediately. Not the Lowland dukes of Buccleuch or Roxburghe or Montrose.

Fordyce.

Maryn sat back in the coach, hardly aware of the landscape unfolding around her so caught up was she in the details of the day's visits. To her astonishment she didn't even feel queasy from the coach ride. Elated was the better word. Uplifted.

And he that watereth shall be watered also himself.

Shortly after dawn, one and thirty baskets had been loaded atop the coach, filled with an assortment of goods for the first round of tenant families, including sewing and knitting supplies, tea, toys, tobacco and foodstuffs, to name but a few. Alas, Mrs. Duncan had fallen ill the night before and there was no postponement, thus Maryn went in her place, Rosemary with her. The steward-in-training, Hutchins, rode postilion.

Summoning every shred of courage she had, and disguising her disfigurement as best she could, she said a prayer and sallied forth. She, who had hidden in a cottage for years, was being forced into the open like a hothouse flower. How she chafed at this new role. But determination to get off on the right foot with Grandfather's tenants came first.

The first cottage they came to held an old, blind woman cared for by her daughter, a spinner, and her crippled yeoman husband. The next held newborn triplets, a very weakened mother, and a father injured in a milling accident. Other tenants were less needy and more independent, but all seemed glad to get baskets of goods and a visit from the new duchess herself.

Quickly she forgot herself and her small infirmities, attuned to the needs around her. A wet nurse must be gotten to help feed the triplets, a doctor for the infirm, new roofing and windows for cottages damaged by a recent storm, and some means of education for the growing number of children needing to be schooled.

None of the adults had any books save a rare Bible. Few could read nor had the time, given they labored from sunup to sundown. Therefore the learning must start young while the children still had the hours and inclination. But how to begin?

At the end of the visits she'd momentarily lost sight of her fears, her need to stay hidden, as she faced those far less fortunate, at least materially. And her desire to help had her recording their names and needs in the ledger she'd brought lest she forget.

"Will ye return to us, Yer Grace?" one woman said. "Ye bring us a bit o' cheer, just like yer dear mother once did, God rest her."

"My wife seems better for yer company," the husband of another told her. "And dearly needs yer remedy ye brought."

But it was the barefoot bairns with their soiled, searching faces who knew no better than to tug on her skirts for attention that most wrenched her heart. She still felt their wee fingers examining the rich folds of her petticoats as they gaped astonished at her buckled shoes and befeathered hat. Had she dressed too lavishly? That had not been her intent. None seemed to notice her injury though she was careful to disguise what she could with a glove.

She pondered the wee ones now, forgetting what she did. Forgetting to turn her face away from the dreadful site till it was too late. The open carriage window faced meadowland that was not white and frigid but green and sun-warmed. Yet still the past rushed back. The massive tree—the icy curve of land that lent to the speed of the sleighs—

Revulsion grabbed her by the throat, so strong and sudden she struggled to breathe. Yet she couldn't look away—couldn't remove herself from the scene. Her horror at happening by unawares was eclipsed only by her shock at seeing the familiar figure on the hill.

She would ken Orin Hume anywhere, no matter the passage of time. Only he wasn't alone on horseback. A lady was alongside, the both of them at a standstill facing the road Maryn's coach trundled down as it raised a storm of gritty brown dust.

She froze, eyes on the man she hadn't seen in years. A stone's throw away, he was staring straight at her. An expert horseman, he looked especially fine astride a black stallion. A green wool frock coat caught her eye but he was hatless—he'd ever been hatless while riding—his dark blonde hair tied behind. The rest of him blurred and she pressed her spine against the velvet upholstered seat as if to shrink from sight.

"Are ye all right?" Rosemary regarded her with wide-eyed alarm as they continued on at a pace far too slow to suit Maryn.

Maryn coughed and her maid closed the window curtain to block the dust. A dozen possibilities turned her mind into a spinning top. Orin here. Orin home. Orin possibly wed with his wife riding alongside him. The stalwart image of him—even more braw than she remembered—would never leave her, nearly as distressing as the site itself.

Once home, she disappeared into Grandfather's cabinet and shut the door. Trying to collect herself, she paced the chamber, feeling caged within its blue-damask walls. She wanted nothing more than to return to the Merse and run toward the man she'd once known and fling herself into his arms. She wanted to be the untried lass she'd once been. She wanted him to be the lad she'd loved, untouched by tragedy and time. A swelling anguish rose inside her till she felt half-suffocated.

Unable to stand it any longer, she unlocked the letters from the secret drawer with a trembling hand and all but tore the second one open. But it was hardly what she expected.

Dear Maryn,

Though we are far apart the bond between us remains unbroken. A threefold cord. I pray fervently for your health and happiness, and write this humble poem with you in mind.

Round the tree of life the flowers

Are ranged, abundant, even;

Its crest on every side spreads out

On the fields and plains of Heaven.

Glorious flocks of singing birds

Celebrate their truth,

Green abounding branches bear

Choicest leaves and fruit.

The lovely flocks maintain their song

In the changeless weather

A hundred feathers for every bird,

A hundred tunes for every feather.

Your entire, Orin Hume

Had he been reminding her of the eternal? That Herschel, with his heart for holy things, was in heaven? And the birds … she and Herschel had shared a love of befeathered creatures. Surely the poet in him had that in mind.

It cut her to the quick, this simple bit of verse. Tears spattered the paper and she lay it aside, digging for a handkerchief in her pocket. If she'd read this when he'd sent it, might it have helped her? Assuaged her somehow? Now, so long after, she could only wonder why Grandfather had withheld it from her.

How fine Orin had looked along that lonesome stretch of ground. And how very companionable with that fashionably dressed lady beside him.

He had clearly moved on though she had not.