Chapter 13

13

A nother function, this time at Lyon Court. With Charis on his arm and Lord Lovell on hand it went better than expected. Orin hoped it would help distract him from what had happened on the Merse. But even the glitter and hubbub of the ballroom didn't put a dent in the memory of the Fordyce coach coming by unexpectedly, the last conveyance he'd expected to see on the road, and certainly the last duchess.

He'd not gotten a good look at Maryn at the funeral, clad head to toe in black as she'd been, but he had locked eyes with her for just a trice day before yesterday, the coach window framing her. That fleeting look cost him what little peace he had over the situation. Not peace, exactly, but resignation. He'd finally resigned himself to not hearing from her, not being a part of her life.

Till he'd seen her again.

"Mr. Hume." A brusque voice wrenched him from his musings as he stood in an alcove by open French doors. "I've been wanting to speak to you and perhaps now is the time."

Turning, he greeted Lord Lyon who bore an uncanny resemblance to his daughter, his Glaswegian speech distinct.

"Ivory speaks well of you. Being somewhat new to Berwickshire I'm slowly becoming aware of the locals as it were."

"I'm well acquainted with your Kerrs," Orin replied. "Since Border Reiver days."

"Ah, yes, thank heavens we've moved to more civilized times and only need contend with the Jacobite threat." He chuckled and took a drink from the glass he carried. "My daughter tells me you are often at Court in London and seldom here."

"That may change in future."

"England is a far cry from Scotland. I'm surprised you're so far afield." He eyed Orin with open respect. "Poet Laureate, nae less."

How lofty he made it sound when the reality was quite different. "As the seventh son of a Lowland laird, there's not much left to do but go rhyming and collect the tierce of wine that comes with it."

"The seventh son! By jove, I hope to have as many grandsons one day. I've quite given up on an heir after three daughters, Ivory being the firstborn and of marriageable age."

Orin weathered the man's bluntness. He was used to meddlesome mothers but meddlesome fathers?

"We hope to see you more at Lyon Court in future. A fox hunt, perhaps, in the fall."

"I dinna hunt though your daughter tells me she accompanies you."

The man looked affronted. "A shame, Hume, but truly, no finer lass to be had in the field. She's safely apart from any danger but is quite fond of the hounds and usually wins the brush."

Orin almost smiled, imagining the lovely Miss Lyon claiming a fox's tail at hunt's end.

Lord Lyon continued. "Perhaps we could convince you to attend a hunt ball, at least."

"I may be away later this year. A prior commitment."

"Ah, the king's Birthnight Ball, I suppose." He took another drink. "I'll read about it after, I'm sure. The papers will trumpet such about as usual."

Orin stifled a yawn. Had he sufficiently deterred Lord Lyon from thinking him a serious suitor? Who would want a son-in-law who could claim but a tierce of wine and the haphazard sale of his literary endeavors as his bride price?

"I recently heard you've been awarded a baronetcy from the Crown."

Meaning my niece has been telling fairy tales , he almost replied. In truth, the king, likely sensing his disenchantment, offered him the title before he'd last left London. "I declined it."

Astonishment washed Lord Lyon's face. Before the man could ask for clarification, Miss Lyon appeared.

"There you are, the both of you." Searchingly, she looked from her father to Orin as if trying to guess the gist of their conversation. "The minuet has finally ended and the country dances are about to begin. I was hoping … "

She said it so sweetly, so beseechingly, that Orin was moved to answer. "Allow me, then."

Maryn replaced the third and fourth of Orin's opened letters in the desk's locked compartment. One line lingered in her thoughts.

I retain an unalterable affection for you, which neither time or distance can change.

Two letters remained to be read. Each extracted a heavy price from her. She was now torn between telling Orin about Grandfather's actions if only to explain away her lack of response.

Or should she just let matters alone?

She needed time to think and there was no better place to think than the privacy of Thistle Cottage.

Orin could wait no longer. Rising early after the Lyon Court ball, he took a walk in Wedderburn's formal garden to clear his head and decide once and for all. Five years separation wasn't an age but given the circumstances, it seemed so. And his own future seemed to demand he do something. He'd decided a great many things in the month he'd been home and Maryn was a part of it.

"Uncle Orin, why are you awake so early?"

He looked up and saw a yawning Charis leaning from her bedchamber window on the second floor.

"Why aren't you?" he shot back.

"All this birdsong is like kirk bells pealing! I'd have to be in a windowless room to avoid it."

"I try never to avoid it." He took a bench, back to her, facing the Merse. "'Tis nine of the clock, sleepyhead. The best hours are in the morn."

Her answer was to slam the shutters closed but even that wouldn't keep the symphony out. He focused on one lark in particular, singing its delicate song on the wing as it rose over the wisteria arbor and vanished from sight. Mist was rising in every direction, hazing the route he'd soon take.

If he dared.

Should he seek his brother's counsel before riding out? The laird was a very practical man. Suppose Everard tried to dissuade him? Let sleeping dogs lie , he could almost hear him say. It wasn't the answer Orin wanted. And in truth, what mattered most was the Almighty's opinion. Only he hadn't asked Him either.

Or mayhap the Almighty had put the idea in his head to begin with.

Spurred on by the thought, he went to the stables and took time saddling Septimus himself in place of a groom. Doing so gave him more time to reconsider all the fine points and possible ramifications of what he was about to do.

Another half hour hadn't deterred him so he set out, measuring the distance between Wedderburn Castle and Lockhart Hall by markers he remembered and some that were new to him. An old dyke. A handsome stone house behind newly raised iron gates. A marshy stretch of ground where waterfowl flocked. The road here was less traveled as it wound beyond the heart of Berwickshire, the landscape lonesome save the sheep grazing on gently folding hills.

Once one of the leading families of the Lowlands, the Lockharts had lost their place. Little was known since Herschel passed and even the demise of the duke had been a quiet affair. What had happened at the reading of the will? Who had inherited the duchy?

Heaven forbid Lady Maryn think his visit based on prying.

He raised a leather glove and dashed away the sweat beading his brow. The summer sun blinded him as he passed beyond gates he'd suspected might be closed. Stately lime trees along the drive were in full flower, their canopy humming with bees and winged insects.

He'd always revered Lockhart Hall's history. Built centuries ago, its royal roots gave it a special polish and pedigree. A newer wing with a round room at one end was the former duke's doing but he liked the medieval hall best, much as he liked old Wedderburn best.

No sign of life enlivened the place. His spirits, stalwart till now, began to sink. Had the house been shuttered, the servants dispersed?

He dismounted near the carriage block, tethering Septimus to an iron rail. His heart seemed as heavy as his tread upon the front entrance steps. The bronze unicorn door knocker with its French phrasing almost made him smile. He'd been fascinated by it as a child. Dieu et mon droit, God and my right, a motto on the British royal arms which mirrored the Lockhart's tie.

He struck the weathered plate and waited. Five seconds. Ten. It was early. Too early, mayhap. A sudden wind rifled his queued hair as he removed his new hat—which Charis had declared fine enough for courting—and tucked it beneath one arm. All the carefully thought-out words he'd been prepared to say were fast becoming a sinking stew.

Should he leave? Admit defeat?

His step back seemed to swing the front door open. A middle-aged footman stared at him with no small surprise. "G'morning, sir."

Nae retreat.

"I've come to see Lady Maryn." Orin darted a look at the central stair over the servant's liveried shoulder. "Is she at home?"

The footman seemed strangely flummoxed. "Do come in, sir."

Orin stepped into the cool, tiled hall, similar to Wedderburn's. The footman disappeared, leaving him to take in a house mostly unchanged, at least to his memory.

"Mr. Hume?" A female voice held familiarity. "Can it be?"

He faced a tiny woman in an enormous mobcap and apron. "Mrs. Duncan?"

"Indeed." She smiled up at him, every inch the kind, capable soul he recalled. "I'm still here, sir, and doubtless always will be."

"Glad I am of it. I'd begun to wonder if anyone was home."

"Och, so many changes of late." She gave a little sigh. "Hutchins says you're seeking Her Grace."

Orin was hard pressed to hide his surprise. The duchess ?

Mrs. Duncan looked over his shoulder to the front door that hadn't been shut. "That would be her leaving."

He turned to see the dust he'd raised rise again. A chaise was barely visible. "When will she return?"

"She didna say, sir." Suddenly Mrs. Duncan looked as disappointed as the footman had been flummoxed. "But when she does I shall surely tell her you called."

He nodded. "If this was London I'd leave my card but here it seems out of place."

"I do believe 'tis appreciated even here in the Borders." She smiled, revealing a missing tooth. "'Tis not every day one receives the Poet Laureate of Britain."

So, she knew about that? Not many servants were lettered. He took the engraved ivory card from his pocket and handed it to her. It bore his name. Not his status. Nor the ludicrous baronetcy Lyon had mentioned.

He thanked her and turned away with a sense of urgency, ready to ride and catch up with Maryn if he could. But by the time he'd traversed the long lime avenue the dust had settled and all his hopes with it.

The newly titled Duchess of Fordyce was nowhere in sight.