Chapter 14

14

T histle Cottage was blessedly quiet. Just what Maryn hoped for. While Rosemary put the kettle on for tea, Maryn went into the garden, Orin's remaining letters tucked in her pocket. She'd memorized the poem he'd written her, the last lines especially.

The lovely flocks maintain their song

In the changeless weather

A hundred feathers for every bird,

A hundred tunes for every feather.

For a time she just sat, birdsong all about her. Her injury was ailing her, as unpredictable as a weathervane. The bone-deep ache promised a storm of some sort. Since it was midsummer it would likely be wind and rain. She looked down at her arm, the gloved hand disguising the twisted fingers. Once she'd been repulsed. Now it simply made her sad. She felt like an injured bird, her wing broken.

With her good hand, she pulled an unopened letter from her pocket, broke the seal with a swipe of her finger, and smoothed the paper out on her lap. While these missives didn't qualify as love letters, the familiar sloping of Orin's Copperplate script still made her insides swirl. Correspondence from her publishing contacts hadn't quite the same appeal.

Dear Maryn,

Since I have not yet heard from you, my mind would silence my heart and leave off writing again. But the heart wins. It has won for years now. There has never been anyone else who came first in my affections but you.

Not heard from her? With a sickening realization she returned to his opening words. Her heart seemed to stop. He'd kept writing to her even when he had no answer? What had happened to all her letters to him? Long, impassioned letters that made her blush even to recall them now.

She read on hungrily—heartbreakingly.

And so when our families began marriage negotiations—such a cold term for so fine a feeling—it seemed natural. Expected. And more than welcome. But life as we know it has a way of testing even the finest things. In this case, a loss we could never have imagined. Mayhap I am too bold to suggest that we hold onto what we have—or had—before the tragedy. I, for one, have not changed in regards to you. My love for you is steadfast and enduring, surely the stuff of what the best marriages are made. But of course, two must make a marriage, and your consent or the lack of it now that the period of mourning is over, determines our future direction.

My highest hope is that I will hear from you. But if not, I will respectfully take your silence as your answer.

Your entire, Orin Hume

Her heart, so sore at even the best of times, threatened to burst. She looked toward Wedderburn Castle, trying to reconcile the present with the past. So, he'd once cared for her, enough to marry her.

Then who was that young woman she'd seen him riding with upon the very ground of the accident? Had he told her the dire events of that day? Perhaps he'd come to terms with what had happened and didn't shun the place like she did.

She refolded the letter, wishing she could do the same with her feelings. Warm, effusive feelings that had no further place in her heart. Though she wished Grandfather had given her the letters, would she have done anything differently if he had?

The facts remained and trumped any fine feeling. She was part invalid. She could not do her own hair, could not dress without help. She could no longer ride a horse nor play the pianoforte nor dance nor do anything that required two whole hands. She could not even pick up a child, at least safely. Her injury oft pained her, more emotionally than physically.

Did that not exclude her from marriage?

She let the last letter stay in her pocket. She was not ready to read it nor reckon with its contents. For the moment she simply wanted to sit here in the sunlight and breathe in the floral fragrance carried on the wind.

Orin, recently returned from Lockhart Hall and a long, hard ride on the Merse, came in a few minutes late with little thought as to the dinner hour. The hall clock reminded him and so, after washing up in an antechamber, he joined the countess in the smaller parlor she preferred instead of the dining room. Dinner was just the two of them. Charis had gone to Duns with Lord Lovell and a groom while the laird had been called away to a meeting at kirk.

"I'm glad you're continuing to take meals with us," Blythe told him as a footman served them. "Life in the gatehouse isn't too solitary, I hope."

"Solitude is a sublime concept, lonesomeness an altogether different animal."

Her eyes registered understanding. "You're lonely, then."

"The gatehouse is ideal but should be shared."

"I'm glad to hear it. I never imagined you a lifelong bachelor. Given you're the age Everard was when he wed me, you are still young."

"Two and thirty is not auld, aye, and seems to turn a man's mind to domestic matters."

"I can see you with a wife and children. But somehow I cannot see you with any of the misses this social season."

"Nor can I." A dozen feminine faces flashed through his mind. "I don't want a titled and ornamented mannequin but a wife."

"Some seem quite … vacuous." She chose her words carefully, clearly reluctant to criticize. "Charis told me she introduced you to Miss Lyon."

"But … " He took a drink of claret and waited for her answer.

"That is for you to decide, not me. I tend to forget I'm not your mother though I was cast in that role once upon a time."

"For which I'm grateful. You came into our lives when sorely needed." He meant it wholeheartedly. His memories of his mother were hazy and his father little better. "And I believe you broke the mold. There are few learned women like you who have a passion for the written word."

"Being fluent in Greek and Hebrew made me rather peculiar years ago though your brother wasn't deterred. As for you, I do feel a woman who shares your literary pursuits would be most welcome. One that supports them, at least."

"I agree with you. But where is she?"

The question seemed laughable. She was eight miles away. Where else? But Blythe was too kind to mention it. They dined in companionable quiet a few minutes, Orin's thoughts on his morning's failed mission, not his full plate.

When he could stand it no longer, he said, "I've been to Lockhart Hall."

Blythe paused, fork suspended. "To see Lady Maryn."

"She wasn't at home and is now the duchess."

"Oh my … the plot thickens very much upon us."

"Very much, aye. I left my card and spoke with their longtime housekeeper."

"Will you return?"

"I'm now wondering why I went in the first place."

"Why did you?" she asked gently.

"You recall we were in the midst of a marriage settlement between Maryn and myself when the tragedy happened."

"What I most remember is how dismayed—nay, devastated—we were when all came to an abrupt halt. We looked forward to welcoming her as your bride. The late duke was as desirous to see the union happen as we were. And then … "

"I believe that needs to be addressed again."

Sadness gave way to astonishment. "You would ask for her hand—after all that has happened?"

Orin took another bracing drink of wine. "Call me an idiot but I feel an obligation to her—nay, that's not the right word. More a matter of honor, if a complicated one."

"Matters of honor often are. 'Tis bold, even brave."

"I doubt the laird would see it in the same light."

"But the laird is not here and this is not his choice. I respect my husband's counsel though he's been accused of being rather jaded at times. Decidedly not of a romantic nature except," she amended with a slight smile, "when it comes to me."

"I am the unquestionable romantic in the clan." How often he'd wished otherwise. To be like his soldierly brother had been his dream since childhood. But he and Everard couldn't be more different.

"Do you still care for her?"

He stilled.

When I saw her again my heart turned over in such a rush it seemed to have all but ground to a halt in her absence. My very soul seemed to shout though I had no words. My love for her is boundless. It defies time. Distance. Sorrow. There is something of the eternal in it.

He simply said, "I've cared for Maryn for so long, long before I even realized there was substance to it. I will always care for her. Mayhap that's why I can't let this rest now."

Blythe regarded him in silence for a few moments. "So, you are willing to go ahead with marrying her if she agrees as she once did. Or if she refuses, to release you, so to speak from your prior commitment, and give you liberty to move on."

"That's the gist of it. A fool's errand, mayhap, given our current circumstances." He could already hear the critics lambast the situation. "Why would a duchess dabble with a poet?"

"I, for one, think that a silly argument. If she still loves you such is moot."

"She never responded to my letters. Let that be my answer, some would say."

" Some will always say and think the worst. Give them not the slightest notice."

They grew quiet as a footman whisked their empty plates away. Dessert was served—some sort of flummery—but they just sat without indulging.

"Much to ponder and pray about then," Lady Blythe said, lifting a spoon.

Despite the gravity of the subject, the regrettable past and the unknown future, Orin looked at her with thanks. Even if nothing had been decided or resolved, he was glad he'd come home to the Lowlands.