Chapter 15

15

" M r. Hume was here?" Maryn took the finely-engraved card from Mrs. Duncan, her mouth dropping open like a drawbridge. "In this very hall?"

"Indeed he was, Your Grace." The housekeeper seemed as pleased as she was surprised. "And such a celebrated Hume. The brawest of the bunch!"

"Certainly the most literary," Maryn remarked, passing into her cabinet. Today the round room was grey, reflecting the storm her bones had predicted. Such weather would surely keep him from visiting again. She was safe for now, at least.

Safe. Safe from his intentions or her own fractured feelings?

Heart in her throat, she asked, "Did he say he would return?"

"He did not," Mrs. Duncan said flatly, her disappointment plain.

"I can't imagine why he'd call. There was no one else with him?" The lass he'd been with along the road wouldn't budge in her mind, flawless as she was.

"Nary a soul."

Maryn slowly lowered to the settee facing the hearth's low fire. She'd just escaped the rain but the chill seemed to have followed her. For the moment it felt like winter again.

"Tea is needed, and your mother's best Sêvres porcelain." Mrs. Duncan hastened away, surely in need of a dish herself.

Maryn removed her right glove and looked to the card in her lap. So, he'd come. After long years and unanswered letters later.

Why?

She brought the paper to her nose and sighed aloud at the unmistakable hint of clary sage and citrus. He had not changed one whit in that regard. And her fleeting look at him on the Merse told her he'd grown more stalwart man and less the lanky lad she remembered.

But again, what did it matter? She'd best take care lest her imagination spin him into some sort of romanticized, faux figure she'd lose her heart and soul to all over again.

"Here you are, Your Grace." Mrs. Duncan set down the tray. "Cook has baked the chocolate biscuits you're so fond of and I've brewed Bohea."

Despite Orin, Maryn felt a sudden contentment in such small blessings as confections and lovely cups. He preferred coffee, she recalled. With a hefty dash of cream and sugar. She'd given him a coffee-mill once. Did he still have it?

As she drank tea and ate biscuits on a decidedly uneasy stomach she was left alone to ponder his visit. She would not, of course, return it by going to Wedderburn Castle. Perish the thought! Instead, she considered reading his final letter, as of yet still sealed. But the anticipation of it—comingled with dread—kept her from opening it. Feelings were ever fickle and she felt on a seesaw of them. She had gone to the cottage in the nick of time thus avoiding his unexpected arrival.

Or had it been the most unfortunate, untimely absence in her life?

"Are you ready, Uncle?" Charis appeared at the stable's entrance, a vision in violet.

Lovell certainly thought so, staring down at her with an awestruck air. Observing them, Orin felt that odd emptiness take hold. Would he ever again experience the flush of first love? He well recalled what it had been like. Passion—some would say infatuation—left a somewhat confident man feeling a bumbling, tongue-tied fool. In the best of ways.

"Ready," he finally answered from atop Septimus.

They were joining up with a party to ride to the ruins of Hume Castle, one of the best vantage points on the Merse. He'd been appointed resident tour guide based on his knowledge of Hume history. They were conveniently riding by Lyon Court where Miss Lyon lived who, Charis told him, was keen to learn Borders history, too.

Soon they were passing vestiges of ancient cairns and standing stones to gain the rocky outcrop and the crumbling walls of Hume Castle with its commanding views.

"Once this was one of the most formidable strongholds in the Borders," Orin told them. "A rarity built with a rectangular courtyard after Highland fortresses. The Humes were wardens of the Merse, guarding Scottish territory." He pointed toward the long-disputed boundary in the distance. "Only five miles from here lies England who fought us for centuries over control of this country."

"They were among the fighting clans who rode as Reivers by moonlight," Miss Lyon added. "Including my Kerrs."

He nodded. "Hard to believe there's just a warm wind and endless sheep today when once there was the clash of conflict everywhere."

"Frightful and dangerous," Miss Lyon said with a shudder as she dismounted.

They settled on the grounds for refreshments carried by two footmen and overseen by Charis herself. She smiled at him as he sat and leaned back against the castle's sun-warmed wall. "What is this moveable feast called, Uncle Orin? I do believe you poets have a name for it. This was your idea after all."

" Pique nique ," he answered in French. "From a satirical seventeenth-century poem about a priest known for visiting friends armed with bottles and dishes."

They laughed as the servants distributed veal and ham pies, cheese, cucumbers, fresh fruit, and more biscuits, butter, and beverages than their party of ten could possibly hold.

"Mother told me not to overpack but you men are always ravenous," Charis said, sitting down beside Lovell on a blanket. "I grew up with five brothers and I've not forgotten."

"So … " Miss Lyon turned to Orin as side conversations ensued all around them. "Would you like lemonade or ginger-beer?"

"The latter," Orin said, as a footman poured him a full glass.

"A delightful idea you had with this." She tasted a ripe strawberry. "I'm starting to feel more insider than outsider after spending time with you Merse-men and women. You're quite hospitable on the whole."

"Some of us more than others," he said, wishing for nothing more than a quiet retreat to the gatehouse after this. His unfinished work—the plays and birthday ode—were ever before him.

"I've heard you're something of a recluse," she said as if sensing his present mood. "No wonder you traded the allure of London for the lush if sleepy Lowlands."

"A recluse? I don't deny it."

"Lady Marchmont invited Mother and I for tea day before yesterday. She spoke of neighboring Berwick families including you Humes and expressed her surprise you'd returned."

Lady Marchmont … Nicola Lockhart. The realization brought immediate indigestion. "I haven't seen the lady in question in years."

"She said that you were once quite close to her sister who is now an invalid after some unfortunate accident."

Maryn. An invalid. With an inward wince, Orin pinned his gaze on a deep ditch in the distance akin to the course this conversation was taking. Again he wondered the nature of her injuries. Was she no longer able to enjoy outings like this? Or did she choose to shut herself away from the world for other reasons?

Miss Lyon darted a searching glance at him. "I don't mean to pry, of course, but one can't help but wonder the association. Quite close implies something other than friendship."

Did it? Miss Lyon was nothing if not direct. While he preferred it to subterfuge, he thought it a less than charming trait in a lass he didn't ken well. He abhorred blather. And he wasn't about to contribute to it.

Tabula rasa. A clean slate.

That was what he wanted. And so he said nothing, just continued to eat his meal in thoughtful silence. But he sensed her discomfiture. Her desire to dig deeper. And it called out his own stubbornness to stay guarded.

Maryn vowed to forget Orin Hume and lose herself in her literary pursuits. She'd neglected them of late and so turned to the half-finished play she'd been working on atop Grandfather's desk. Only it wasn't quite where she'd left it. The new maid was to blame, she guessed. Both a footman and maidservant had been hired since she'd decided to stay on at Lockhart Hall. The latter, a lass from Duns, seemed more tapsalteerie than tidy, but if Mrs. Duncan wasn't complaining then Maryn wouldn't either. Capable servants were hard to come by.

Finally, she found the play beneath a book at the desk's edge. Inking a quill, she scribbled a few lines before giving up altogether. Today, at least, Lord Folderol and Lady Cowslip failed to hold her attention. A drastic happening in a play. If the author was indifferent the audience would be, too. Time to bring the curtain down for now.

That last letter in the secret drawer … it wouldn't let her be.

Perhaps if she read it and moved past it she could return to her usual endeavors. Life seemed largely upside down since she'd become duchess. A new title. A change in residence. Acrimony from her estranged sister. She'd sent the girls a tea set and other toys after their visit, hoping it would facilitate goodwill. But she'd received neither acknowledgment nor thanks. Nicola, she remembered, had never been good at either.

Her heart beat faster as she took out the final letter. A sennight had passed since Orin's unexpected visit. She'd not been back to the cottage but stayed on at the Hall, her nerves ragged at the possibility he might return. The purpose of his visit gnawed at her like the unread letter. Her fingers fairly shook retrieving it.

My dearest Maryn,

'Tis the close of another year and the month of Herschel's grievous loss. I have one more letter in me and then I will leave off unless I hear from you. The past months have given me time to decide on a course of action after being largely at sea since the tragedy. Not knowing where or how you are is another reason I need to move forward.

The laird, has recommended a change in location for me. I have decided to move to London in the new year and accept the invitation of Dr. Samuel Fancourt to assist with his new circulating library and bookshop there. Given that, I don't want to leave Scotland nor leave you in doubt about my abiding affection for you or my whereabouts though I do not blame you for withholding yours.

If you or your family have need of anything I will leave London at the first summons. You have my heart, both now and always, no matter what has transpired in the past or should happen in future.

Your entire, Orin Hume

She looked up and through the window glass to the garden. Rose petals blew about in a merry dance in the rising wind but she hardly saw them.

You have my heart, both now and always.

Even now, Orin, after a silence that signified I cared nothing for you in return?

His poignant words reminded her of the Hume coat of arms which read in Latin …

True to the end.