Chapter 18

18

O f all she'd given up being one-handed, embroidery and watercolors remained. With the weather so fair, Maryn had a chaise readied to return to the knoll Orin had shown her a fortnight ago. There she took her album of papers, a paintbox, and brushes while the new footman fetched water for her from a nearby burn. He then, as she encouraged, went fishing, leaving her to her own devices.

At first she sat, hands in her lap, and took in the view she'd not been able to focus on with any purpose or intent when Orin had sat so close beside her. Alone, the landscape unfolded before her in all its summer splendor, a slight wind toying with her hat ribbons. If she expected to feel more serene today, she didn't. Since she'd sent him away rather ungraciously, she'd not had a moment's peace.

Forgive me, Lord.

The confession seemed to clear her head and restore her creativity somewhat. Picking up a lead pencil, she began to sketch with her good hand, only she didn't draw the stunning landscape before her but something else entirely. Once she had the proportions in place she took up a fine brush to flesh out the features, blending and building till she was somewhat satisfied.

A well-sculpted jaw. Straight nose and chiseled cheekbones. Intelligent, expressive eyes. Carefully queued hair of a hue that escaped her completely. And a self-assured demeanor imbued with a humility that could never be replicated.

Her feeble paints and brushes didn't do Orin Hume justice by half.

Not even Hogarth himself could capture the essence of the man she'd known her entire life. In the sun and wind, the paper dried quickly. Once it did, she covered it with a cloth to keep it from the eyes of the footman who was still fishing. Now she could savor the view and only hope her humble portrait would help expunge the longing she felt for the man she could never call hers.

Maryn returned to Lockhart Hall and unwelcome news.

"Yer Grace," Alice greeted her, unnervingly impish. "Mr. Hume called again in the forenoon. He seemed sair-hearted to nae find ye home … so I told him ye'd return by tea time."

"You didn't!" Maryn clutched the covered watercolor to her bodice, feeling a flaming hypocrite.

"He has a way about him, ye ken," Alice murmured with an apologetic curtsey.

Oh aye, I ken that well enough, Maryn didn't say, coming to a standstill in the tiled foyer.

"My apologies, Your Grace." Mrs. Duncan appeared, more shamefaced than Maryn had ever seen her. "I was preoccupied belowstairs with another matter entirely and left Alice unsupervised briefly. I never expected visitors."

"Please, think no more of it, either of you." Bemused, Maryn hurried to her cabinet to hide her artwork.

In her discomfiture she'd forgotten to tell the servants not to prepare tea. Four o'clock followed—and Mr. Hume. Even Rosemary was all a-titter.

"Here he comes … " She abandoned pinning up Maryn's hair to peer out the second-floor bedchamber window with a rare squeal of delight. "Riding a bold black stallion. Like a knight in a fairytale!"

Shaken, Maryn felt far removed from a fairytale as she came down the staircase and found he'd been shown into the small drawing room. At once she realized the error. Alice's doing? The cherry-red chamber was cozy, even intimate, and was not what was called for.

Orin turned toward her as she entered, her sable skirts rustling. She felt abominable in black. It mirrored her present mood. His refined bow again reminded her of another impossible chasm between them.

"Mr. Hume." She kept her voice cool if cordial.

"I hope I'm not interrupting, Your Grace." Hat in hand, he seemed the picture of romantic entreaty.

"You're just in time for refreshments," she said graciously, determined to make the best of it.

Alice entered as if on cue, delivering a silver tray so sumptuously laden it surely rivaled Kensington Palace. They'd not finish such a spread in a sennight. Maryn felt a flush from her slippered feet to her lace cap as they both sat, the tea table between them.

"You've not brought your pony cart," she said lightly as she poured him coffee from an octagonal silver pot.

"More business than pleasure today," he replied, adding sugar and a splash of cream to his cup. Just as she remembered.

"Business? I'm intrigued."

His brilliant blue eyes met hers and she quite forgot everything they'd just said. Heaven help me. Her good hand shook as she poured tea for herself.

"I don't want you to think my prior visit was anything but pleasure," he told her with that beguiling intensity he had. "Though it may not have been that for you."

"Our recent reunion was unexpected." She bit her lip, adding sugar and cream to her own cup. "And I'm not good with the unexpected."

"Once you were."

"As I said last time, I'm not the lass you remember."

"I beg to differ. She's simply hidden beneath hardship and hurt."

Point taken. He'd summed her up in a trice but … Eyes down, she took a sip of tea as he continued.

"So, I have in mind a bookshop and circulating library here in the Lowlands. In Duns, actually."

"Like Ramsay's in Edinburgh?" She continued to regard her teacup instead of him. "We visited once, remember?"

And what a visit it had been. An autumn day overflowing with bookshops and hot cross buns and foaming flip in a cross west wind. She and Herschel had stayed at the Hume's Canongate mansion with Orin and Charis. Nicola had been missing. Her sister didn't care for the city nor books.

"One of my best memories." He reached for a bannock. "Like Ramsay's, aye. Mayhap a printing press in time. But there needs to be a building first."

"Of course." She tried to imagine it. He'd certainly outdistanced her in regards to vision. She'd never thought of a bookshop in Duns.

"Lowland towns are growing rapidly. Access to books—a library—will help with literacy and reach those who've not been able to benefit from the written word. Many here cannot afford so much as a simple primer."

"I support you wholeheartedly," she said, finding better footing with a business venture. "But how am I to be of help?"

"You own a building in Duns that would suffice."

She sat back. "I do?"

His amusement led to her own. "Aye, a whole lane of them."

A flush warmed her all over again. "I'm only just learning the extent of Grandfather's holdings and feel quite ignorant."

"You have an able factor or steward, I hope."

"Grandfather's first footman is attempting to turn steward which should make a satisfactory arrangement. I ken little of estate matters though I do enjoy visiting tenants." Already she was anticipating her next visit. She especially loved the bairns. "As for your future shop, I will gladly let the building or you could purchase, whichever suits your purposes."

If he bought it, their business association would be at an end. To let it would mean it would continue. Her heart bade her let it but—

"I'd rather purchase," he said matter-of-factly.

She poured him more coffee and the repast dwindled as they grew quiet. She could, however, sense the machinations of both their minds. Never in a hundred years did she dream they'd sit here discussing such a matter. All the possibilities and repercussions of a Berwickshire bookshop and future print shop seemed endless. A wee light flickered inside her. Hope?

"Then I shall look into it," she told him, sampling a raisin-studded scone though she'd lost her appetite.

"You are quite occupied, I imagine, with the duchy and all it entails."

"I lack a business mind. I would rather spend my time in your future bookshop."

"If the plan moves forward you are welcome there any time you please."

"You would hire shopkeepers? I'm guessing the building would have to be thoroughly transformed and refinished with shelves. Books. And there would need to be a catalogue of all the books, besides."

"And you say you've no head for business." His wry expression suggested otherwise.

She bit her lip to keep from saying she'd enjoy cataloguing the books. What books? He didn't say he had any yet and she wouldn't rush the process. She must keep her involvement to a minimum. Let him move forward on his own. Orin Hume's place in her life was in the past. Period.

Orin drank a second cup of coffee, debating if now was the time to broach the subject closest to his heart or just leave this meeting a business matter. Maryn seemed less resistant this time, less so than on their cart ride. But he could still see she was easily overwhelmed. Skittish. Reluctant to meet his eyes. Not the smiling, carefree lass of before.

Leave off, man.

It was unfair of him to keep comparing her to who she'd been. Mayhap he was wrong to say the old Maryn was simply buried beneath. He wasn't even the man he'd been five years ago. Time alone changed one and all.

"I've taken enough of your time," he finally said, finished with what had been the most abundant repast he'd had in recent memory.

She'd had several cups of tea herself so clearly he'd outstayed his welcome. Yet he read something akin to disappointment in her eyes. Or was he imagining it?

"I shall contact Grandfather's solicitors about a possible purchase," she said thoughtfully. "And once I discover what is required I'll have them contact you directly."

He nodded, suddenly at a loss about how to end this second meeting. He was even more at a loss to explain his emotions. What he felt defied description. He was too aware of her, caught in a swelling tangle of regret, longing, and who knew what else.

Naething can our wilder passions tame.

His fellow poet, Allan Ramsay, had said it well.

Still, time apart might bring clearer perspective.

In a fortnight the contract had been drawn up and the Black Bull Street purchase would soon be his. Orin even had keys handed him by an Edinburgh solicitor, leaving Maryn out of the transaction completely. His heart said it was regrettable while his head insisted it was wise. Standing in the empty building with the laird, he considered what needed doing next.

"Since I'm helping finance this affair I have a say, aye?" Everard walked the first floor then bumped his head as he ascended to the second story. "You'll need wooden shelves of all dimensions. A desk and chairs. Printing presses if you desire to continue this madness and manufacture your own materials. An apprentice or two and account books in spades."

"All of it, aye." Orin ducked as his own head barely missed a low beam. "I can already smell the ink, leather, and paper."

"Such a dreamer ye are," Everard all but scoffed though his wink softened his severity. "The new duchess gave you nae trouble?"

"None." Orin ran a hand along a scarred wall in need of paint. "Why would she?"

"Because this isn't simply commerce." The laird took a Windsor chair by a window as if intent on discussing the matter. "I ken you're still besotted with her though she's now beyond you're reach."

Besotted. Guilty. Beyond his reach? That barefaced fact stung. Only Blythe seemed to disagree. Another unwanted realization dawned. "Meaning every titled bachelor in existence will be at her doorstep when her mourning ends."

The laird heaved a rare sigh. "She's a beauty—or was—and now she's worth a fortune. A double blessing or a blight, however you look at it."

Was a beauty? Time had only turned Maryn more bonny, at least in his eyes. The bloom of her youth had matured into something far richer and more refined. But he couldn't dwell on that long. Best keep himself in hand and not give way to these fiery bursts of feeling. Everard had rightly branded him besotted.

A sudden banging shut of the lower shop door brought Charis upstairs. "Father, there you are! I fretted you'd be impatiently waiting outside the dressmaker's window." She brushed dust off her lace sleeve. "What is this I hear of Lady Maryn?"

"We were discussing her many attributes," the laird said. "Rather the suitors who will besiege her once she sheds her sable."

Dusting off a windowseat with a handkerchief, Charis sat. "There are some frightful fortune hunters who, I hear, already have her in their sights."

Orin's hackles rose. Rakes and fortune hunters aside, he was far from comfortable with even a worthy suitor winning Maryn's hand. "You've heard what exactly?"

"Moving in society like I do, everyone and everything is discussed, especially when it comes to the Lockharts and their supposedly accursed past." Her lovely face drew up in distaste. "Lord Blackadder, for one, has his eye on her, or rather her fortune. Also, Sir Lionel—and the Frenchman, Larmamond. Vultures, all. She's especially vulnerable given she has no family near except an estranged sister."

Orin crossed his arms. "She needs allies. Trusted companions." Something rotten as well as protective of her ate at his core. The green-eyed monster as Shakespeare said. Jealousy?

"We invited the duchess for tea at Wedderburn last week. Sadly, she politely declined and sent a lovely bouquet of those heirloom Lockhart Hall roses Mama's always admired instead."

"But tea in a private home is well within the constraints of mourning," Orin said. "Especially in the countryside."

"Of course." She looked at him sympathetically, seeming older than her years. "I think it had to do with something else entirely."

Tamping down his roiling emotions, Orin tried to focus on practicalities within his control such as all the candles needed to run such an establishment as this. A fortune's worth of wax. Could it be done?

"What are you going to call this place, Uncle?" Charis's mercurial mood shifted yet again. " Hume's Circulating Library ? The Wedderburn Bookshop ?"

"I've nae idea." A careless shrug to his shoulders belied the heaviness in his chest. "Something literary yet respectable, mayhap."

" The Duchess's Literary Delight ?" She winked, so like her father Orin almost smiled. "I can picture the sign hanging outside embellished with a tiara and book."

Orin shot down the whimsical notion. "Rather The Poor Poet's Tome of Literary Treasure ."

She laughed and motioned them both downstairs with a gloved hand. "'Tis getting late. We must be away lest Mama wonder what befell us."