Chapter 21

21

W hen an invitation for tea arrived from Redbraes Castle, Maryn's surprise gave way to dread. She found her sister's company taxing and immediately suspected her motives. Usually one didn't hear from Nicola unless she wanted something. Would this be any different?

She considered sending her regrets as she'd done the very gracious invitation from Wedderburn Castle but the slight hope remained that she and Nicola might someday forge some sort of amicable bond. And if not with her sister, perhaps her nieces.

Taking the Lockhart coach due to the distance and the dust, Maryn tried to tamp down her nerves and enjoy the view through the open window. But that required passing by the Hume's gatehouse with all the accompanying angst.

Dear Orin, shall I ever get over you?

Her gaze fixed on the gable roof softened with moss and then the rear garden. She hadn't asked him if he recalled her leaving her other letters there. What had he done with all of them prior to the accident?

Any musings were short-lived as she soon arrived at Redbraes Castle, a place she'd never been. Gifted by Marchmont's late father upon their marriage, it boasted parklike grounds and a new Palladian wing. Imposing stone lions marked the forecourt. Maryn alighted from the coach with a dry mouth and heavy heart, to say nothing of her queasiness.

A footman showed her to a drawing room crowded with ornate French-style furnishings. At once Maryn felt nearly suffocated by such busyness. Alas, she and Nicola were as different as night and day. And it suddenly dawned on her that her sister, with all her airs and graces, would have made a better duchess.

"How good of you to come." Nicola swept in, clad in lemon silk that cleverly disguised the coming Marchmont. "Please, have a seat."

However cordial her tone, Maryn detected a coldness therein. Were the girls near at hand? Her heart's wish was to see her three wee nieces but she didn't hear a sound.

Unsure of what to say, Maryn attempted to smile and sat at a table prepared for tea. Bread and butter topped a porcelain plate and the aroma of Bohea scented the air. A far cry from the feast Orin had been served during his visit to Lockhart Hall.

"If only the price of tea would fall," Nicola said, picking up a tarnished silver pot. "I am tiring of instructing the servants to re-use the leaves for their own pots though they make a fine cleaning aid sprinkled on carpets."

Maryn's brows arched. Were the Marchmonts so frugal? Again she wondered the state of their finances. "I hope the girls are enjoying the tiny tea set I sent."

"Enjoying? 'Genie broke a cup as soon as Lottie and Pen unpacked it." She poured the Bohea with a frown. "They seem to spend a lot of time fighting over who's to pour. Daughters can be so tiresome which is why I'm hoping for a son."

Maryn stirred sugar in her cup but spied no milk. "Not much longer now, your confinement?"

"A month more. Indigestion plagues me night and day. I rarely drink anything but mint tea though black tea is what I crave."

"Is anything needed for your lying in?" Maryn sipped the weak Bohea, craving coffee herself. "I'm happy to help in any way."

Nicola pursed her lips. "The christening will require some assistance. I may ask you to be the child's godmother."

Again, Maryn hid her surprise. Considering she hadn't known her nieces existed till recently, she'd not considered this. She suspected the honor had more to do with her being duchess and her sister's obsession with titles than any family feeling.

"Enough about me," Nicola said with a faint smile. "I want to hear how you're faring in your new role. I'm sure all of Grandfather's affairs keep you quite busy."

"There's much to learn, yes." Maryn wondered how much to share. Nicola had never been a confidante. "Grandfather's solicitors help immensely and a footman turned steward is proving quite able."

"I suppose you have little time for socializing."

"Being in mourning, no. But even out of it that's never been my forte."

"A pity, really. With your standing you could well attend Court functions in London and whatnot. Something I've always aspired to but alas my husband is a baron and I a mere baroness."

Maryn daren't tell her she'd agreed to the sale of the London townhouse. She stayed silent as a burst of girlish laughter sounded upstairs. Her spirits lifted. With no possibility of having children of her own—

"In my condition I rarely socialize either," Nicola continued. "Though I did have tea with Lady Lyon and her daughter recently. Do you know of them?"

Maryn shook her head. "There are several new families in Berwick, Mrs. Duncan told me. Are the Lyons among them?"

"Yes, they occupy Lyon Court on the Merse. Glaswegians, originally. Lady Lyon is rather sickly but her daughter, Miss Ivory Lyon, is très belle. And it seems she's set her cap for none other than Mr. Hume."

Miss Ivory Lyon. The beauty she'd seen riding with Orin that day? All the breath left Maryn. She set down her teacup so quickly it rattled.

Nicola continued with a sort of gloating—or was it loathing? "'Tis rumored they're all but betrothed."

"Betrothed?"

Her sister's tone turned bitter. "Of all the suitors she could have, she's chosen a Hume. I'll never forgive him given he took Hershel's life. He's naught but a—"

" Please. Say no more." Maryn struggled for composure though Nicola's accusation was not new. "Orin Hume didn't take Herschel's life. I was in that sleigh with him whilst you were safely at home, far from the accident. Herschel, caught up in the moment—" Would she always recall the cold and the bells so clearly? "—challenged Mr. Hume to a regrettable race which he accepted. All was done in the spirit of fun during the wildest weather imaginable. None of us could have foreseen the heartrending consequences."

Nicola regarded her stonily. "A rather heated defense of a man who will always be nothing more than a murderous rogue to me."

The slur turned Maryn's stomach. "I hope you didn't belittle him to the Lyons."

"How dare you. Vulgar I am not." She expelled a breath. "For the life of me, I've never understood your willingness to forgive. Your acceptance of what happened. I believe it's the root of the rift between us."

Rift? She and Nicola had never been close. And much of that had to do with her sister's peevish nature. She'd turned more fractious since their parents' deaths and then Herschel's soon after. Misfortune visited them all. Why had it made her sister especially resentful?

"An accident, however tragic, is far more easily forgiven than an evil intended." Maryn's voice firmed though she still felt shaken. "As far as accepting what happened, what choice do I have?"

Nicola sipped her tea in sullen silence. Maryn regretted coming. How foolish she'd been to believe some sort of reconciliation between them could be reached. Her sister's vinegary attitude only doubled her angst. Just when Maryn could stand it no longer, into the chamber came the patter of little feet.

"Aunt Maryn!" A smiling Charlotte stood in the doorway, her joy transforming the tense drawing room. "Are you taking tea?"

"Indeed," Maryn said, relieved. "And I'm so delighted to see you."

Charlotte hurried across the chamber, her sisters following with less grace. Eugenie tripped over her gown and Penelope helped her to her feet, all the while their mother cautioning them to deport themselves like ladies.

Despite Nicola's protests, her youngest daughters climbed onto Maryn's lap while Lottie, as they called Charlotte, leaned into her. Remembering the sweets in her pocket, Maryn withdrew some candied orange peel in a square of embroidered linen. Beaming, they ate the treats as Lord Marchmont entered the room from a side door.

"Your Grace." His demeanor held the cordiality his wife's lacked. "Welcome to Redbraes."

"Good to see you, milord." Maryn felt an odd fondness—or was it sympathy?—for the mild-mannered gentleman whose health always seemed in question. Did the rule of a petticoat government at Redbraes have something to do with it? "Your daughters are even sweeter than I remember."

"They seem to change by the hour, truly." He chuckled, hands behind his back. "Pen has grown an inch since we last saw you."

"An inch!" Maryn rounded her eyes in exaggerated delight. "I don't suppose candied peel helps you grow?"

They giggled, chewing daintily, eyes on their mother as if she might scold them again.

Charlotte looked entreating. "May we come visit you, Aunt Mar—"

" Your Grace ," Nicola insisted.

Maryn resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "You are welcome whenever you wish."

"I would like to come live with you," Charlotte said, finished with her sweet. "That way you'd have a wee daughter and Mama and Papa would still have Pen and 'Genie."

"Nonsense, Lottie," Nicola told her, pouring more tea. "Have your father take you three outside to play with your new puppy."

Penelope slipped off Maryn's lap and took her hand. "I want Auntie to see Nessie."

"The puppy?" Maryn asked.

Charlotte nodded. "She's a girl like us."

"I'd like nothing better," Maryn replied, standing and ignoring her sister's disapproval. "Puppies are one of God's best gifts."

"But God didn't give us Nessie. Papa did," Penelope said to her father's surprisingly robust laugh.

For the moment, Orin's near betrothal was pushed to the back of Maryn's mind.

Once in the coach on the way home, Maryn gave way to her somersaulting feelings. Glad she was that neither Rosemary nor Alice accompanied her. She was alone with her emotions and damp handkerchief as she pondered Orin's future. Perhaps it wouldn't have cut so deeply had she heard it from someone else. Nicola's low regard of him seemed especially spiteful.

By the time her own gates came into view, she'd dried her eyes though she felt completely spent. Thankfully, her nieces proved the one bright thread in a grey afternoon. If only they could all pass regularly between Redbraes Castle and Lockhart Hall. She'd not had a feeling of family for so long she'd quite forgotten what it was like. And that was partly why she had declined the Countess of Wedderburn's invitation for tea. Being amid a whole, loving clan only magnified her own loss. Her own lack.

And now, knowing the only man she'd ever loved was to wed, she was doubly glad she'd declined. Time to let go and go on, as Orin had said. If ever there was a man made for a family, created to be a devoted husband and father, it was him. Perhaps Ivory Lyon was just the wife he needed. If so, she'd be especially blessed to marry a Hume.

If she herself couldn't have him as a husband, that didn't mean no one else could.