Chapter 22

22

W agons filled with crates of books were already arriving at Black Bull Street, so many that three of Wedderburn Castle's footmen had been borrowed to help unpack, dust, and shelve the gifted library. Though Orin's mind remained firmly on Maryn, always hoping she'd simply appear and surprise him, he was pleasantly distracted from their tenuous situation. The fact she'd given him the collection made his work more gratifying.

He picked out a particularly valuable book, its distinctive binding one of tooled leather. The vellum pages held Middle English and woodcut illustrations. He breathed in the musty scent and marveled at its excellent condition. Other rarities awaited, each unique and valuable.

Did Maryn realize the treasure trove she'd parted with?

He'd set up a desk in a side room with a view of the street and it was here Charis found him, head bent over a ledger like a lad at his studies. The front door opened and she swept in, a leather strap in hand with several brass bells attached. The festive sound resounded through the whole shop, sure to raise the most dour bibliophile's spirits.

"A shop must give a warm welcome." She stooped, her indigo skirts fanning out around her on the newly polished floor, and tied the jingling bells to the door handle. "Though I feared you might be reminded of a sleigh … "

"Nay," he replied, shooting down the notion, and the melancholy memory with it. "A charming gift from my favorite niece."

"Your only niece," she parried, continuing their longstanding jest. "The Humes are quite good at begetting boys."

Chuckling, he stood and she kissed him on both cheeks. "Let me guess. You've come to visit the dressmaker again and hazarded me a second visit."

"Guilty." She sat in the windowseat, blocking his view of the busy street. "A society maiden's wardrobe is a work in progress."

"And when is our next function? I can't recall." He sat back down, nearly spilling a bottle of ink. One day his desk would have a semblance of order, but for now all was joyous chaos.

"A musical evening at Landreth Hall on Thursday next, followed by a dinner party at Duns Castle on Saturday." She began to rummage in her pocket. "But that's the least of my concerns at present."

He leaned back in his chair, wondering if a particularly precarious stack of books nearest her would topple. Reaching out, he secured them as she withdrew something from her purse.

"The papers have always adored you though this is of a decidedly unflattering nature."

He took the latest copy of Tatler from her. He'd not had time for any periodicals lately. Sunlight streamed upon the desktop and illuminated several inked lines, beginning with—

Bard of Britannia Disappears

He read on silently, glad only Charis was present to see his vexation. The footmen were busy upstairs.

Behold! A mirthful spectacle unfolds as Mr. Orin Hume, erstwhile Poet Laureate, hath forsaken his quill and laurels in exchange for that of Fortune Hunter. The King's countenance, though riddled with displeasure, finds relief in the appointment of Sir Walter Mayhew to the exalted position. Mr. Hume, wearied by the tierce of Canary wine that graced his laureateship, has traded London for Scotland in quest of a more opulent title—the coveted yet cursed Duchess of Fordyce.

Wheest!

Orin resisted the urge to fist the paper into a knot. Used to satire of the severest sort—though he never stooped to write it—he nevertheless felt such pillorying and lampooning a blow. Had Maryn read such nonsense? Better she hear it from him first.

"Of course, the pundit is anonymous, as is oft the case," Charis said, watching as he shrugged on his coat. "You're not riding to the printer in London, I'm sure, but Lockhart Hall."

"With an abject apology, aye."

A rather convenient way to continue your courting.

The voice lambasted him from within but he moved toward the door and lapsed into the broad Scots he used when aggravated. "I wouldna expect me for supper, scunnered as I am."

Charis followed him outside, the jingle of the bells now grating. "Well, dear uncle, I wish you every success in whatever it is you're about."

Maryn arranged the cut flowers in a vase atop her tidy desk. Dazzling light from her cabinet windows foretold noon, illuminating every hue of the heirloom roses. Butter yellow. Pale lavender. Rich apricot. Even a soft red, much like the rose Orin had picked for her at the gatehouse. The fragrance was intoxicating, filling the round chamber and driving out the stale tobacco scent. She'd banished Grandfather's Orinoco jar from the mantel, wondering if Orin took snuff like so many courtiers, but guessing he smoked a pipe like the laird, instead.

What did it matter? The thought needed banishing, too.

As she quashed it, hoofbeats alerted her to someone's coming. Tension coiled inside her at the thought of entertaining—or turning them away. She was hardly dressed for company. With Rosemary sick in bed with a cold, Maryn wore no stays, only a loose, belted sultana in rose silk. For once she wasn't wearing black.

When the rider reached the forecourt all her dread turned to an unwilling delight. Orin. Only he looked dark as a thundercloud. Had something gone awry? Was she to blame? Standing beside the half-arranged roses, she hastily pulled a stray thread from her sultana and pushed back a strand of hair.

A footman announced him and there Orin stood in the cabinet doorway, his intense expression on arrival relaxing. "Maryn."

"Thank you," she breathed, heartily tired of her title.

He removed his hat. "I'm sorry to arrive without warning."

"Your hurried hoofbeats were warning enough," she reassured him.

With a half-smile, he came into the room and admired the bouquet. "I never saw a rose in the past five years that I didn't think of you. Your gardens."

"Roses were always Mama's favorite, too."

"Unfortunately, I've not come to discuss roses but scandal."

Scandal? She gestured toward the damask sofa, flowers fleeing her thoughts.

Seated, they turned slightly toward each other, apology etched into his clear-cut features. "I've resigned as Poet Laureate. If you've read the latest newspapers or magazines you may already ken."

"Resigned?" She wasn't surprised. His leaving fit with what Nicola had told her. If he was to wed he would likely stay on in Berwickshire. With Miss Lyon ever in mind, she braced herself to hear his plans. "I thought Poet Laureate was a lifetime appointment."

"I'm the first to stand down. My life is here. London is behind me." He swallowed, clearly at sixes and sevens. "But my resignation makes me fodder for broadsheets and the like. Much as I want to spare you the ridiculous details, I've been labeled a fortune hunter and the press has named you as my prey."

"Prey?" Amusement turned to laughter, a surprisingly odd sound given she found so little mirthful of late. "Well, there's no one I'd rather be besmirched with than you."

"You're taking it better than I did."

She lifted her shoulders. "After the Lockhart curse , anything else pales in comparison."

His eyes still held regret. "I've only seen you a few times since returning to the Lowlands. For the life of me, I can't figure out who kens our association and made it public fodder."

"This too shall pass, as Grandfather used to say. The rags will report what they will and tomorrow it shall be about someone else."

"Aye, but it maddens me nonetheless. I care nothing for what they print about me but you are another matter. You are above such nonsense. Above reproach."

His protectiveness touched her. How good it was to be hemmed in with kindness and concern rather than feel vulnerable and alone. Wanting to divert him, she tugged at the bell pull. Mrs. Duncan brought raspberry shrub, made with honey from Lockhart Hall's aviary.

"So, I suppose this means you won't be attending the king's birthday ball," she said. "Leave that to the next Poet Laureate."

"I wish him well." His grimace told her much. "Five years at Court has cured me completely. 'Twas a soulless existence oftentimes."

"I can only imagine what goes on behind those gilded walls. But I also believe nothing we experience is ever wasted. Think of it as future literary inspiration."

"Inspiration, aye." His gratitude was palpable. "Life of late has taken a decidedly different turn. Because of you, I'm surrounded by such a quantity of books that it seems more like heaven on earth."

She smiled and looked down at the ripe raspberries atop her dwindling drink. "Remember when you used to read to me?"

"A voice deep as a velvet well, you used to say."

"That hasn't changed. Have you any recommendations?"

"A timely question. I've stowed away some books which will wait till you visit the shop." He set aside his empty glass. "Have you any recommendations?"

She smiled. "I'm rather taken with a certain play I just read in The Gentleman's Magazine ."

" Harlequin Restored or The Double Dealer?"

" Harlequin Restored , soon to be staged at Drury Lane. The playwright must be deliriously happy."

"The playwright is only wondering if you've written anything in the last five years."

She bit her lip, wanting to spill everything, every success and frustration as in days of old. But to do so would make him her confidante. Usurp the lass he loved. She would say no more nor share her short-lived success in Edinburgh and then her subsequent humiliation of being lambasted as a garrulous female poet and playwright. Though she did wonder what he'd make of The Queen Bee Chronicles.

"I dabble," she said and took another sip. "And you deserve every accolade. I never doubted you would become a leading literary light when we were performing on garden benches."

"To be honest, I believe my life's work lies ahead of me. Establishing a literary presence in the Lowlands despite my critics."

"Critics are at every turn, no matter what one does. There are many who'll support you, myself foremost."

His gaze rose to the full shelves surrounding them. "I'm determined to press on regardless. Reading is a rare gift that needs to become commonplace."

"As Mr. Benjamin Franklin said, the person who deserves most pity is a lonesome one on a rainy day who doesn't know how to read."

"Yet few ken how and far fewer have books."

"Your bookshop and future lending library will help change that. As for myself, I've been pondering a teacher for the children of my tenants. There are a great many of an age to learn on Lockhart lands. They're often in the fields or laboring too young. Their time could be better spent with books, at least early on. Then they'd have more choices in later life."

"Agreed. I've spoken with the laird about the same and he's willing to listen."

"Great things start small." She strove to be an encouragement despite the enormity of it all. "And you've made a bold move with the bookshop."

"If I can catalogue the five thousand. I've completed half but keep getting distracted by those rare, ancient editions."

"A delightful dilemma." She imagined him sunk in those old pages, admiring the elaborate, hand-tooled bindings and colored leather. "If those books had come to me first they might have bypassed you altogether."

He smiled and met her eyes again.

Oh, that impossibly blue gaze … which still made a wash of her middle.

"Half have been shelved, too," he said.

"You sound too busy for any socializing. How is Lady Charis's season going?"

"Weel enough. The laird may announce her betrothal to Lord Lovell soon which would make us all breathe a sigh of relief."

"Oh? I'm so happy for her—for you all." Her mind began whirring.

Should she not offer her congratulations about his own betrothal? Or wait till such was announced? As much as the possibility pained her, not knowing the details chafed, too. But he said nothing about Miss Lyon. Amid the rose's perfume and the refreshing drinks she sensed a restlessness about him today. As if he was holding something back.

She ventured, "You're tired of minuets and small talk, then."

"Let's say I'm more comfortable in bookshops and gatehouses."

"As am I." Did Miss Lyon support his bibliophile bent? "I've nearly forgotten what it's like to attend a fête. I did so love to dance."

"What's to keep you from it once you're done with mourning?" He extended a hand. "What's to keep you from it now?"

She looked at him, her heart catching at the thought. Now, as in right now ? In this very chamber? His gaze held hers in unmistakable invitation.

Torn, she looked away. "I … my injury. I've had to give up much I once loved, like the pianoforte and harp."

He nodded, compassion in his eyes. "But there's nae reason you canna dance again."

She looked to her left arm and hand, even now covered with a glove. "I suppose pride prevents me. Fear of what others might say. Their revulsion." Not to mention her own.

"Let me see, if you will," he said gently, reaching for her.

She all but recoiled. "Nay, Orin. I—" She stumbled over his name, not meaning to utter it but forgetting herself.

"Your injury doesn't disturb me, Maryn, just your reluctance to return to a full life."

A full life. He was right, of course. Her pride prevented her, much as she hated to admit it. And fear. Fear of what others thought or would invariably say.

"We had an arrangement once." He looked toward a window, his profile as heart-catching as ever. "Our families were in talks regarding our future. Do you remember?"

"I do recall it, yes." It had been, she wouldn't say, the sweetest years in hindsight. The world had been rose-hued before it became sable. Life had been full then. A title. Family. A noble house. Traditions. A young man who was her best friend with a promise of much more.

He continued, as if their estrangement had never happened. "I'd be less than honorable if I didn't express my desire for that arrangement to continue."

She blinked and all assumptions regarding Miss Lyon collapsed. Her throat seemed to close in answer. "But … "

"As a matter of honor, I ask you to consider it."

She swallowed as their eyes locked. "You mean … marriage?"

"Aye." He looked down at his hands, his signet ring bearing his initials on its bezel. "Marriage. A family. The life I hoped to have with you."

How his velvet voice wooed her. Reopened the door to the future she'd thought locked forever. She grasped for something to say, to push him—and her swelling tide of feelings—back. "As a matter of honor."

"Aye."

Ah, finally she understood. He felt obligated, then. Before he could form another alliance he needed to know that their former bond was irretrievably broken. For a few fleeting seconds the realization was akin to being hurled from the sleigh all over again. The room all but tilted and spun. She fought for breath as a crushing, bruising heaviness engulfed her.

She heard herself say, "Given that, my refusal would release you to move on … find happiness elsewhere."

He looked at her so intently it seemed he sensed her inward struggle. "Consider it, is all I ask."

"Nay … there's nothing left to consider. The facts remain."

She couldn't dismiss the medical reports, the multitude of doctors shaking their heads and concurring her injuries would likely prevent her from having children. So many dire, dark details. She couldn't tell him such delicate things.

"As I've said before, I'm not who I once was nor are you." Though her voice was soft there was steel beneath. "'Tis futile to try to go on as before."

He fisted his hands together. "I suppose you haven't found those letters. The missing ones. The ones you wrote to me."

She shook her head, looking toward the desk where his were still secreted. She'd considered asking Nicola about them but doing so might create another tempest she had no heart for. "They seem to have disappeared."

"I suppose that belongs in the past, too," he said and stood. "I've taken enough of your time today."

Nothing played across his stalwart face but she sensed her refusal wounded him more than it released or relieved him. And she hated she was the cause of it. Bewildered, she sat, combing over all they'd just said, trying to make sense of it once he'd left. When he rode away she hurriedly shut the door to her cabinet so none could witness her weeping.