Chapter 26

26

I nside his office on Black Bull Street, Orin attended to the day's business. A prodigious amount of work had been required before opening, including replacing a broken shop window the sheriff suspected was malicious. Again, Orin was reminded not everyone approved of his endeavors, however well intentioned.

Today the late summer sun was shining and the shop's long frontage was flanked by multi-paned Crown bullion glass. The new trade sign with its black lettering and scrolled skirt had been mounted and now hung from its wrought-iron armature, swinging slightly in a Lowland wind, beckoning one and all.

Wedderburn Books.

Beneath this was a painted image of a quill and a Bible. And so Orin Hume joined the ranks of booksellers across Britain with his shelves of catalogued books, stationary supplies, ink and the continual jingle of Charis's bells at the door alerting him to those who came to trade or simply gawk.

"Sir, a gentleman is here to see ye." The Duns lad he'd hired stood in the doorway of his office, halting his letter to a London printer.

"Send him in then."

Orin stood as a tall, lanky man in black approached, hat in hand. Lord Marchmont? "My apologies, sir, for the unexpected visit."

"None needed, milord." Orin gestured to a chair. Marchmont looked wearied. Harried. And with good reason. "Might I offer you a dram?"

"Aye, most welcome. I've a long journey ahead."

Concerned, Orin poured him whisky. "My sincerest apologies for your loss."

"Thank you." Sitting, Marchmont reached for the glass. "I'm still in shock yet hopeful time in the south of France restores my health if not my spirits. But that's not what brings me to your door." He took a drink, his hand unsteady. "I've gone through my late wife's belongings recently and discovered letters meant for you that somehow ended up in her possession."

Orin felt a beat of disbelief as he poured himself a drink. "Letters?"

"Aye, not written by my wife but her sister, now Duchess of Fordyce." Reaching into his weskit, he retrieved a stack and handed it across the desk. "They come with an apology. I fail to understand why she had them. Apparently there was some sort of argument between her and her grandfather about the correspondence years ago. I can only guess she somehow intercepted the letters and kept them."

Orin took them and did a quick count. Eight? In a trice they became the most precious thing in his possession. To Nicola's credit, the seals were intact, thus she hadn't read any, just hoarded them. "I'm grateful to have them."

"I recall there was some understanding between you and my sister-in-law at one time." He paused to cough. "And I have reason to believe my late wife wanted to put an end to that for unknown reasons when it wasn't her place to do so."

Orin swallowed. That poignant heaviness mixed with longing when he thought of Maryn stole over him again. He didn't ken what to say. Mayhap it wasn't his place to say anything. Especially not rail against a dead woman.

"I leave you now feeling relieved though I don't understand why." Marchmont stood and thanked him for the drink. "And I wish you every success here on Black Bull Street."

Once he left the shop, Orin went to a corner safe and stored the letters away, his carefully ordered day unraveling. What had Maryn penned back then in the shadow of the tragedy? He needed privacy away from the shop to find out but the door's bells alerted him to more customers on the heels of Lord Marchmont's exit.

Miss Hazel Robson and her aunt?

They greeted him, exclaiming with pleasure as they looked about. Introductions were made and Orin found the middle-aged Mrs. Robson to be remarkably well read.

"I do so enjoy literature of all sorts," Mrs. Robson said. "Lately I've finished Beauty and the Beast by Barbot de Villeneuve and Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God by Jonathan Edwards."

"Aunt Eleanor's reading tastes are quite varied as you can see," Miss Robson teased.

"And you?" Orin asked her, showing them upstairs. "What is your preference?"

"Novels," she said, gravitating toward a window-lit corner where those were shelved. "And you seem to have a fine selection."

Orin felt both pride and pleasure at her appreciation. "We have more books arriving every day. If you don't see what you fancy, I can order from Edinburgh or London."

She selected a copy of Robinson Crusoe, his personal preference. Might they have common ground? Their eyes met briefly before he looked away, turning his attention to another novel she might like.

"I'm most drawn to romantic stories." She opened the book and read a random line. Her speaking voice was as lovely as her singing voice. " For sudden joys, like griefs, confound at first ."

Aye, Orin thought, riven by both.

Orin vowed to wait till he returned to the privacy of Wedderburn's gatehouse to open the first of Maryn's letters. But the day's delays had him chafing against the clock that seemed to have frozen on the bookshop wall. Locking up, he eyed the new glass windows and uttered a prayer for his property's protection. Perhaps even vandals would one day learn to read and rue their mischief.

Finally, in the gloaming, he rode home. Home. The gatehouse had become more a home than Hume House in London ever had. Arriving at the castle, he left Septimus at the stables before giving the steward a book he'd inquired about, finally free to walk down the dusty drive, unsure if he'd return for supper. His stomach clenched as he pondered the letters he carried.

But first, his usual routines needed observing. He washed up at the washstand in his bedchamber and changed into a freshly laundered sark. Returning downstairs, he lit a pewter sconce. The mellowing whisky with Marchmont had long since worn off and his mind felt razor sharp. Laying the letters out atop a table, he hesitated. Someone—Maryn?—had numbered them in the corners. Or was it Nicola's doing? He needn't guess the order to read them.

Thunderstruck by the turn of events, he hesitated as the significance of the moment settled. With a swipe of his thumb he broke the first seal and all but held his breath.

Dearest Orin,

I have finally come to my senses and worse than my injuries is your absence. The accident, tragic though it was, seems to have brought clarity about a great many things, namely my regard of you. It is as Jean de La Bruyere said. "Love seizes us suddenly, without giving warning, and our disposition or our weakness favors the surprise; one look, one glance, from the fair fixes and determines us."

You once said the sweetest of all sounds is the voice of a woman beloved. I can add to that in reverse. The sweetest of all sounds is your voice, spoken to me, near at hand. Since I last saw you I love you a hundredfold more than I did when I seemed to be half-asleep, never fully realizing the hard parting that would come to us, all that you mean to me, and the depth of my feeling for you. Can our hearts be one and the same? Please write to me as soon as you are able. I await your response like my next breath.

Ever thine, Maryn

The candlelight flickered and he let go of the paper. It fluttered to the tabletop like a broken-winged moth. His heart had picked up as though he'd run to the castle and back. A hard, thudding beat that seemed to demand he do something. The next letter was dated soon after the first and was a tad longer. Several lines leapt out at him.

You engross me so completely that I scarce think of anything else. Not only do you occupy my daily thoughts but by night you invade my sleep. I meet you in my dreams and dread waking for it is to lose you all over again.

Never doubt my fervent affection for you.

He read on, beguiled. Ensnared all over again. Her letters pulsed with thinly veiled passion and then, by the last, became threaded with a sadness that he had not written her back.

Only he had.

He nearly ground his teeth in frustration. How different life would look had there been no tragedy, no separation, no thwarted letters.

What now?

He rode to Lockhart Hall the next day. Unannounced. Unsure of his reception.

"Mr. Hume, do come in." Mrs. Duncan, at least, seemed happy to see him. "I'll show you to the garden. Her Grace is there now with the children."

Children? He could hear distant voices. Laughter. A bairn's cry rent the tiled hall. What? He looked upwards in the direction of the sound.

"Much has changed since you were last here," she said over her shoulder as she led him through a wainscoted corridor.

"My hope is Her Grace hasn't wed," he murmured to her answering chuckle.

"I'd best let her ladyship do any explaining, sir."

Outside, he stood, half-hidden by an arbor overlooking a side lawn as Mrs. Duncan excused herself. The Duchess of Fordyce was at a distance, looking like the Maryn of old in a bright yellow gown. Smiling, even laughing, and playing a game. On the grass was a rectangular, chalked grid. Hopscotch? Several little lasses—his heart caught at the endearing sight—were jumping and bending to retrieve colorful, tossed toys.

Hollowness gnawed at him alongside an addling confusion. He didn't ken who these bairns were. Maryn hadn't confided in him. It further underscored their divide. Whoever they were, they brought her a great deal of pleasure. He'd not seen that carefree smile nor heard her laugh since Herschel was alive.

The four of them were unaware of him and so he sat on the arbor seat, unwilling to interrupt their game. Only the dog, as if tired of being underfoot, ambled toward him. He bent and ran a hand over the spaniel's silky fur before it returned to the game. They'd still not noticed him, caught up in the joyous moment and the late summer sunshine and their playing, wholly absorbed in the moment as only bairns could be.

As minutes ticked past a severe poignancy knifed him. This might have been his and Maryn's home. Their children. A complete, happy family unmarred by absence and loss.

Why hadn't he confessed his love for her when he'd broached marriage again as a matter of honor? Why hadn't he told her outright the feelings he'd once had for her he had for her still? That she was his first thought and his last, bookending the day like the tomes in his shop. That every woman he met also met her as their measure. He supposed his pride had prevented outright honesty. He'd barely stayed stoic when she'd rebuffed him.

Her letters now seemed to burn a hole against his chest, tucked inside his waistcoat. From a woman who no longer wanted him. Who'd said the same outright. And here he was all but groveling at a distance, watching her unawares. A sick certainty of how this would end clawed at him. There was still time to leave with a shred of dignity and decency before he made a fool of himself.

Or a fool of them both.