Chapter 27

27

W inded yet refreshed, Maryn returned inside with her nieces for their lie down. Nurse called for the three to come to the nursery and wash hands, their flushed faces reflecting their pleasure from being outside. Once they'd rested they'd have a milk tea as was their custom. Though Lockhart Hall had been their home only briefly, a comfortable routine was already taking hold, adding delight and color to their days.

Straw hat in hand, Maryn watched them scurry upstairs, their grass-stained petticoats resembling flowers in hues of rose, lilac, and buttercup. Thank heavens children were excused from wearing mourning. Oddly enough, the girls rarely asked about their parents. They seemed content with the present and Maryn sought to make it as snug and secure as she could.

She enjoyed overseeing the nursery immensely. The toys and games. The clothes and shoes and tiny caps. The whimsy of it all. Bending down, she retrieved Eugenie's lost slipper on the stairs. The girls' chatter nearly snuffed the babe's crying from his end of the nursery. She started up the steps to go to him then paused, certain it was his wet nurse he wanted. Haddon was thriving on a great deal of nestling and milk. At least she could help with the nestling part.

"Your Grace … " Mrs. Duncan's voice turned her round.

Something about supper, she supposed. The housekeeper was punctilious about the day's menu.

"Mr. Hume was just here. Did you see him?"

Maryn stared at her blankly. "Mr. Hume? I—nay."

"I showed him to the side lawn where you were playing with your nieces."

Had she overlooked him? Retracing her steps, Maryn hastened outside, hope making her heart ache then nearly break to find the side lawn empty. Why had he come? Had he stood here watching her and the girls? What made him leave instead?

A sennight passed. Seven days in which Maryn watched and waited, hoped and prayed Orin would return and solve the mystery of his appearing. She paced the nursery on the following Monday, Haddon in arms. Just fed, he looked up at her with wide blue eyes, content and quiet, a momentary salve to her restless heart. And hers to raise.

But didn't a boy need a father near at hand?

Lord Marchmont might, in truth, never return to Scotland from France. At least she could provide for her nephew and nieces as best she could and pray for her brother-in-law's recovery. But if he didn't recover?

She continued to pace with Haddon who was soon lulled to sleep by her back-and-forth motion. Outside the day beckoned. A bright, September afternoon that held the abundance of autumn. Years ago, she and Orin would go foraging for mushrooms and berries or ride about in the pony cart on afternoons like these.

Returning Haddon to his crib as gently as she could, Maryn tucked in his blanket lest he be cold. For a moment she stood watching him, feeling every inch the mother. Awed. Protective. Loathe to leave his side.

Once downstairs again, she tried to attend to some publishing business in her cabinet. The girls were in their part of the nursery, well away from their sleeping brother. She could hear their high, happy voices as they played with their dolls, Nurse supervising.

Lately, Charlotte had shown an interest in stitching and so Maryn had ordered her a sewing kit from Edinburgh. Now seven, she would soon need schooling, necessitating a governess be found. Taking up a quill, Maryn composed an advertisement for the Edinburgh newspapers.

Wanted, a female tutor of genteel manners, an informed mind, and capable of teaching different kinds of needle-works. Also necessary that she should translate and speak French.

That done, she set it aside, her thoughts veering to Orin again.

Always Orin. Perhaps if she returned to the cottage she could find a measure of peace.

"Please prepare the chaise," she told a footman, summoning Rosemary besides.

In a half hour they were raising the dust of the road, bypassing Thistle cottage altogether. What had Orin told her? She'd pondered it ever since she'd last seen him.

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

"Och, Yer Grace!" Rosemary looked askance at her as she handled the reins. "Did I hear ye right when ye said Duns instead?"

"Duns, indeed," Maryn said, eagerness vying with trepidation. "The bookseller on Black Bull Street."

Time to run toward life rather than away from it.

"Verra weel." Rosemary tried not to smile but Maryn knew her too well and detected it. "Ye've nae been to Duns in an age."

"You may as well ken that I have business with Mr. Hume," she confessed.

"I dinna doubt it." Her maid's smile could no longer be contained. "Might we have time for the dressmaker besides? I have my heart set on a bit o' ribbon or lace."

"Of course. Why don't you go there whilst I visit the bookshop?"

"Have ye need of anything yerself?"

"Smelling salts," Maryn said wryly, having forgotten her vinaigrette. "Hartshorn should do."

"Ooh, aye. Mr. Hume makes one tapsalteerie, he does." Chuckling, Rosemary slowed the chaise as they passed a wagon. "Pardon me for saying so. I canna speak for the both of us, though if I could I'd say ye feel the same."

Maryn almost laughed. All those years with Rosemary attending her had bred an unusual familiarity between mistress and servant but it was what it was. Rosemary had been, for a long time, more friend.

Duns rose up in the distance, looking larger than Maryn remembered—and twice as daunting. Steeling herself lest she meet anyone who might recognize her, she took note of the buildings, old and new. Duns market, when all of Berwickshire descended, was held weekly but not today. At least she'd skirted that. Perhaps soon she'd not feel so anxious, so aware of her wound.

As they turned down Black Bull Street, Wedderburn Books was easily distinguished by its new trade sign and shining bow-fronted windows. Several horses and conveyances waited outside. An encouraging sight. Maryn wanted Orin not only to realize his dream but have it be the start of more successes. And to think she'd played some part in it all with her donation of the library collection and sale of the building.

She left the chaise, smoothing her sable petticoats at the entrance to the shop. Would its owner even be there? A clerk opened the door with a slight bow, and as she stepped inside, the aroma of countless books enfolded her. Several men perused the shelves—and a few women. One in particular. Only she wasn't perusing the shelves but the bookseller himself. Immediately Maryn regretted coming. Had she interrupted a tete-a-tete?

Miss Ivory Lyon was even lovelier than expected since she'd not gotten a good look at her on horseback that disturbing day. Now she turned toward Maryn with a questioning half-smile, her eyes communicating that she rued the interruption.

"Your Grace." Orin gave a slight bow that was as unnecessary as it was gallant. "Welcome to Wedderburn Books."

"I'm glad to see it busy," she said, smiling at Miss Lyon if only to stop herself from looking at him. "Is that coffee I detect?"

"Aye, a bookshop without it seems half crime," he replied, "though lately I'm in danger of turning this place into Hume's Coffeehouse instead. Would you care for a cup?"

"I would, indeed," she said, turning in a circle to better see the bookshop from all angles. "As the composer, Mr. Bach, has said, "‘Ah! How sweet coffee tastes! Lovelier than a thousand kisses, sweeter far than muscatel wine! I must have coffee … '"

When she circled back to him and looked him fully in the face she gasped. He met her gaze unflinchingly though his left eye sagged shut. Purplish-black bruises mottled his bewhiskered jaw and the split to his lip made her wince. But it was the vicious slash below his right eye that most worried her.

A furious fear gripped her, its talons sharp. She'd never considered losing him before. His own mortality had been constant, never in question. Until now—

"Orry, what's been done to you?" Her heartfelt words seemed to echo to the shop's four corners.

"I was late coming home from here one night when a few vagabonds decided to steal my horse and berate me about my books." A trace of amusement lifted his voice. "The laird and sheriff soon rounded them up and sent them to the Edinburgh Tolbooth. Septimus was returned unharmed."

Overcome, she could only reach out and clasp his hand in silent support when what she wanted was to hurry him to the gatehouse and nurse his wounds herself. He squeezed her fingers in return, the strength of his grip reassuring. Remembering Miss Lyon's presence, Maryn let go of him only to find her rival running an appraising eye over her from tip to toe as if assessing her injury or in search of some sort of mourning jewelry.

If so, she looked in vain. Maryn loathed mourning jewelry. Momento mori. The fashionable Latin phrase that she would die one day was a lesson she'd learned well. She needn't wear black jewelry as a reminder.

"My deepest condolences, Your Grace," Miss Lyon said with a deep curtsey. "For the latest of many losses."

Maryn thanked her, silently wishing her on her way. Excusing himself, Orin went to fetch the coffee.

In his absence, Miss Lyon drew closer, her whisper sly. "I never thought to see a bereaved duchess in a bookshop."

"This duchess devours books," Maryn replied, forgetting her own infirmities completely in light of Orin's ambush.

The coffee finally appeared alongside Orin's explanation. "With Lisbon sugar and heavy cream."

"No dandelion coffee with pounded sugar candy?" she jested despite herself.

"A bonny memory though I've nae time for picking dandelions or pounding candy these days," he replied with a bruised smile.

"I should be serving you," she told him in concern.

She sat in the upholstered chair he offered near a window, her cup on the edge of a small table, Miss Lyon looking on. If she had interrupted a tête-à-tête she wasn't the least bit sorry. She wouldn't leave without settling the mystery of his coming to Lockhart Hall.

"Well, farewell for now, Mr. Hume," Miss Lyon said at last. "I suppose I shall see you at Lady Grainger's supper party this weekend?"

"My regrets," he replied easily. "Though I hope you enjoy it should you attend."

"But Lady Charis … " she said, clearly seeking answers.

"She's departed for England with the laird to attend a funeral."

"Ah, yes. Her suitor's father, the late duke. Pity, that."

No wedding for Charis then?

Saddened, Maryn took a sip of coffee, finding the exchange reserved. Far cooler than an almost betrothed couple would make. Had Nicola been right about their relationship? The question seemed moot when another woman appeared, clearly seeking the owner. Maryn watched the meeting play out in a sort of comic disbelief.

Was Wedderburn Books naught but a cover for courting?

Orin made introductions. "Miss Hazel Robson, Your Grace."

Dressed fashionably in violet silk and a bergère bonnet, she was English to the bone and so slender it seemed Maryn saw through her. To her credit, her demeanor was far more endearing than Miss Lyon's had been. But her winsome smile made Maryn increasingly uneasy.

She looked to her full cup, queasy. Whatever this terrible churning inside her portended, it was incompatible with strong coffee. Thoughts spinning along with her stomach, Maryn entertained an unwelcome possibility …

Had Miss Robson taken the place of Miss Lyon in his affections?

The lovely lass turned toward Orin in a sort of entreaty. "I've come to see how you're faring after such a terrible battering."

Orin made light of it though it seemed it pained him to even speak. "They might beat me but they'll nae defeat me."

"I commend you for your fortitude." She drew her lace shawl closer about her narrow shoulders. "I've also come to inquire about the book you ordered for me."

Orin summoned a clerk who quickly brought the tome in question. When the lad returned to dusting shelves, Miss Robson and Orin spoke quietly for a few moments, shopkeeper to customer. Or was there more?

"Good day, Your Grace," she said at last before Orin escorted her to the door. As Miss Robson departed with the book, Maryn felt little relief.

The door jingled shut and Orin returned to escort her into the privacy of his office. He took a seat behind his desk facing her while she took a chair. He looked at her mostly untouched cup. "Is the coffee not to your liking?"

She took a sip and looked at him tentatively, so heartsore she nearly couldn't speak. "The coffee is delicious but in truth I'm only thinking of you."

"I'll mend though I might have a scar or two." His expression mirrored concern for her. "I've nae seen you in Duns for some time."

She took a breath, wondering where to start. "I meant to come the very day you opened the bookshop but … "

His eyes clouded. "I'm sorry about your sister."

Sinking faster than the framed painting of a ship behind him, she wondered how to share all that had come to pass. His nearness—the events that had brought her here today—made her emotional. "I've been charged with raising my nieces and newborn nephew."

"The ones I saw you with when I last visited."

She nodded. "I'm sorry I missed you. Why did you go before I could speak with you?"

"You looked so happy with the bairns that I decided to leave the past alone."

"The past? What means you?"

He stood and went to a studded iron safe and unlocked it. When he returned he held letters tied with silk ribbon. Her letters … to him? Where had he found them? She took them, dazed. Yellowed with age, the ink faded, the seals had been broken.

"Marchmont stopped here before he left for France," he told her. "He found your letters among your sister's possessions after her death. I took them home to the gatehouse to read and then decided to keep them here."

"My letters … " Confusion muddled her. "Kept from you by Nicola?"

"It appears so."

All the girlish angst within those papers returned to her afresh. Even the flash of ire toward Nicola was buried beneath. She couldn't look at him so she pinned her gaze to the letters. "So, you … read them?"

"I did, aye. The seals were intact so I was the only one who did so."

She stared down at the outpourings of her heart. They needed to be fed to the fire. Her foolish regard of Orin Hume needed to die. At the very least she wanted to hurry home and stash the letters at the back of the desk in the secret compartment with his letters to her. As if she could contain her feelings inside that small space, stuff her heart into its confines and be done with it once and for all. But there was no denying she still felt the same about him—and always would.

"I've no words for all this," she murmured.

"Your letters said plenty."

Her heart caught at the feeling in his tone. She still couldn't meet his eyes, awash in what she'd written. "Perhaps Grandfather and Nicola conspired to keep us apart."

"Mayhap." He sat down again. "Suddenly it seems we're back where we left off five years ago. You've found my letters and I now have yours."

She forced herself to take another sip of the delicious coffee. When he reached toward the letters she staunched the urge to snatch them back. Instead, he retied the ribbon and returned them to the corner safe.

What did that signify?

"There's another matter." He pulled open a desk drawer and removed a book. "I found a rare tome in your collection I'd advise you keep. First published in 1609 and one of the original copies printed on English handmade paper."

A rare find, indeed. Thankful to change the subject, she took hold of the gilt-bound book. Shakespeare's sonnets? " Let me not to the marriage of true minds … " she began from memory.

He continued when her voice faltered. " Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom … "

"If this be error and upon me proved; I never writ, nor no man ever loved, " she finished.

They'd returned to their literary sparring of old. Love alters not. It reminded her of Scripture, the beloved verses in Corinthians. Charity never faileth.

The silence lengthened. She finished her coffee, the sonnets in her lap. When she looked up at him his attention was on the window fronting the busy street. She remembered the chaise. Rosemary would have had time enough for her ribbon.

"I must go," she said quietly. But she didn't want to leave.

Did he feel the same? That time was too fleeting? That so much remained unsaid that needed saying? Sometimes the heart held tight to all that defied words.

He saw her to the shop door then ushered her outside and helped her into the chaise where Rosemary waited. The withdrawal of his warm, strong hand left her utterly bereft.