Chapter 2

2

M aryn Lockhart traded Thistle Cottage for the rear garden held between high stone walls, the gamekeeper's Border Collie, Bassett, on her heels. Dew filigreed every fern and flower. May's bright scent was everywhere, the sun buttering the surrounding stones with warm light.

Here she wasn't Lady Maryn any longer, just Maryn. Five years she'd shut herself away since the ordeal that sent her reeling. Only she hadn't healed, just hidden, her visible wounds turned to scars. On her best days she rarely thought of the tragedy. On her worst days it was all she thought about. Here in the Lowlands near the North Sea, few had pity on her or stared. Few knew she was even at Thistle Cottage.

She had Grandfather Lockhart to thank for that. He alone had seen her struggle and settled her far from society. When she'd first set eyes on this charming cottage on Lockhart land, it had left her smitten. With its rustic thatched roof, stone and timber construction, and leaded windows, it was so smothered in ivy and roses it seemed more fairytale. Her favorite feature was the carving over the lintel noting the date of its construction. 1585. Old things had always delighted her heart.

Safely nestled within the shadow of the gamekeeper's lodge, Maryn felt she had a guard at her disposal. Mr. Leslie lived there with his ageing wife, who was almost as much a recluse as she. Gates to Lockhart Hall, numerous no trespassing signs, and deep ditches kept any visitors at bay. When Grandfather Lockhart was in residence and away from Edinburgh, he rarely entertained family and friends. He only desired her company.

"I wish you would come to the Hall, my dear," became his gentle refrain.

"If you were to stop visiting me at the cottage I might," she said with a smile.

Had it been last Hogmanay since she'd seen him? How she'd once loved the Twelve Days of Christmas before the shadow cast by the accident eclipsed the joys of the season. Today the woes of winter seemed distant. She stepped into a beam of sunlight and stood, eyes closed, as light chased away the darkness. For a few seconds she yielded to the dazzling warmth before continuing on, a basket on her good arm.

The snowdrops of Candlemas and jonquils of early spring had given way to purple plumes of allium. In the language of flowers, allium signified patience of which she had little. She chafed again at the mail's delay, dwelling instead on the camellias that soon filled her basket in a rosy profusion of pinks, compliments of the East India Company who'd brought them to Britain.

She grew a great deal from seed and under glass, sometimes taking cuttings from Lockhart Hall's extensive gardens. Grandfather had built her what he called the tiniest orangery in all Scotland, an extension of Thistle Cottage and heated by charcoal braziers. It even boasted a fruited pineapple within its glass walls.

Beyond the enclosed garden were glades of bluebells interspersed with meadowsweet and wild thyme and Lady's-mantle. She often ventured out on foot at twilight, having given up riding. Fear kept her from horses, or even carriages if she could help it—especially a sleigh—though the music of sleigh bells carried far on a hushed winter's day.

Since this was the Sabbath she was mindful that her maidservant, Rosemary, spent the day with her family in the near village of Ladykirk. A chatterbox by nature, her absence lent a profound quiet to the holy day, and left Maryn missing kirk. How long had it been since she'd darkened the door of the old stone building on the banks of the River Tweed?

Sitting down on a stone bench, she set her blooming basket aside. Of all the thorns in her life, missing kirk was the sharpest. What did the Almighty think of her self-imposed exile? She still wrestled with uncertainty, especially crushing on the Sabbath. Rather than soothe her, the peace and beauty of the blooming garden seemed to magnify her solitary state. She longed to share such loveliness with someone but only the Collie pressed against her petticoats and looked up at her adoringly. Bassett would have to do.

"G'morn, m'lady. Some fresh eggs for ye." The voice spilling over the garden wall was reassuringly familiar. "Feels like rain, does it nae?"

"Indeed it does, Mrs. Leslie." At her feet grew deep blue blossoms, their black button centers tightly furled and foretelling a change of weather. "The anemones agree with you."

"Have ye any needs before I hie to market tomorrow?"

"I've need of ink and pounce primarily but you already ken that, thank you."

A chuckle. "Ye're a lady of letters, truly. Anything for the post?"

"I'm still awaiting word of—something." Maryn's voice faded then rebounded. "Thank you for the eggs. I've in mind a fluffy, buttery omelette."

"Och! Ye're a fine cook, too, with Rosemary away. A blessed Sabbath to ye, m'lady."

A fluffy, buttery omelette for dinner and leftover salmon for supper brought the Sabbath to a close. Maryn stirred the fire's embers and added more coal before heating the kettle for tea. Night crept in like Jamesina, the cat, while Bassett lay outside the half open door. Waiting for the kettle to sing, Maryn sat down at her writing desk and moved a lit candle closer. Opening the drawer, she ignored the breathless tightening in her chest and took out a few bank notes. Precious few.

Thus far her literary endeavors had enabled her to become a woman of independent means, even a benefactress, since leaving home. Payment for her plays wasn't always timely despite the astonishing run of Parsons and Petticoats. But the curtain had come down on that performance. One couldn't live long on one's literary successes.

She'd further depleted her funds with her support of London's Foundling Hospital. The plight of abandoned children continually moved her. But she would not—could not—borrow from Grandfather though he was always there to supply her with whatever she asked for should she ask. She was simply loathe to ask.

Her gaze rose to the window as if a post rider would materialize before her eyes.

Where was the mail?