Chapter 29

29

T his was, by far, the hardest thing she'd ever done. The quill in Maryn's hand fluttered like the birds in Orin's poem she'd committed to memory. Yet despite her nerves, it felt right. She held on to her courage when her nieces stormed her cabinet as if discovering a secret hideaway, their high-pitched voices a welcome distraction.

Charlotte began playing with the miniature bust of Romeo and Juliet sitting at the desk's edge. "Aunt Maryn, what do you do in here when you're not with us?"

Pray. Write. Ponder. Dream.

Maryn set down her quill. "Well, your great-grandfather left me plenty to do when he went to heaven and so I try to be a good steward of all that God gave us."

"Mama said baby Haddon will be a duke one day." Penelope asked, "Is that true?"

"Perhaps." Maryn smiled. Nicola's vision reached beyond the grave, truly. "But that is a long ways off and much can happen between now and then."

"I should like to be a duchess like you," Charlotte continued, her pale curls framing her dimpled face. "And I would like to wear a tiara. Do you have a tiara?"

"Yes, more than one. Recently I found jewelry in your late grandmother's dressing room. Would you like to see all of that after tea today? We can play dress-up."

They giggled in delight and Pen said, "We shall pretend to be princesses."

Smelling of the lavender sewn into the hem of her gown, Eugenie climbed into Maryn's lap. Bareheaded, she was missing her cap again but Maryn didn't have the heart to scold her. She didn't like wearing hers either. Seizing the quill, Eugenie started dabbing the inked tip onto the letter Maryn had abandoned, making her second guess her decision to write it.

Soon Nurse appeared in the midst of the melee, chuckling at the sight of all three gathered round the large desk. "Mercy, Yer Grace, ye have a saint's patience!"

The girls rushed to her, telling her about playing dress-up as Eugenie climbed down from Maryn's lap. In moments, Nurse shooed them from the room, leaving stillness in their wake. And an ink-splattered letter. With a sigh, Maryn began anew, taking out a fresh sheet of foolscap.

Did she have the heart to continue?

Lord, help.

She wished she had some lighthearted verse in mind but this was no lighthearted matter.

Inking her quill again, she began.

Thursday, 27 September …

When autumn set in, Wedderburn's Books became even busier. October brought russet red to the moors, the Scots pines holding tight to their green amid the scarlet-golds of the maples and oaks. A land of mist and melancholy, Orin thought as he rode into Duns at the start of another day.

Another day he'd likely not see Maryn. The twenty-sixth day, exactly. He'd fought an ongoing battle, reining himself in when he felt he couldn't go another minute without her, a longing that only seemed to intensify instead of abate. Caught in the crux of the matter, he'd become a man of prayer instead of pining away like the lovesick would-be suitor he disdained.

Maryn's absence spoke volumes. She had, it seemed, moved on with her new family and a far fuller life than anyone would ever have imagined. The babe he'd not yet seen would be getting bigger by the day. He didn't ken much about infants but he knew Maryn would make a fine mother even if the children weren't her own.

"Promise you'll come for supper," Charis had told him last night when he'd joined them after a sennight's absence. "You are spending too much time alone when not in that bookshop of yours."

He thought of it now as he stabled his horse then walked down the lane that led to the bookshop. In truth, he hadn't much appetite for food or conversation of late. The gatehouse was lonely at times, aye, but he'd come round to a routine. Working late. Having a simple supper alone. Evenings found him reading by the hearth. He'd given up penning poetry or plays altogether. There seemed little romance left in his soul.

"Good morn, sir," one of his shop clerks said behind him. "A wee bite in the wind, aye?"

"More than a bite," Orin replied, unlocking the door with a clank of keys. "The laird predicts an early frost and an exceedingly cold winter."

"Och, my da says the verra same." He grimaced as he removed his hat and hung it from a peg. "His auld bones are like a weathervane."

"Reminds me of the Thames freezing over, all the way up to London Bridge." Orin rarely thought of his former life other than his London colleagues. "Even the ink in the inkwells froze. That I do not miss."

He took up Maryn's coffee-mill to grind a fresh batch at the hearth. It cast him back to the day she'd sat with him in his office. What pleasure he'd taken serving her and having her to himself for even a half hour.

Would that be his last memory of her?

He looked out the nearest window. With the wind keening around the shop's corners and scattering brittle leaves, autumn seemed especially bittersweet. Change swept him along likewise, reminding him of the passage of time as assuredly as the calendar on his desk.

Perhaps today Maryn would return to Duns. A thousand times he'd imagined their reunion. Perhaps she'd bring the bairns. He'd began a search for children's books but found few except for fairytales and fables. He'd even begun reading John Locke's volume on child-rearing. Framed in his head and heart was a picture of Maryn and her nieces playing on the lawn at Lockhart Hall, their laughter still ringing inside him.

Though he wanted more from her, he was willing to take her friendship if that was all she could offer. Yet such would cost him dearly. It meant the death of his desires. His long-held hopes and plans. But so be it. In the end, he was just a simple man of honor who relied on heaven itself to change her mind.

To restore the years the locusts had eaten.