Chapter 30

30

A s November swept in on a strong easterly gale, Maryn continued her mothering, resigning herself to staying indoors. October had been among the coldest on record, the newspapers predicting a harsh winter. Even the servants were discussing it as they gathered in extra coal and firewood. Weather, however, was the farthest thing from her mind.

Was Orin well and safe? Who knew that opening a bookstore could be dangerous? Surely she would have heard any ill tidings regarding him. Lowland news spread like midges. Though the door between them had shut, a window to her soul remained open. She kept him close in spirit, ever praying for his protection and blessing.

As daylight grew shorter other concerns beset her. Had she been wrong to seek refuge in writing him a letter instead of speaking to him in person? She'd always been better on paper. Professing one's true feelings was best done in print, surely, at least where she was concerned.

As the days passed with no reply from him, she felt cut to the quick with other questions. Was she a coward for waiting till he left for the bookshop that September day before leaving her letter in the gatehouse's garden wall? Might he have forgotten all about the way they secreted letters there in the past? Mightn't wind and weather have snatched the sealed paper away?

Or perhaps he had found it and already read it. Dismissed it out of hand. Perhaps her phrasing put him off and he'd decided to pursue the bonny Englishwoman after all. She didn't blame him. Who wouldn't want a fresh start without the weight of a complicated past?

Mercy, she'd gone gyte, half mad with longing and wondering.

Each day she waited, hoping for his answer. An answer she anticipated with nearly every breath. The only post she'd received other than her literary contacts was from Lord Marchmont saying he hoped spring would have him turn a corner to better health. She wrote back, telling him in lavish detail all that his daughters were saying and doing and the extraordinary growth of his son. Even Nurse said she'd never seen so thriving a lad which relieved Maryn immensely.

Meanwhile, she was reveling in being their second mother. Who knew that tantrums increased when bellies were empty? Or that a nap often resulted in sunny smiles all around? Fresh air and sunshine did wonders, too. As for Charlotte, she'd managed to procure a governess, a gently born woman who would arrive in spring. Her plans for her nieces' and nephew's welfare were unending.

But first the coming winter needed managing. Aside from estate matters which Hutchins was assuming with aplomb, she now had time for more pleasant pursuits like her tambour embroidery, having a standing frame built to better accommodate her injury.

"Yer Grace, the babe's napped and been fed and is ready for ye." Nurse appeared at the doorway of the morning room, Haddon somewhat swaddled. His plump arms snuck free of the linen as he waved his wee fists about.

"I'll gladly take him and walk about the Portrait Gallery since the weather is less than clement. Meanwhile, Cook has prepared a delightful tea for you and Fiona." Maryn smiled at her, grateful for both nurses. "Don't give the babe and I another thought."

Until he bellows, she refrained from saying.

She felt at sixes and sevens when he cried for no apparent reason. Was he hungry again? Did he need changing? Or was a misplaced pin sticking him? Perhaps his skin was irritated and in need of powdering. She looked forward to the day when he could tell her the trouble himself.

Once again she grew pensive. How would Orin manage him? She could see him so clearly, handling Haddon as a loving father would do. Or had the prospect of being a second parent pushed him away?

Awed, she took her near-perfect nephew in one arm. Soon she'd not be able to hold him as he'd grow too big. Recently she'd read that the Duke of Devonshire had commissioned a landscape architect to fashion a fancy wheeled contraption to carry his children about. Perhaps a less elaborate, wicker one could be crafted to hold Haddon.

She walked the length of the immense chamber, the walls lined with all the Fordyces of centuries past. As she pondered their legacy she considered her own. Grandfather's will had specified that as duchess a portrait be painted of her soon after his passing. Perhaps a family portrait would be best. Children, if they could stand still long enough, would be a beautiful study for an artist's brush.

If nothing else, they would be her legacy. She might never marry or have children of her own but she could raise her sister's, Lord willing, and see that they became strong, stalwart adults with no memory of the Lockhart curse.

'Twas snowing. On the very date of the tragedy that took Herschel and removed Maryn from his life. As a lad, he'd rejoiced in the snow which transformed the bleak winter landscape into a sort of fairy kingdom. And then the accident happened, stealing the magic. The whistle of the December wind around the eaves added another layer of melancholy as the Sabbath ebbed.

Orin added seasoned pine to the hearth's fire since the gatehouse's chimney hadn't been refitted for coal like the rest of Wedderburn Castle. But he liked the old ways best. The snap and tang of a wood fire was something he'd miss. Mayhap he needed a dog to keep him company. Something other than the stray cat he'd been feeding. Nothing like a creaturely companion if a lass was lacking. Done with his simple supper of bread and cheese and an orchard apple, he bypassed his bookshelves to take in the storm.

Standing by the parlor window overlooking the gatehouse garden, he tried to make peace with the passage of time and summon some of that wintry magic. Snow brought a hallowed, ethereal hush to the landscape. The garden's stone wall was muted now, its slate-grey icy white. Wedderburn Castle sat in back of it a mile distant, a blur of wind and weather.

The flash of a chaffinch's wings caught his eye. The rust-breasted creature gave him pause. It alighted on the stone ledge of the garden wall right above the crevice meant for letters and began what looked to be a courtship dance. The whimsical spectacle ended but the wee bird stayed where it was, drawing attention to something else entirely.

Orin blinked. Leaned into the frozen windowpane. What was that bit of blue beneath? His imagination?

The chaffinch began to sing, a melodic burst of trills and chirps. Odd, that, on such a day. But odder still was the spot of blue. With no thought to his hat or coat, Orin strode out the back door into the whirl of white. Upon sight of him the bird took wing as if its work was done.

Across the frozen garden he trod in sark, breeches, and boots, intent on the wall. His heart began to sprint as if he'd run all the way to the castle instead. Carefully, his fingers felt the icy opening. A paper? Aye. Sealed with blue wax. Maryn's seal. Freed of its confines, the once fine foolscap was wet and fragile in his cold hand.

A burst of wind pushed against him, sending snow from the ledge into his face. Turning away, he hastened back inside, gripping the paper lest it fly away like the chaffinch.

Slamming shut the door, he made his way to the hearth where light fell upon the wax seal as he broke it. Dismay pummeled him. Within the letter itself, the ink had bled and run, all but a few words. Blast! The exact date was missing—September? He groaned aloud. More than two months ago. A few ands and buts he recognized but the rest of the handwriting was an untidy mess. All but the last words at the very bottom …

Ever thine, Maryn

Thunderstruck, he was. His heart was a-gallop now. He tried to make out more faded sentences. Failed. To Hades with the rest.

Those final three words were the only ones that mattered.