Chapter 7

7

S eeing Charis and Lord Lovell together almost made a skeptic believe in enduring love. The supper hour passed with only the laird and Blythe—another obvious and enduring love match—Charis, Lovell, and himself. A fifth wheel, if you will. After a dessert of fern cakes, they all went outside to the formal gardens as the evening was so fair.

Charis and her suitor wandered down a graveled path to a reflecting pool while the laird kept to the terrace, his walking stick in hand.

"Is your auld war wound ailing you?" Orin asked, going no further than the terrace's iron railing.

"Aye, though this vantage point makes me forget it," Everard said with a patient smile as Blythe came to stand by his side.

Together the three of them looked out over parterres whose hedges and flowers formed an intricate pattern as they descended to a pond brimming with white water lilies. Here they had an enviable view of Berwickshire and Charis, too.

"Our daughter's season might be short lived," Lady Blythe said wistfully, "though the opening ball is almost upon us."

"Which is when?" Orin asked.

"The second of June. Invitations have been sent and it seems all of Berwickshire will attend."

The laird looked at him knowingly. "Are you prepared for such a reunion?"

"Meaning I may cause as much a stir as Charis?"

"Something like that," Everard said. "Best prepare yourself."

Orin fixed his gaze on a flock of black-faced sheep grazing in the distance. "I suppose my appearance will remind many of what happened."

Everard nodded. "Five years isn't fifty, so it's still fresh."

"I doubt any of our guests will speak of it," Blythe said, the faint lines in her face deepening. "Even those closest to the tragedy."

A pained hush followed and into the gap rushed a host of unwanted images. Cold snow. Bright blood. The eerie sound of sleigh bells in a sudden blast of wind. Orin's gaze veered east to the harrowing site he couldn't see, miles distant. The majestic if scarred oak tree still stood, he guessed, the rush of watery burn beneath.

He finally said, "I'm most concerned about the Lockharts."

"None are on the guest list," Blythe told him. "Simply because the Duke of Fordyce—who is said to be ailing—resides in Edinburgh and Lady Nicola, née Marchmont, rarely leaves Redbraes Castle."

Orin looked at her in question. "What of Lady Maryn?"

"She seems to have … " Blythe raised her hands in a sort of resignation—"vanished."

Orin felt an odd tightening in his chest, his hands fisted upon the terrace's rail.

She continued slowly, "After that tragic day, the duke is said to have taken her to the city for medical treatment. From what I've gathered, Lady Nicola married as soon as mourning allowed and has since been busy raising a family. Lockhart Hall remains empty save the servants and an occasional visit from Fordyce."

Orin swallowed past the knot in his throat. "I tried to contact Lady Maryn by letter." More than one. Mayhap a half dozen. Finally he'd reconciled himself to the fact there would be no reply.

Blythe looked as grieved as he felt. "No one seems to know anything about her, though there is speculation aplenty. Some believe she was too injured to appear in public after. Some have even guessed a nervous breakdown."

Ire and anguish twisted inside him once again, making him rue his part in that day with all its unseen repercussions. "I could ride to Redbraes and find out." It wasn't the first time he'd considered it.

"Akin to riding into battle, resurrecting auld wounds," the laird warned. As a former soldier awarded the Order of the Thistle for chivalry, his words held particular punch.

"There are servants still at Lockhart Hall, then," Orin said, wanting to get the facts right.

"A closed-mouthed few," Blythe answered.

"I've even considered contacting the duke in Edinburgh, but given I'm responsible for the death of his heir—"

"You're not responsible," Lady Blythe said at once, "though you may feel so, caring as you do."

"I was older–and should have been wiser."

Everard took hold of his walking stick again. "It was naught but a spur-of-the-moment accident brought about by a number of unfortunate factors."

"By reason of a careless bet and weather I knew better than to hazard." Orin's voice shook though he tried to steady it.

"In hindsight, perhaps," the laird said quietly but firmly. "At five and twenty foresight is often lacking."

The approach to Lockhart Hall was one Maryn had often made with her twin brother on horseback. Herschel was a renowned equestrian who'd even published a work on horsemanship with engraved plates prior to his passing. She kept a treasured copy to read when she missed him most, feeling she heard an eternal echo of his voice in his carefully penned words.

"Might ye be a tad unweel, Yer Grace?" Across from her, Rosemary's concern returned her to the tumultuous present.

"Ah, the rigors of coach-riding … " Maryn searched her pocket for smelling salts. Pungent peppermint perfumed the air, calming her roiling stomach if not her nerves.

Finally, fifty miles of queasiness was coming to a blessed end. Uppermost in Maryn's mind was another feeling entirely. This was the first time she'd come to Lockhart Hall as something other than a daughter or granddaughter. Scales seemed to fall from her eyes as she saw the house and grounds from a different perspective. This resplendent place which she'd never once considered hers befitted a proper duchess, not a recluse who found comfort in an obscure cottage.

"I must tell the servants straightaway," she murmured.

Rosemary looked on sympathetically. "'Tis a melancholy business."

But there were few servants to tell—a butler nearly as old as Grandfather, a silver-haired housekeeper stooped with age, four maids, two footmen, and a cook reeking of rum. Maryn shared the news as gently as she could, leaving the dour lot of them wondering about their own fate.

"Would you like your former room readied, Your Grace?" the housekeeper asked as the sonorous hall clock chimed seven.

Maryn wanted nothing more than her familiar box bed but the servants were looking so dejected she felt compelled to stay. "That would be most welcome, Mrs. Duncan. Thank you."

Dawn broke with birdsong, rousing Maryn long before first light. Finches. Starlings. Sparrows. Blackbirds. Robins. All joined in a symphony beyond her unshuttered windows. For a moment her strange circumstances righted. Living far away from any grandeur had heightened her appreciation of the natural world. If she decided to move to Lockhart Hall would she lose those simple joys amid all her new duties?

Waiting till her bedchamber grew light, she got up and rang the little bell on her dressing table that summoned Rosemary from the adjoining room.

"I'm glad to be on hand," Rosemary told her, selecting a black fringed linen gown. "And though it may be irreverent to say, sable is a bonny compliment to yer eyes and complexion."

So much sable. Alas, her hair was so black it held blue, Grandfather always said, much like her late grandmother's. The proof of their likeness was on the Portrait Gallery wall. Maryn shared Herschel's moss green eyes though his hair had been a lighter hue.

Peering into the looking glass mirror, she gave a pinch to her pale cheeks, which only seemed to magnify the fact that she was befreckled.

In the dressing room, Rosemary examined a pair of clocked stockings and garters. "If ye're needing a proper lady's maid I'd be pleased to live here at Lockhart Hall."

Would she? Maryn considered this. "You'd not mind staying nights? Your Sabbaths would still be free."

"Now that my brothers and sisters aren't so wee, my mam and da can spare me. Besides," Rosemary brightened. "Whoever thought a simple Berwick lass could be in service to a duchess?"

A most unusual duchess. Maryn tried not to look at her maimed limb, a telltale reminder of all that had gone before. Despite Grandfather's best hopes and the doctor's best efforts, little could be done. Her left arm and hand hung limply by her side though it no longer pained her unless there was a change of weather.

Give thanks through the hurt.

The London surgeon's unwelcome words back then had lifted her over many a bump since. She pondered it now while Rosemary left to find the housekeeper and breakfast.

Maryn went below to the dining room with its many windows and just as many memories. Like curtains parting, dawn beckoned her to look outside. Meticulously cultivated topiaries and flower beds and hedges bespoke full-time gardeners. Her gaze roamed, savoring the details she'd missed. The grounds, mostly unchanged since her childhood, seemed a step back in time like the great house. A shame few enjoyed it. Had Grandfather made any alterations since she and Herschel had lived here with him after their parents' passing?

Served a breakfast of smoked salmon, oatcakes, summerhouse strawberries, and tea, Maryn finished and visited the mansion room by room, starting in the marbled entrance hall with its black-and-white tiled floor. A cherry red drawing room—her favorite in childhood—was opposite the Prussian blue dining room. The large library was a delight to any reader—again a shame that it sat idle. Through a second door in the library was Grandfather's cabinet, a circular room of blue damask and many windows ideal for deskwork. For a moment she stood atop the chamber's Persian rug, a timeworn purple and grey, and tried to feel at home without all the … ghosts.

Mrs. Duncan appeared suddenly, startling her. "I had a fire lit to chase away the chill of the morning. When in residence, this is where your late grandfather spent most of his time."

"Thank you. 'Tis where I most remember him. Little seems to have changed."

"Very little, other than refurbished servants' quarters for which we're very thankful. For most of us this has been our home for many a year."

Maryn mulled what she remembered about the tiny woman before her. A learned woman who could read. Who'd never married but had a talent for housekeeping and all its many facets.

"We dinna ken where we'd go otherwise."

"That shan't alter," Maryn reassured her. "I hope that you'll bring me any needs or concerns you or any of the servants have."

"Does that mean you're staying on?" A beat of hope enlivened her words.

Maryn tried to smile but would make no promises. "At least till the funeral and the reading of the will. Expect a huddle of legal men in future."

Mrs. Duncan withdrew and Maryn returned to her study of the cabinet now bathed in brighter light. Grandfather's interest and preferences were everywhere, from the maps of the Americas on the walls to leatherbound books in glass-fronted cases.

A portrait of a young Grandmother Lockhart hung above the mantel, painted at the time of her marriage. The duchess's tiara sparkled in the ray of sun shining upon it, a reminder of the Lockhart jewels. Maryn hadn't a clue where they were nor had she the slightest urge to wear them though they'd held her spellbound as a child.

Feeling like a trespasser, she sat at the ornate oak desk with cabriole legs as another cob-webbed memory shook loose. Long ago, Grandfather had hidden sweets in various compartments of this very desk, including a secret drawer she'd forgotten how to access. Her right hand ran over the smooth wood like they once had the pianoforte's ivory keys. So many odd brass knobs within and without.

At the back of the desk she fingered a carved fleur-de-lis and instinctively pressed its ornate design. An accompanying click was followed by her gasp as it opened, revealing a velvet-lined space secreting an abundance of intriguing things. Velvet pouches, old keys, foreign coins, ornate wax seals, and yellowed letters tied with faded silk ribbon.

Nary a single sweetmeat.

Nostalgia overtook her at the scent of aged wood and beeswax and ink. Such an ancient desk rife with history, even mystery. Still feeling a trespasser, she started to shut the drawer when her gaze fell on the topmost letter. Face down, it bore an unbroken, silver wax seal she knew all too well.

A crest featuring a hand holding a sword within a heart. Fidelis ad finum. True to the end. The Hume family motto.

Could it be? Nay , her head said. Aye , shouted her heart. Her fingers pulled at the silk ribbon binding them and half a dozen letters spilled into her lap. Each addressed to Lady Maryn Lockhart of Lockhart Hall. Old, unread letters, every seal intact.

The bittersweet discovery gave way to a jumble of long denied feelings as bewilderment rushed in.

From Orin Hume?

Her childhood friend who delighted like no other. The one whose presence lit up a room. And whose absence still tore her in two.