Chapter 8

8

O rin arrived at Ladykirk a bit late on purpose. News of the ailing Duke of Fordyce's death hadn't been unexpected but still caught the Humes by surprise. A sizeable crowd thronged the kirkyard as the nobleman was laid to rest. Eyes down, he kept to the fringes though he was the tallest of the Humes, a generous inch over the laird, his eldest, tallest brother. Everard stood not far from him with Lady Blythe and Charis.

The tattered clouds above, pushed along by a warm wind, resurrected another startlingly similar day. Odd what one remembered. He'd been seven at his father's funeral. Someone had brought flowers. Lilies? His nurse had slipped candied peel into his pocket. He'd been peely-wally as a lad and so the newly minted laird had had to carry him all the way back to Wedderburn Castle.

The minister's hoarse voice returned him to the present. All bowed their heads as a prayer was said. Several women near him were murmuring after the amen. About the Lockhart curse?

"Look at her, poor lass."

"I dinna care that she's a duchess now. She's poor as Job's turkey with nae kinfolk."

"She's not been seen in these parts for many a year. I do wonder what will become of the Hall … "

Orin averted his gaze from the coffin to allow any of the Lockharts privacy at so poignant a time. But at the mention of no family members he looked over the crowd to the lass in question.

Lady Maryn stood by the casket clad head to toe in black, a veil obscuring her face. A white rose dangled from one hand. A nod to the duke's Jacobite sympathies? Did she not ken observing the allegiance might well place her in jeopardy?

His gaze held as the service ended and she turned away, climbing into the waiting Lockhart coach and vanishing again. Two of her liveried servants remained, passing out the customary gift of funeral gloves.

"Did you see Lady Maryn?" Charis asked once they returned to Wedderburn Castle, gloves in hand. "If only we could have spoken with her–offered our condolences in person."

Orin was still at a loss for words.

They gathered in the family drawing room, just he, the laird and Blythe, and Charis. Lord Lovell's father had sent for him and so he had left for their estate in Yorkshire, his return for the opening ball of the season unlikely. A maidservant brought drinks. Tea for the ladies and whisky for the men. Orin took a bracing sip as he stood to one side of the hearth.

"I suppose we would have had to strike her from the ball's guest list given she's in mourning again," Lady Blythe said. "Yet what she needs is company. Merriment to help ease her at such a time."

"Odd that there's nae lykewake." Everard took a seat, no doubt remembering his own father's burial. "Nae feasting and dancing."

Blythe shook her head. "Reverend Percival said the duke expressly stated there was to be none of that, though it defies Scottish tradition. I'm guessing he wanted to spare Lady Maryn."

"Did Percival say anything else?" Orin looked at his sister-in-law, who surely knew the heart of his query.

Lady Maryn's whereabouts, for one.

"Very little. Just that the family requests privacy at this time."

"Which is nae different than any other time," the laird said bluntly.

Maryn returned to Lockhart Hall following the funeral to find an unfamiliar coach and four at the stables and a dismayed look on Mrs. Duncan's face.

"Your Grace, they arrived once you departed for Ladykirk … all five of them."

Five? Bone-tired, Maryn fought dismay as she removed her hat and veil in the tiled hall. "And who might they be?"

"Lord and Lady Marchmont." The housekeeper gestured to the open door of the formal drawing room. "And your wee nieces."

I didna ken I had any.

Maryn stood turned to stone. Her merry-go-round of emotions now included mortification.

Mrs. Duncan continued with more composure. "I supplied them with refreshments and made them as comfortable as I could."

Prior to the funeral, her sister hadn't sent word whether she was coming or not, adding more uncertainty to the day. Maryn murmured a silent prayer that was more plea and forced herself forward with as much strength and dignity as she could muster.

Her guests stood with a flurry of curtseying and a formal bow, reminding her once more of her new standing. In the ensuing silence the five year absence seemed like an abyss neither sister was willing to cross.

"Your Grace … " Lord Marchmont began, " … pardon our unexpected arrival."

Maryn tried to smile at the suitor who'd pursued and won her sister's hand. But their nuptials, far from being the grand affair of Nicola's dreams, had shrunk to a rushed, secretive ceremony shadowed by tragedy. Maryn hadn't even attended given she was under medical care for months.

Alas, time had not been kind to Lord Marchmont. Balding and pockmarked, he was not only older but clearly unwell. Nicola, on the other hand, was bonnier than ever, even in black.

"Please have a seat," Maryn said then realized her error. Having sat so long, mightn't they benefit from a walk in the gardens, the children especially?

Three little girls in matching petticoats stared back at her, the eldest pointing at the portrait of a medieval duchess behind Maryn. "Why are you not wearing your crown?"

"Hush, Charlotte," Nicola told her. "You're to address your aunt as Your Grace henceforth."

"Please … " Maryn said quickly, soaking in the sight of her fetching nieces. "Aunt Maryn shall be fine in future."

Provided I ever see you again.

She lingered on her eldest niece who bore a remarkable resemblance to Nicola. The flaxen-haired girl had the telltale Lockhart coloring and green eyes while the other two sisters were dark as Maryn herself.

"Your daughters are lovely," she said. "What are their names?"

For a trice Nicola seemed pleased. "Charlotte is the eldest at almost six and is named after our mother. Penelope—Pen, we call her—is four, and Eugenie is two. If we have a son he's to be called Herschel."

A son? Was she expecting? On that poignant note they passed through a French door to the formal garden where the girls began winging about like uncaged birds.

"We came for the reading of the will," Lord Marchmont said, hat in hand.

"Rather we got the funeral mixed up with the will's reading," Nicola corrected.

Maryn put her hand on the terrace's balustrade, eyes on their mother's namesake. How proud she'd be. All three were delightfully unique. Their happy chatter and laughter helped ease the mounting tension.

"We won't stay but felt it prudent to remain long enough to ask about the will," Nicola said.

"Grandfather's solicitors and such will be here in a sennight," Maryn told them, naming the date. Did her uneasiness about the matter show?

"We shall return then," Lord Marchmont said, bending his gaunt form to sit on a near bench.

Nicola stayed standing, sunlight calling out the deep crease in her brow. "You may know that Grandfather and I didn't part on the best of terms."

Maryn raked her mind for the cause of their dissension and came up empty. "If you and Grandfather were at odds I've no recollection of it."

"You were still recovering and ignorant of what ensued. I've no wish to speak of it now nor recall that dreadful time ever again."

For once they were in agreement. But try as she might, Maryn couldn't shut the door on the past.

"We must put all that behind us." Nicola's voice held that high aggrieved note she'd never liked. "'Tis exceedingly difficult to see you today, partly because we've not spoken since the tragedy." She waved a gloved hand about. "Everything here echoes and screams of loss. Mother and Father should still be with us if not Grandfather. And Herschel, most definitely. This is all his as heir."

Shaken, Maryn sat on a bench opposite her brother-in-law whose eyes were closed as if napping. The sunlight failed to warm her and seemed to illuminate all that was wrong with their fractious situation.

"I fail to understand how you even attended the funeral," Nicola went on. "Facing all of Berwickshire after all that has happened."

"I had no choice." Maryn fisted a handkerchief in her lap. As it was, she'd kept her eyes down throughout the short, somber service and didn't have the presence of mind to even take in who'd attended or who hadn't. "I needed to honor Grandfather a final time."

Nicola's tone turned more exasperated. "Well, I'm sure everyone from here to Edinburgh is now resurrecting the Lockhart curse."

"Superstitions abound, my dear," Lord Marchmont chimed in. "And never more than in Scotland. Such can't be helped."

"We're not the only family who's suffered misfortune," Maryn said quietly.

"At least death spared Hershel any injuries such as yours." Nicola fixed her attention on Maryn's injured, gloved arm with such revulsion it might have been a pirate's hook instead.

Swallowing down a bitter retort borne of hurt, Maryn traded the terrace for the garden, on the heels of the girls chasing a butterfly as it flitted about the fountain. When Eugenie fell, Maryn righted her, rewarded with a gap-toothed smile.

Charlotte let her little sisters go ahead and lagged behind with Maryn. "Mama says you're my aunt. What does that make me?"

"Since I'm your mother's sister, you're my niece."

"Are 'Genie and Pen your nieces too?"

"Yes, all three of you."

"Why haven't we seen you before?"

"Your mother has been very busy bringing up a family."

"Do you have any children we can play with?"

"Nay."

"Why not?"

Out of the mouths of babes.

Penelope spared her an answer when she asked, "Can I pick some flowers for Mama?"

"Of course." Maryn gestured to freesia and waxflowers around them. "Whatever you wish … but careful, the roses have thorns."

The showy, fragrant phlox was far safer and Penelope picked a fistful, running all the way back to the terrace in a touching bid to please her mother.

Charlotte slipped her small, soft hand into Maryn's as they followed. "I do hope we can come back here."

As do I.

Suddenly choked, Maryn said nothing, wishing all rifts could be mended and tragedies undone.