Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Four days later Virginia settled into the coach trying to prepare mentally for her journey. Dawn crept on the horizon, bathing the rooftops pink. A faint honeysuckle-tinged breeze cooled her cheeks. Birds nesting in the nearby trees called out a morning song, bidding her be about her task.

Lawrence's funeral had been the day before, and Enid lost no time making arrangements. They were to travel only by carriage. Even the stops at the inns were to be done surreptitiously. Her maid, Hannah, and the coachman would arrange for rooms, and she would use the back entrances. No one was to know the newly widowed Countess of Barrett was on her way to Scotland.

Her father had insisted she be given a diverse education. Therefore, she was prepared, if she must, to be a governess. Perhaps a man of wealth would want a slightly used countess to instruct his daughters. She could easily see an American hiring her, bragging about her title. "She's an American, you know. Became a countess. My gals deserve the best."

Getting a position wouldn't help the rest of them, however. Someone might employ Eudora, but where would Ellice go? What would happen to their mother? She could not, however much she tried, imagine Enid trimming hats.

How would they earn their living?

They had no time left, not enough for Eudora to finally be serious about finding a husband. Ellice was too young, and she doubted Enid had given any thought to remarriage.

She, herself, would not countenance marrying again. Her union to Lawrence had been distasteful enough. The only saving grace was he seemed to dislike her presence as much as she'd grown to dislike his. But what if she married a man who insisted on bedding her every night? That would be a worse situation.

Enid reached into the carriage, pressing a cup of warm chocolate into her hands.

"A fortifying beverage," her mother-in-law said.

She finished the chocolate and returned the cup. Sitting back against the cushions, she adjusted the leather gloves over her hands. She didn't see the back of the town house, Hannah arranging the baskets of food in the storage area below the carriage seat, or Hosking, the coachman, standing by the open door.

Ceana Sinclair told her in the beginning that Macrath was a brilliant inventor.

"He makes ice, Virginia," she had said. "Just imagine, his machine can generate ice for you any time of year."

He made ice, of all things, and in that small way Macrath Sinclair was playing God. Yet, in this journey she was about to make to Scotland, so was she.

London

A year earlier

"Why are you looking so distressed?"

Virginia turned at his voice. Her mood abruptly became better as she smiled at Macrath.

"I'm to be personable this evening," she said, tugging on her gloves.

A bad habit of hers, according to Mrs. Haverstock. A lady never draws the eye to aspects of her appearance. Tranquility is as vital to a lady as beauty, the woman often said. An aura of peace is a quality you must cultivate.

"I've never known you to be anything but personable," Macrath said, moving to stand beside her. They looked out over the dancers from their place on the terrace.

She sighed. "That's because you're too much like me. We'd much rather talk about scientific experiments than people or politics."

"But your dancing partners don't?"

She glanced over at him.

Tonight he was dressed in formal black, his gold and black vest a brilliant example of embroidery. His black hair was brushed back, the perfect frame for his unforgettable face.

When she looked at Macrath, she remembered those museum visits with Mrs. Haverstock, and all the statues unearthed from various places and brought to England. A Greek god, a Roman citizen, men with faces that lived on through millennia because of the placement of strong bones and features. Macrath's face was similar, but brought to life because of his intense blue eyes and a mouth that fascinated her. She liked to watch as he talked, the way he formed the letters. How he smiled when she didn't expect it.

"I've noticed how popular you've been tonight."

"It's father's money," she said. "It makes people very polite."

"On the contrary, I think it's you."

She glanced back at the dancers, feeling a surge of warmth at his words. Macrath could change her mood from dreary to delighted just with a smile. Conversely, when he wasn't at an event, it seemed to drag, each hour tied to a tortoise.

"I have heard excessively about horse racing tonight. Or gossip. People are very interested in other people."

"Politics is about people," he said, "and you're interested in politics."

She considered the matter, then nodded. "You're right. I have no place being judgmental, do I?"

"As long as we're listing your faults, I suspect you aren't to be on the terrace, either."

She smiled. "Yet you're standing right beside me."

"Perhaps I've been sent to teach you how to be more personable," he said.

"I'm not to be seen with you as much," she said. "People will get the impression that you've singled me out, which would be off-putting to other potential suitors."

"I hear Mrs. Haverstock in there somewhere."

She nodded. "Mrs. Haverstock possesses many opinions about a great many things."

"Mostly foolish ones, I think. The woman's daft if she thinks you're not personable. You're more intelligent than any woman here, and more beautiful." He glanced at her. "What would you rather be, intelligent or beautiful?"

She thought about the question for a moment. "I should say intelligent, shouldn't I? Intelligence would last you your whole life, while beauty fades. But what woman doesn't want to be considered beautiful?"

"You needn't worry. You have both."

She turned to him, placing one of her gloved hands on his arm. "The opinion of a friend," she said.

"Not just a friend," he said. "She's right in one regard. I have singled you out."

She dropped her hand, even though she liked touching him. Eyes were everywhere, and someone was sure to tell either her chaperone or her father that she'd been standing too close, and was too intent in conversation with Macrath Sinclair.

"Have you?"

"Not just a friend," he said again. Turning, he drew her back into the ballroom.

As they started to dance, she looked up into his eyes. If she were a more courageous woman, she'd tell him the truth.

She'd singled him out, too.

London

July, 1869

One of Paul Henderson's first memories was of his father telling him he needed to learn his place in life. Even as a child, he ascribed to a higher role, a better spot in the hierarchy that was English society.

As the son of a chimney sweep, he'd started working with his father at the age of five, sent up into narrow, airless chimneys with a brush and a rag with orders to do good or he'd have his ears boxed.

On Sundays the old man gustily sang in church, striking him on the shoulder if he didn't participate as well. He'd grown to loathe "All Things Bright and Beautiful," his father's favorite:

The rich man in his castle,

The poor man at his gate,

God made them, high and lowly,

And order'd their estate.

Upward migration rarely happened in the United Kingdom. From the time he was twelve, escaping the life of a flue faker by running away, he'd been determined to be more than what God had made him. He wanted to go to America, one of the few places where a man was allowed to climb the rungs on a societal ladder.

Until then he'd become a stable boy, working harder than the others, watching and learning from the men who rented the carriages. At seventeen he'd applied as a footman at one of the great houses, again learning from those who weren't aware they were being studied. He spoke with precision, always watching that hints of his childhood accent never appeared.

For ten years he kept his own counsel, woke an hour earlier than the rest of the staff, and learned to read thanks to a maid who'd been willing to teach him as a labor of love. He never stole, always performed each duty flawlessly, and on those odd occasions when he failed in some measure, promptly acknowledged his error.

By the time he was thirty, he'd saved some money for the trip to America. After hearing of a position open to care for an invalid earl, he'd once again applied, this time with glowing letters of recommendation, and a confidence about his appearance gained through years of sidelong looks and coy female smiles.

He hadn't planned to fall in love with the Countess of Barrett. He hadn't wanted to feel an odd possessiveness about her. Why he did was understandable, given the circumstances in this strange household.

She didn't feel the same for him. Like most servants, he was invisible. He went out of his way, however, to ensure she was aware of him. He conversed with her. He brought her tea. He complimented her.

Four days ago he'd offered to take her to his bed and get her with child.

She'd rebuffed him. She didn't realize he was the best solution to the dilemma the Earl of Barrett had created.

If it hadn't been for him, they'd never have known until too late.

They owed him something for his loyalty.

Lawrence had thought it a wicked jest to give him money. He'd taken it, and tucked it away in his savings even as he hated the man. Lawrence hadn't been generous; he'd given away the money solely to wound his wife.

The woman who was, even now, entering a carriage with her maid, intent on Scotland.

What was in Scotland that she couldn't find here? No one could love her as much as he did. No one could comfort her like he could. Not one person could protect her as well as he did.

He forced a smile to his face as she turned to stare right through him. She glanced away, not seeing the love he freely offered.

From this moment on he would have to change things. He wasn't going to be invisible to her anymore. No, he was going to ensure she knew exactly how he felt.