Chapter Eleven
T he following morning, with the lady still not having recovered her memory, they breakfasted together and then James went about his usual business. As he passed the parlour, he heard a gentle melody coming from the piano. He stood in the doorway for a moment, listening, for the piano got very little use. His mother had been the pianist, and despite hours of lessons, his sisters were still no more than basically proficient. He himself had never had the time nor inclination to learn the instrument.
The door was ajar, and he managed to peek in without disturbing it. It was, of course, the mystery woman sitting at the piano, her fingers seeming to effortlessly glide across the keys.
Then she began to sing to herself, and he found he was mesmerised. Her voice was beautiful, soft, and haunting, and he was surprised to find he could have stood there listening for hours.
Not that he had hours to spare, of course. But, in that moment, he forgot about everything else.
The song was a simple one about a lark greeting the morning sun. She had no music or lyrics in front of her, so she clearly had some memory of her life before – otherwise, she surely would not know how to play.
She was such a mystery. He’d gone through so many ideas of who she might be: a lady, a commoner, a spy of some sort, sent to infiltrate his home – although to what end, he did not know. He had never given the government any reason to doubt his abilities as Duke, he was sure. Or his loyalties. He was loyal to King and country, even if his family’s seat happened to be just over the border in Scotland.
But he was English through and through. There was no hint of a Scottish accent, no plaid in his wardrobe, and not even any Scottish ancestors. Just a Scottish castle and a title that had been given to his ancestor and passed down through the family.
She paused in her playing, and he wondered if he’d been spotted. He felt guilty for watching her, then told himself he was being ridiculous. It was his home, after all. And he had regularly found her where she shouldn’t be.
But she did not come over to the door. Instead, she made her way to the window, looking out over the loch and choosing a new song about the Lady of the Lake. He could not remember the last time he had sung or when this house had been filled with the sound of music.
It should have made him angry, for she was certainly distracting him from his work, whether she intended to or not. And what was more important than his ducal duties?
And yet...he could stay a moment longer, surely. After all, she had solved the mystery of his figures, even without knowing who she was. He had confronted his housekeeper, discovered the truth, and now everything was put to rights. He was rather ashamed, really, that he had not noticed the discrepancy himself and had needed it pointed out to him by a woman. But then, he supposed that household ordering was more of a woman’s task. He just liked to think he was kept abreast of everything in his household.
He had settled on the idea that she must be a great lady. Due to her knowledge of castles, for one, and the way she sang and played so beautifully. She was certainly not some lady’s maid who had run amok with her mistress’s boat.
But then why had he not heard of anyone looking for such a daughter? How far had she come? And when would she remember who she was?
◆◆◆
Penelope had offered to collect some supplies from the local village to have a reason to leave the castle. She was used to doing what she wanted, when she wanted, but she stayed close so as not to raise suspicion. Now, she wanted to stretch her legs and blow away the cobwebs, as well as do a little more investigating into the Duke.
So far, she had deduced that he was responsible with his finances, fair to his staff, and, though a little brusque, a good brother and guardian to his three younger sisters. How she would have liked to meet them and get their opinion, but alas, that was not to be.
What she could do, she thought as she watched the groom saddle a horse for her, was see what his tenants thought of him. Whether they feared him, whether they felt he was reasonable, whether he dealt with their issues in a timely manner.
And then, she thought as she rode into the village, loving the feeling of the wind whipping through her hair – which had been clumsily plaited by her own hand – she wanted to spend the evening testing whether he had a sense of humour. He was a very serious man, and that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. But surely it did not pay to be so serious and brooding all the time? Surely one had to have fun on occasion, else life would be very dull.
The village was only small, far smaller than Amblewood, and it did not take long to locate the apothecary and collect the requested items. With plenty of time before she was expected back at the castle for luncheon, she strolled through the village, leaving her borrowed mare tied up to wait for her.
"Good morning," she said to anyone who met her eye, offering a friendly smile. Since no one knew who she was, there was no reason for them to offer respect automatically or to be scared of her and her family’s influence. She was certainly dressed in finer clothes than most, but other than that, she felt she could blend into the crowd fairly easily.
It was market day, and so she perused the stalls, rather wishing she had some money with her. She saw some beautiful ribbons and oranges which looked irresistible.
But of course, when she had left Amblewood two days earlier – and she could hardly believe it had only been two days, but the Duke had assured her that she could not have been unconscious for very long, considering when the storm had been – to go out on her boat for the morning, she had not brought any coins. She wasn’t going to ask the Duke for money, either. It was not his place to purchase things for her.
"Do you know much about the castle up there?" she asked a fishwife, although she instinctively wrinkled her nose at the smell of the gutted fish before her. She had never particularly liked fish, although, if she had to be around them, she certainly preferred them alive.
"Dunloch?" the woman asked in a broad Scottish accent. "Aye, everyone around here knows Dunloch. Home o’ the Duke of Dunloch, y’see, for the past three generations."
Penelope nodded. It wasn’t that she was uninterested in the castle, for she generally found them quite fascinating. But now she had a more specific topic in mind: the inhabitant of the castle.
"Does the Duke live there most of the time?" she asked.
The fishwife nodded. "Rarely leaves. Not a fan o’ that London, I understand. Not that I blame him – who’d want to be somewhere that busy for any length o’ time? I’ve heard y’can barely walk for horse dung on the roads."
Penelope chuckled. It was certainly true in some areas, but she doubted anyone had ever said it to her before. It was rather nice, being anonymous.
"Is he a decent man, the Duke?" she asked directly, for she didn’t know how much longer she could stand in front of so much fish without retching.
"Fairest landlord you’ll ever meet," the woman replied sincerely. "I heard from my grandmother that people were a bit unsure when they were given the seat, three generations ago. What with them being English – thought they’d be tyrants. No offence meant, o’ course, milady."
Penelope smiled. "Of course not."
"But since they’ve been in the castle, held the title, this place has prospered. And the most recent one – the young Duke, we call him, though perhaps that’s not so accurate these days – well, he seems the best o’ the lot. Perhaps some men are just born to be in positions like that, for he always seems to make the right decisions."
Penelope thanked her for her time and moved on, relieved to get the smell of fish out of her nostrils. What she’d been told wasn’t wholly unexpected, but she had not anticipated such enthusiasm in the woman’s words. Even though she thought her father was a fair landlord, she doubted his tenants would respond so fervently if asked about him. They wouldn’t say anything negative, but they also wouldn’t go out of their way to list so many positives.
The Duke of Dunloch must be a very special man indeed, and she was beginning to wonder why on earth he was not yet married. What was it that meant he had not attracted a wife… or that he did not want one? Perhaps he simply had no desire to tie himself to another human being. And she could understand that...except he needed an heir. A man so diligent about his duty surely would not wish to see everything he had worked for passed on to someone who was not a direct descendant.
And therefore, he surely needed a wife.