A Highland Duchess (22 page)

Whenever he traveled through this part of the glen, he remembered the “Highlanders’ Farewell,” a song his nurse had sung him.

Thy brave, thy just, fall in the dust,

On ruin’s brink they quiver,

Heaven’s pitying ee is closed on thee,

Adieu, adieu forever.

His memory furnished the sight of Annie, with her bright smile and curly blond hair. He’d missed her greatly when she left him when he was seven, going to live in Inverness with her new husband. He’d visited her there twice in the last few years, a yearning to recapture his past causing him to seek her out. She had five children of her own, some of them near grown, a reminder to him that his own family was waiting to be born.

His future stretched before him, and where once it was bright and filled with promise, now it appeared more than a little drab and dour.

Damn Emma, and while he was at it, damn himself, too.

Chapter 19

E
mma turned to Juliana, who had accompanied her from the carriage.

“I’ll wait here, madam,” Juliana said, sinking down on a bench in the foyer.

Emma didn’t argue with her but followed Mrs. Jenkins and the two men carrying Bryce.

Lochlaven smelled clean and fresh, as if the breeze from the lake blew away any scents. She disliked large houses, knowing there were unopened rooms, not often visited, where secrets sat waiting to be revealed. Or perhaps that had only been Chavensworth.

“The architect Sir William Bruce began the house in 1686, for the second Earl of Buchane. The second earl was instrumental in restoring Charles II to the throne,” Mrs. Jenkins said as they continued down the corridor.

“I see,” Emma said, feeling that some acknowledgment, if not fawning, was in order as Mrs. Jenkins spoke of the house.

“Lochlaven has only been moderately restored, for the convenience of the family, of course. We’ve added a small gatehouse to the rear of the property for a boiler. There is hot water available in all the bathing chambers,” she said proudly. “However, we are too remote for some conveniences.” She glanced at Emma. “We do not have gas lighting but I doubt you’ll notice the difference. Our maids are very industrious in cleaning the oil lamps and trimming the wicks.”

“I’m sure,” Emma said, wondering what she was expected to say. She’d never been involved in the day-to-day operation of Chavensworth, and her uncle had taken over her home in London. Prior to that, she’d been a young girl living in her father’s household.

“His Lordship does not like the ringing of bells,” the housekeeper continued. “Therefore, you shall have to judge your own lateness by the clock in your chamber. We do not, of course, have a clock in the sickroom.”

“You have a chamber set aside as a sickroom?” Emma asked, surprised. Normally, when a family member became ill, his bedroom was stripped and prepared for the duration of the illness.

“A modification of His Lordship’s,” the housekeeper said, halting before a long table in a wide hallway. “If anyone at Lochlaven becomes ill, he is sent here immediately and treated by Dr. Carrick, if he’s available. If not, the earl has had several girls trained in London to care for the ill.” She turned to Emma. “I do not want you to think that we have a great deal of illness at Lochlaven, for such is not the case. We are probably one of the healthiest places in all of Scotland because of the earl’s measures.”

“Then I am most fortunate to have come,” Emma said. “I’m afraid Bryce is very ill.”

Mrs. Jenkins looked as if she would say something, then restrained herself. She merely pursed her lips and moved to the table. On it was a pitcher of water, a basin, and a clear glass jar containing a bluish liquid.

“One of the measures the earl has instituted,” she said. “You must not enter the sickroom until you’ve washed your hands in this solution.”

“What is it?”

Mrs. Jenkins glanced at her impatiently but then must have realized that Emma was a guest, and not one of the servant girls she commanded. Her expression smoothed somewhat, and she answered. “It is His Lordship’s recipe,” she said. “He believes that washing the hands will limit the spread of illness.”

“Has it?”

“We have not had any outbreaks of cholera at Lochlaven,” she said. “And most of our people are remarkably healthy.”

Juliana’s question in the carriage came back to her. What if Bryce’s illness was contagious? What if she’d brought disease to Lochlaven?

“We are also privileged to have a physician staying here,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “Dr. Carrick, whom I mentioned before, is a friend of His Lordship’s, and assists him in his discoveries. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and fetch him now.”

Emma turned to the housekeeper. “What should I do, Mrs. Jenkins?”

Mrs. Jenkins had already turned and was walking down the corridor. At her question, she glanced over her shoulder at Emma.

“I would go to your husband’s side.”

Implicit in that comment was a criticism. A well-deserved one, at that. A truly devoted wife would not have asked what she should do but would simply have accompanied Bryce.

She was not proving to be devoted at all.

Emma washed her hands in the blue solution, dried them, and entered the sickroom.

T
he carriage was traveling downhill, a landmark of sorts, for the approach to Lochlaven. There was the loch, a sheet of pewter stretching to the edge of the horizon, and beyond, the house itself, perched above the loch at the end of a promontory of densely wooded pines.

Lochlaven. His home, inheritance, responsibility, and haven, it seemed to wait impatiently for his return. He found himself leaning forward, as if to urge the carriage onward.

A strange vehicle sat in the drive, forcing his driver to park behind it. Had Albert purchased a new carriage?

He entered his home to find a young woman sitting on the bench in the foyer. At his entrance, she stood, but before he could address her, he heard Albert barking orders.

Curious, he followed the voices down the corridor. Two footmen left the sickroom and halted at the sight of him, before one of them called to the housekeeper.

Two women emerged from the room, one of them his housekeeper, Mrs. Jenkins.

Ian knew, before he turned his head. He knew, in some deep part of him that allowed for hideous coincidences and absurd shocks, who the other woman would be. There she was, standing in an errant ray of sunshine streaming in through the sickroom window. Black as a crow, swathed in ebony from the wilted brim of her bonnet to the toes of her shoes peeking out from beneath her full skirts. Even the shawl around her shoulders and held at her waist with her wrists was black.

She looked as if she might cry.

The hidden part of him jumped up and ran to her like he was a small boy. Inside, the child he was twirled her around joyously, yelling at the top of his lungs,
You’re here! You’re here
!

Emma. Dear God, it was Emma.

She looked up at him in that next moment, her eyes solemn, her mouth unsmiling. A perfect face, one that was rendered beautiful not by its expression but simply by nature. Yet he’d seen her smile, and it had given life to the sculpture. He wanted her to smile right at this moment, at the most inopportune time. He wanted to jostle her into laughter, ease the misery on her face.

He wanted to apologize to her, and he wasn’t certain for what. The fact that she was here, and he was acting the fool? The fact that he couldn’t stop staring at her? Or the fact that he was no doubt causing consternation not only to her but to everyone who witnessed his behavior?

Instead of a greeting, he came to stand directly in front of her, as if blocking her passage.

Several people spoke to him but he ignored all of them.

Slowly, he reached out his hand and touched her cheek with his fingertips, as if to ensure himself that she was real.

“You’re here,” he said, in a voice that sounded as if he’d just awakened.

“Your Lordship, it’s Mr. Bryce. He’s very ill,” Mrs. Jenkins said at his side.

He glanced at his housekeeper.

“Bryce?” he said.

Mrs. Jenkins nodded.

He looked back at Emma. “You’ve married Bryce,” he said. “You’re his heiress.”

What did he expect her to say? That Fate was a capricious bitch who’d played them both false? But this was no time for recriminations or explanations.

“He’s very sick,” Emma said. “He has been for the last two hours. The doctor is with him now.”

With her words, she gifted him with sanity and released him from the power of her presence.

As he began to wash his hands, another tune his nurse had hummed on their outings came to him.

O I loved a lass and I loved her so well

I hated all others who spoke of her ill

But now she’s rewarded me well for my love

For she’s gone and she’s married another.

How damnably appropriate.

Nestled in the corner of the house, the sickroom boasted two sets of windows, both now open to the early afternoon breeze. In most sickrooms there was a scarcity of furniture, the thought being that the fewer furnishings, the better. In this room, however, there was a small round table on either side of the bed, an overstuffed chair in the corner accompanied by another table and lamp, and the sickroom cabinet taking up most of the far wall.

Bryce was unconscious, the pallor of his skin tending toward yellow. He smelled of sickness, garlic, and wine, a curious and noxious combination.

Dr. Carrick was bent over the bed, examining him.

Albert Carrick, rotund, short, and looking perpetually confused, was singled out from the rest of men his age by his remarkable thatch of curly black hair. If his wife, Brenda, did not trim it on a regular basis, Albert’s hair would have reached his shoulders, invaded his ears, and obscured his eyes. Albert’s hair was a living entity, a creature that demanded its own life, leading Ian to think that he should have nicknamed his friend Samson.

At Ian’s entrance, Albert straightened. “Welcome back, Ian,” he said, but his expression was not his usual cheerful one. He was frowning, a fact that Ian immediately noted. “Did the symposium go well?”

Ian nodded. They could discuss London later.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asked.

“I’m not quite sure,” Albert said, continuing his examination. He bent over Bryce again, to smell his breath, before unbuttoning his coat and shirt to palpate his chest. Bryce’s shoes had been removed, but otherwise he was still fully dressed, the stains on his clothing attesting to the misery of his journey.

Mrs. Jenkins bustled around the end of the bed. Emma sat on the chair in the corner, remaining silent. Only when Albert turned and bowed slightly to her in that European way of his, and began to ask her questions, did she speak.

“Has he been ill for very long?”

“Since around noon,” she said. “I thought him inebriated,” she added, staring down at the floor. She looked up a moment later, and continued. “It wasn’t until later that I realized he was ill.”

“When you determined he was ill, how did you make that judgment?” Albert asked.

She listed the symptoms Bryce had experienced during the day. Albert nodded at each one of them.

“Is it cholera?” Emma asked finally.

“I can see why you would think that,” Albert said. “The symptoms are indeed similar. But no, Mrs. McNair, I can promise you that it is not cholera.”

“Then what is it?” Ian asked.

Albert turned to him, removed his spectacles and regarded him with a somber look.

“I do not know,” he said. “But unless we discover why he’s become so ill, it is only too possible that your cousin may die.”

Emma stood. “Die? Is he that ill?”

Dr. Carrick and Ian looked at each other but neither was forthcoming with an answer.

“I should like to know what he’s had to eat or drink in the last day, Mrs. McNair,” Albert said.

Emma thought back. “My cook in London prepared a hamper for us for the train,” she said.

“Which you all ate?”

She shook her head. “Juliana had her own food,” she said. “This was just for Bryce and me.”

“But you both shared the contents?”

She nodded.

“Anything else?”

“Juliana purchased some meats and cheeses in the Inverness station.”

“Did all of you eat from that?”

“Only Juliana and I. Bryce limited himself to wine.”

“Has anyone else in your party become ill?” Albert asked.

She shook her head. “No one.”

“You said you thought Bryce was drunk,” Ian said. “Why?”

“Because he’d finished three bottles of wine,” she said. “One from Inverness, and two from the crate he’d brought with him from London.”

“Where are the empty bottles?” Ian asked.