Borrowed Dreams (Scottish Dream Trilogy) (2 page)

“Lady Wentworth can have her Negro
at the price of a hundred ten pounds.”

The mocking tones of the man,
accompanied by his sneer, caused the sailors to lose the last of their
restraint, and two took off after him. The clerk turned and bolted from the
yard. Watching him run, Birch felt the urge to go after the clerk himself. 
There was no doubt in the lawyer’s mind that this ordeal had been arranged. In
a moment, the sailors returned empty-handed. 

She laid her hand gently on his
arm. “Regardless of Mr. Hyde’s actions, I had to save this woman’s life, Sir
Oliver.”

Millicent Gregory Wentworth could
not be considered a great beauty, nor could her sense of style be called
au
courant
by the standards of London’s
ton
. But what she lacked in
those areas—and in the false pride so fashionable of late—she made up in
dignity and humanity. And all of this despite a lifetime of oppression and bad
luck.

Birch nodded respectfully to his
client. “Why not wait in the carriage, m’lady. I would be happy to take care of
the details here.”

A small writing desk was being
handed up and placed exactly where the slave woman had stood a moment earlier.
Millicent watched several members of the crowd edge forward for a better look
at the piece of furniture. They were far more interested in this item than in
the human being who was auctioned off before it. Only the competition of the
bidding had attracted their attention. She turned to watch the woman being led
across the yard, with Sir Oliver trailing behind.

Appalled by the entire proceeding,
Millicent pushed her way through the crowd to the carriage.

“She will be brought to my office
this afternoon,” Birch said as soon as he had climbed in some time later. “And, since you do not wish to have her delivered to your sister’s home, I will arrange for a
place for her to stay until you are ready to leave for Melbury Hall.”

“Thank you. We shall be leaving
tomorrow morning,” Millicent replied.

“Rest assured, m’lady, everything
shall be handled with the utmost discretion.”

“I know it will,” she said quietly,
looking out the small window of the carriage at the door of the shed where the
old woman had been taken.
Millicent couldn’t help but worry about how
much more pain these horrible people would inflict on her before she was
delivered to the lawyer’s office that afternoon.

As they rode along in silence
through the city, she thought of the money she’d just spent. A hundred ten
pounds was equivalent to seven months worth of salaries of all twenty servants
she employed at Melbury Hall, not counting the field hands. It was true that
the purchase of the black woman would cut deeply into her rapidly diminishing
funds. And she wasn’t even considering the money that she needed to pay Jasper
Hyde next month. Millicent rubbed her fingers over a dull ache in her temple
and tried to think only of how much good it would do, bringing this woman back
to Hertfordshire.   

“Lady Wentworth,” the lawyer said
finally, breaking the silence as they drew near their destination, “we cannot
put off discussing your appointment with the Dowager Countess Aytoun any
longer. I am still completely in the dark concerning why we are going there.”

“That makes two of us, Sir Oliver,”
she replied tiredly. “Her note summoning—or rather, inviting me—to meet with
her arrived three days ago at Melbury Hall, and her groom stayed until I sent
her an answer. I was to arrive at the Earl of Aytoun’s town house in Hanover Square today at eleven this morning with my attorney. Nothing more was said.”      

“This sounds very abrupt. Do you
know the countess?”

Millicent shook her head. “I do
not. But then again, a year ago I didn’t know Mr. Jasper Hyde, either. Nor the
other half-dozen creditors who have endeavored to come after me from every
quarter since Wentworth’s death.” She pulled the cloak tighter around herself.
“One thing I’ve learned this past year and a half is that there is no hiding
from those to whom my husband owed money. I have to face them—one by one—and
try to make some reasonable arrangement to pay them back.”

“You know that I admire you greatly
in your efforts, but we both know you are encumbered almost beyond the point of
recovery already.” He paused. “You have some very generous friends, Lady
Wentworth. If you would allow me to reveal to them just a hint of your
hardship—”

“No, sir,” she said sharply. “I
find no shame in being poor. But I find great dishonor in begging. Please, I do
not care to hear any more.”

“As you wish, m’lady.”

Millicent nodded gratefully at her
lawyer. Sir Oliver had already served her well, and she trusted that he would
honor her request.

“To set your mind a little at ease,
though,” he continued, “you should know that the Dowager Countess Aytoun is
socially situated far differently than Mr. Hyde, or your late husband. She is a
woman of great wealth, but she is rumored to be exceedingly…well, careful with
her money. Some say she is so tightfisted that her own servants must struggle
to receive their wages. In short, I cannot see her lending any money to Squire
Wentworth.”

“I am relieved to hear that. I
should have known that with your attention to detail we would not be walking
into this meeting totally unprepared. What else have you learned about her, Sir
Oliver?”

“She is Lady Archibald Pennington,
Countess of Aytoun. Her given name is Beatrice. She’s been a widow for over
five years. She is Scottish by birth, with the blood of Highlanders in her
veins. She comes from an ancient family, and she married well besides.”

“She has children?”

“Three sons. All men now. Lyon
Pennington is the fourth Earl of Aytoun. The second son, Pierce Pennington, has
apparently been making a fortune in the American colonies despite the embargo. And David Pennington, the youngest, is an officer in His Majesty’s army. The countess herself
led a very quiet life until the scandal that tore her family apart occurred
this past summer.”

“Scandal?”

Sir Oliver nodded. “Indeed, m’lady.
It involved a young lady named Emma Douglas. I understand all three brothers
were fond of her. She ended up marrying the oldest brother and became the
countess of Aytoun two years ago.”  

That hardly sounded scandalous, but
Millicent had no chance to ask any more questions as their carriage rolled to a
stop in front of an elegant mansion facing Hanover Square. A footman in
gold-trimmed livery greeted them as he opened the door of the carriage. Another servant escorted them up the wide marble steps to the front door.

Inside the mansion’s entrance hall,
yet another servant greeted them. As Millicent shed her cloak, her gaze took in
the semicircular alcove at the far end of the hall and the ornate gilded
scrolls and rosettes that decorated the high patterned ceiling. In a receiving
area beyond an open set of doors, she could see upholstered furniture of deep
walnut by Sheraton and Chippendale tastefully arranged about the room, while
handsome carpets covered the brightly polished floors.

A tall, elderly steward approached
and informed them that the dowager was waiting. 

“What was the nature of the
scandal?” she managed to whisper as they followed the steward and another
servant up the sweeping circular stairs to a drawing room.

“Just rumors, m’lady,” Birch whispered, “to the effect that the earl murdered his wife.”

“But that is—”

She stopped as the door to the
drawing room was opened. Trying to contain her shock and curiosity, Millicent
entered as they were announced.

There were four people in the cozy,
well-appointed room: the dowager countess, a pale gentleman standing by a desk
that had a ledger book open on it, and two lady’s maids.

Lady Aytoun was an older woman,
obviously in ill health. She was sitting on a sofa with pillows propped behind
her and a blanket on her lap. Blue eyes studied the visitors from behind a pair
of spectacles.

Millicent gave a small curtsy. “Our
apologies, my lady, for being delayed.”

“Did you win the auction?” The
dowager’s abruptness caused Millicent to look over in surprise at Sir Oliver.
He appeared as baffled as she was. “The African woman. Did you win the
auction?”

“I…I did,” she managed to get out.
“But how did you know about it?”

“How much?”

Millicent bristled at the inquiry,
but at the same time she felt no shame for what she’d done. “One hundred ten
pounds. Though I must tell you I don’t know what business it is of—”

“Add it to the tally, Sir Richard.”
The dowager waved a hand at the gentleman still standing by the desk. “A worthy
cause.”    

Sir Oliver stepped forward. “May I
say, m’lady—"

“Pray, save the idle prattle, young
man. Come and sit. Both of you.”

Millicent’s lawyer, who probably
hadn’t been addressed as “young man” in decades, stared openmouthed for a
moment. Then, as he and Millicent did as they were instructed, the countess
dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand. 

“Very well. I know both of you, and
you know me. That pasty-faced bag of bones over there is my lawyer, Sir Richard
Maitland.” The old woman arched an eyebrow in the direction of her attorney,
who bowed stiffly and sat. “And now, the reason why I invited you here.”

Millicent could not even hazard a
guess as to what was coming next.

“People acting on my behalf have
been reporting to me about you for some time now, Lady Wentworth. You have
surpassed my expectations.” Lady Aytoun removed her spectacles. “No reason for
dallying. You are here because I have a business proposition.”

“A business proposition?” Millicent
murmured.

“Indeed. I want you to marry my
son, the Earl of Aytoun. By a special license. Today.”

Faced with the threat of another
life in hell, Millicent shot to her feet. In an instant, propriety and decorum
were cast to the winds.

“You’ve made a grave mistake, Lady
Aytoun.”

“I do not think so.”

“Your servant must have delivered
the message to a wrong address.”

“Sit down, Lady Wentworth.”

“I am afraid I cannot.” She glanced
in the direction of her lawyer and found him standing as well.

“If you please, Lady Wentworth.
There is no reason for panic.” The dowager’s tone was gentler. “I am well aware
of your fears. I have been advised fully of the suffering you endured during
your marriage. But what I am proposing to you now has no similarity to the
situation you were forced to endure under the brutal tyranny of your first
husband.”

Millicent stared at the old woman,
trying to understand how she could know any of that. The dowager was speaking
of her life as if it were public knowledge, and a queasy feeling gripped her
stomach. The urge to run for the door was strong. She wanted nothing more than
to go out of the house and return to Melbury Hall.

To Millicent, marriage meant being
owned by a man. She had felt the chains of that “blissful” state for five
endless years. There was no protection for a married woman. Marriage was a
state of mental and physical abuse. Period. The vows of matrimony were nothing
more than a curse contrived by men to control women. And after Wentworth’s
death, she had sworn never to allow herself to be subjugated to that life
again.

Millicent took a step toward the
door.

“At least allow me to explain my
purpose for this confusion.” The dowager raised a hand to her. “I know at first
I spoke in haste. I believe if you would be so kind as to allow me to explain
the unpleasant situation in which I find my family, then you shall better
understand the reason for the offer.”

“Any explanation of your family’s
situation, m’lady, is completely unnecessary. If you know anything of my
history, then you should also know that my revulsion to the very notion of
marriage is unrelated to anything you might tell me of your own family. The
topic is repugnant to me, Lady Aytoun, and under no circumstances am I willing
to—”

“My son is a cripple, Lady
Wentworth,” the dowager interrupted. “After a horrible accident last summer, he
has been left with no use of his legs. He has no strength in one arm. He has
plunged into a state of melancholia from which he cannot lift himself. I thank
God for the loyalty and persistence of his personal manservant and a half dozen
others who see to all of his needs, for without them I would have been lost.
Indeed, without them I would have had no choice but to place him in a hospital
for the insane. I do not mind telling you that such a situation would surely
have killed me.”  

The distraught tone of the old
woman’s words tugged at Millicent’s heartstrings. “You have my deepest sympathy, m’lady, but I fail to see what I could do.”

The dowager’s hands trembled as
they absently straightened the blanket on her lap. “Despite all of my bravado,
Lady Wentworth, I am quite ill. To be blunt, I am dying. And my physicians, the
devil take them, are very happy to give me daily reminders that I might not see
the next sunrise.”

“Really, m’lady, I—”

“Don’t take me wrong. I don’t give
a sin about myself. I’ve had a full life. Right now my greatest worry is what
shall happen to Lyon when I am gone. That is why I have asked you here today.”

“But…but surely there are other
options. Family. Friends. Other acquaintances who are not complete strangers to
you. Lord Aytoun is a peer of the realm. You have so many venues available to
you, so many treatments.”

“Please, Lady Wentworth. Please sit
down. I shall explain.” 

Millicent turned and found Birch standing attentively a couple of steps away, awaiting her decision whether to go or stay.
She looked back at the aging countess. The façade of strength she had
encountered in the dowager when first entering was completely gone. What
Millicent saw now was simply another woman. A dying woman. A mother who was
just trying to secure the future well-being of her son.