In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams (15 page)

How many times had she heard that comment?
You must be perfect
. Often enough she should have embroidered it on a pillowcase or two. Perhaps a footstool on which she could kneel, asking for forgiveness.

She did three things perfectly, according to Richard. She dressed well and frugally, because she found a young seamstress with talent, someone who had dreams of being solicited by the women of Washington. For a minimum sum the woman copied the gowns of the day, and in return Glynis did everything she could to promote the woman’s business.

Richard also approved of her table manners. All of the various bowls, plates, goblets, and silverware at state dinners or diplomatic functions never posed a problem for her.

In their bed she pleased him because she didn’t move. Nor did she speak during the act. She managed to endure the experience simply by pretending to be a doll whose limbs he arranged to suit him.

Blessedly, they didn’t have relations after the year in Cairo. Once in Washington, he stopped coming to her bed altogether.

“Do you not want to have children?” she asked him once.

He frowned, his mouth thinning with disapproval at her question.

“Children would be a detriment to my career, Glynis.”

Everything Richard did was seen through the viewpoint of his career. His wardrobe, his reading material, his acquaintances, must at all times be aligned with the diplomatic service.

The pity of it was, he didn’t realize that had he been less obsequious, he might’ve advanced further. People he admired called him names behind his back.

At home was a different matter, however. He wasn’t the same person. Yet even there he wore a cloak around his true nature. Richard was an onion, never revealing himself completely to anyone.

Would his bosses have been impressed by how well he’d fooled them all?

Until she’d gone to Baumann, she, too, had been deceived.

Was that why he insisted on her being perfect, because he knew he wasn’t? Did he regret who he was and what he was doing? Or did he even consider his own behavior?

As for being perfect, she was most definitely not. Look what she’d done last night; she’d humiliated herself in front of Lennox again. Warmth traveled up her spine to settle at the base of her neck, the better to fuel
the flush she knew showed on her cheeks. Even her ears felt red.

She was adrift in embarrassment. She was scared about the future and frustrated at her inability to do anything to change it. A part of her wanted to be a child again. She wanted to be cradled in her mother’s arms, rocked back and forth and told there were no monsters under the bed, her future was bright, and everything would be fine.

But she knew that wasn’t right, didn’t she? She’d been married to a monster. Her future stretched out before her, uncertain and unformed, and everything would be fine as long as she studiously avoided Lennox Cameron.

Somehow, she was going to have to gather up the dented, scattered bits of her pride, glue enough pieces together so that when she saw him again she’d smile, ask about his father and Mary, all without turning crimson.

She was not a young girl anymore but a widow with some experience of the world. Instead of fleeing for London she was going to remain here in Glasgow and take the advice of a seventeenth-century Englishman: living well was the best revenge.

She would simply settle into a hermitlike Glasgow life for a few months. Then perhaps she’d cast her eyes for a man with black hair and shining eyes, with a mouth that made her think wicked thoughts. She’d flirt and smile and dance and charm in the hopes that he might turn her attention away from the one man on the face of the earth who could reduce her to idiocy.

“Charlotte’s dinner is this evening,” her mother said, the comment pulling her out of her reverie.

She nodded, wishing she could find an excuse for declining the invitation at the last moment. Why on earth had she accepted it?

“I would give you a caution, if I may.” Eleanor glanced away, then back at her. “I know she’s a dear friend of yours, but she tells tales.”

“She always has,” Glynis said. “Ever since we were girls I knew not to say anything to Charlotte unless I wanted it spread through the whole of Glasgow by morning.”

“I had no idea,” Eleanor said.

“Most of the women in Washington were like Charlotte. On the outside they were very proper and rigidly polite, but they couldn’t wait to spread the latest story about some mischief or faux pas. They’d ruin you with a smile.”

“What a dreadful group of women.”

“When I first arrived, I felt like a baby rabbit among hungry eagles. Each one of them was ready to tear me apart.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “You never said. Your letters were only filled with what you were doing, who you’d met. Was it so terrible?”

“Instructive,” she said, sparing her mother the whole truth.

Washington had proven to be educational. She’d always be grateful for the lessons she learned there, not only about other people but also herself.

“After the women of Washington, I can face Charlotte.”

Glasgow was her home and she was not going to hide or retreat again—ever.

“O
h, I’ve anticipated this dinner for so very long. I’m so glad you’re here.” Closing the door behind her, Charlotte stood smiling toothily at her.

Glynis wondered if the dark blue dress with its silver buttons was too festive. Her mother had reassured her it was perfectly acceptable for a woman coming out of mourning. Although a little more formal than what she’d wear during the day, the garment revealed less than a ball gown. Fabric covered her shoulders and décolletage until she looked as proper as a woman attending church.

“This is Archibald,” Charlotte said, pushing forward a portly middle-aged man. “He didn’t get a chance to meet you at Hillshead.”

“We’ve met before,” Archibald said, bowing. “You were sixteen. My uncle had the confectioners on the corner of Trongate,” he said. “I’ve taken it over.”

“And made a success of it,” Charlotte said, grabbing his arm and leaning close to her husband.

Charlotte’s round face plumped with her smile. Only the unkind would ever mention her rotund figure.

“Archie has three more stores besides and is thinking of opening one in Edinburgh.”

“I imagine people will always want something sweet,” Glynis said.

Charlotte nodded vigorously. “Exactly that. Even in bad times, people will want to buy a bit of chocolate.”

If bad times had come to Glasgow, they weren’t evident in Charlotte’s West End home. Furniture crowded into every room she passed, and an excess of curios on the tables in the hall made movement almost impossible. Glynis kept her hands pressed against her skirt, hoping to minimize the size of her hoop as she walked into the crowded parlor.

She stopped on the threshold, causing Archibald to walk into her. He apologized as she stared at the group facing her.

The two men in the room stood at her entrance.

“You know Lennox, of course,” Charlotte said, glancing coyly at her.

She formed some kind of smile and nodded at him.

“And his houseguests, Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker.”

She bit back her sigh and smiled at the couple.

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Mr. Whittaker said, grinning at her.

“You are from Georgia, Mr. Whittaker?” she asked.

“I am, Mrs. Smythe,” he said. “But how would you know something like that?”

“I lived in Washington for a time, but I had many acquaintances from the South,” she said, moving to the corner of the settee, and as far away from Lucy as she could. “It became a game to tell a Mississippi accent from a Georgian one.”

He tilted his head. “Then let me congratulate you on your ear, Mrs. Smythe. Many of my own countrymen can’t tell us apart.”

“I think all of you sound very odd,” Lucy Whittaker said. “Especially you Scots.”

Glynis’s smile trembled but she pulled it back into place, remembering the innumerable rules she’d learned.
One must always allow for the idiosyncratic behavior
of those who do not share our culture.
Of course, Richard had been talking about representatives from the African continent, not an Englishwoman, but she decided to use the advice anyway.

Lucy’s air of superiority reminded her of the haughtiest of grande dames of Washington, none of whom she’d kowtowed to.

She folded her hands around her reticule, ignored Lucy’s frown, and complimented Charlotte on the decor. A lie of politeness, but one pleasing Charlotte, if her smile was any indication.

A green patterned upholstery covered the many chairs and settee, but the color was not quite the same as the bright emerald silk wallpaper. The three ottomans were upholstered in a green stripe, yet another shade of the color. She felt trapped inside a bilious plant, one growing smaller and more compressed as the minutes ticked by.

Charlotte’s green gown clashed horribly with her furnishings.

Bric-a-brac filled every available flat surface along with potpourri jars, each giving off a scent of sandalwood and something pungent, making her want to scratch her nose.

She glanced at Lennox. He was dressed in black, his snowy white shirt decorated with pin tucks and silver buttons.

She clenched her hands in the folds of her skirt, released them, and stared at the painting of Charlotte and her husband mounted over the fireplace. Paintings of all the MacNamara children were arranged on the wall opposite her, and she focused on them. Each child bore a resemblance to their parents, especially in their round faces and pursed mouths.

“Will you be returning to Washington, Mrs. Smythe?”

She turned her head to address Mr. Whittaker again. The warm look in his eyes matched his boyish and charming smile. She had the impression that while Mr. Whittaker might appear to be disarming and unsophisticated, he should not be underestimated.

“I won’t be leaving Scotland again, Mr. Whittaker,” she said. “I find I’ve less tolerance for travel than I once had. And you? Will you be returning to America soon?”

“Soon, Mrs. Smythe,” he said, his smiling glance including Lennox. “I like Scotland well enough but I’ve things to do at home.”

Such as being a Confederate captain.

Mr. MacNamara chose the moment to ask a question of his own. “Have you been troubled by the fires along the Clyde, Lennox?”

Lennox shook his head.

“Fires?” she asked.

“Arson,” he said in a clipped voice. “An attempt to destroy the ships we’re building.”

“Two of them were destroyed, I understand,” Mr. MacNamara said. “Burned right down to the waterline.”

Lennox’s face was stone, his eyes flat. He didn’t comment. If she didn’t know him so well she would have thought him unaffected.

Lennox, however, was angry. Why, because Mr. MacNamara had shared the news? Or because he was worried about the ships Cameron and Company were building?

“There’s been talk of murders, too,” Charlotte added in a shocked whisper, her eyes shining with excitement. Charlotte had always had a bloodthirsty nature. She loved gossip and tales of misadventure.

“It’s why I’m so grateful for my walking stick,” Gavin said. By pushing a small, concealed button, the handle came free, revealing a long knife.

“You don’t think to need to use that, surely, Mr. Whittaker?” Archibald said.

“You never know, sir. We live in dangerous times.”

But murder wasn’t a subject for a dinner party, so the topic changed a moment later, leaving Glynis to consider the subject silently.

Was Baumann desperate enough to be an arsonist? Or a murderer, if Charlotte had been correct?

She looked up to find Lennox staring at her.

His gaze had always been piercing. Although she’d been stared at by some daunting people in the last seven years, something about Lennox’s look made her glance away.

Her cheeks felt warm. Even the tips of her ears felt hot. She massaged her earlobe, caught herself, and placed her hands back in her lap.

“Have you been in Scotland long?” she asked of Mr. Whittaker.

“A matter of months,” he said, glancing at his wife. “I met my wife in London,” he added, “just before coming here.”

“How do you find Glasgow?” she asked, wondering if he would launch into a diatribe similar to his wife’s.

To her surprise, he smiled at her. “I like it just fine, Mrs. Smythe, once I figured out how y’all talk.”

She smiled back at him, wondering if he knew how odd he probably sounded to her fellow Glaswegians.

Her ear was attuned to accents, especially since Richard had tried to expunge any tinge of Scotland in her voice. Only when she was tired did her R’s start to roll or a hint of her native tongue emerge. Normally she sounded English, as proper as an attaché’s wife should be.

“The weather here is horrid,” Lucy said. “It’s always raining.”

“In Washington it was very soggy,” she said, annoyed
by the woman’s constant complaints. “Humid in the summer and too wet in spring.”