In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams (23 page)

“Did you kiss my daughter, Lennox?”

“Yes, Mrs. MacIain, I did.”

She nodded. She expected as much.

Anyone in their vicinity could feel the tension between them as well as the sparks. They’d been there since Glynis turned seventeen and Lennox had started looking at her differently.

“He needs to keep his mouth shut,” Hamish said of Lennox once. “Otherwise, his tongue will fall out and he’s going to start to drool.”

Glynis had been eighteen and they’d just returned from a trip to Edinburgh. She could still remember the look on Lennox’s face when he caught sight of Glynis dressed in a new yellow gown and summer flowers adorning her hair.

What would Hamish say to this situation?

“What did you mean about Smythe?”

She bit back her smile. She’d been waiting for Lennox to ask.

“I wouldn’t have said anything unkind about Richard Smythe when he was alive. After all, he was Glynis’s husband. Nor is it my tale to tell. You’ll need to ask Glynis for the details. But what I have discovered about the man doesn’t dispose me to liking him very much.”

“Did he hurt her?” His voice sounded like rusty nails.

“No more than any bad husband can hurt a wife.” Or vice versa, she thought, her mind on Lucy.

She studied Lennox surreptitiously.

Perhaps now Glynis could find some real happiness. Only if Lennox proved to be less obstinate than her daughter. She’d never seen any two people working so diligently at cross purposes.

What she’d like to do was rap him over the head and say, “Lennox Cameron, I know you love Glynis. It might have taken you a few years to recognize that fact but now is the time for you to step forward. Declare yourself. Don’t waste another minute.”

She couldn’t, of course. Lennox was a grown man, not a boy. She doubted if he would listen to advice from her even about Glynis.

Therefore, she would have to nudge her daughter
first. A little manipulation—for a good cause—was not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes you needed to start where you were in order to get where you wished to go.

If the two of them married, for example, they’d be forced to communicate with each other. Once the bedroom door closed, all sorts of joining could happen.

She would do what she could and after that it was up to them. In the meantime, they had a rat in the corn.

“For heaven’s sake,” she said, sighing, “see what you can do to discover who killed her poor husband. The sooner Lucy Whittaker leaves Scotland, the better.”

“W
hat else did she say?” Glynis asked, avoiding her mother’s eyes.

Eleanor sat in her favorite chair in the parlor, sipping her tea placidly. She would occasionally look across the room, study the portrait of her husband painted a few years before his death, smile at Hamish MacIain, nod, then concentrate on her tea once more.

Glynis felt anything but calm at the moment. How was she to know Lucy couldn’t wait to tell anyone what she’d seen?

“Isn’t that enough, Glynis? She saw you and Lennox kissing. Evidently, it wasn’t a peck on the cheek.”

Glynis stared down into her own cup, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment shoot through her. Having been a matron for a number of years, it was an odd experience to be chastised by her mother. Equally disturbing to have done something worthy of rebuke.

“I went to Hillshead to ask Lennox to help,” she said.

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “You did?”

She nodded. “He’s probably the wealthiest man in Glasgow right now. I thought he would give Duncan a loan.”

“Duncan would never impose on a friend.”

She glanced at her mother. Evidently she was the only one in her family willing to sacrifice pride for survival.

“One thing led to another . . .” Her voice trailed away. Surely a further explanation wasn’t necessary. Besides, since her errand at Hillshead hadn’t been successful, it seemed a little unfair it might result in scandal.

“I would just have you remember two things, my darling daughter. Glasgow is a small village in a lot of ways. Gossip is a fact of life here. You’re newly returned and you’re still a subject of speculation for Glaswegians.”

“And the second?”

“Once, you might have been spared because you were a MacIain. But things have changed. The mill is in trouble and many people have lost their jobs. If anything, people will look at you more harshly than at a stranger.”

“She just lost her husband. I’d think she’d be concerned with that, not tattling about Lennox and me.”

Eleanor peered at her over the rim of her cup.

“The poor man was left in the rain like a dead animal,” Glynis said. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Gavin’s eyes staring into the sky, looking up as the raindrops struck him.

Her mother put her cup down. “Oh, my dear girl. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

“Do you think people will listen to her? She hasn’t made any secret what she thinks about us.”

Her mother shrugged. “If Duncan is forced to lay off more workers, public sentiment might turn against you. People will pay attention to what she says.”

Glynis leaned forward and picked up her cup from the tray.

“Even if they do, Mother, what would come of it? Gossip doesn’t bother me.”

“That’s ignorance speaking, not your common sense. You have never lived with censure. You’ve never
gone to the market and had people turn their backs on you. Or walked into a room and have people grow silent. Or heard whispers behind your back.”

“Have you?” she asked, surprised.

“No,” Eleanor said, “but I’ve seen its effects on other women. I won’t have such a thing happen to you. Be more circumspect in your behavior, I beg of you.”

Glynis remembered one of their neighbors as a child. The boy had collected insects, and took great delight in showing his trophies to any little girls he could find. Some of them had screamed and run away, but she always made herself stand there and examine them, feeling sympathy for the poor insects still alive and struggling.

She felt exactly like one of those insects right now.

Her mother sighed, leaned her head back, and stared up at the ceiling.

“I can only imagine what your father might say.”

She was mired in enough shame and humiliation at the moment without adding the specter of Hamish MacIain.

“Did he hate me? For marrying so quickly?”

Her father had been at her wedding but all he’d done was hug her tightly in parting. Still, Hamish MacIain was a man of strong opinions and would have said what he truly felt to his wife.

“Your father could never hate you,” Eleanor said calmly. “He adored you. If anything, he was disappointed. He didn’t think Richard good enough for you.”

“Maybe Lucy will lose interest,” Glynis said. “Or find something else to loathe or complain about.”

That comment received another glance from her mother, this one just as sharp.

“What do you suggest I do about it? I doubt Lucy would listen to me.”

Her mother shook her head. “Don’t even consider going to talk to the woman. It would only make the situation much worse. We must live our lives with our heads up.”

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. MacIain, but it’s Lily.”

They both looked up to find Mabel standing there, a frown furling her brow.

“Lily? I sent her to stay with Mrs. Whittaker for a few days.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mabel said, “and she’s home again.”

“What’s wrong?”

Mabel stepped back and pulled Lily forward.

“Oh, ma’am, must I go back?” the maid said. The girl twisted her hands as she came to stand in front of Eleanor.

The poor girl looked as if she’d been caught in the rain and barely dried. Tendrils of hair were plastered to her face. Her skirt was sodden; the white apron that had always appeared stiffly starched was limp and wrinkled.

Lily’s eyes filled with tears as she began to speak.

“Mrs. Whittaker isn’t pleased with me. I didn’t get her tea quick enough and I didn’t get her things unpacked the way she wanted.” Lily stared down at the carpet, then at Eleanor. “I told her I wasn’t no lady’s maid, Mrs. MacIain, but she had me do her hair anyways.”

She hiccuped, wiped at her eyes with the corner of her apron and continued. “I was sorry for the mess I made of it, but she screamed at me for an hour.”

“She weren’t no lady,” Mabel said.

The tears overflowed, streaming down Lily’s flushed face. Mabel moved to stand beside her, stretching her arm around the girl’s shoulders.

Eleanor didn’t remonstrate with the cook or mention that one should always show charity, even in
difficult situations. Evidently, her mother realized defending Lucy was futile.

“Do I have to go back, missus?”

“No, Lily,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “You don’t have to return.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy, her smile reminding Glynis of sunshine in the middle of rain.

“Thank you, Mrs. MacIain,” Mabel said. “If the world was as kind as you, it would be a great place indeed.”

Lily nodded emphatically beside her.

“Perhaps the woman is just overwhelmed about her husband’s death,” Eleanor said.

“She didn’t do no crying, ma’am,” Lily said. The maid glanced at Glynis. “I don’t think she likes you, Miss Glynis. She said some terrible things to anyone who would listen, even the chambermaids. The worst cow in the fold lows the loudest, as my gran used to say.”

Lily scrubbed both palms over her reddened cheeks and moved to the door. She picked up something and returned to stand in front of Eleanor.

“I was to throw it away,” she said, “but I remembered it were your favorite umbrella.”

Eleanor nodded and reached for it.

Lily bobbed another curtsy and the two women left the room.

“Sometimes, a gesture of kindness is overlooked,” her mother said, putting the umbrella to the side of the settee. “But I’m sure it will not go wasted.”

“I’m afraid I don’t share your view, Mother. Some people will never see kindness for what it is. Or they’ll take advantage of it.”

Eleanor smiled. “Have you become cynical at such a young age, Glynis?”

She’d become a realist, but she didn’t say that to her
mother. Instead, she asked, “Why did Lucy have your umbrella?”

Eleanor shook her head. “The rain started as we left Hillshead and she didn’t have one. As much as I dislike the woman, I didn’t want her to get wet and catch a chill.”

“Can you just imagine all her complaints if so? ‘It’s your Scottish weather. Rain in England is never as wet as Scottish rain.’” Glynis shook her head. Lucy could be difficult in the best of moments. Ill, she would be twice as querulous.

Eleanor sighed. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” she said. “And that the inquest is held quickly and whoever killed poor Mr. Whittaker is soon discovered.”

She nodded.

Was Baumann still in Glasgow? It would suit her purposes if he disappeared from Scotland and never returned. Otherwise, he might suddenly become voluble and tell the world about Washington.

She wouldn’t have to worry about Lucy Whittaker and her exaggerated tales then. Not when Matthew Baumann knew the truth and it was much worse.

T
HE
M
AC
I
AIN
M
ILL
, four massive red brick buildings with black roofs and rows of windows, stretched the length of Donegal Street. Several of the windows were open now to let in the summer morning air.

Looms filled the cavernous space, looking like skeletons now, devoid of cotton thread and finished fabric. When he was here last he’d seen throngs of people in the aisles, some of the men holding long poles they used to free blockages from the looms.

On that day cotton fibers floated in the air like a snow storm. Today the air was clear.

He nodded to the employee at the door, signed in
and told him he was there to see Duncan. The other man asked if he knew the way, a sure sign it had been too long since Lennox had been to the mill.

Once, he’d visited as often as Duncan had been at the shipyards. When had that stopped? They’d both been pressed by business, but surely friendship shouldn’t lapse because of it.

He climbed the two flights of stairs. Offices ringed the space, allowing a view of the mill floor below. He took the aisle to the office at the far corner, knocked, and when he heard Duncan’s voice, entered.

This room, at least, hadn’t changed. He suspected Duncan wouldn’t allow it to be altered in any way, out of respect for his father and a love of tradition.

“Where have you been?”

“In London,” Duncan said, his eyebrows arching. “Am I required to get your permission to leave Glasgow?”

He frowned at his friend. “Of course not. I just wanted to talk to you.”