In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams (7 page)

“No,” he said, grinning at her. “She isn’t like you. She would never dare smoke a cheroot.”

She jumped up, tucked her hand in his, allowing him to lead her back to the shed. Just before they got there she pulled him to a stop and threw herself at him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

His lips tasted of tobacco.

He’d thrust her away from him. “Glynis! Stop that!”

He hadn’t objected to her kiss seven years ago. The memory of it had fueled her dreams for years. The
lonely imaginings of a woman who was willfully foolish. Nothing had come of that kiss.

Nothing had come of the rumors, either. He hadn’t married the Russian girl. In fact, he looked shocked when she asked.

Had she looked as surprised when he revealed what he knew of Baumann?

A touch on her shoulder brought her out of her reverie.

She glanced up to see her mother standing there, a cup in her outstretched hand.

“You haven’t read a page of your book, my dear. Is something troubling you?”

She glanced down at the book in her lap, a silly novel about a haunted castle, a prince, and a woman without a bit of sense. Lennox became the prince in her imagination and she was the woman wandering through a dark and unknown place with only a candle to guide her. The author hinted at the woman’s fascination with the hero of the story. If the prince proved to be half as intriguing as Lennox, she couldn’t fault the poor heroine.

From now on she needed to avoid Lennox completely.

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and took the cup from her mother. Eleanor sat beside her and for a few moments they sat in a comfortable silence. Her mother was a restful woman, someone who seemed to calm a room simply by being in it.

The parlor where they sat was a warm and welcoming place in the summer months, but not nearly as pleasant in the winter. The fireplace was located at the far end of the room. Anyone entering had to run the gauntlet of some nasty drafts before reaching a warmer spot.

Although nowhere near as elegant or large as Hillshead,
their own manor house was a hundred years older, built by Glynis’s great grandfather. A Highlander by birth, he’d come to Glasgow to make his fortune, like many men. After working for the competition for a decade, he started the MacIain Mill. Once the mill showed a profit, he constructed his home.

She doubted he’d taken advice from anyone, let alone someone who might be preparing meals or maintaining a home. The result was a house that was a strange amalgam, as if the man couldn’t decide whether to build a castle or a manor house. Built in the shape of a T, it showed a restrained face to the world, with a Grecian entrance complete with columns. Instead of being square, however, the front of the house had curved sides, as if the builder had wanted to create towers and changed his mind halfway through the building. The curved windows let in the drafts—fine in summer, but miserable in the winter.

Yet the pride of workmanship of those early carpenters was evident in the wood beams, the windowsills, sashes, and the mantel pieces carved with pictures of deer and thistles.

The sprawling floor plan made no sense, however. The bedrooms were odd sizes. The family parlor adjoined the dining room, which was on the other side of the house from the kitchen. The halls and staircases were too narrow, the treads so high it was treacherous descending them with a full hoop. One corridor on the third floor abruptly ended in a wall. Drafts swirled from room to room like restless ghosts.

At night the house groaned like an old lady with lumbago. Lily called rainy days Discovery Days because she always spotted another leak beside a window or near the roof.

Her mother, unfailingly kind and sweet-tempered, could be heard muttering imprecations about the
house and her husband’s ancestor, sentiments shared by Lily, the upstairs maid, and Mabel, the cook.

In the MacIain home there wasn’t the demarcation between servant and employer as in the houses of Washington or even at Hillshead. Her mother often sat down at the kitchen table and took tea with Mabel, since the woman had been with her for years. In addition to Lily, they employed a scullery maid and a maid of all work. Her mother hadn’t said, but she doubted they’d be able to afford all their wages for very much longer.

“Can I tell you what a joy it is to see you sitting there?” her mother said, turning to her. “I can’t quite believe you’re home after all these years.”

She smiled at her mother, feeling the same.

“Richard didn’t approve of Scotland. If I came home to visit, I might return with more of a Scottish accent, undoing all his work to make me sound English.”

Eleanor shook her head. “I didn’t know your husband well,” she said.

An understatement: her mother hadn’t known her husband at all.

Their courtship, if it could be called that, occurred over a period of weeks. The decision to marry had been a mutually beneficial one. She didn’t want to return to Glasgow, and Richard needed an amenable wife, someone intelligent enough to become the perfect diplomat’s protégée.

At first she respected Richard for his knowledge of the world and his devotion to his diplomatic calling. Later, she merely tolerated him, being all too aware that the life she’d made for herself wasn’t the one she wanted to live.

The awe she felt at meeting the world’s important people had faded after a few years. She’d seen the diplomatic community for what it was, a close knit association
of individuals who overtly wished to further their country’s aims while covertly supplementing their own.

Famous people were like everyone else. A president could have personal problems. The wife of a president might be afflicted with depression or excessive pride. Ministers, congressmen, doyennes, and matriarchs each had failings and faults—their positions didn’t exempt them from being human.

Yet their positions or their prestige sometimes made them act as if they were elevated above the common man. The diplomatic service seemed to attract people like that, individuals who were adept at false smiles and parroted phrases.

Gradually, she’d become expert at both herself, becoming a product of the very society she’d once viewed with awe and later grew to loathe.

In Scotland, people spoke their minds, not what they thought someone wanted to hear. They said what was in their hearts whether wise or not. She craved the bluntness of Scottish speech and the unfettered thoughts of her fellow Scots. She wanted honesty, not fawning duplicity.

Scotland had been like a beacon for her. All she had to do, she’d told herself, was endure, and she’d return to Scotland one day.

With Richard’s death the diplomatic service lost its power over her. She was neither the attaché’s wife nor a member of the legation, but a private citizen. No one insisted she be discreet, demure, and ceaselessly polite.

Now she was plain Mrs. Richard Smythe of Glasgow, Scotland. A woman who’d met the important people in the world at one time but who now chose to live quietly and without attention.

Her mother stared down into the cup, cleared her throat, then looked at her. A sure sign that she had
something of importance to discuss and was trying to find the way to broach it.

She finished her tea, placed the cup beside her book and sat back. Had she done something wrong? For the last week she’d been a hermit in their home. She hadn’t gone out, even to shop. She hadn’t seen anyone. Although she’d received an invitation to dinner from Charlotte, she hadn’t yet answered it, unsure whether or not to attend.

The diplomatic service would invariably come up as a topic of conversation, and she didn’t want to talk about America or Richard or Egypt. But short of those subjects, what did she have to say? Almost nothing, and wasn’t that a pitiful admission?

She had no children, no hobbies, and no talent other than her affinity for numbers and details.

Figures made sense to her. She’d tried to explain it to Duncan once. Numbers sang to her, almost like music. She could see where someone had made a mistake or where sums didn’t add up. She kept her own household books in Washington, practicing economies to stretch Richard’s salary.

Her mother bit her lip, glanced at her and then away.

She waited, knowing that no amount of urging would make Eleanor speak faster.
For everything there is a season,
her father would often say. Sometimes he made the remark while waiting for his wife to speak.

“I’ve told Lennox I would do something and I need your help,” her mother finally said.

“What have you agreed to do?” she asked, folding her hands and willing her heartbeat to slow. Would she always be affected like this? All she had to do was hear his name and her pulse raced.

Once, at a Washington dinner party, the discussion had centered around the newly instigated blockade of southern ports. Evidently, some politicians had discovered
that Scottish shipbuilding enterprises were aiding the southerners. A threat had been lobbed that if England didn’t stay out of the Civil War, the Americans would retaliate by invading Canada.

She hadn’t been surprised at the volatile nature of the comments: it was war, and everyone’s emotions were heightened. She hadn’t been surprised, either, at Richard’s sanguine response.

Nothing ever ruffled Richard.

She wished she could have said the same, especially when talk turned to particular shipbuilders thought to be aiding the Confederacy. Cameron and Company was mentioned along with several other firms on the Clyde.

She’d kept still, waiting for someone to say something more. She wanted to hear about Lennox. The discussion had veered to another topic, but that one hint of him was enough to make her ache for weeks.

No, she was not nineteen any longer. Not a foolish girl so in love she’d dared scandal by kissing him.

He was not going to affect her like that any longer.

“. . . Glasgow. The poor thing hasn’t been away from Hillshead.”

“Who?” she asked.

Eleanor frowned at her. “Weren’t you listening to a word I was saying, Glynis? Lucy Whittaker. She and her husband are Lennox’s houseguests. He’s asked me to show her Glasgow and I thought you could accompany us.”

Before she could demur, her mother added, “She might have questions about America.” Her mother patted her arm. “I really do want you to come.”

Before she could frame an excuse, Eleanor stood.

“I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Now?”

Eleanor nodded. “I’ve already sent for the carriage.”

What a pity her brother couldn’t have made some economies there, too. Instead of two carriages, they only needed one to take him back and forth to the mill.

Yet if Eleanor didn’t have a vehicle for her own use, she probably would have taken Lucy Whittaker on a walking tour of Glasgow—and insist that she come with them.

Glynis stared at the book she’d abandoned. Suddenly, she wanted to read the story of a silly woman a lot more than she wanted to entertain Lennox’s houseguest.

Fifteen minutes later she was in the carriage attired in bonnet and gloves.

As they headed for Hillshead, she straightened her skirt, checked the toes of her shoes, loosened the cord of the reticule around her wrist, pulled at her gloves, and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from her bodice.

Anything but think of Lennox.

Her mother didn’t seem to notice her discomfort.

“The poor girl doesn’t know anyone in Scotland, save Lennox and her husband, of course. Mary is taking her father to Bute for the waters, so she will be alone all day. Why shouldn’t we extend a little Scottish hospitality and make a friend in the meantime?”

Of course her mother would care for the girl. Eleanor was kind to everyone. She’d no more disappoint Lennox than she would anyone coming to the door looking for food.

Her father had been the same. He hired people for the mill that others had fired. He instituted meetings for men in the grip of alcoholism, took up collections among his business friends to help children of his employees. They weren’t merely workers to him. Everyone at MacIain Mill was a member of a large extended family.

When her mother went inside to collect Mrs. Whittaker, Glynis remained in the carriage studying Hillshead.

The three-story house sprawled across the hilltop and was remarkable for the number of its white-framed windows. Despite the size of the house, there were only three people in the Cameron family: William, Lennox, and Mary. Speculation abounded as to the whereabouts of Olivia—Mrs. Cameron. All she knew was that Lennox and Mary’s mother had left Scotland when they were both children and hadn’t returned. Lennox never discussed his mother’s absence. Nor did she ever question him.

Hillshead required a great many servants. Seven people were employed in the kitchen alone. An army must be required to keep Hillshead dusted and swept, mopped and polished. Their own small staff of four had enough to do every day, and the MacIain house was one-twelfth the size of Hillshead.

The house seemed to have a personality, one not the least modest or unassuming. The red brick, contrasting pleasantly with the white windowsills and green hedges, was sharp at the corners and bright in color, as if proud of its newness.
I’m not the clay of old cities and ancient homes,
it seemed to say.
I was newly kilned and set up only decades ago to reveal my owner’s wealth
.