The Devil of Clan Sinclair (17 page)

Then she was swinging, her skirts in the air, her stomach plummeting as she soared, her nurse fussing at her to be less of a hoyden and more of a young lady.

Her dog, Patches, was barking beside her as she ran from the porch of Cliff House across the wide expanse of lawn to the woods. She loved the woods bordering the white painted house above the Hudson, loved the smell of the rich, loamy soil, and the sweet scent of the purplish white flowers growing in wild abandon.

Suddenly she was in the ballroom, having to walk a straight line from one side of the room to the other, turn and walk back over the parquet floor to the other wall while maintaining a rigid posture, her chin level, an insipid smile painted on her face. The voices of her governesses, three in all because they’d each failed in some way to please her father, rang in her ears. The dancing master despaired of her, but she was good at balancing a book on her head, keeping her two feet parallel to each other, and pretending she was walking on a train track. There were so many rules to learn. More rules than countries and capital cities.

Her skirts must not sway. She must, above all, know the names of the guests attending her father’s annual summer party. She must be seen but never heard, unless her father asked her a question, and then she must reply as quickly as possible with the right answer so as not to embarrass him.

Her governess was rarely pleased with her, unless it came to spelling or geography. She was good at both, less competent at mathematics, and not at all interested in French or Italian.

“Why can’t I just speak English?” she asked in her fevered dream.

Her governess sharply rapped her knuckles for that question.

“I have a child,” she said, pulling the ruler from the governess’s grasp. “He’s the most wonderful child in the world,” she added in perfect Italian. “Have you any children? Has any man loved you?”

The scene shifted yet again and she was standing beside Lawrence’s coffin. In the way of delirium and dreams, she knew some of what she was experiencing had been true. She felt the sleek mahogany of the coffin top and remembered touching it and the brass nameplate there.

Then she was standing inside the burial plot, and the caretaker lowered Lawrence’s coffin to her. She perched atop it, her hoop billowing around her waist, as they piled dirt on top of her. Her pantaloons were covered in dirt and she was missing one shoe.

Abruptly, it was no longer Lawrence’s coffin but Eudora’s. Poor Eudora was screaming in disbelief. Ellice was pointing at her and giggling.

None of the mourners seemed to think anything was amiss as both of them were buried alive. Not one person said anything, even Macrath, who stood at the end of the burial plot, looking down at her with a severe expression.

“Will you help me?” she asked, stretching up one hand.

His fingertips touched hers, and just when she thought he would grip her hand, he pulled back.

“Why didn’t you tell me you loved Lawrence?”

“I didn’t. It was you, Macrath. I always loved you.”

She called out for him and only heard Hannah’s voice. “Hush, your ladyship. Someone will hear you.”

Abruptly, she was a child again, being told to be quieter. “You’ll wake the dead with your laughter, Virginia Elizabeth.”

Mommy? Where was Mommy?

“Your mother died at your birth, Virginia. It’s a hard lesson for a little girl to learn, but learn it you must.”

Enid rapped her on the knuckles with a ruler. “You should never have married Lawrence. You can’t speak French.”

She was running in the rain. She loved the rain, storms, and thunder. Cliff House was always secure and safe, perched as it was above the Hudson, the home of a man who’d become wealthy by being ruthless.

Cliff House magically became Drumvagen. She was happy there. So much delight filled her that she was nearly weak with joy. She wanted to hug everyone she saw, or kiss them on the cheek in gratitude for sharing this day with her. They’d come from so far away to celebrate with her.

She was dressed in white, her long veil trailing behind her. She approached the altar in Drumvagen’s chapel. Macrath slowly turned and smiled at her.

In the next instant Macrath changed, becoming Lawrence, but not the sickly husband she’d known. Instead, he was a grinning corpse who held out a skeletal hand. Repulsed, she pulled away, just as he became Paul, leering at her.

She glanced around for Macrath but he was nowhere to be seen. She was no longer at Drumvagen. Instead, she was in London again.

The world faded to gray, then black, as she descended into nothingness with relief.

Chapter 19

London

July, 1870

T
hey’d arrived in London yesterday and were directed to their quay at dawn. Now Macrath could hear conversations and cursing in a dozen different languages. The noise of creaking winches vied with the rumble of wheels against the cobbles as a procession of empty wagons appeared on the pier.

Masts of sleek clippers stood next to iron hulled steamers, each one at the end of a voyage starting a world away, bringing spices, cloth, china, and mail from such places as Shanghai, Foochow, Zebu, and Yokohama.

Granaries and warehouses edged nose to tail on the quay alongside the offices set aside for business. Captains would meet with shipowners or their factors, produce their logbooks, and give an accounting before signing over their cargo.

“It’s a fair day, Mr. Sinclair,” Captain Allen said from behind him. “A good day to win, I’m thinking.”

Macrath turned and greeted the man. The tip of Captain Allen’s beard was being blown upward by the breeze, calling attention to the man’s grin.

“It’s a good day, Captain Allen.”

They were the last of the four ships to reach the East India Dock, but the only one with a frozen cargo. Forty tons of it, which meant the
Fortitude
—and the Sinclair Ice Company—had won the race from Australia to England.

He wasn’t celebrating just yet. Politics could come into play. Two of his rivals were Australian, and their nationality might factor into the awarding of the contract. Or it might not, since his competitors had to jettison their cargo.

Regardless of the ultimate outcome, he still had bragging rights, and he would ensure that men who’d been tentative about purchasing one of his machines knew who had won this race.

He liked being able to plan something on paper, develop it, build it, and have it work the way he’d seen it in his mind. If he built a flywheel to turn clockwise, it didn’t suddenly decide to rotate counterclockwise.

Maybe he should only deal with machines and leave humans alone.

“Will you be going home to Scotland now, Mr. Sinclair? Or is it back to Australia for you?”

“I think it’s home, Captain,” he said.

Drumvagen called to him. So did being able to work on a new version of his ice machine, a new design that had come to him on the voyage.

Jack, too, was anxious to return to Scotland. The other man was visiting Edinburgh first before returning to Drumvagen.

“While you’re here, you should see something of our city. London is like no other place on earth.”

“I know London well,” he said, telling him of Ceana’s season.

“Then you’ll be off reacquainting yourself with old friends.” Allen lifted a hand in a signal to his first mate. “Let me know where you’re staying,” he said as he walked away, “and I’ll buy you a tankard or two in the way of thanks.”

Macrath turned back to his place along the rail, watching as the
Fortitude
’s frozen cargo was wheeled out of his ice room with Jack directing the activity.

Nearby, pepper was being offloaded. He could taste it in the back of his throat. Crates of tea were being stacked at the end of the pier. As he stood there, a factor approached, met with two other men and started counting.

What friends did he have in London? A few businessmen with whom he had a nodding relationship. A solicitor he’d employed to look over some of his English contracts.

Virginia.

If he sought Virginia out, it would be tantamount to admitting to her and the world how much he’d missed her, how much she was in his thoughts.

She’d turned her back on him. She walked away when he asked her to stay. All he’d gotten in return was the scent of roses and memories relentlessly haunting him.

Where was his pride? Caught and captured by an American lass with a lilting laugh.

For someone who called herself fearful, she was remarkably courageous. Why else would she come to Scotland only days after being widowed? To test him? Had she come to him to see if he felt the same about her as she did about him?

Had he failed her test somehow?

What had he done wrong? For that matter, what could he have done to keep her in Scotland?

Whenever he worked on a machine, the ultimate design began as a plan, but evolved as a prototype. What might have looked functional when he started might be tossed in the manufacturing process. Give and take, trial and error, they were all vital to a successful finished product.

He had the inkling that the same process would work in relationships, especially this relationship. They were drawn to each other by strong emotions and pulled apart by circumstances, first of her father’s making, and then because she was the Countess of Barrett, newly widowed.

Enough time had passed that she wouldn’t shock the world by marrying now.

Nor would he be guided by his pride when he might find happiness.

“I
can’t work like this, Mr. Paul,” the maid said, sniffing into the corner of her apron.

If it hadn’t already been stained with the polish she’d spilled earlier, he would have demanded she find a handkerchief instead.

“With her looking out of the corner of her eye at me like she’s waiting for me to make a mistake.”

“Cook is overworked like the rest of us,” he said, hoping to calm the girl. “I doubt she cares as much about what you’re doing as long as it doesn’t affect her workload.”

“She wants me to clean the pots. I’m no scullery maid,” she said.

Did she know she stunk of onions, so strongly that the library reeked?

He smiled, an expression that had always caused the maids to flutter their eyelashes and giggle. In the last month, however, his smile had no effect on the female staff at all.

The household was in shambles, but he was trying to muster everyone together. He was the de facto majordomo since Albert had left and the position was vacant. Eudora had died, the dowager countess had taken to her rooms, Virginia was ill, and Ellice was too young to assume any command. He alone was there to mitigate the disagreements and hear the whines and complaints from the ten staff members.

The maids listened better than the men. He had fired the stable master for insubordination, but the man was refusing to leave.

“I don’t take my orders from you,” he said. “When the dowager countess fires me, I’ll consider myself gone. But not by you.”

The stable master’s mutiny had been joined by the coachman. Hosking was another one he’d fire when he got the power.

“All the downstairs maids are taking turns,” he said to the girl now. “You can’t expect Cook to fix all the meals and scrub all the dishes.”

She sniffled again. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his temper in check.

“Do it today,” he said, smiling at the maid. “Just today, and I’ll find a schedule to accommodate everyone.”

She wiped the corner of one eye, sighed dejectedly, and took herself off to the kitchen. No doubt she would whine about her new chore for as long as she had to do it.

What did she expect him to do? Lavina hadn’t died solely to upset her schedule. Trying to find a replacement for the scullery maid had been difficult. Once likely candidates learned Lavina had died of smallpox and the household was still battling the disease, they weren’t in any hurry to work at the Countess of Barrett’s home.

Virginia would survive. He’d been at her door many times over the past week, engaged in a battle with her maid.

Hannah wouldn’t allow him to see her. No matter what he promised or threatened, she refused to let him inside the room.

All he had was Hannah’s word that Virginia hadn’t been damaged by the disease.

“She only has one or two scars on her face, Paul.”

“You’re sure?”

Perhaps he should dismiss Hannah as well. The girl didn’t know her place, witness her frown just before she’d closed the door in his face.

He settled back, surveying the library, his palms smoothing over the polished arms of the chair. The desk was an attractive piece of furniture, conveying substance and power. He liked being in charge, liked the control. He’d been the force behind Lawrence, but most people hadn’t realized it.

Had he erred in suggesting Lawrence spend as much of Virginia’s fortune as possible? He’d let loose a streak of anger in Lawrence, one that had manifested in odd and disturbing ways. Even he hadn’t realized the degree of Lawrence’s retaliation until the solicitor visited the dowager countess.

Lawrence hadn’t been the agreeable invalid everyone thought. Virginia wasn’t the downcast and malleable woman people expected.

Nor was he the loyal servant.

“H
ow is she, Hannah?” Ellice asked.

The young girl stood outside the door of Virginia’s bedroom, just as Hannah had instructed. No one was to enter the countess’s chamber for fear of being infected. Ellice, however, came every morning to ask about her sister-in-law, standing just as she was now, draped in black, her hands twisted in front of her, her face white with worry.

“She’s the same,” Hannah said.

When Ellice seemed to pale even further, Hannah reached out and patted her arm in a violation of all she’d been taught. If one was in service, one did not touch an employer.

“That’s not a bad thing,” Hannah said. “You mustn’t think it such. She’s not worsened. She’s no fever, and she’s been able to take some broth.”

Ellice nodded, seeming to take some comfort from Hannah’s words. “Mary says Elliot seems fine,” she said. “He shows no sign of the disease.”

“I’ve heard the same,” Hannah said.

Ellice had aged substantially in the last two weeks. Perhaps it was the strain of being the head of the household while her mother was incapacitated, or grief for Eudora. Regardless of the reason, she had taken on a maturity greater than her sixteen years.

“Is she truly getting better?” Ellice asked. “You’re not just saying it to keep me calm, Hannah?”

“No, I’m not,” she said. “The countess hasn’t had any new pustules for four days now.”

“You haven’t been away from her side since she became ill. I know my mother would join me in thanking you for your diligence.”

“There’s no need,” Hannah said, feeling her face warm. She didn’t like caring for the ill, but the Countess of Barrett was a different story. Not because she was any less ill, or more delicate in her sickness. But simply because she seemed so alone and friendless that Hannah could not turn her back on the woman.

How on earth did she tell Ellice the truth?

Besides, in her delirium, the countess had said too many things that would’ve caused the servants to gossip. Better she had been there, than one of the other silly girls who would’ve repeated her ramblings to anyone with ears.

“Regardless,” Ellice said, “thank you. I can only hope I inspire as much devotion as Virginia does, or someone in my service is as kind as you.”

Hannah was tired of this room, of sickness, and worrying about Virginia, the only reason why tears spiked her eyes.

Looking down at the floor, she said, “Thank you.”

“I’ll come every day, then, and let you know about Elliot,” Ellice said. “Would it be all right?”

As she studied the other girl, Hannah realized Ellice was feeling as lonely and as afraid as the rest of them. She at least had some reassurance, having had the disease a dozen years earlier and survived. The chances of her contracting smallpox again was low, if not impossible.

Ellice must be worrying about her own health as well as her mother’s. Also, she was grieving for her sister. Eudora had been the stronger personality in this house.

The girl needed something to do, some way to feel valuable.

“I’d appreciate knowing about Elliot,” Hannah said. “It would save me the trip to the nursery.”

Slowly, she closed the door, leaned back against it and studied the bedroom. When the earl died, his mother had taken his suite of rooms, leaving the countess only this small chamber. Hannah was heartily sick of the place.

Thanks to the countess’s potpourri, all she could smell was the scent of roses. She’d opened the windows, but there wasn’t a breeze, only hot air. The room felt even more closed-in and suffocating. Hay had been put down on the street to muffle the sound of carriage wheels. But with so many black wreaths in this part of the city, there weren’t many visitors. Those who didn’t have to come to this affluent area stayed away. Even the residents remained inside their houses.

Still, she was better off than a great many people, even her own family. She wasn’t sick, she had a roof over her head, and a living.

For now, she was a nurse. Virginia was weak, so she had become her guardian against the staff, all of whom were acting like children crying for their mother. She’d also stood between Virginia and Paul Henderson, whose eyes lit in a strange way when he talked of the countess. Her skin crawled in the man’s presence.

Virginia would have to get well. The countess was going to have to protect herself, not only against enemies inside this house, but those outside as well.

Or did she think to escape the consequences of her actions?

Life had never been that simple.