The Devil of Clan Sinclair (4 page)

Chapter 5

Drumvagen, Scotland

July, 1869

V
irginia had expected Drumvagen to crouch on top of a mountain like a brooding medieval monster of black stone.

Instead, Macrath’s home was so unexpected she could only stare.

Built of gray brick the color of London soot, the house was massive and square, with four tall towers on each corner topped with a cupola bearing a different animal-shaped wind vane.

Twin sweeping staircases extended like two embracing arms in front. She’d never seen its like, even in America.

What was she doing here?

The wind ruffled the strange growth on either side of the road. Stocky purple flowers swayed amid fields of yellow blossoms. The mountains in the distance hinted at wildness, that Scotland was not sunk into history like England.

She pressed her fist against her chin, bit her lips and studied the approach. She had asked Hosking to halt the carriage on the side of the road, needing the time to compose herself. Hannah sat silent beside her. A good English maid, her mother-in-law had said when she’d announced the girl’s employment last year. Someone who would know English society.

Hannah and she were nearly the same height and size. The girl’s hair was brown, her eyes hazel, green flecked with amber. When she chose to smile, she was attractive, but was the perfect lady’s maid, rarely showing any emotion.

As to society, Hannah hadn’t been tested in the last year. The only society Virginia had seen was when she’d accompanied Eudora shopping or to an occasional dinner party or a ball. As a married woman, she was considered enough of a chaperone, and was forced to sit with the older widows and matrons.

Several American women had married into English society. When she greeted each of them, it was with the hope they could compare experiences, possibly find some common ground. But each woman she met appeared to be radiantly happy. But then, none of them had been married to Lawrence.

What would her countrywomen think about her mission? That it was the height of idiocy and immorality, no doubt. The same sentiment she would garner from her sisters-in-law if they knew. What story had Enid given them to explain her absence? Conversely, they might view her presence here as an act of courage. Each of them considered her brave for coming to England to arrange a marriage.

She hadn’t been brave at all. She’d simply been her father’s daughter, and her father, once he was set on a certain course, could not be dissuaded.

No, she wasn’t at all courageous, especially at this moment, staring at the house perched so close to an angry sea. She didn’t like the ocean, and seeing it now brought back memories of the voyage to England.

Her father had laughed at her fears.

“How do you propose we get to England, Virginia, if it isn’t aboard ship?”

She hadn’t answered him, as was the case with most of his questions. She only smiled and retreated to her stateroom when he allowed her to do so.

Now was not the time to be as cowardly as she had been then. So many people depended on her. Her mother-in-law, her sisters-in-law, and the staff, who would no doubt be replaced when Jeremy became earl.

What if Macrath didn’t remember her? What if he never remembered when they held hands surreptitiously, or escaped to the terrace to talk? What if he didn’t recall that she’d confessed her love for him in a breathy voice, nearly panicked at the admission?

She knew he wasn’t married, thanks to Ceana’s comments, but what if he was interested in another woman? Surely, his sister would have known?

She had to do this. Turning to Hannah, she forced a smile to her face, said, “I think we should advance, don’t you?”

Hannah had not been told of the situation or the circumstances. Neither had she asked any questions about their journey. She would’ve thought the girl would be curious, if nothing else. Instead, the maid remained calm, her eyes flat, her smile thin.

Virginia wished she had one jot of Hannah’s composure.

A shout, followed by a cloud of smoke, suddenly punctuated the silent day.

She sat forward, looking past Hannah to a crofter’s hut, the same kind that had dotted the landscape throughout their journey. This house was longer, with two doors rather than one, and four windows, not two. The thatch was burning and white smoke poured through a large hole in the middle of the roof.

As she watched, three people ran from the structure toward the road. The one in the lead stopped, turned, and regarded the crofter’s hut from a safe distance. The other men reached him and stood on either side, all three surveying the burning house.

Watching from the carriage, the stench reached them, and she withdrew her black edged handkerchief, holding it to her nose.

Whatever were they doing?

The acrid smell was enough for her to give the signal to the coachman. Like it or not, she’d been provoked into courage.

She eased back against the seat, willing herself to relax. She could do this. She must do this. From what she’d gleaned from the conversation of older women, men were interested in bed sport, almost to the exclusion of common sense.

Surely, Macrath would be interested in bedding her.

Her heart was beating too fast and her breath was tight.

She remembered every stroke of his fingers on the back of her hand and on her exposed wrist. She recalled the sight of his smile, not as common as other men’s, but more precious for its rarity. His eyes, those engaging blue eyes of his studied her so intently she had the impression he knew all her thoughts.

Whenever she was in Macrath’s company, her cheeks were flushed and hot. Her mouth felt odd, her lips too full. A laugh always bubbled in her chest, but she wasn’t amused as much as delighted, enlivened, or simply thrilled.

Now, she gripped her hands together tightly and prayed for composure. What if he denied her entrance? The thought came unexpectedly and abrasively. What if he didn’t welcome her?

What if Ceana’s whispered answer at the funeral was wrong? What if Macrath wasn’t in Scotland? They’d be forced to retrace this interminable journey.

The carriage approached Drumvagen slowly, almost cautiously. She shielded her eyes from the sun staring down at her accusingly through the window. Now was the time to turn around and go back to London. Neither the coachman nor her maid would question her. Only Enid, and the look on her mother-in-law’s face would be condemnation enough.

Had Poor Lawrence wanted them all desperate and panicked? What good did it do to speculate? Poor Lawrence was beyond anything but divine questioning.

She took a deep breath, then another. Her heart was still racing and her hands were cold inside her gloves.

What was she truly afraid of—Macrath’s reception or her own weakness around him?

Seabirds soared overhead, their piercing shrieks almost a battle cry.

Perhaps this was a battle. One of her conscience against her desires.

Was it permissible to pray for a successful conclusion to this errand? Would God send a lightning bolt to strike her if she did? She wouldn’t be guilty of adultery, since Poor Lawrence was dead, but certainly her behavior could be considered wanton. Was prostituting herself for a good cause any less prostitution?

Even if she were successful in seduction, there was no guarantee she’d become pregnant. If she did, she might bear a daughter. If so, they were back in the same situation, with one more mouth to feed.

The carriage wheels crunched on the oyster shells lining the circular drive. Dozens of windows stared down at them like curious eyes. Was she wrong in thinking people stood there, watching them and wondering at their presence? Or was that simply conjecture, something about which she’d been lectured all her life?

“Stop imagining the worst, Virginia. Try to think of something good rather than always being focused on what could go wrong.”

At the moment, it was all she could think.

The coachman opened the carriage door and she was forced to release the strap above the window. She straightened her shoulders and managed a smile.

Who had written that courage was not the absence of fear but the conquering of it? She’d wager the author hadn’t been pushed into acting the harlot.

London

A year earlier

H
er father was determined that she was to be cultured. He had no interest in anything but business, so while he met with various solicitors, off she went in the company of her American maid and her English chaperone, a woman with whom she’d been saddled since arriving in London.

Mrs. Haverstock was as far from a chaperone as Virginia could imagine. The woman had been widowed, she said, for over five years, which meant she must have married as a child. She was only a few years older than her, with blond hair so pale it appeared almost white in a certain light. She smiled often and was delighted by almost everything she saw, even Virginia’s father.

“Mr. Anderson,” she once said, “is an amazing man to have accomplished all he’s done as young as he is.” From that day forward, Virginia watched Mrs. Haverstock with curiosity, wondering if she had dreams of becoming the second Mrs. Anderson.

A curious thing to contemplate because she’d never once considered that her father would remarry. That he didn’t was probably due more to his consuming interest in business over amatory pursuits.

However, she would not have been surprised if Mrs. Haverstock was successful. She’d managed to convince him to hire her after only one interview, after all.

The woman was indefatigable. They visited St. Paul’s Cathedral one day and Covent Garden Market the next. One whole afternoon was spent at London Bridge, followed by a short and fragrant journey down the Thames.

Virginia would never forget how horrified she’d been by Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks. She couldn’t imagine her father approving that expedition so she never told him of it, or the nightmares that came for two days afterward at the thought of all those wax statues coming alive.

At Westminster Abbey, she was horrified to discover other tourists gouging their names into the royal tombs. When she said as much to her chaperone, Mrs. Haverstock just waved her comment away.

“They’ve done the same to the pyramids, my dear.”

Mrs. Haverstock adored museums, and Virginia might have as well had she not been dragged to every one of them in London. The East Indian Museum was regrettably boring, but the British Museum was most impressive.

The concentric circles and curved shelves of the Round Reading Room fascinated her. So, too, the various readers occupying the tables. Each claimed his space beneath the vaulted blue dome like it was his home. One reader had strung a rope between him and the nearest table and hung tracts from them, cautioning a visitor from speaking to him. Another had brochures of anti-papal literature arrayed in front of him.

She was walking quietly from one shelf to another, grateful to have momentarily lost Mrs. Haverstock to a conversation with an unexpectedly encountered friend, when she saw him.

Macrath leaned against a bookshelf and smiled at her.

Her heart was leaping in her chest like a child promised a candy.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered.

Looking around, she couldn’t see Mrs. Haverstock. She grabbed Macrath’s sleeve and disappeared in front of one of the curved shelves with him, well aware that, if seen, this infraction of decorum was sure to be reported to her father.

“What are you doing here?” she asked again.

“I could say that I visit the British Museum often,” he said.

“Do you?”

“It’s only my second time here.”

For a month they’d seen each other at balls and dinners, and found a way to slip away from the crowd. More than once he’d asked for her reticule and she’d handed it to him, amused when he slipped a few broadsides inside.

“There, you won’t have to lie. You didn’t buy them.”

Whenever he did that, she’d take out the broadsides later, smoothing her hands over the rough paper, not caring about what tales they told as much as that Macrath had touched them.

“You told Ceana you’d be here,” he said, smiling.

She had occasion to meet Ceana one night, and the two became fast friends, each watching for the other at various events.

But it was Macrath who changed her life.

If Macrath was in a room, her eyes sought him out. If he laughed, her ears heard it. She could even tell if he spoke in a crowd because his Scottish accent was so distinctive.

“I came to see you,” he said now. “I couldn’t wait for tonight.”

“You couldn’t?”

Her heart had ascended to the base of her throat and something odd was happening in her eyes. She couldn’t hold all the emotions she was feeling inside, and they had to be expressed as tears.

When she’d first entered the Round Reading Room, she was surprised at the number of people there. Now it seemed like they were all eavesdropping.

Macrath reached out and plucked a book from the shelf, appearing engrossed in the text.

She raised the book to see the binding, smiling when she read it. “I’ve always loved Tennyson,” she said. “I was required to memorize some of his work.”