Dawn on a Distant Shore (77 page)

"You're nothing
like a missionary."

"I should hope
not."

He shot her a sidelong
glance. "Maybe she ain't even here. And if she is, how would you find out
without setting the Campbells on our tails? I don't suppose they'd mind putting
another bullet in me, and one in you, too, if they had the chance."

Elizabeth met his
gaze. "I am very capable of finding out what I want to know without
providing any useful information in return. Leave that to me."

A flicker of a grin
passed over his face. "That's fine with me, Boots. I'll sit back and
watch."

They put Daniel down
for his nap and then Nathaniel watched with equal parts amusement and disquiet
as Elizabeth spun her web. First she rang for the maid, a slow young woman who
took her time getting to them to bob a halfhearted curtsy. In a cool and
superior tone Nathaniel hardly recognized, Elizabeth ordered a meal that would
have fed them for days: white soup, a fricando of veal, vegetable pudding, a basket
of breads, raspberry syllabub, coffee, and an expensive bottle of claret. The
maid, suddenly much more awake, ran off to the kitchens with a new flush in her
cheeks.

"You mean to
spend the whole sixty pounds before we ever get out of town, or did walking
just give you a big appetite?"

"No,"
Elizabeth said calmly. "I am hardly hungry at all, but I shall eat nonetheless."
And she had nothing more to say to him, because a serving man had appeared with
linen to set the table for their meal.

In the next hour
Nathaniel learned things about his wife that he had not guessed, or maybe never
let himself think about. This was not the Elizabeth he knew, the woman who had
set herself so resolutely to the task of learning how to skin game and cure
deerhides, who climbed trees and swam in mountain lakes. This was Elizabeth
Middleton of Oakmere, Lady Crofton's niece, raised to believe that servants had
no names worth remembering, a lady who did not even think to pick up her own napkin
to put it in her lap. It was surprising to watch her send back the sauce for
the veal as unfit to eat, and disturbing to see her point to her glass to have
it filled without ever looking in the serving maid's direction. And all the
time she talked to him in a voice and manner that he knew not at all, and liked
even less, of assemblies and dance parties and intrigues at court.

It was when the
syllabub was before them that Elizabeth's plan was finally clear to him.

"It is too bad
Uncle does not care to go so far as Galston," she said in a vaguely distressed
way. "The countess asked me so pointedly to call on her, after all. I suppose
it cannot be helped, although I do so hate to disappoint. You know Mama is
hoping that our Roderick will take an interest in her. It would be a fine thing
to see our families thus joined."

From the corner of his
eye, Nathaniel saw something flicker across the serving maid's face.

Elizabeth carried on
with a sigh: "I would give a great deal to see dear Flora. I am very
disappointed, indeed."

The serving maid made
a low sound in her throat, not quite a cough. Elizabeth raised her brow in the
young woman's direction. "Yes?"

A deep curtsy.
"Beggin' yer pardon, mem, I dinnae care tae intrude ..." She paused,
and when Elizabeth did not stop her, she continued in a rush.

"If it's the Countess
o' Loudoun ye're speakin' aboot--I thoucht it must be, hearin' ye talk o'
Galston--pardon me for bein' sae forward, mem, but did ye nae ken that the lady
is come tae Moffat tae take the waters?"

For one long moment
Elizabeth's face betrayed nothing at all, and the maid grew very pale.

Then Elizabeth smiled.
"Is she, indeed? How kind of you ..."

"Annie,
mem."

"How very kind of
you, Annie, to put my mind at ease. Such thoughtfulness must be rewarded."

A flush crawled up the
girl's neck and she bobbed again. "It's nae trouble at aa, mem. The
countess walks by every mornin'--the Earl o' Breadalbane has a hoose in Elliot Place,
just doon the lane."

"Does he? What
very good luck," Elizabeth said, picking up her spoon and smiling thinly
at Nathaniel. "Very good luck, indeed."

"You are cross
with me," Elizabeth said calmly. She was studying her reflection in the window
glass as she tucked a stray hair away. Her hand was trembling, and she stilled
it by pressing it against her waist. When Nathaniel came up to wrap his arms
around her from behind, she stiffened, and did not know why.

"Not cross,
that's the wrong word."

"Do be honest,
Nathaniel. I have never seen you look so stern. You quite frightened me."

"Then we're even,
because you scared me, too, Boots." He rocked her back against him.
"But I have to admit, you put my mind to rest."

She turned in his arms
and stemmed her hands against his chest. There was a guarded expression about
him, a reserve that she hadn't seen in him since the first few times they had
ever spoken to each other, when she was still Miss Middleton and she had
insisted on calling him Mr. Bonner. It hurt her to see that look in his face.

"That is a very
mysterious statement. Whatever does it mean?"

He said, "That
lady sitting across from me at that table wrinkling her nose at the sauce and
complaining about the coffee ain't the woman I married. Here I been worried
about what you gave up to stay in New-York with me, and it never crossed my mind--"
He stopped.

"Go on," she
said dully. "Say it. It never crossed your mind that I might become ... that
kind of lady, if I had stayed to live my life here." She pulled away,
unable to touch him and keep her composure at the same time. "Did you
think it was all a girlish whim, my wanting to get away? Did you not hear me
when I told you about what it was like here for women born to ease and wealth?
Do you not see how easy it is to become manipulative and imperious when every
other avenue, every opportunity to think independently, is denied?"

She felt the flush of
anger spreading up over her face, and it took all her willpower to meet his
gaze. "I knew what I should become if I stayed. I felt it growing in me
like a cancer, day by day. And now you've seen it. It is me, Nathaniel. Whether
you like it or not, that woman is part of me, too, and always will be."

"Ah, Boots,"
he said, pulling her close to put his cheek against her hair. His voice was hoarse
but his hands on her shoulders were gentle. "If that's the worst you've
got to show me, then I'm a damn lucky man."

Something small and
warm broke open deep inside her, and rose up to her throat. When she could
speak again she said, "I want to go home."

"So do I. And we
will."

Just what is it you
expect?
Elizabeth asked herself sternly as she made her way to Elliot Place.
What is
it you want of Lady Isabel?

The truth was, she did
not know what she would say to the lady when--if--she were finally to meet her.
Your father has made our lives very difficult; please come and tell him to
stop right away.

She smiled outright at
the idea. A man passing her on the road paused as if she had spoken to him;
Elizabeth gave him a cold look, and he dropped his gaze and moved on.

It was madness, of
course. She could not tell them who she was without putting herself in real danger,
but if she did not, what connection could she possibly claim that would open
the door? Giselle Somerville's gown and cloak and bonnet marked her for a woman
of quality and means, but the appearance of good breeding alone would not get
her very far.

The reluctant sun had
come to dry the cobblestones and a crowd of children ran out to greet it. Above
her a window opened and the sound of a pianoforte being very ill used drifted
down, undercut by the voices of young men bickering in French. A barouche went
by at a solemn pace, in it two gentlemen with a medical look about them. And
then she had come to Elliot Place, and Elizabeth must stop to gather her
thoughts.

A single house stood
on the lane, three stories high and surrounded by a large park. Elizabeth stopped
before the garden gate, overrun with honeysuckle intertwined with roses, heavy headed
and dripping with the recent rain, their scent rising now on the warmer breeze.
The gate stood partially open, and beyond it a flagstone path wound through
tall spires of deep blue delphinium and masses of white lilies. The path ended
at a small flight of stone steps and then ran away again into the dappled light
of the garden beyond.

"Were you
wondering about the roses?" said a young voice behind her. Elizabeth's heart
raced, but she composed her expression and turned.

"Everybody does.
Wonder about the roses, I mean."

She was a plain girl
of perhaps thirteen, with intelligent, bright brown eyes and a friendly expression.
Her accent was not quite Scots and not English, but something in between,
almost certainly the result of careful training.

"They are
beautiful," Elizabeth said. "I have never seen roses of this
particular shade of apricot before. I could not help but stop and admire
them."

The girl smiled.
"Apricot. I've never heard anybody call it that, but you are right, they are
exactly the color of a ripe apricot. Would you like to see the rest of the
garden?"

She took Elizabeth's
surprise for hesitancy. "It's really all right. They like to show it
off," she said in a low and conspiratorial tone.

"Is the countess
an avid gardener, then?" Elizabeth asked, and saw the young girl's face contort
first in surprise and then amusement. "Or perhaps it is the Earl of
Breadalbane ..."

The girl said,
"Breadalbane doesn't care anything for flowers. I do, but I can't claim any
part of this--" She inclined her head toward the garden. And then, perhaps
because Elizabeth was looking confused, she added: "I am the Countess of Loudoun."

"Oh," said
Elizabeth, quite taken aback. "Pardon me, I did not realize."

The girl flushed.
"You are surprised. You must have heard those silly stories about my lungs,"
she said with some irritation. "Everybody thinks I'm an invalid. Well, I
am not."

"Yes, I can see
that," Elizabeth said. And then, "It must be very vexing to have
people think you unwell when you are in good health."

The countess narrowed
her eyes. "Yes. It is indeed very vexing, that is just the right word. You
are very good with words."

"Thank you,"
Elizabeth said, amused in spite of the seriousness of this situation. "Who
is it that takes credit for the garden, if it is not you, Countess?"

"It is Lady
Isabel's doing," said the girl. "The wife of my curator. She spends all
her time here terrorizing the gardeners, even though--" She stopped, and
bit her lower lip thoughtfully. "Would you care to see the pond?"

Elizabeth wondered at
herself, that she should hesitate when this opportunity came so naturally. She
clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling, and she followed the
girl down the flagstone path.

Even in her anxiety
Elizabeth could not overlook the beauty of the gardens. Around every corner was
a surprise, a bench surrounded by rose campion and clouds of white phlox, a
corner where tiny bluebells cascaded over a deep green mat, an arbor thick with
scarlet clematis as big as her hand. There were no gardeners at work now, on a
Sunday afternoon--just the subtle hum of bees and, somewhere near, the soft splash
of water on rocks. Her guide was content to let her look, and Elizabeth was
very glad of it, for she had no idea what she might say if she should come upon
Lady Isabel unexpectedly.

They came out onto a
grassy slope that ran down to a pond, fed by a thin stream that erupted from an
outcropping of rock. Three slender white birch stood at one end, sending their
shadows dancing over the water. A dragonfly hovered above a clutch of cream and
pink water lilies.

"How
lovely." Elizabeth only breathed it, but in the shadows on the far side of
the pond there was a rustle of skirts. A woman sat up from a chair. She was
wrapped in a shawl, and veiling hung from the brim of her hat.

"Flora?"

"There's a lady
here to see the garden," called the young countess. "An English lady.
She stopped to look at your roses."

Elizabeth's breath
came short and fast, but she managed to control her voice. "Pardon me, please.
I did not intend to intrude--"

"You are not
intruding," said the girl, with some irritation. "I brought you. Lady
Isabel likes to take people around her garden, don't you, Isabel?"

"I do." She
pushed herself out of her chair with some effort--Elizabeth thought she must
have been very deeply asleep--and started toward them around the pond. She
moved like a woman of seventy rather than one of thirty, and for a moment
Elizabeth wondered if she had come to the wrong place, stumbled upon some other
Isabel. So complete was her confusion that when the woman stopped before her,
she did not hesitate or think, but gave her own name to the anonymous face
behind the veil.