Gail Whitiker (23 page)

‘It is
because
of what I know that I would still have
offered, Miss Winthrop,’ Stanford said quietly. ‘My admiration for you has only risen in light of what has happened, and of how graciously you have reacted to it.’ Then, realising that he was still on his knees, he quickly rose. ‘When do you leave for the country?’

‘Within the hour. Sir Roger has kindly offered me the use of a carriage. I will—oh, hello, Alice. No, please, don’t go.’

Alice hesitated in the doorway. She looked extremely pretty this morning in a pale blue gown tied with a deeper blue sash, and with a light blue shawl thrown over her shoulders. Her maid had dressed her hair in a different style as well, making her appear older, and more sophisticated.

‘Forgive me, Mr Stanford, I did not mean to intrude,’ she said softly. ‘Indeed, I was not aware you had company, Hannah. I simply thought to ask if you might like to take a walk with me. I was hoping we might be able to spend some time together before you leave.’

‘You are not interrupting, Alice,’ Hannah assured her. ‘Mr Stanford and I have been enjoying a few minutes’ conversation, but he was just leaving.’

Mr Stanford bowed. ‘Yes, I was.’

‘As to a walk, I regret I will not be able to join you. I still have some packing to do.’

Hannah was genuinely touched by the disappointment in the girl’s face, knowing that Alice, at least, was sorry to see her go.

‘Perhaps I might step in and take Miss Winthrop’s place,’ Mr Stanford said unexpectedly. ‘If that is all right with you, Miss Montgomery?’

Hannah held her breath, praying the girl wouldn’t suddenly revert to childish mannerisms. But it seemed that Alice had learned her lesson well. She smiled prettily,
and when she spoke, her voice contained just the right amount of diffidence. ‘I should like that very much, Mr Stanford. If you’re sure you can spare the time.’

‘I would be delighted. In fact, my carriage is outside. Perhaps you would care to take a drive, rather than a walk.’

Alice’s soft eyes glowed with pleasure. ‘I shall fetch my bonnet.’

As the door closed behind her, Mr Stanford turned to Hannah with a somewhat bemused expression. ‘What a charming young woman. I’m surprised I hadn’t noticed
how
charming before.’

Hannah was careful to conceal her satisfaction. ‘Perhaps the timing was not right, Mr Stanford. Alice is a delightful young woman, and she has shown remarkable courage and grace herself these last two days.’

‘If she demonstrates half the grace you have, Miss Winthrop, I shall think her admirable indeed,’ Mr Stanford said kindly. ‘For certainly, you are, without question, a diamond in every way!’

Robert also came to see Hannah safely off. But his farewell was considerably more intimate and personal than Mr Stanford’s had been. In the privacy of the drawing-room, he drew her into his arms, after taking care to make sure the door was closed, and kissed her until they were both trembling.

‘Oh, my darling Hannah, how am I going to survive these next few weeks without being able to hear your voice or see your smile?’ he murmured against her hair.

Hannah closed her eyes, luxuriating in the comforting strength of his arms around her. ‘I shall miss you too, Robert.’

‘I won’t give up, you know. I want to marry you, and I shan’t take no for an answer.’

‘But you must,’ Hannah whispered. ‘There can be no other response.’

‘There can be, and there is, but I shall not press you for it now. But I did want to see you before we both set off on our respective journeys.’

Hannah smiled and reluctantly stepped out of his arms. Being near him made it so difficult to think or behave in a rational manner. ‘When are you leaving?’

‘In the morning. As it happens, the Thorpes are travelling north to spend Christmas in Cumberland. They have invited me to travel with them.’

Unbidden, an image of the beautiful Miss Thorpe came to her mind, as well as a memory of her clearly spoken desire to become the next Viscountess Winthrop. But as quickly as it came, Hannah put it aside. She really didn’t feel she had any reason to be jealous. She believed Robert when he told her that he loved her. Indeed, it was more her duty to make
him
believe his affections were misplaced than it was his to persuade her he truly loved her. But if he should find that there was no future in their relationship, perhaps she would be grateful for the time he would be spending in the company of Miss Thorpe.

‘I’m glad to hear it, Robert. The association of your good friends will surely make the journey more enjoyable for you.’

‘Perhaps, but I am not looking for it to be enjoyable, my love. In truth, I fear their progress will hinder me, as they will surely not travel fast enough for my liking. But once I told Lady Thorpe of my plans, and she extended the invitation, there was little I could offer in the
way of a gracious refusal.’ He hesitated a moment, then said, ‘I told Lady Thorpe about you, you know.’

Hannah paled. ‘Oh, Robert, why ever would you do such a thing? Surely there was no reason for her to know.’

‘I told her because she made comment to me that you bear a striking resemblance to someone she knows.’

Hannah went very still. ‘Did she say who?’

‘No, because she couldn’t remember. But the likeness was strong enough for her to mention it to me. That’s why I told her. I knew that if I didn’t, my constant asking her to remember someone who was obviously little more than an acquaintance would sound very strange indeed.’

‘Was she as horrified as your aunt by the news?’

Robert chuckled. ‘As a matter of fact, she took it exceptionally well. And she did say she would keep trying to remember.’ He looked down at her, as if attempting to memorise her features. ‘Will you be all right at Gillingdon until I return? It may be a few weeks.’

Hannah wanted to say that even a moment away from him would seem like time without end, but what was the point? She was likely going to be spending the rest of her life without him. What were a few weeks compared to that?

‘I’ll be fine,’ she assured him. ‘And I intend to keep busy looking for a new home and for suitable avenues of employment.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t do this, Hannah.’

‘I must.’

‘But why? It will only raise awkward questions. People will not understand why you are looking for work. As the daughter of Lady Winthrop, they will more likely be expecting you to return home with news of an illustrious engagement.’

‘Then I fear they are destined to be disappointed.’

‘They do not have to be,’ Robert whispered. ‘I could give up this search. Cancel my trip to Scotland, and come back to Gillingdon with you. We could tell everyone the truth, and then advise them of our engagement. We could be married by Christmas. Sooner, if you wished!’

Hannah pressed her fingers to his lips, sadly shaking her head. She had to, for she was sorely tempted to do as he suggested. To go along with him, and to let honour and responsibility fall by the wayside. But she could not. She loved him too much to see him sacrifice so much for her. Because who was to say that in time, he would not come to resent her for who she was—or for who she was not.

‘It will not do, Robert. You must understand that.’

‘What I understand is that we love each other, but that
you
refuse to acknowledge your feelings.’

‘Ah, but I do acknowledge them. I simply refuse to indulge them,’ Hannah told him. ‘You do not choose to see the difficulties inherent in such a relationship. I do.’

‘And if what I discover in Scotland proves that you are worthy to be my wife?’

Hannah briefly closed her eyes against the surge of anticipation the thought gave her. ‘Then you have only to come back and tell me, and I shall marry you as soon as it can be arranged. But if it does not, I want you to make me a promise. I want you to promise that you will not seek me out, and that you will go on with your life.’

His eyes darkened. ‘I cannot make such a promise. It is asking too much!’

‘I am only asking you to do what is right,’ she whispered. ‘There is no point in dragging this on, dearest. We both have our lives to live, and if we are not meant
to spend them together, it is best we know as quickly as possible.’

‘Hannah—’

‘Have I your promise, Robert?’

It was some time before he agreed, but eventually, Robert gave her the promise she’d asked for. But as she watched him walk away, Hannah knew that
she
would have to be the strong one. If what he found out in Scotland proved that she was unworthy of him, it would be up to her to make sure that they did not see each other again. And with that in mind, Hannah made a promise to herself.

If she had not received word from Robert by Christmas Day, she would consider the matter resolved, and she would leave Gillingdon Park for ever.

T
HE
journey to Cumberland should not have taken as long as it did, but given that Lady Thorpe was not inclined to travel great distances each day, the party took its own leisurely time. They broke their journey considerably earlier than Robert might have liked and set out each morning with no particular haste. Unfortunately, as a guest travelling with them, he did not feel it was his place to complain about the pace they were setting. Nevertheless, at times he found it difficult to curb his impatience when his reasons for travelling north were so important.

Miss Caroline Thorpe clearly had no such regrets. She did not complain about the length of time the journey was taking, but seemed to take great pleasure in having Robert to herself, making use of the opportunity to further their acquaintance, and conversing with him about all manner of things. In the end, she only confirmed Robert’s opinion that she was both a lively and witty companion and that she would make some man an excellent wife. But she would never be his wife. For all her wit and charm, Robert knew she would never take the place of the woman he loved.

On the fourth day of their journey, the party finally arrived at Lady Thorpe’s ancestral home, and because it was the polite thing to do, Robert accepted their invitation to dine with them that evening. He took care not to retire too early, lingering over a glass of port with Lord Thorpe and then joining the ladies for some quiet
conversation. But as soon as he could, he retired to his room, anxious to make his preparations for the morning. Lord Thorpe had already offered him the use of one of his best horses, and first thing in the morning he intended to set off for Culstock Cottage. Home of Mary MacKinnon, the woman who’d sent him the letter.

A woman who, with any luck, would be able to tell him all that he needed to know.

But what would he hear from this unknown woman? Who was Mary MacKinnon? Robert wondered. Would she reveal herself as Hannah’s mother? Or would she simply tell him who Hannah’s mother had been and explain why she hadn’t been able to raise Hannah as her own? More importantly, would she be able to tell him who Hannah’s father was, and if he was still living?

Robert didn’t know. Nor was he sure what he would do with the information once he had it. So much depended on
what
he heard, and on how it would affect Hannah. He had no intention of losing her, but he also didn’t wish to inflict any more grief on her than she had already suffered. Love wasn’t about inflicting pain. It was about helping one to heal. And loving her as he did, he would do everything he could to spare her—even if it meant telling her that there was nothing more to learn.

Robert reached the village of Bonnyrigg late in the afternoon, and, not long after, Culstock Cottage. It had taken three sets of directions to find the tiny thatched-roofed dwelling, and at first glance Robert assumed it to be empty. But when he saw a thin trail of smoke rising from the chimney, he breathed a sigh of relief and quickly dismounting, tethered his horse’s reins to the gate. Then he made his way to the front door, where he knocked and held his breath as he waited for a reply.

The door opened a crack to reveal a woman considerably older than he’d expected, and who, judging from the sallow complexion and sunken cheeks, was not in the best of health. And she was tiny. Even standing on the raised step, she barely reached his shoulder.

‘Miss Mary MacKinnon?’ Robert asked.

‘Aye, MacKinnon it be, though it’s nae Mary.’ The woman’s accent was broad, her eyes sharp as she peered up at him. ‘We buried my sister two weeks ago. I’m Cora MacKinnon. Would you be the laird from London that replied to my sister’s letter?’

Robert held his breath. The writer of the letter was dead? Surely he hadn’t come all this way on a fool’s errand? ‘Yes, I am Lord Winthrop. But I’m so sorry to hear of your sister’s passing, Mrs MacKinnon.’

‘It’s Miss. I’ve never been married, and I’m nae likely to be now. As to my poor sister, she’s better off where she is. ’Tis not much of a life when you’re confined to a bed. But Mary’d be glad to know you’ve come.’ She opened the door and stood back to allow him entrance. ‘She said the letter would bring you.’

Robert dipped his head as he walked through the doorway and into the shadowy interior of the building. Like most labourers’ cottages, it was small and dark, containing only one main room in front and two in the back. The furnishings were humble, but at least the place was clean. He felt better about that. He’d been steeling himself for a hovel and an existence that matched. This at least, showed some degree of civility.

‘Can I offer you tea, laird?’ his tiny hostess asked.

Robert was about to say no when he noticed two good cups set out on an old sideboard, along with a few slices of crusty bread and a dish of rich, farm butter. He doubted the woman had enough to spare, but he also
knew she had made the effort
because
of his visit, and that it would be rude to refuse. ‘Thank you. Tea would be most welcome.’

Cora MacKinnon nodded, and then set about to prepare it. As she did, Robert took a moment to glance around the humble surroundings, trying to imagine Hannah coming from such a place. Was this where his beloved had first seen life? Had she been born in one of those back rooms, with only Cora MacKinnon and her sister Mary as witnesses to the birth?

Was it here in this tiny cottage that the plan to leave her in his mother’s carriage had been devised?

‘The bread’s nae as good as I’d like,’ Cora grumbled as she brought the tea things to the table, ‘but Mary always saw to the baking. Had a way with bread, did Mary. The master was always asking her to make him her special oatcakes, the greedy old fool.’

Robert smiled. For all her appearance of ill health, there was obviously still spirit left in Cora MacKinnon. ‘Your sister sent me a letter, Miss MacKinnon, saying that she had something to tell me about a baby that had been left in my mother’s carriage a long time ago.’

‘Aye, Mary wanted to do that before she died. She thought it was only right that you knew what she did, and why.’ For a minute, Cora MacKinnon’s pale blue eyes filled up with tears. ‘The poor wee bairn. We would have kept her if we could, but Mary was right. We couldna take care of her. Not with both of us working up at the manor.’ She looked at him then, and he could see the regret in her eyes. ‘You ken that, don’t ye, laird?’

Slowly, Robert nodded. ‘Yes, I think I do, Miss MacKinnon.’

‘Aye, I thought you would.’ She sniffed suspiciously, then cleared her throat. ‘But what can you tell me of her,
laird? The child, I mean. Did she grow into a fine lady? Did your mother truly care for her?’

‘My mother loved Hannah all the years of her life,’ Robert said in a soft voice, ‘and Hannah has grown into a beautiful young woman. I think you and your sister would be very proud. But tell me, how did Mary know who my mother was, or how to get in touch with me?’

Cora smiled then, and her wrinkled face took on an almost mischievous appearance. ‘Aye, Mary said you’d be curious about that. But you see, Mary wasn’t like me. She learned how to read and write, and she made good use of it. She found out who your mother was from one of the maids at the Thistle—’

‘The Thistle? You mean, the place where my mother stayed?’

‘Aye. Then she found out where she lived. But she had to ask for Mr Debenham’s help when it came to finding you.’

‘Mr Debenham?’

‘Aye. He were a good friend of Mary’s. He’d always been sweet on her, and he was very good at finding out things about people.’ Miss MacKinnon winked at him. ‘So it was no trouble at all to find out where you lived.’

Astonished to discover that he’d been the object of a clandestine search, Robert shook his head. Good thing the fellow hadn’t been hired to do him in. ‘Miss MacKinnon, what made your sister put Hannah into my mother’s carriage in the first place, since I’m assuming it was her idea.’

‘Och, aye, it was her idea. But she’d gone into the village late that afternoon, you see, and she’d seen the carriage standing in the yard, and a grand lady getting out. But Mary said she’d looked a kindly soul for all her fine ways, and after she found out she was a titled lady
from England she decided to take the bairn and leave her in her carriage.’

Robert’s eyes narrowed. ‘It was a daring plan. Did your sister not stop to consider that, rather than taking the baby home, my mother might simply have taken her back into the inn?’

‘Aye, she considered that. But Mary said that if the bairn ended up back at the inn, she’d just go and bring her back here. Mary was like that, you see. She was always one for doin’ what no one else would. It was her idea to let Ellen live with us, even when I told her she was crazy for doing it. After all, a gentleman’s daughter canna just disappear, even if she is with child.’

Robert’s hand stopped dead, the cup half-way to his lips. ‘Ellen?’

‘Aye. The wee bairn’s mother. Ellen Chamberlain, she was. The name wouldna mean anything to you, but she was a bonnie lass, and as sweet as you’d wish to meet. But she was in love with him, you see, and when she found out she was carrying his child, well, she grew fearful of what the old laird would say.’

‘The old laird?’

‘Aye. Och, t’was a sad thing, poor Ellen dying like that.’

‘How did she die?’ Robert asked softly.

‘Why, giving birth to the bairn. She was never a strong lass, and it was a hard labour she had. Mary did all she could, but it were no good. Ellen slipped away a few minutes after the child was born. Mary was so upset she threatened to take the bairn up to the big house and show it to her father then and there, but I warned her against it. I told her he’d nae thank her for giving him the knowledge of a child, when he was betrothed to another.’

Robert carefully put the cup back down in his saucer. ‘Miss MacKinnon, is Hannah’s father still alive?’

‘Aye.’

‘Would you be willing to tell me who he is?’

For the first time, a flicker of doubt crossed the old woman’s face. ‘I knew you’d ask. T’was the thing I feared most about your coming. All these years I’ve kept the secret to m’self.’

‘But your sister must have planned on telling me.’ Robert purposely kept his voice low and persuasive. ‘Otherwise she wouldn’t have written to me.’

‘Aye, I suppose you’re right.’ Cora sighed. ‘It’s true. Mary must have wanted you to know. And I suppose you’ll be wanting to tell Hannah who her father is.’

‘Yes. Because you must understand, Miss MacKinnon, Hannah didn’t know she wasn’t my sister until some six months ago when my mother died.’

The woman’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Your mother never told her?’

Robert slowly shook his head. ‘Consequently, I didn’t discover that Hannah wasn’t really my sister until that time either.’

‘Och, it must have come as a terrible shock for you both.’

‘It did. Particularly for Hannah. She’d had no idea she wasn’t who my mother had always told her she was. When she found out she’d been abandoned, she kept wondering why.’

The old lady’s mouth trembled a little. ‘Och, the poor wee thing. She didna deserve what happened to her. And perhaps Mary was wrong to leave her in your mother’s carriage. But Ellen was dead, ye see, and she said she’d risk the bairn’s being returned to the inn, if leaving her
in the carriage meant giving her a chance at being raised as a fine lady’s daughter.’

‘Miss MacKinnon, I can see how much love you and your sister had for Ellen’s baby, but it would be a great gift if I could tell Hannah about the part of her life she has no knowledge of. You see, she’s reluctant to move forward until she knows who she is. And right now she has no idea if her mother was a serving maid and her father a stable hand.’

‘A stable hand?’ To his surprise, Cora MacKinnon actually laughed. ‘Nae, laird, the child’s father is no stable hand. Mary would roll over in her grave if she’d thought her sweet Ellen had taken up with a servant. But the father doesn’t know to this day that Ellen bore him a bairn. And after raising three of his own, I don’t know that he’d acknowledge her, even if he did.’

Recognising that fear and uncertainty were keeping the old woman from divulging the father’s name, Robert carefully weighed his words. ‘Miss MacKinnon, please believe me when I say that I have no intention of making trouble for Hannah’s father. It would be stupid of me to pretend that things like this don’t happen, because we both know that they do. But it would mean a great deal to Hannah if she could at least know the truth of her birth. She won’t marry, you see, until she knows who her family is. She feels it wouldn’t be fair to the gentleman who wanted to marry her. So by keeping that knowledge to yourself, you risk condemning her to a life without love. Because she is all that is honourable, and she would never knowingly deceive anyone.’

Miss MacKinnon looked at him for a long time, and Robert couldn’t help but wonder how much those sharp old eyes saw. He had a feeling they were looking right down into his soul. Finally she got up and walked over
to a cabinet that stood against the wall and, pulling open a drawer, took out a small book. ‘Read this if ye’ve a mind to,’ she said, handing it to him.

Robert stared down at the journal, noting the fine silk cord which held it closed. ‘What is it?’

‘Ellen’s diary. It’ll tell ye soon enough what ye want to know.’

Robert glanced at her in bewilderment. ‘If I have the answer so close at hand, why won’t
you
tell me?’

‘Because I swore I’d never breathe his name to another living soul. I swore that to Mary as she lay dying, just as she swore it to Ellen as the poor lass drew her final breath. But I never said I wouldna give the book to the right person, if it meant helping the wee bairn in some way.’

Anxious as he was to read the journal, Robert made no move to do so. Instead, he tucked it into his pocket and reached for his cup. ‘I am forever in your debt, Miss MacKinnon.’

She glanced at him, and sadly shook her head. ‘I hope ye feel that way after ye’ve read the diary, laird. Because it surely didna help the two poor souls it was written about.’