The Highwayman's Lady (15 page)

I avoid the Great North Road for the most part. That highway is too heavily trafficked, even at night. Instead I make my way north via the back roads and country lanes, purchasing sustenance from farmers and villagers I encounter along my route. If the militia are still on my tail, they will seek me at the coaching inns and busy intersections. I hope to evade notice and I believe I manage that quite successfully. I encounter no harassment and cross the border into Scotland without challenge.

Once back on my native soil I am less cautious, setting Nero to a brisk canter on the main road to Edinburgh.

I remain in the capital for several days, seeking out old acquaintances and enjoying the hospitality of various drinking establishments. I succeed in delaying the coming confrontation for the best part of a week before I wake up on the floor of a tavern among the rat droppings and other debris. It is after noon, my head is pounding, my stomach heaving, and my pockets are near enough empty. It is enough.

I return to the livery stables where I purchased better lodgings for my horse than I secured for myself. I retrieve Nero and barter my few remaining coins for a bath and the services of a washerwoman to launder my clothes. Thus rendered fit to present myself among decent folk, I head for Stirling.

* * *

Kirkleven has not altered much in the four years since I was last here. I pause on the rise overlooking the rear of the house to contemplate the stately turrets in the fast dwindling light of early evening and cast my gaze further afield to take in the well-tended lands surrounding the house. The earl always did take a pride in his estate. I fill my lungs with the sweet air of Stirlingshire and entertain the fleeting notion that perhaps I stayed away too long. My temper cooled years ago, so perhaps my brother has mellowed also.

We shall soon see. I nudge Nero forward and descend the hillside at a slow walk.

My horse’s hooves set up a loud clatter as I trot into the yard between the stables and main house and dismount. A lad I vaguely recognise scuttles from the outbuilding to take the reins I toss in his direction. I have no concerns that my horse will be well tended as I stride toward the kitchen entrance.

The door is unlocked so I let myself in. I tip my hat to Mrs. MacBride, my brother’s rather excellent cook, as I pass swiftly through her domain. I know she recognises me, but her mouth only manages to form a startled O as I head out into the main house. In the main vestibule I savour the familiar bouquet of beeswax and lavender, my sister-in-law’s preferred domestic fragrance and, if I am not sorely mistaken, the mouth-watering aroma of duck. The family will be at dinner. I wonder if they might be persuaded to lay an extra setting.

I am almost on the point of testing that notion when I spot Masterson. He is hovering just beyond the door to the dining room, fidgeting with several bottles of fine claret at a side table. I daresay he is wondering which to offer as an accompaniment to the duck. I approach, silent, to peruse the labels over his shoulder.

“I’d suggest a nice Haut Brion,” I observe helpfully, “Or perhaps a Margaux.”

The bottles roll across the table as Masterson spins around to face me. I grab two before they tumble to the floor, there to shatter on the stone flags. I set the bottles to rights, then greet the loyal manservant properly.

“Good evening, Masterson. I trust I find you in fine health.”

The old retainer goggles at me, his jaw working but nothing coherent seems to emerge from his mouth. I decide to try again, a nice, simple question.

“Is my brother at home?”

The man succeeds in closing his mouth and manages a nod.

I glance toward the dining room. The door is closed but I hear the low murmur of conversation from within. I try, but cannot pick out Imogen’s specific tone.

“Shall I announce myself? I can see you are somewhat occupied.” I place a bottle of what I consider to be rather splendid claret in his hands. “It will be no trouble.”

I always liked the old fellow despite his curmudgeonly ways so I favour him with a grin before striding in the direction of the dining room. I manage two paces before Masterson grabs my arm.

“No, sir, that wouldna be suitable at all. There’s a guest, ye see, an’ ‘er ladyship has been unwell. She all but died several months back.”

“Unwell?” I turn to regard him, stunned. “Almost died? What the fuck has been happening here?” It had never occurred to me that I would return to find all those I left behind in any state but the same rude good health they enjoyed when last I saw them.

“Er… well, that’ll be fer his lordship tae tell. Perhaps ‘twould be best if ye wait in the library. I’ll tell ‘im yer here.”

The little man has collected his wits and is ushering me along the hallway. I allow him to direct me past the dining room and on down the corridor. I know the layout of this house as well as I know the back of my own hand so I need no further assistance in locating the library. In deference to my sister-in-law’s apparently delicate health, I accede to Masterson’s suggestion and once in the imposing book-lined chamber, I settle myself in the wing chair I always preferred. Masterson bows and scurries away, leaving me to contemplate the rows of leather-bound volumes.

There are some new books and many have been moved since I last surveyed these crowded shelves. I note immediately that the historical tomes are no longer in the case beside the window, a space they shared with my father’s collection of nautical maps. The natural history section has also shifted and if I am not mistaken, so has mythology. Most worrying of all, my own small collection of Shakespearean poetry is not where I left it. I trust my brother did not eject my books in his ire at my departure. It is not difficult to imagine him hurling those and the rest of my possessions out onto the front drive, though I daresay Beatrice will have done all she could to calm him.

I hope she is all right. I am uncommonly fond of my brother’s wife. We have always been the firmest of friends and I have missed her these last four years. Perhaps I need to see for myself. I start to rise, intending to invade the inner sanctum of the dining room regardless of Masterson’s advice to the contrary.

The door opens and my brother marches in, his features set in the expression I came to know so well in my final months under this roof. He is angry. No, a better description would be—livid. His demeanour is little short of murderous as he goes toe to toe with me, jutting his aristocratic chin in my face.

“You bastard. I thought you were dead.”

I suspect he might see fit to rectify this oversight by the vagaries of fate, given just the slightest provocation. I would infinitely prefer it if he did not.

“But I am not, as you see. I trust I find you well enough also.”

“Where have you been? Four years, four fucking years!” My brother is clearly not in the mood for idle chit-chat.

I do my best to maintain an air of nonchalance. “I went abroad for a while and I’ve been living in England. Masterson tells me Beatrice has been ill. I hope to find her quite recovered.”

“Aye, she’ll live. And we have another mouth to feed for our trouble.”

“Ah, yes, Masterson mentioned you have a guest.” I am fishing for news of Imogen and cannot resist this opportunity though I do want to learn more of Beatrice’s health.

“We do, but my reference was to my youngest son. He came into the world four months ago. For reasons which quite escape me at this moment, I named him Francis.”

“A baby!” Now this I would never have expected. “And you named him after me?”

“It was Beatrice’s idea.”

I know he’s lying. I could always tell. I stifle my self-satisfied smirk. “I would like to meet young Francis. And pay my respects to Beatrice, naturally.”

“Why are you here?” Phillip has withdrawn to a more polite distance, but still bears a thunderous countenance.

“Perhaps I missed you, the house, family, all this…” I gesture around me to indicate the wider structure that is Kirkleven. “I grew up here. This is my home.”

Just let him attempt to say otherwise. I had not appreciated until this moment how fierce would be my determination to be accepted back.

“You intend to stay then?”

“Yes, for a while.”

“A while?”

I shrug. “I have no pressing business to draw me elsewhere just at the moment.”

“I see. And what pressing business drew you here after all this time?”

My brother is nothing if not astute. He knows there is something, but I am not about to reveal the true reason for my unexpected arrival. “Might a man not miss his family? His native soil? As you have already pointed out, four years is a long time.”

He glares at me, his lips pressed together in a thin, angry line, then he marches to the large fireplace. There is no blaze in the grate and he stares into the dark recess for several moments. I watch in silence as my brother reaches to rest both hands on the mantel, which spans the hearth at head height. He clenches his fists, then lowers his forehead onto them.

“I believed you were dead. Gone. That I would never see you again. We parted in anger and I thought I would never have the opportunity to tell you that I was sorry and that I love you whatever you may have done. Or want to do. You are my brother and I grieved for you. Not at first. In the beginning I hoped, expected, looked for you every day. But as the months passed, I stopped looking, gave up hoping. Can you imagine, can you even start to understand how that felt? The despair, the bitter regret?”

I take a step toward him, then another. He does not acknowledge my nearness, though he must know. I reach for him, my hand on his shoulder.

“I am sorry. Forgive me.” It is not what I intended to say, but suddenly I know with glittering clarity that this is all that really matters. His image blurs before me. I am crying, dammit.

Phillip turns to face me, his own eyes glistening and I close the remaining small distance between us. His arms envelop me and I wrap mine around his shoulders. We cling to each other, no further words needed. I am home.

Several minutes pass before either of us is sufficiently collected to resume sensible conversation. Phillip is the first to rally.

“Beatrice would be delighted to set another place for you at our table. And we have a guest staying with us at present, Beatrice’s cousin from York. Imogen would be intrigued to meet you, I daresay.”

He is not far wrong, though I suspect intrigued will turn out to be an understatement. However, I am in no shape to rekindle my acquaintance with the truly delectable Imogen right now. Despite the mouth-watering aroma of duck, I conclude I must decline. I need to regroup, realign my mental faculties.

“If you will excuse me, I am tired. I have already eaten and would prefer to find my bed, if you have no objection. Please thank Beatrice for me and assure her I look forward to seeing her at breakfast.”

“You wish to retire? So early?”

“I have been travelling most of the day.”

He frowns, appears not to completely accept my explanation but allows it to go. “Very well, I will ask Masterson to show you to your chamber.”

“There is no need for that. I believe I can recall the way to my own bed. I shall bid you good night then, my brother.”

“This is not settled, not by a long way. You and I have a lot still to discuss. I’ll be wanting to know exactly what you have been doing for the last four fucking years.”

He may want all he likes and I will be happy to share the general gist, but I shall be sparing in some details. Alistair Graham is best left in England, a romantic figure to some and source of much frustrated annoyance to others, I do not doubt. And he will remain there, if I am able to convince Imogen to allow that. I bow to my brother, then think better of it and seize him in another hug.

“Until tomorrow, then.”

“Aye, tomorrow. I shall get Beatrice to order kippers for breakfast. They were always a favourite of yours.”

Ah, yes, home indeed.

Masterson is hovering in the hall as I exit the library. I gesture to him to remain where he is as I head for the stairs. “No need, I can find my own way.”

I take the stairs two at a time and stride along the upper landing, keen to find the sanctuary of my own chamber. My homecoming has been a more emotional experience than I anticipated and I find myself in need of the respite before embarking on the real reason for my unheralded arrival. Imogen will keep. I reach my old room and step inside.

Maybe it was unreasonable of me to expect nothing to have altered since last I occupied this room, but the changes set me back on my heels. The furniture remains much the same: my solid oak bed, my dresser beneath the window, the large chest where I would store my clothing. There is a new rug on the floor, which I rather like and fresh hangings to adorn the walls and keep out the draughts. But the main difference is in the amount of clutter scattered about and the nature of it. I wander around picking up a feminine handkerchief from the window ledge and a hairbrush from the dresser. The bristles bear traces of long, nut-brown hair, a deep, rich shade I know intimately.

Imogen has been using this room. She still is, if the sheer cotton night rail draped at the foot of the bed is any indication.

It makes sense, I suppose. With the exception of the master bedchamber occupied by the earl and countess, this is the next best accommodation to be had at Kirkleven. No one expected me to require the use of it again, so they naturally made the room available for their guest. Imogen will be retiring to this room to sleep. With that realisation comes a wealth of enchanting possibilities.

I amuse myself for a few minutes checking drawers, the chest, the dresser. My possessions are no longer in evidence, presumably cleared away and stored in the attics. I trust they will come readily to hand in the coming days for I intend to make myself at home now that I am back. I rather like the thought of her in my bed, preferably with me in attendance also. The sight of her feminine paraphernalia spread so artlessly about my chamber pleases me in a way I prefer not to analyse too closely at this stage.