Chapter 12
“We should reach Doncaster Hall soon,” Veronica said the next morning.
“Did you speak to the coachman?” he asked, surprised.
Edmund had, with his usual competence, arranged for a coachman from Doncaster Hall to be waiting at the hotel the next morning. The comfortable carriage they traveled in now was Montgomery’s, the coachman his employee, and the woman sitting opposite him his very annoyed wife.
She didn’t look at him when she answered, but she hadn’t looked at him the whole morning. Even their breakfast had been a restrained affair, with Veronica deliberately focusing on her meal.
“Doncaster Hall is not far from where I used to live,” she said.
“You never told me that, Veronica.”
“If you recall, Montgomery, I’ve not been encouraged to converse.”
In that, she was correct, but it annoyed him she refused to do so when he wished her to.
“Tell me about your home,” he said.
“No,” she said, glancing over at him. “I don’t think I will.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said gently. “Quite the contrary,” he added, fascinated by the dull red flush sweeping over her face.
“Tell me about your home,” he said.
“No,” she said again.
She stared out the window, leaving him no recourse but to frown at her.
“Then tell me about Doncaster Hall.”
“You’ll see soon enough for yourself,” she said.
“Are you angry with me? Because of yesterday?”
She still didn’t look at him.
“I thought it was quite wonderful,” she said, finally. “However, I don’t wish to discuss that, either.”
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
She stared down at her hands, smoothed the leather over the backs of her gloves.
“Yesterday. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“As I said,” she said, raising her face to look at him, “I thought it quite wonderful. Didn’t you?”
None of the women he’d bedded had ever asked him that question. He should have expected it of her. He didn’t know if he was disconcerted or embarrassed.
“I was quite pleased,” he said. What the hell did she want to hear? That he’d been astonished at her passion? That, even now, watching her work at her gloves, he wanted to pull her across the seat and make love to her? Or engage in a little play as they had in the parlor?
“Enough to do it again?” she asked.
No, it wasn’t embarrassment he felt, but heat.
“I’d be a fool to say no, wouldn’t I?”
She kept jerking her gloves tighter on each finger. He couldn’t help remember what she’d said about his fit. He found her actions so arousing he had to turn and focus on the scenery.
He’d not expected the mountains around him, their scraggly peaks still capped with snow. The soil was barely a thin layer over a base of rock, as if the Almighty had sprinkled it over the Highlands as an afterthought.
As they traveled farther west, the earth began to sprout green, turning from rock to undulating glen. In the distance was the glimmer of a lake surrounded by a forest of pine. For a time, the road followed a glistening silver river before the rolling hills hid it from view.
He liked Scotland, and it surprised him that he did.
He liked the mountains surrounding him, the scent of the air, different from Virginia.
His home was young and vibrant. A seed dropped in the ground would boast a budding plant within days.
This ground was harder and older. Any coaxing would be done with oaths and threats.
They stopped for a drink a few hours later at what Donald, the coachman, told him was the Well of the Phantom Hand. The water was cold, crystal clear, and welcome, as was the respite from the silence in the carriage.
When they resumed their journey, it was with the information they’d arrive at Doncaster Hall within the hour.
The hills varied in shape and size, some large, some smaller, all in varying shades of green from olive to emerald. The far-off glint of water hinted at the river they’d followed for a time.
The slope of one hill ended where another began, almost like interlocking fingers. The packed-earth road, wide enough to accommodate two wagons abreast, wound up and over each incline. Two deer looked out from behind a cluster of boulders, curious about the strangers.
“We’re nearly there,” Veronica said, as they crossed a wide planked bridge, the wood darkened to a rich umber.
A glen, shaped like an arrowhead, opened up before them.
On either side, the tree-covered hills seemed to point the way to another hill, one carpeted in emerald grass and topped by a sprawling house.
A river, now wide and placid, sat like an engorged snake beside the home of the Lords Fairfax of Doncaster.
The breath stilled in his chest.
Before him, as if it had been magically transported from Virginia, was Gleneagle.
Two long red brick wings jutted from either side of a center structure boasting a tall pitched roof.
White-framed windows glittered in the morning sun.
The river flowing around the base of the hill might have been the James, and the mature trees, some looking to be well more than a hundred years old, might be those he’d played in as a boy.
He closed his eyes. For a long moment, he kept them closed, fighting against a spurt of longing so intense it threatened to unman him. Then he tested himself again and opened them to find the scene unchanged.
“What is it, Montgomery?”
He forced himself to glance over at Veronica.
“Nothing,” he said. How could he explain the rush of memory? Or the sudden awareness his grandfather had built Gleneagle as a reminder of all he’d loved in Scotland. How could he tell her that the ghost of the old man was beside him now, patting his shoulder in approbation?
He would sound as odd as she did when speaking of her Gift.
She remained silent, kindly allowing him his lie.
As they approached the house, the past surged up to welcome him.
The circular drive to Doncaster Hall was the same as Gleneagle’s.
He half expected, when the carriage stopped in front of the door, to see all the people he’d loved rushing out to greet him.
His brothers, Caroline, ghosts who had never seen this place, and never walked this ground.
The silence remained unbroken for long moments.
Finally, he gripped the door handle, pushed it open, and stepped down.
He half turned toward Doncaster Hall as the front door opened, the yawning cavern revealing nothing for a moment.
In that second, he held his breath, waiting.
Was this heaven? Had he somehow died on the voyage to England?
Had God rewarded him for his minuscule good deeds by conveying him to this place, this mound of earth so resembling the home of his heart?
Instead of Magnus or James, Alisdair, or even Caroline, the man who opened the door was a stranger to him, followed immediately by Edmund Kerr, his solicitor.
He turned, extended a hand to Veronica, and clasped hers too hard as she stepped down from the carriage. His wife then did something odd. She stood on tiptoe, one hand on his shoulder for balance, and kissed him on the cheek.
Before she pulled away, she whispered, “I’m here, Montgomery.”
He was startled to see a look of compassion on her face. Was he so transparent she could tell what he was feeling?
“Welcome to Doncaster Hall, Lord Fairfax,” Edmund said, striding to the carriage.
He turned to face his solicitor, conscious that Veronica had slipped her arm through his. Who was supporting whom?
“You made good time,” Edmund said, smiling widely.
How odd that his solicitor had lost his dour appearance and now appeared almost jocular.
He nodded, still uncertain if he could speak.
Edmund gestured with a hand toward the house. “As you can see, this is Doncaster Hall.”
Montgomery made a great show of patting Veronica’s hand and studying the gravel before following Edmund up the path.
The wind surprised him. Soughing through the trees, it was almost a welcome, a greeting in some native Gaelic.
He’d learned some of it from his grandfather, but not well enough to speak it without prompting.
The sounds of the birds, however, fit into his memory of Virginia, as well as the sight of the eagles soaring overhead.
This, too, was another facet of his home he suddenly understood.
His grandfather had named the house in Virginia for an eagles’ aerie in Scotland.
His entrance into Doncaster Hall was accompanied by the same odd feeling that he was in two places at once.
Stretching up for three floors was an oval staircase, wide and dramatic, and carpeted in emerald wool.
At the top of the staircase was an oval ring of Corinthian columns, each column a floor high.
The view from the ground floor as well as the top was an ornately designed ellipse.
“The oval staircase, Your Lordship,” Edmund said. “Designed by Adam himself in the last century. It leads to the public rooms. Would you like to have a tour now?”
He shook his head. “I think my wife and I would like to be directed to the family quarters,” he said, turning toward the left wing. “They’re through here, are they not?”
“Yes, Your Lordship,” Edmund said, looking confused.
“The second floor,” he said, testing himself. “The first door leads to the state bedroom, then a series of smaller bedrooms and dressing rooms and, finally, the owner’s bedroom.”
“The state bedroom was converted to His Lordship’s bedroom,” Edmund said. “A dozen years or more, sir.” The man hesitated. “Have you been here before, Your Lordship?”
“No,” he said.
“Yet you know the layout of the house.”
He only nodded. His grandfather couldn’t have known about the changes, but everything else about Doncaster Hall had been replicated at Gleneagle.
“I’ve heard about it,” he said, an answer that evidently placated Edmund.
He glanced at Veronica, who was looking at him with a studied gaze. He hadn’t fooled her. He needed time to understand what he was seeing before he discussed it with anyone.