Chapter 15 #2
“Why did you stop making whiskey?”
“Maybe I misspoke, Your Lordship,” Ralston said with a smile. “We haven’t given up making whiskey. We’ve just given up making whiskey here. There’s a large Fairfax distillery outside Glasgow now.”
From what Montgomery had learned in London, the Fairfax wealth came from fisheries, mines, shipbuilding enterprises, and various other industries. Unlike the American branch of the Fairfax family, the Scots branch did not work the land.
He walked away from Ralston, ignoring the activity behind him for a moment.
Perched on the hill in front of him was Doncaster Hall.
The emerald leaves of the trees were dusted with sunlight, some leaves frosted white by the glare.
Dark brown trunks arrowed up from an undulating earth carpeted in lush green grass. The river glinted silver in the sun.
A peaceful view, nothing out of place or garish, as if the scene before him had matured for generations.
At home, it was time for planting. The young seedlings would not have been brought out from the sheds yet, but there would be furrows as far as the eye could see.
From dusk until dawn, people would be walking the roads, while mules and wagons carried supplies to Gleneagle’s farthest acres.
The air would be heavy with animal sounds, conversation, and song.
Standing a half world away, Montgomery could almost imagine the dampness of fecund earth, sweet mimosa, and the musky tang of crabapples.
Birds burst out of the trees surrounding Doncaster Hall like cannon shots, circled in formation, and returned again. A signal he should be about his tasks. Thoughts of the past, and Virginia, would have to wait until later.
Veronica asked one of the men on the path about the arriving wagons. He pointed her to the distillery, located some distance away.
Doncaster Hall was perched on top of a knoll, larger than a hill, smaller than a mountain. In the back of the house, an approach not seen by visitors, were various outbuildings. The land sloped to a valley intersected by the River Tairn and spanned by an arched bridge of weathered gray stone.
Across the bridge were several buildings.
The largest, of the same weathered gray brick as the bridge, stood alone, two wagons parked in front of its large open doors.
The rest of the vehicles were taking the long way around, down the valley to where a wider wooden bridge allowed wagons, carts, and carriages to cross.
She watched them from the top of the walking bridge, hesitant to go any farther only because Montgomery was directing the wagons.
As she stood there, the most curious melancholy flooded her.
He was the only person with whom she’d ever been intimate.
Yet she and Montgomery might as well be strangers.
Only the unexpected passion they shared bridged their ignorance of each other.
Perhaps she should be grateful for that.
Was it something every married couple experienced?
Would she trade their passion for the ability to talk to Montgomery?
Why couldn’t she have both?
The skirt of her dress was too full, the fabric felt stiff and shiny as if it had been starched. She pressed her hands against the material, and it almost bounced against her fingers. Elspeth was very diligent in her tasks.
At the moment, however, she wasn’t as concerned about her apparel as she was her appearance. Would Montgomery think her pretty? Vanity had never been one of her flaws. How odd to experience it at this point.
She followed the path from the bridge to the distillery, hesitating as a wagon rolled in front of her.
Montgomery saw her, acknowledging her presence with a nod. At least he didn’t banish her. Neither did he stop directing the wagons and their drivers.
The first of the wagons was already being unloaded, and several men she recognized from the staff greeting were assisting in the process.
Numerous crates and barrels were revealed when the canvas tops were taken off the wagons.
One huge crate, nearly six feet square and almost as tall, required six men, including Montgomery, to carry it.
She could hear his voice as he shouted instructions to the men.
“Be careful of that one, it contains a burner.” A few minutes later came another order: “We need another pair of shoulders over here, lads.”
Even the majordomo was being pressed into service. She would not have been surprised to see Mrs. Brody and all the upstairs maids there as well. However, this endeavor, whatever it was, was evidently a masculine pursuit.
As they disappeared into the yawning abyss of the distillery, she circled one of the wagons, staring at the huge basket inside.
It looked like one of the structures she’d seen at the Crystal Exhibition in London.
Uncle Bertrand had been quite pleased to get special tickets for that day and had taken his entire family for an outing.
“Is it a balloon?” she asked, when Montgomery emerged from the distillery and drew near.
“That one is, yes. How did you know?”
“The Crystal Exhibition,” she said. “Mr. Green’s balloons. I saw one of them tethered there.”
“It’s what I did in the war,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “Before the war. I’ve always been fascinated with flight.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Breathing in and out is dangerous,” he said, his expression tightening. “I don’t feel required to solicit your approval, Veronica.”
She truly was surprised. She began to smile.
“Have I said something amusing?”
“No one has ever sought my approval for anything, Montgomery.”
Without saying another word, he turned and walked back into the distillery.
Veronica stepped back to view the contents of other wagons.
Two baskets were lined up, side by side, next to a tall pole.
At the top of the pole was a flag, fluttering in the afternoon breeze.
Scores of crates were being opened, revealing pipes, metal plates, and parts that looked as if they belonged to the inside of a boiler.
Another set of crates was being carried into the distillery by two young men.
She wondered if Montgomery had commandeered them from the stable or from the house itself. Either way, no doubt working on a balloon was more eventful than their normal chores.
The most amazing sight was on the far slope of the glen. There, long stripes of blue and green silk lay on the grass. Next to it was an oval gondola, and a crate marked HANDGRIFF SORGF?LTIG.
Montgomery came out of the distillery, heading directly for her. She wondered if she was to be banished for her curiosity. She clasped her hands in front of her and attempted to smooth her face of any expression.
“You grew up around here,” he said, reaching her.
She nodded.
“What’s the weather like?”
“The weather?” she asked, surprised.
He folded his arms and regarded her with impatience. Was she supposed to just answer his questions as if she were in a schoolroom?
She folded her arms and regarded him just as impassively.
“It rains. When it doesn’t rain, the sun is shining. At night, it’s dark.”
The corner of his mouth quirked, and might have become a smile, but it disappeared too quickly to tell.
“Is it windy?” he asked. “I understand there are periodic gusts.”
“In early spring more than now.”
“The area’s not prone to storms?”
“Periodically,” she said. “Like the one yesterday, but not overly so.”
“What about birds? Have you noticed any odd patterns in their flight?”
“Are you ever going to answer any of my questions, Montgomery?”
When he didn’t answer, she unfolded her arms, frowned at him, and gripped both sides of her skirts.
“No,” she said, a touch of exasperation in her voice, “I’ve never seen any odd patterns in the flights of birds. They simply fly.”
He studied the ground as if he were taking all the information she gave him and putting it into a mental book.
“Why do you want to know? Is it because of your balloon?”
He turned and walked away without answering her.
She followed him to the entrance, but Montgomery only glanced at her as if her presence surprised him.
“What is it, Veronica?” he asked impatiently.
She took a step back. “Nothing, Montgomery. Absolutely nothing.”
He disappeared into the distillery, leaving her standing there.
She turned and began to walk back to Doncaster Hall. The facade in place since the day she became Montgomery Fairfax’s bride was in danger of crumbling. If it did, all her fears would come spilling out to be met, head-on, by all her doubts.
Until that moment, her marriage had had a hint of promise to it. She thoroughly enjoyed the marriage bed, whether or not she was supposed to, and anticipated spending nights in Montgomery’s arms. She’d thought they might be able to establish some sort of relationship, some friendship as well.
Evidently, she’d been thoroughly na?ve.
He’d made no secret of wanting to return to Virginia. He wanted to go home. He wanted to surround himself with people who loved him, who understood him. God knows she didn’t understand him, and as far as loving him?
Who could love Montgomery Fairfax? He was arrogant, impossible, secretive, and silent.
Yet didn’t they both want the same things? He wanted to be home, and so did she. She wanted to stay there, in her country, not far from people who’d once known her. She felt tied to the land, to the history, to the people.
She didn’t want to go to Virginia. She’d no wish to travel to America.
She didn’t want to be surrounded by strangers.
Living with her uncle Bertrand’s family had been bad enough.
She’d only met them twice before going to live with them, both events being strained visits between her mother and her brother, and barely tolerated by the two spouses.
When she reached the top of the arched bridge and glanced back, it was to find Montgomery standing in the doorway, watching her. A borrowed Scot, Mr. Kerr had called him.
A man so filled with pain she could feel it even from here.