Chapter One #2
Both ladies had been a great help to her since she had inherited Strathlin, and they even made sure to be nearby as unobtrusive chaperones when Meg met with male advisers and business acquaintances, as Mrs. Berry had done this morning.
Years ago, they had warned Meg that her fortune would attract all sorts of men interested in marrying her; the ladies were sweet and determined about protecting her.
A knock at the door preceded a young maid, small and brown haired, dressed in dark gray with a white apron and cap; she looked into the room. “Ma leddy, Mr. Hamilton is here.”
“Thank you, Hester. Send him in, please.”
A tall, lean, dark-haired man entered the room to cross with a brisk step, his handsome face familiar and welcome, his brown eyes twinkling. Meg smiled up at her secretary.
“Good morning! Do sit,” she said. Guy Hamilton took a leather chair opposite her desk. His long body was relaxed and agile, and his natural verve made her feel more energetic.
“I apologize for being late, madam.”
“Not at all! Sir John was here and all in knots over my proposed home for young ladies.”
“He can be a sour old screw, but he has your best interests at heart. I stopped by Uncle Edward’s law office on my way here, or could have helped you fend off Sir John. Hello, Mrs. Berry! On duty again, I see,” he called pleasantly. Mrs. Berry waved and returned to her reading.
“Please look through these.” Meg pushed several letters toward him. “I’ve added a list of the replies I think necessary.”
“Very good. Where is Mrs. Shaw this morning?” As he glanced around the library, Meg saw a slight flush spill through his cheeks.
“Downstairs with Mrs. Louden making up menus. They are all in a kerfuffle over the soiree, though it’s two months away.”
“I am sure they enjoy helping to plan your event.” He smiled as he studied the letters.
Meg nodded, noticing an etching of sadness in his fine brown eyes.
Widowed a few years earlier, Hamilton kept his grief private and his mood calm and uplifting.
He efficiently attended to his secretarial duties, from correspondence to travel plans and even her social schedule.
Guy Hamilton had been a new lawyer and recent widower when he had inquired about the position as her secretary.
Since then, his humor and graciousness had made him a true friend.
“Sir John said Sir Roderick also disapproves of Matheson House for Young Ladies. He does not want the name associated with him or his family. Your family,” he clarified. “Frank Matheson made you his direct heir.”
“Perhaps Sir Roderick has forgotten that he is a third cousin, though he carries the name. At any rate, Roderick told him that we are engaged to marry.”
“He seems to have misinterpreted your relationship, perhaps due to your kind nature.”
“Whatever the cause, it is a true misunderstanding.” She tipped her head, considering.
In the first years of her inheritance, she had relied on Sir Roderick’s counsel as her cousin and as a banker.
Later, when he struggled after his wife’s death and she learned that his bills were mounting, she had helped him out of a financial deal that had gone sour.
“It was important to me to show loyalty. I meant nothing more by it. He has the wrong impression.” She scowled.
“You are generous, as I myself can attest. Not just lovely and kindhearted, but also one of the richest women in Scotland. May I say, it is a perfectly lethal combination.”
“Is it?” Meg felt her cheeks heat.
“It is. Any man could fall in love with you, and some might scheme to marry you just because of your fortune.” He smiled. “As for me, I adore you, but I have no illusions. I keep you firmly on a pedestal where you belong.”
“I shall only topple.” Meg laughed a little. “Guy, thank you, but you are wrong. Sir Roderick has asked for my hand, but no other.” A little quiver went through her—long ago, she dreamed another might ask for her hand. But he was long gone, never to be seen again.
“And I am sure many others have considered it. Should anyone make unwanted advances, I want to know about it.” He frowned. “I shall speak to Matheson if you like.”
“I should do that myself, after I return from the Isles.”
“Very well. We have quite a few letters to look through this morning, I see.”
“A good number of these are acceptances for the soiree for Miss Jenny Lind in September. And there is much to do if we are to be ready. How did Angela Shaw ever convince me to host an event for the celebrated Swedish Nightingale?”
“Mrs. Shaw had an excellent idea, and you saw the worth of it. I believe all the invitations have gone out by now.”
“Do you recall if you sent one to Mr. Dougal Stewart?”
“The engineer? It was delivered to his address here in Edinburgh last week. The man was deuced difficult to find, so the invitation could not be sent by daily post. Apparently, he is often in some remote place putting up a lighthouse, and his family seat is far off in Strathclyde. Fortunately, I discovered that he keeps rooms in town near the Canongate.”
“I have second thoughts about inviting him, but I suppose it is too late.”
“Let it be a gesture of truce.”
“No doubt he will see it as a gesture of surrender.”
“When you finally meet, we will hope it does not come to blows,” Guy drawled.
“His letters over the past several months have been insistent, and his latest action is practically a declaration of war. Obtaining parliamentary permission to construct barracks on my island, when we had denied him the right, took me by surprise!”
“He had the right, apparently. Parliament overrides such things.”
“This Mr. Stewart does what he wants, it seems. He can be impatient and demanding.” She sighed. “In his letters he shows great concern for the welfare of his men. I respect that. Otherwise, he can be obstinate, according to my solicitors.”
“I hear that in person, he is the very devil for charm. Perhaps that helps him get his way.”
“His actions do not reflect charm,” she snapped.
“My sister-in-law knows him, and says Mr. Stewart is seldom seen at parties, rather like his nemesis, Lady Strathlin.” Guy smiled. “When he does appear, she says young ladies act faint and overcome.”
“I suppose he is simply terrifying.”
“A very handsome fellow, says my sister-in-law, and his daring heroics give him a romantic aura. He saved several workmen who fell into the sea in the bridge disaster in Fife last year in frigid waters. Remarkable. I admire any man who risks his life for others like that.”
“I remember hearing about that. The Edinburgh Review reported that Mr. Stewart dove into a frozen sea to pull each man out of the water before assistance could arrive. True, it is admirable. Mr. Stewart has his good qualities—if we should fall into the sea. But other matters speak differently of him.”
“You and Mr. Stewart have something in common, then.”
She lifted a brow. An odd ripple went through her, a memory just out of reach. More likely a warning to stay away from the man. “What could that possibly be?”
“You both saved lives in the Fife bridge disaster. Your generosity in paying medical costs and lost wages for the injured men, and donating funds toward repairing the collapsed bridge were admirable deeds as well.”
“If Mr. Stewart knows that, it did not melt his heart toward me,” she said wryly.
“I wonder. Oh, I am reminded. You asked my uncle to send over Stewart’s latest letter.” Guy removed an envelope from a pocket. “He included a copy of the order signed by Queen Victoria.”
“Along with more plans?” She skimmed the pages he handed her.
“He is persistent as well as infuriating. He sends letters and plans every month, and ignores our refusals. Odious man,” she muttered, studying the royal permission for Stewart’s project and the meticulous line drawings included on another page.
“Here he has drawn the coast of Caransay, and here he sketched a lighthouse on Sgeir Caran. It is rather elegant,” she admitted.
“It is a grand design,” Guy agreed.
“It is. And I hope the thing never goes up on that rock.”
“Uncle Edward asked me to tell you there may be a way to halt the government funding Stewart’s funding to delay or even prevent construction. Stewart requires thirty thousand pounds to complete the work, funded from the government and private sponsors.”
“But nothing from me.” Meg frowned, reading Stewart’s letter. His neat script gave her the sense of a strong, confident man with a bit of edge to his character. “His pleas on behalf of his men are stirring, but he would force the issue.”
“Those rocks are dangerous. Perhaps there should be a lighthouse there to protect ships.”
“Guy, do not be a traitor,” Meg said. Again, a strange, hot current surged through her. Memories of Sgeir Caran stirred emotions that she must ignore, but for the moment could not, until she noticed something in the letter.
“The arrogance of the man!” She shook the page. “He means to start work on Caransay!”
“So it seems. My uncle wanted you to know. Since you will be there on holiday soon, you could finally meet with the man and explain yourself clearly.”
“That would ruin my holiday.”
“You can hardly avoid him on an island just a few miles long.”
“I can and will,” she said. “And somehow I will end this project on my island. When I purchased the island’s lease, I promised my kin and tenants that Caransay would remain free from threats and outsiders.
I must keep my word. The thought of a lighthouse on that ancient rock is unbearable.
” She glanced away. “Please tell Sir Edward that his law firm may deal with Mr. Stewart as seems fit. I will include a personal note in the next letter they send him. It is time I voiced my opinion directly to him.”
“Excellent thought. When you are on Caransay you can at least see what Mr. Stewart is like from a distance. Be a spy. See what you want to do from there.”
“If he looks thoroughly wicked, I shall withdraw his invitation to the soiree.”
Guy chuckled. “While you are away, I will assist Mrs. Shaw with arrangements for the event.”
“Thank you.” Still holding Dougal Stewart’s letter, Meg considered it again.
Plain stationery and unadorned black script gave the impression of a practical, wholly masculine man who preferred simplicity and directness.
Apparently, Stewart was handsome, well-educated, and courageous.
Those were attractive qualities in a man. She wished suddenly she could like him.
But he was the most stubborn man she could imagine, and currently he threatened the island she wanted desperately to protect.
His lighthouse could change the peace and safety she had ensured for the residents of Caransay.
Its presence could destroy the island’s privacy and erode the mystery and traditions of Sgeir Caran.
“Mr. Stewart will just have to build his lighthouse somewhere else,” she said. “And he can go to Hades for all I care, so long as he leaves Sgeir Caran and Caransay alone.”
“Strong words, Lady Strathlin.”
“Strongly felt.” She raised her chin.
Sgeir Caran. A sudden vivid memory came to her—that dark, glossy rock lashed by a wild sea, and a strong, beautiful man standing in the eerie light of a storm.
As a hot blush infused her cheeks, she crammed Stewart’s letter back into its envelope.
The man on that rock had left her, betrayed her. That dream was empty.
“Mr. Stewart cannot be allowed to destroy the sanctity of the great rock,” she said.