Chapter Seventeen
“Mr. Stewart!” A tall gentleman in a black suit and wine-colored vest waved, seated alone at a table in the dim interior of Brodie’s Tavern on the High Street. “Thank you for meeting me here.” Rising for a moment, he extended his hand.
“Sir Roderick,” Dougal said, taking his hand. He had met Matheson once, and had recognized him in the crowded public room.
“I ordered two bowls of mutton stew, if you like. Ale as well.”
“Thank you.” Sitting, Dougal glanced at the man across from him. A pleasant enough fellow, perhaps close to fifty, a man of obvious means by his well-cut clothing and gold watch. His graying hair was combed smooth, his sideburns and mustache stylishly clipped, and his dark-brown eyes were shrewd.
“I am glad you wrote to me via the Northern Lighthouse Commission,” Dougal said. He smiled his thanks as a serving girl set down steaming bowls of stew, fresh bread rolls, and two glasses of ale.
“You are not an easy man to find.” Matheson sipped ale and patted his lips with a napkin.
“I move about a bit. The work, you see. I heard you were recently on Caransay, though. Had I known sooner, I could have shown you around the site of the lighthouse.”
“Next time I am there, perhaps. It was a quick visit to see someone on the island. The journey out there from Edinburgh is deuced complicated, traveling by carriage, train, and boat. I do not always have the time.” He picked up his fork.
“But I am curious about what you’ve been up to on my property, the Isle of Guga.
By now you’ve probably dug a right-size hole in it. ”
“More careful than that, but we did quarry some excellent gray granite there. We transported the stones to Sgeir Caran to build the foundation for the lighthouse.”
“Ah. I am interested in your progress.” Matheson tasted the stew and curled his lip slightly. “Ah. Good, though the vegetables are somewhat plebeian.”
Having no quarrel with the dish, Dougal ate in silence for a moment. “Thank you for your permission to work on Guga. The Commission is also grateful for your offer to donate to the lighthouse fund.”
“And so we come to your reason for this meeting,” Matheson said.
“For my part, though I wonder why you asked to meet,” Dougal said cautiously.
“I understand you have come upon hard times, both with your project and your charming enemy.”
“If you mean Lady Strathlin, I am not sure of her charm, though I can attest to her hard nature—or perhaps that of her lawyers.”
“They are a tough lot, I agree. Though the lady is rather winsome.”
Dougal frowned. “Is she? Her advocates are a conniving bunch. My project will be greatly delayed, even cancelled, if they have their way.”
“What is the current state of things?”
“To be honest, we have lost nearly half of our contributors. Apparently the bank informed them that the Caran lighthouse is a poor investment. Something about costing twice its estimate and yet bound to fail due to impossible conditions,” Dougal drawled.
“None of which is true. Costs and conditions can both be managed.”
“As a contributor as well as a bank associate, I can tell you the lawyers put it about that if the Lighthouse Stevensons, as they are called, had supervised the work, the result would be more promising.”
“The end result remains to be seen, and it will be successful.” Dougal knocked his fist on the table. “I am visiting as many donors as I can while in the city. They were previously supportive but now seem to be distrustful of me. I am baffled that they would listen entirely to the lawyers.”
Sir Roderick slurped ale and set it down. “Because the lady’s lawyers claim that you plan to abscond with the funds, abandon the lighthouse, and make off for the Continent.”
“What!” Dougal leaned forward. “Preposterous. Did you want to meet with me just to withdraw your offer as well?”
“I am a member of the bank board, so I have heard a good deal. So I have decided to double my contribution.”
Dougal lifted his brow. “That’s exceedingly generous. May I ask why?”
Sir Roderick leaned forward. “Because I want you to build that lighthouse.”
“Lady Strathlin wants the island to stay private. Are you willing to join the dispute?”
“I can end the dispute,” Matheson answered bluntly.
“The baroness will not prevail. Soon I will be making decisions about Caransay with her, or over her. It is a beautiful island that could be an excellent resort for the wealthy, which means ships need better assurance of safety on that blasted reef. Nor does Lady Strathlin need a private island.” He waved a hand.
“She has too much freedom there, in my opinion.”
“It is her island,” Dougal said reasonably. He sat back. “What about Guga? You own that isle. You could consider a small resort there.”
Matheson waved a hand. “That damned rock is suitable only for birds and seals and what granite and such it can give up. I bought the lease only because it is near Caransay.” Matheson sipped, then wiped his mouth again.
“Why is that significant?”
“Lady Strathlin and I now have property in common, as well as affection.”
“Affection? Makes sense. You are cousins, so I have heard.”
“Distant only. But aye, we have become very close. Her island is a pretty place, but it is just a fishing community. It could be a sophisticated place with the right plan. I will convince her of it.”
The man’s sleek confidence made Dougal wary. “I hear Lady Strathlin values the simple lifestyle on Caransay. She is such a recluse when she is there that she wants no interruption to her peace. Not even a lighthouse that would save lives and make her island safer and more peaceful.”
“She is a bit of a hermit when she is there. But she prefers my company.” He lifted a hand with a modesty that smacked false. “I could hardly bear to be separated from her so I made the trip out there to see her. What fools we mortals be, eh?”
“Indeed,” Dougal murmured, convinced now that Matheson was ten times a fool. Lady Strathlin would not fall for this man’s cunning charm—Dougal had not met her, and yet was sure of that. What did Matheson truly want of her?
For an instant, he felt a protective urge toward the lady set on making his life miserable.
“You say you have never met the lady?” Matheson asked.
“Not formally. I saw her on Caransay at a distance while she was swimming in the sea. It was not a moment to introduce myself. She proved elusive otherwise.”
“A pity. You would find her delectable and charming.”
“Ah.” Delectable? Remembering the older woman bobbing in the water like a seal, he then remembered others hinting that Lady Strathlin was a younger woman.
Confused, he told himself she might be very different in person, and he should not make assumptions based on a waterlogged bathing costume and a large hat.
“Despite her lawyers, she has a soft heart,” Matheson was saying, “and a coyness that intrigues a man. No doubt you take my meaning, sir.” He lifted his beer glass in salute and drank.
You are a pig, sir, and likely a fortune hunter, Dougal thought. The well-bred gentleman across from him was fast revealing himself to be smug, self-centered, perhaps even dangerous.
Instinct told him not to trust the man’s generous offer regarding the lighthouse. He narrowed his eyes “No question, Lady Strathlin has wealth and status. Some men might find that very appealing.”
Something flashed in Matheson’s dark eyes. “I give no thought to her wealth. She is my goddess. I worship her, even when she goes around like a barefoot fishwife.”
Dougal blinked. “Barefoot fishwife?”
“She adopts that quaint style when on holiday.” Matheson took a drink and patted his lips. “It is surprising you did not meet her, sir. Or did you?” His tone was sly. “She moves about freely on the island, known to everyone. She is quite the little naturalist, as well.”
Naturalist and barefoot fishwife, moving freely about the island? Losing any appetite, Dougal pushed his bowl of stew away. “You know her quite well, then.”
“Very. I will speak to her on your behalf. As I said, I want the lighthouse to go up. Once the lady and I are married, I will have a say in these matters. She can be stubborn, but in a delightful way. She will succumb to reason.”
Dougal frowned, his thoughts spinning. One word had caught his attention. “Married?”
“I should not speak of it, but a happy heart loosens the tongue. I have asked the lady to marry me, and her coquetry on the matter indicates her acceptance.”
Dougal blinked. “Coquetry? Sir, forgive my confusion. We are speaking of the same woman—the formidable Lady Strathlin of Strathlin Castle and Charlotte Square in Edinburgh?” A lady fond of swimming in large hats, fond of privacy, and very fond of sinking lighthouse engineers.
“Yes. My dear Margaret.” Matheson nodded. “Do not congratulate me now. Wait until my darling is ready to make the announcement.”
A cold sensation crept through him. Beautiful, charming, winsome. Barefoot. Stubborn. “Margaret,” he repeated.
“On the island she goes by Meg MacNeill. Perhaps you met her by that name?” The man’s tone was sly, his eyes narrowed.
Dear God. All this time, he had been a supreme fool. “Ah,” he said. “I may have done.”
*
A dreary evening rain and the folds of a dark-blue cloak wrapped Meg in shadows inside the carriage rolling down the sloped Edinburgh streets. Swaying on the seat, listening to the rhythmic clop of horse hooves, she glanced at Angela Shaw and Guy Hamilton, seated opposite her.
“We are nearly there,” Angela said. “Are you sure of the address?”
“Aye, Dr. MacBain’s house is just there,” Guy said. “Madam, if you are seen entering the doctor’s house, word might go round that Lady Strathlin is ill.”
“I will take the chance if I can speak with Dougal in private. Mr. Stewart,” she added.