Chapter 33
Sarah was in the library, in a special area she’d created on the second floor behind the book stacks, when Douglas entered and called out her name.
She stood and came to the railing, looking down at Douglas. His hair was windblown, his jacket askew. It must have been raining; his hair was damp and his shirt dotted with moisture.
Dear God, please don’t let the Duke of Herridge have issued another edict.
He’d been driving everyone mad with his demands.
He wanted his toast in a certain way; he demanded to know the name of the young girl who was nearly rude to him this morning.
His mattress needed to be shifted, he wanted the Duke’s Suite painted, and he hadn’t liked anything Cook had prepared during the last month.
He had even grumbled about the distribution of the Henley Gift, funded entirely by Douglas, of course. He’d been such a disruptive presence that most of the staff had turned and frowned at him. Blessedly, he’d left shortly thereafter, and the gathering had turned into a well-deserved celebration.
The Duke of Herridge had not been in residence for a great many years, and from what she’d witnessed, the staff of Chavensworth wished he’d remained in London. But with his house destroyed, there was no other place for him to go, and he’d been living there for the past twenty-seven days.
Twenty-seven miserable days.
Regrettably, there were no funds to rebuild his house in London. However, Douglas had offered Sarah to do just that one night when the Duke of Herridge was being particularly difficult. They were sitting in the Chinese Parlor, one of Douglas’s favorite rooms.
“It was my fault the house burned down,” he said.
“It was his fault for imprisoning you! And Tim!”
In the end, he’d agreed not to begin construction.
She’d not forgotten that her husband was stubborn and Scottish. When she said as much to him, Douglas had only smiled, and said, “Your being wholly Scottish would explain your degree of stubbornness, my dear wife,” he said.
She stared at him. “You’ve never said that before.”
“Called you stubborn? I think I have.”
“No, called me wife.”
He smiled. “Yes, I did,” he said. “Our wedding day, as I remember.”
That comment had led to a kiss, which had led to even more delightful occupations. In fact, it was difficult to be in the same room with Douglas. Either the urge to touch him was too great, or his kisses were too intoxicating.
Now, she looked at him with a smile, thinking that it was a rainy afternoon, there were occupations other than being in the library to intrigue her.
“Are you writing?” he asked, beginning to ascend the curved iron staircase.
She felt warmth flow through her at his words.
“What do you know about my writing?” she asked.
He held up one hand, palm toward her. “After your mother died,” he said gently. “I thought to find records of how many aprons were washed, or the number of soup bowls at Chavensworth.”
“There are records like that. Mrs. Williams keeps them,” she said. “But you read my journal?”
He nodded. “I didn’t mean to pry,” he said, “but I must confess, it wasn’t easy to put the story down. You tell a very good tale of adventure.”
“Really?” She searched his face, but there was nothing in his expression but interest. No derision.
No amusement. Had he seen himself portrayed in her journal?
He’d featured prominently in the pages. “I like losing myself in telling a story,” she said, a confession she’d made only to one other person—her mother.
“I would love to write about the Tullochs of Kilmarin,” she added.
“Which reminds me,” he said, pulling something out from behind his back. He extended a drawstring bag to her.
She looked at him quizzically and reached for the bag, opening it slowly, revealing the mirror she’d brought from Scotland.
“The Tulloch Sgàthán,” he said, and when she glanced at him, he explained. “The Tulloch Sgàthán—Gaelic for mirror. I’ve altered it a little, and given it a bit of beauty.”
Ever since the day at Kilmarin when she’d seen her reflection in the mirror, she’d not looked at it again.
Her caution might be foolish. But what she’d seen in the mirror had come to pass.
Had the mirror the ability to foretell the future?
Or was that a foolish thought? It might well be, but she didn’t want to look at her reflection and see anything other than the bliss she’d enjoyed in the past weeks.
Douglas had, indeed, given the mirror a bit of beauty. Around its circular back were a hundred tiny diamonds. She smiled, enchanted at the sight.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “But where did you find all the diamonds?” She lowered the mirror and looked at him in concern. “You’re not making diamonds again, are you? Isn’t the chance of explosion too great?”
He shook his head. “I found them,” he said. “Alano and I lifted the observatory door, and they were in the grass. I think they were shot out of the furnace before the explosion.”
“How is Alano?” she asked, smiling.
“Determined. He’s taken on Jason’s education.
” He smiled. “Jason reminds him of me, two decades ago, of course. Alano has him reciting the capitals of Europe while we rebuild the observatory. And Mrs. Williams has deigned to unbend long enough to send him lunch from time to time, so I suppose his campaign is working on that front.”
She chuckled, retreating to the table, where she put down the mirror and picked up a letter before returning to his side.
“A trade,” she said, handing him an envelope. “I have something for you, as well.”
“A letter?” He glanced at the envelope but made no effort to take it. “Who would be writing me?”
She smiled. “You won’t know until you open it,” she said. “A messenger delivered it, but he wouldn’t say from where or why.”
He opened the envelope and read the contents of the letter, glancing at her when he finished.
“I’m sorry, love,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. It’s your grandfather.”
“He has died,” she said.
He nodded.
Donald Tulloch had been, essentially, a stranger to her. Perhaps later she would weep, for the death of the man she’d never known. Now, however, she could only feel the loss in a detached sort of way.
“There’s something else,” he said.
His eyes were glittering, and the flush on his cheeks wasn’t just from the weather.
There were two letters, one that Douglas had already opened, and one inside, addressed to her with the seal intact. Her name had been written in a delicate script, so lightly on the page that it was barely there, like the filament Douglas used in making his diamonds.
She broke the seal, tilted the page toward the light, and read:
Granddaughter,
I have deeded Kilmarin to your husband, another Scot who needs to return to his homeland. The house will shelter you, give you protection, and within its walls you can find family.
That was all, just two short sentences, but the implication was staggering.
She glanced over at Douglas. “He left you Kilmarin.”
He nodded. “I know.”
On his face was the shadow of the boy he had been, poor and hungry, hearing of the great castle near Perth.
She approached him. “You’re the laird of Kilmarin,” she said softly.
“I am.” He smiled. “Are you coming to Scotland with me?”
“Of course I’m going with you. I’m not about to let you desert me for Scotland.” She smiled. “Wherever you go, Douglas. Scotland, Spain, France, Queensland. To the ends of the earth, if necessary. I’ll go with you anywhere.”
He studied her for several long moments, his gaze sweeping over her face.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“If you can remake yourself, Douglas Eston, then so can I. You give me the power to be anyone I choose to be,” she said. “I think I shall like being a new person.”
“Not the duke’s daughter?”
She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Would you mind if I chose to be Sarah Eston of Kilmarin, instead?”
“As long as you don’t forget your true role,” he said, smiling.
“The laird’s wife?”
“The laird’s love,” he said.
“The laird’s love,” she agreed, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.