Chapter 17 #3
To the left of the hallway, panel doors slid open and a lovely dark-haired young woman in a brown silk dress glided toward her. "Hello, miss. May the doctor be of assistance?" She smiled and held out her hand. "I am Mary Faire MacBain. My husband is here—Oh, there you are, sir." She smiled.
A blond man, wide shouldered and dressed in shirtsleeves and a gray vest, appeared through the same doorway. "Who is it, my dear?" he asked, and then he saw Meg. He smiled and stood back to welcome her into the room.
"Miss, hello. I am Dr. MacBain. Please come in and tell us what we can do for you."
Everyone assumed that she was a patient in need. No one questioned her right to be here or acted as if proprieties were compromised. Meg felt grateful to them for their friendly acceptance, but she hesitated, feeling awkward and foolish.
"The young lady is here to see Mr. Stewart, sir," the housekeeper explained. "This is Miss MacNeill."
"Pleased to meet you, Miss MacNeill. But I'm afraid Mr. Stewart is not here. He has stepped out for a little while and did not say when he would be back. He has had a busy schedule of business appointments. Might I give him a message?"
Meg stared at them. "He is—not here?"
"Would you like to wait?" Mrs. MacBain asked. "We are about to have coffee. You are more than welcome to join us."
Through another set of half-open pocket doors, Meg saw a few others milling about engaged in conversation. If she waited here for Dougal, someone in the house might recognize Lady Strathlin.
"I—" Meg paused, looking back at the doctor and his wife. They regarded her kindly, with evident concern. The radiance of happiness and compassion shone in their handsome faces.
She would never have that, she thought, never. Not now.
"Miss," Mrs. MacBain said, "is there something we can do?"
Suddenly she felt lost, alone, and very unsure of herself.
Wealth and social status meant nothing to her now.
Dougal was not here, and she needed him very badly, needed his arms around her, needed the comfort of his voice, his calm wisdom and gentle humor, and the strength of his passion.
She needed him to tell her that he understood. That he forgave her.
Not so long ago, he had asked for her forgiveness, had told her that he loved her and wanted to marry her—and she had not taken the chance then to tell him how much she loved him, had not taken the risk of explaining herself to him.
Now she was ready to do that, and he was not here. After the soiree, he might never be available to her again.
But she could not stay and wait for him, and she might have no chance to return.
"I—should not have come," she blurted. "Please accept my apology. I am sorry for disturbing your evening." Turning toward the door, she pulled it open and ran down the steps.
She picked up her skirts and fled down the path, her shoes tapping on stone. Passing through the gate, she ran toward the waiting coach. The driver seemed to understand. Without hesitation, he opened the door and swept her inside, then leaped onto the cab. The two horses launched forward.
"Did you speak to Mr. Stewart so quickly?" Angela asked.
Meg settled her skirts and collected herself, breathless for a moment, and looked at her friends. Angela and Guy sat close together on the opposite bench seat, both watching her.
She pulled off her gloves anxiously. "He was not there," she said. "He is out, and they do not know when he will be back—oh!"
Looking down at her gloves, she realized that the little cream card that identified her as Lady Strathlin was gone.
She glanced around, over her wide black crinolined skirt and down at the coach floor. Gone.
Peering out the coach window back toward the MacBain house, she saw Connor MacBain step outside the house, watching her coach disappear. He bent to pick up something from the ground and stood looking at it, then tucked it into his vest pocket.
Meg sat back with a soft groan and leaned her head against squabbed leather. "I did not say who I was, but I suspect the entire household will know soon. I dropped my calling card as I left."
"Oh dear!" Angela said. "Well, they will tell Mr. Stewart when he returns, and no doubt he will seek you out at the soiree for an explanation."
"If he comes at all," Meg said. If I ever see him again.
She looked at Guy and Angela, and saw by their somber gazes and the close way that they sat together that they had been deep in conversation while she was gone.
And she could tell, simply by the way that Guy regarded her, that now he knew the secret of her son, the thing she had fought so long to protect.
She trusted Guy implicitly, but she realized that little by little her secrets would unravel and be told. The feeling was one of extreme vulnerability.
"So you know," she said quietly.
He nodded silently, then leaned forward and took her hand. "My dear baroness," he murmured. "You could have told me long ago. I might have been a help to you in this."
"A help," she said.
"You have taken a great deal onto your shoulders," he said. "But there are others around you, friends willing to share the burden. Willing to love the child, and you, without judgment."
Tears pricked her eyes. Meg nodded silently, gratefully, and leaned back, gazing out the window as the coach conveyed them back to Charlotte Square.
If Dougal knew, she wondered, would he feel the same way? He would be angry with her for keeping the secret, but she knew unequivocally that he was capable of real love and compassion. And he had a right to know his son, to love his son.
But she could not tell him. If she did, Matheson would find out somehow. The man had a way of ferreting out, and learning what was hidden. Some deep instinct told her that Matheson would become a dangerous threat to Dougal if he ever knew the true identity of Iain's father.
Although she had to tell Dougal that she was the baroness, she must continue to protect the secret of their child. In that way, she could keep both Iain and Dougal from imminent danger. Her continued silence, over the years, would ensure their safety.
She watched as the rain began a steady, pelting downpour.