34. Chapter 2- Callum
Callum Burnett MacMillan, the Duke of Ettrick, was in want of a wife. And London was precisely the place to go if one wanted to solve a lack of a wife with all expeditiousness. Or so he’d been told.
Callum strode down the street, his fine wool overcoat billowing out behind him.
Though he detested the city, he couldn't deny there were some perks--chief amongst them the quality of the clothing.
His cousin had advised him of the best places to shop, and hadn't steered him wrong yet.
He'd already visited the bookmaker’s and the tailors, outfitting himself for hunting season, as his cousin had jokingly called it.
Only, Callum didn't know who was the hunter and who was the prey.
Even now, he was vaguely aware of a group of ladies sitting in the window of a fashionable tea room across the street.
He'd glanced once in their general direction--he'd been taking note of his surroundings, nothing more--and they'd blatantly stared at him ever since.
They'd been watching as he went into the tailors and they still watched a half an hour later when he'd exited.
At the top of the street, he was glad to leave their stares behind. Not that he'd be free of them for long.
When he'd expressed consternation on a ride through the park only just the other day, his cousin Ellis had mocked him for it.
"Oh yes," he'd drawled. "What a pity to be handsome and wealthy and single."
Callum rolled his eyes at the memory. He knew how it sounded--him complaining about his impressive height and build, his strong chin and the dark features that had a certain effect on the ladies. But the truth of the matter was his looks had been far more trouble than they were worth.
Down the street he spied his destination.
Morton and Rolland, Fine Stationers. He needed more parchment and a new ledger, and a small, pocket-sized book for jotting down names.
He was atrocious at remembering them; they flew out of his head nearly the moment they were spoken.
He’d found that the only thing that helped was ducking away at the first opportunity to write down names and descriptions.
The bell jangled overhead and he ducked inside, missing the tall doorways of the family manor outside Edinburgh.
The shopkeeper nodded his direction and Callum began to swiftly peruse the shelves.
In the fortnight he’d spent in London, he'd learned to be quick about his shopping, especially in a store where ladies might be present.
Word had spread that the Duke of Ettrick had come to London, and it was but a puddle's hop of a leap to deduce he'd come to select a bride.
He'd selected a ledger, several new pens, some parchment, and was looking at small, leather-bound notebooks when it happened. He shifted one to the side and frowned. Amongst the new journals was a worn one, whose leather cover was battered and scratched from what looked like years of use.
Callum picked it up, his curiosity piqued. Perhaps only the cover was used, and the interior unmarked like the others. But when he flipped it open to a page in the middle, the tightly written script nearly leapt off the page.
Dear Ruth,
Last night I went to bed hungry again. It's a wonder that I ever took food for granted.
Some nights, I lie awake, stomach grumbling, and wonder if this isn't some sort of punishment for all the times I sent a plate away with food left upon it.
I wonder if any of our servants were hungry enough to snatch a morsel from those plates.
But then I remember that they were earning good wages at the time.
It's ironic that in many ways, we are now far lower than our former servants, as we don't have the opportunity to work and earn the way they did...
Callum frowned, flipped a few pages forward and read,
Dear Ruth,
Today I saw someone I knew at the market.
It was just a maid that once served me tea, but I wonder if she recognized me, dressed as I was.
Sometimes, I can convince myself that my former life was nothing but a dream.
And then something will happen to remind me that it was real.
Only, the stark difference between my existence now makes the past feel like something I imagined.
The writer's words called to him, entranced him.
He looked around, wondering if the authoress--for the penmanship clearly marked the writer as a woman--was nearby.
He half expected to see a middle-aged woman running toward him in a threadbare gown, trying to prevent him from reading further. But he was alone in the shop.
Perhaps he should return it to the counter? Certainly it was a mistake that had deposited the used journal upon the shelf. Yet as soon as the idea reared in his mind, he instinctively rejected it.
Callum flipped to another spot and read,
Dear Ruth,
Can I admit how guilty I feel for not selling you before you are all spent, while your pages might yet be of some value?
Still, I cannot help but think that you are far more valuable to me than you ever would be to someone else.
Today, the men came again. They took the breakfront that Father bought Mother so many years ago.
* watched them take it, but I couldn't bear it.
Who was this woman? Callum couldn't remember the last time he'd been so curious about anything. He flipped and read, flipped and read for many moments. In the background, he was dimly aware of the bell above the door ringing.
Dear Ruth,
It is far easier to be gracious when one has plenty than when one has little. It is no damage to one's pride to cheerfully give, but it dents my pride exceedingly to accept charity with a smile on my face.
When we had money to spare, I used to bring supper to the children at the orphanage twice a week.
I never told you that before, did I? I suppose it was because I thought keeping it a secret--even from you--would keep the purity of the act intact.
Charity isn't charity if one announces it from the rooftops--then it becomes something else, entirely.
"A lovely day, is it not?" a melodious voice said at his shoulder.
Callum jerked, reflexively clasping the journal to his chest as if someone were trying to snatch it from him. But it was just two ladies dressed in fine, frilly gowns, giving him unsubtle sidelong glances as they staged a conversation for his benefit.
"To be sure, though I prefer sunshine," the brunette said.
Dear heavens, they'd found him. Again.
Callum gave a brisk nod in their direction even as he frowned. Now that he'd lifted his head, he realized that the duo was not the only female presence in the shop. There were several such groupings.
It was well time to go. Callum picked up the first blank journal he lay his hand on, then moved to the counter to pay his bill.
Thankfully, the man had already wrapped the other items for him, giving him a meaningful, understanding raise of the eyebrow when Callum shoved the journals into his overcoat pockets instead of handing them over to be wrapped, and paid the entire bill.
For one moment, he felt bad that he was buying the used journal without informing the shopkeeper what he'd found. Then again, it had been out in the shop as if it were for sale, and he was paying for it, so it could hardly be called stealing.
"I simply love perfumed paper," someone crooned behind him, too loudly for just a casual conversation.
Callum felt his eye begin to twitch. The Season hadn't even started yet and already the ladies were nipping at his heels like a bunch of hounds set on a fox.
The thought entered his mind again--he could pack and leave before nightfall.
He might be able to make the inn at Edgeware before midnight.
Even that distance would put him well out of reach of these perfumed hounds.
"Thank you, my lord," the shopkeeper said, once Callum had paid. "And good luck to you."
Callum would have frowned at him for his sheer impudence, but he didn't dare risk the second it would take to do so. The bell over the door jangled merrily once more, and now there was a veritable herd of pastel-clad creatures blocking the doorway.
Callum grit his teeth even as he hefted a smile onto his face and made his way to the exit, careful that he didn't allow his eyes to linger or his legs to brush anyone's skirts.
If he'd come this far to find a wife, he wouldn't risk anything that might see him trapped to some harpy he barely even knew.
As he strode down the street, his hand strayed to the journal to make sure it was secure within his pocket. His thoughts strayed in the same direction. He could hardly wait to close himself in his study to continue reading it.
More than anything, he wondered about the woman who’d written it.
Find out what happens with Callum and Margaret in The Tartan Trap!