Chapter 7
Two days until the scheduled wedding.
That was the thought that chased Ewan across the Highlands as he rode east, toward Inverness. Two days.
Things had been tense at Calder Castle. Lady Pembury was furious—that much was clear. And she made her displeasure known at every possible chance. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, she asked if he’d had word from his brother, and he was forced to admit that he had not.
Nor could he blame her for her anger.
He was angry too. Lord and Lady Pembury were not the only ones his brother had betrayed and broken his promise to. He had also abandoned Ewan. And perhaps most importantly of all, he had abandoned Lady Cassandra Pembury.
Ewan felt an ache in his chest as he thought of Lady Cassandra, the quietness that had settled over her in the last few days as the date of her intended wedding approached.
She was still lively enough when she spoke to Annabelle, but when it was only the adults in her presence, she was pale and withdrawn.
He had a duty to find his brother. For her sake.
When he did arrive in Inverness, the first thing that greeted him was the smell. Inverness was a port city, and the smell of the sea, of soot and burning furnaces, and of people was strong. Bodies and sweat and other, more foul scents, filled the narrow, winding streets where he directed his horse.
Overpowering it all was the smell of fish. He passed fishmonger after fishmonger as he wended through the streets, ducking sometimes to avoid the laundry hanging from the lines that had been strung between the houses.
Down at the harbor, the air was a bit clearer, away from the narrow streets and houses. Several ships were docked in the port, while seagulls circled above, calling out to one another and diving down for any scrap of bread that had been abandoned by the sailors on the docks.
Outside a low-sitting wooden shelter near where the ships were docked, Ewan found the harbormaster, sitting at a wooden table drinking a pint of ale, while several men played dice beside him.
As Ewan approached, the man looked up, and his expression changed as he registered the importance of the man in front of him.
“Good afternoon,” Ewan said, coming to a halt in front of the table. “I am looking for information about a ship that would have left the port around three, four weeks ago, heading toward Edinburgh and then Amsterdam.”
The harbormaster, a gruff-looking man with a weather-beaten, leathery face and a full beard of black and gray, squinted at him.
“Ships like that leave every day, milord. Do you know the cargo the ship might have held?”
“I do not,” Ewan said. He pulled a coin purse from the inside of his jacket and let it jangle in his hands for a moment. “But I do know one of the passengers. His name is Lord Christopher Dunmore, and he is the heir to the Duke of Calder.”
The harbormaster sat up straighter, his eyes moving back and forth between Ewan and the coinpurse.
“The Duke of Calder’s younger brother?” the man said, surprise etching his voice. He looked at the men playing dice, who had all stopped their game to stare, open-mouthed, at Ewan. “I would remember if a man of that name had passed through the docks, milord. But I recall no one. Do any of ye?”
The men all shook their heads, except one, a balding man with a missing front tooth, who frowned.
“I do recall a lordling coming through the port,” he said gruffly.
“At least, he seemed to be a lordling, from the accent on ‘im and the coins ‘e was throwin’ around. He bid me find him passage to a ship heading to Amsterdam, and when there was none, I booked him passage instead on one to the Hague. But…”
The man trailed off, looking away from Ewan and at the harbormaster. “That was four weeks ago. He was on the HMS Charlotte.”
Ewan could tell at once that this name meant something to all the men present and that it was not something good. At once, all of them stiffened, and the harbormaster’s face darkened, like a storm cloud crossing suddenly in front of the sun.
He let out a long sigh. “I see,” he murmured.
“What does that mean?” Ewan demanded. His heart had begun to hammer in his chest, and he felt a prickling of sweat on his palms.
The harbormaster stood up, setting his pint aside, and looked Ewan dead in the eyes. The expression in them was one that Ewan knew well. He had seen it all those years ago when his father had died.
“Four weeks ago, shortly after the HMS Charlotte left the port for Inverness, there was a terrible storm that swept through the North Sea. It capsized many ships on their crossing, and we believe many souls were lost.”
A strange ringing was filling Ewan’s ears, and yet, he could hear every word the harbormaster said with perfect clarity, as if they were being carved into his brain.
“And the HMS Charlotte?” he murmured.
The harbormaster’s gaze was soft. “We received word that the HMS Charlotte never made it to The Hague. We believe that it was one of the ships that perished.”
Ewan felt unsteady, as if someone had cut off his legs from under him. The whole world swayed, then seemed to fall to pieces around him. He had to put out a hand to steady himself, and even then, he could not feel the table as he grasped it.
Christopher…
His wild, reckless, sometimes insensitive, always trouble-making, mischievous, clever, hilarious brother…
He was gone.
He looked up at the harbormaster, whose eyes were soft and understanding.
“Is there a chance the ship came into another port?” he asked. His voice was hoarse.
“We would have received word,” the harbormaster said gently. “It is possible that the ship is still lost at sea and will find its way to a port, but seeing as how it has been four weeks, and there were only enough supplies on the ship for a week’s journey…”
Ewan swallowed. Somehow, he managed to nod.
“Thank you,” he muttered, the words scraping against his throat. He tossed the whole coin purse on the table. He would have no need of it now. “Thank you for your help.”
On the ride back to Calder Castle, it began to rain.
The sky was dark above him, splashes of black and gray, as the heavens opened and the torrential downpour began.
Ewan did not care. He did not even seem to notice.
Probably he was cold and shivering. Probably his life was at risk to be out in the storm for as long as he was. But he could feel nothing.
Only the numbness that came with true grief.
And underneath the numbness, rage.
Rage at his foolish younger brother for running off and risking his life. Rage at the world for its senseless cruelty. But most of all, rage at himself.
I could have stopped him.
He was convinced that he could have done something to stop Christopher from running off. Had he pressured him into the marriage? Was that why Christopher had felt the need to run away? But no, Christopher was the one who had wanted the marriage, the dowry.
What, then? What could Ewan have done to stop this?
The worst part was the realization that perhaps, there was nothing he could have done. And the powerlessness of that was unbearable.
And then, of course, there was the matter of Lady Cassandra and the marriage that had been contracted. He knew that this would not be so easily dealt with. Lady Pembury was furious; more important still was the alliance with Lord Pembury.
Pembury was a respected and powerful politician in Westminster, and if Ewan was going to expand his influence to bring new feats of engineering to the Scottish people, the drainage systems and aqueducts that he knew would improve their lives significantly, especially in the Highlands, he needed this alliance.
It was late when he arrived at Calder Castle, and after a quick bath to ensure he did not catch pneumonia, he dressed in his sharpest suit and told his valet to ask Lady Pembury to meet him in his study.
Once he was there, he poured himself a scotch and stood in front of the fire for a long moment, staring into the flames.
The burn of the liquor was good. It numbed some of his feelings.
And it made what had to happen next a little easier.
There was a knock on the door, and he set the tumbler down on the mantle.
“Enter.”
The door opened and Lady Pembury came in.
“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying warily, her eyes moving over him with penetrating intensity. “You have returned earlier than I would have imagined. I thought you would be several days in Inverness, searching for your brother.”
Ewan stood up straight, squaring his shoulders.
“I assume, from the fact you have returned sooner than expected, that you were able to locate your brother,” she said.
Ewan lifted his chin. “My brother set sail for The Hague four weeks ago,” he said, his voice rough but controlled, “and his ship never made it to Holland. A storm ravaged the North Sea during that time, and it is believed, by the harbormaster of both Inverness and The Hague, that Christopher’s ship was sunk.
All souls are believed to have perished. ”
A long, heavy silence filled the room. Lady Pembury was not looking right at him. She was staring at something over his shoulder, her eyes strangely vacant, her face slack. The only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire, the settling of the wood as it burned down.
At last, Lady Pembury looked at him. “I am very sorry for your loss, Your Grace.”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“And I am sorry also for my daughter’s loss. This is a heavy day. A very heavy day indeed.”
Ewan nodded and looked down at the fire. Another minute of silence passed before Lady Pembury spoke again.
“But I must think of my daughter’s reputation in all of this.”
This made Ewan look up. Lady Pembury was watching him with a cool expression he did not fully understand.
“Your daughter’s reputation?” he repeated. “She will not be blamed for this. She was not jilted.”
“I am not speaking of your brother jilting her, although the ton might very well ask itself why my daughter’s fiance was on a ship to The Hague just a few weeks before her wedding.
” Lady Pembury’s eyes glittered. “I am speaking of your being alone with her just a few days previously, when she arrived home, soaking wet, in your arms.”
“In my arms?” Ewan repeated, frowning. “She was on horseback, Lady Pembury.”
“That is not what people are saying,” Lady Pembury said sharply.
“And what matters in such cases as these is not the truth, but the perception. If she were to be married to your brother shortly after, then the ton might have been willing to overlook this. But now, she is to remain unwed, with such rumors and accusations following her.” She looked at him very squarely, his jaw hard.
“Do you know what happens to young ladies with such reputations?”
Ewan swallowed but said nothing. He knew what happened. He was no fool.
Lady Pembury took a step closer. “I trust that you remember why this alliance was originally formed, the ways in which it is both mutually beneficial.”
Solemnly, he nodded, and she arched an eyebrow.
“Then I do not think I need to say more,” she said. “But just to remind you, the bishop will be arriving in one day. As will my husband. So you do not have long to make up your mind.”
And without another word, she turned and swept from the room, letting the door click shut with finality behind her.
The implication was not lost on Ewan. Nor did he disagree with it. But in the mess of his emotions, he could hardly even wrap his mind around it. And there was only one person to whom he wanted to speak.
He found Annabelle already asleep. Leaving the door open so that a beam of light illuminated the room, he sat down next to the bed and placed a hand on her head.
He did not mean to wake her, only to take comfort in her presence.
But she must only have been dozing, because her eyelids blinked open, and, when she saw him, she smiled.
“Papa,” she murmured. “You are back.”
“I am,” he said gravely. “And for good this time.”
“Is Lady Cassandra also staying for good?” The question caught him off guard. Annabelle was half-asleep still, but her eyes were sharp as they focused on him. “Or will she be going away again, like Uncle Christopher always does?”
The words hit him like a knife to the chest. He took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully.
“I am not sure yet, but I hope she will stay,” he said. “I might need to make some important changes in our family, in order to help us all.”
Annabelle’s brow wrinkled. “Do you mean that Lady Cassandra will be my new Mama?”
The breath caught in Ewan’s throat. He had to clear it before responding. “I do not know yet. But sometimes we must do things out of duty and responsibility. In order to protect our families. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said, although she sounded uncertain. “I think so.”
Ewan nodded, then leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “Go back to sleep, my love. We will speak more in the morning.”
She nodded, her eyelids already blinking closed as tiredness took her, and Ewan rose and went to the door. He cast one last look back at his daughter before stepping out into the corridor.
Where he found himself face-to-face with Lady Cassandra Pembury.
Who, he was fairly certain from the look of shock on her face, had heard every word that had passed between himself and Annabelle.