Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Are you sure you know what you are doing?” Octavia asked for the tenth time.
Malcolm did not know whether to be insulted or amused by his wife’s lack of confidence in his ability to build a simple structure out of wood.
Evidently, she had forgotten that he was not one of the ton’s elegant gentlemen, with hands so smooth and soft they might have been a woman’s, who had never done anything remotely practical in their lives.
He glanced back over his shoulder at her. “Would ye like to do it?”
“No… No, of course not. It is just that… I do not want anyone hurting themselves,” she said bashfully. “You are swinging that hammer awfully close to your fingers.”
“Because that’s where the nail is, love,” he said, and watched as her eyes widened.
He had not meant for the endearment to slip out.
Where he came from, it was more of a general endearment, not necessarily reserved for the object of one’s affection.
But he could see it had affected her. Indeed, it was a matter of half a second before she looked away sharply, her cheeks flushing a rather charming shade of pink.
Stopping short of a laugh, curious as to whether she had liked the endearment or not, Malcolm turned back to the wood he was piecing together.
The cat house was coming along rather well, if he did say so himself. He had not forgotten how to build things, which was something of a relief, for he had not been entirely sure.
“Will it be big?” Simon asked excitedly.
The boy sat perched on the low stone wall that marked the boundary of the garden where the reflecting pool was situated. He had been fascinated throughout the process, watching his father’s every move, asking a thousand questions.
“Big enough for Missy,” Malcolm replied, using the name his son had decided on for the orange beast.
The indolent feline had ceased being a living scarf and now lay curled up on the sun-warmed stone, right beside Simon.
She really did choose him.
The thought brought a smile to Malcolm’s lips.
Cats were not like dogs; cats let a person know when they were not preferred, and would not hang around if they did not like the surroundings or the people therein.
They had wise minds of their own, and this cat seemed particularly intelligent, choosing to adore Simon.
“Will she like it?” the boy asked.
“I certainly hope so,” Malcolm replied, as he nailed another slat into place.
They stayed out in the mild afternoon for hours, the shy sunshine peeking out here and there from behind pale clouds.
Malcolm had assumed that the other two would get bored eventually, but they did not.
Instead, they watched him work, and when Simon did tire, he curled up in his mother’s lap and fell asleep, while Missy fell asleep in his lap.
Meanwhile, Octavia continued to observe Malcolm, though she did not say anything. A few times, he heard her humming a tender lullaby to their son, or a sweet song that she sang softly as he dozed, but she did not ask again if Malcolm was sure he could build a house for the feline.
For the first time since his arrival at Huntfield, he felt as if he truly had a family. The bonds were tentative, fragile as a thread of spider-silk, but they were there.
When the cat house was finally finished, Malcolm looked upon it proudly.
Missy, less so.
The cat slunk out of Simon’s lap, as if she knew the house was meant for her, and suspiciously sniffed the entrance.
Her whiskers twitched and her ears flicked as she circled the structure twice.
Then, with a wiggle of her tail, she jumped straight up onto the roof of her new abode, stretched out, and went to sleep.
“Well, that wasn’t quite the intention,” Malcolm chuckled, “but it’s yers to do with as ye please.”
He turned at the sound of Octavia’s quiet laughter. “You did say that a wild cat can never truly be tamed.”
“I did, aye.” He smiled at her. “Ye mark my words, as soon as we’ve gone inside, she’ll tuck herself into this house. She just doesn’t want me to ken that she’s grateful.”
Simon stirred and rubbed his eyes, looking at the feline. “Oh, silly Missy! You go inside.”
The cat did not move, quite content to warm herself in the mild sunshine.
“We should leave her to explore her new home,” Octavia suggested. “She might feel shy, with everyone watching her.”
Simon nodded. “But I can see her soon?”
“Oh yes, my darling,” Octavia replied. “You can see her before dinner.”
“What shall we do until then?” Malcolm asked, hope in his voice.
The house might have been finished, but he was not yet ready to give up the comforting feeling of having both his wife and his son near him. It was late afternoon, with at least an hour until dinner would be served; there was time enough for them to do something together, as a trio.
“Bowls!” Simon chirped. “We can play bowls!”
Octavia laughed, her eyes shining as they held Malcolm’s gaze. “I suppose we could… if you wanted to? I believe the lawn has recently been trimmed.”
“I can’t say I’ve ever played it, but aye, I’d be glad to,” Malcolm replied, feeling as if she had just handed him a great gift.
Leaving the cat to her nap, the three of them got to their feet and made their way through the beautiful gardens.
They passed the reflecting pool, where Simon paused to toss a few stones into the water, delighting in the ripples.
From there, they cut through the rose gardens, heady with perfume, and underneath an arch of cherry blossoms that had long since shed their petals, before wandering through a tunnel of the most exquisite wisteria to the bowling green.
In theory, Malcolm understood and knew about the game, but he had no memory of ever playing. Perhaps he had, after he had become a duke, but he could not be sure.
He stood by with Simon as Octavia fetched the necessary accoutrements from the nearby pavilion, and marveled at her beauty when she returned to explain the rules.
“I shall throw this little ball here,” she said. “The aim is to get as close to the little ball as possible with these larger balls. Now, would you like to be green or red?”
The larger balls seemed to be made of solid, polished wood, each respectively painted with two green spots or two red spots.
“Ye pick first,” he replied generously.
Octavia glanced at her son. “You can be on my team, Simon. Which color would you rather be?”
“Green,” Simon replied, with no hesitation at all.
Malcolm smiled. “Very well. I’ll be red.”
The game sounded simple enough, and he was nothing if not adept when it came to hitting targets, but he knew he would have to be careful not to win too easily. Indeed, this was more about getting to spend time as a family than emerging the victor… or so he told himself.
“I should warn you,” Octavia said in a sly voice, her eyes twinkling with mischief, “I am very good at bowls.”
As if to prove her point, she rolled her first ball. It skimmed cleanly across the trimmed grass and came to a standstill not more than an inch from the target.
“A fine shot,” Malcolm said with a smirk.
Octavia glanced back at him. “Why, thank you.”
Moving into position, Malcolm crouched low and squinted toward the smaller ball to gauge the distance. There was something familiar in the movement, something that conjured a chill down his spine.
He shrugged off the sensation and loosed the ball in his hand, applying what he hoped would be just enough force.
To his mild annoyance, his ball knocked into Octavia’s, nudging it that little bit closer to the target.
“How generous of you,” she teased, clearly delighted.
“There are still five balls left,” Malcom pointed out, matching her grin.
“Bowls,” she corrected. “Or boules, if you prefer. And there are only two attempts left, as we are playing singles.”
He realized he might have underestimated his wife’s skill at the game, but he tilted his head magnanimously. “That is plenty, dear wife.”
Her eyes fluttered for a moment, her cheeks flushing that lovely shade of pink once more.
She turned from him and, with a fresh ball in her hand, performed an unexpected throw.
The ball arched upward and came to land just shy of the ‘jack,’ before rolling another half-inch toward it, as if possessed to win.
“Yes, Mama!” Simon cheered, clapping eagerly.
Undeterred, Malcolm crouched again, assessing the distance, trying to sense how he might roll the ball without it being an advantage to his wife.
He bowled the ball… and smiled as it curved around Octavia’s, slowing to a standstill right beside the jack. Almost flush, in fact.
“Are you certain you have not played this before?” Octavia asked, her eyes narrowing.
“I have played ball games before,” he replied, rising back to his feet. “This one is surprisingly simple.”
She harrumphed and took up her spot again, a look of dismay briefly crossing her face as Simon tugged on her hand and said, “I want to throw!”
“When we play a second round, then you can throw for me,” Octavia urged, but Simon was insistent.
“I throw for you!”
She grimaced, and Malcolm had to smother a laugh.
There was no denying that she was an exemplary mother, who cherished and adored their son with all of her heart, but it appeared that love could have its disadvantages.
How was she supposed to say ‘no’ to her beloved son, even if it meant risking the loss of her last ball and, as such, the game?
“Very well,” Octavia sighed, handing the ball to Simon.
Gleeful, the little boy stood on the throwing spot and, sticking his tongue out in intent concentration, he hurled the ball with surprising force. It sailed across the grass and shot straight past the jack… but as it did so, it struck Malcolm’s closest ball, knocking it clear away from the target.
“Oh, my boy!” Octavia cried, scooping him up into her arms and swinging him around. “That was perfect!”
Malcolm split his attention between his wife and son and the dislodged ball, unblinking in disbelief.
“I think there must be some sorcery afoot,” he said playfully, as Octavia set Simon down. “My boy, is yer mother a witch? Have ye ever seen her make potions and chant spells?”
Simon laughed. “Mama isn’t a witch.”
“Hmm… I’m nae convinced.” Malcolm approached his wife and took her by the hand.
He had meant to pretend to check her palms for some sign of witchery, but the second his skin touched hers, the second his hand closed around hers, the gardens disappeared. The game vanished. His wife and son too.
He was in the parlor of the townhouse in Edinburgh where he had been raised, the room so smoky he could not breathe. The reek of incense stung his nostrils, though his streaming eyes had nothing to do with the potent smoke.
He wept because of the young man in his arms. A young man with bloodless lips and waxy skin, devoid of life and vitality, drained of all of his color.
A young man who lay limp in that strange embrace, as Malcolm rocked back and forth, holding the body tightly, weeping into dark hair that smelled of lavender and decay.
“What did ye expect?” His father’s voice hissing from the doorway. “If it had been up to me, I’d have thrown him in the Leith with the rest of the city’s rot.”
“Barnaby… What did ye do, Barnaby?” Malcolm heard himself say, though he was not sure if it was just in his head or if he had spoken it aloud.
But he knew the body in his arms was his brother. His younger brother, whom he had failed to protect.
I thought ye’d be safe if I left. I thought it would all stop if I wasn’t there anymore, but I was wrong. I should have taken ye with me.
“Malcolm?” Octavia’s sharp voice cut through the vision. “Malcolm, let go of me!”
All at once, he was back among the pristine greenery of the bowling lawn, his hand so tight around his wife’s hand that the ends of her fingers were turning white. Simon seemed worried, his eyes wide in a way that made him look exactly like Barnaby as a little boy.
Malcolm released Octavia’s hand at once, and when he met her gaze, she was staring at him strangely. Not in anger, not in fear, but in confusion. Or suspicion, perhaps.
“Apologies,” he said quickly. “It was… a headache. The doctor warned me they might happen. I should… go and speak with him, see if he can’t give me a remedy for it.”
Still holding his last ball in his other hand, Malcolm turned and strode back through the gardens as swiftly as his unsteady legs would carry him.
For it seemed that something else was happening that the doctor had warned him about: his memories were coming back.