Chapter 8 #2
“They were in my home, Ian. Genie chose my bedroom for her own, and I couldn’t say anything. She was just a girl. She didn’t realize at the time she was dispossessing me, but her parents surely did.”
He settled beside her, resisting the urge to take her hand.
“It always seemed to me that the worst thing about the Clearances was that they were done with the full backing of the law. They were acts of war, really, to cast people from their homes, to burn their belongings, to force them to flee or starve, but the king’s man would read the bills of ejectment time after time, and there was nothing to be done.
Your uncle had the law on his side, apparently. ”
“I cannot fathom how there was any great debt, Ian. Papa was a favorite with the trades because he paid at the time service was rendered. He didn’t wait until the end of the year or until he was being dunned.
He was a tradesman himself at heart. And he was shrewd and clever and he worked hard… where would the debt have come from?”
“Gambling?”
She shook her head. “His mother was a Methodist. We gambled for farthing points over whist, nothing more.”
“Women?”
“He was devoted to my mother.”
“Taxes?”
“The land wasn’t entailed. The taxes had to be paid each year, or the Crown would have intervened. And I saw the books. Papa delighted in explaining them to me and showing me how to keep them. We made money each year—pots of it.”
“Books can be manipulated, and it seems whatever the case, when your parents died, your uncle must have somehow inherited through your mother, who would have been his older sister. And he’s wealthy now. Quite wealthy.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me, but I can hardly question my own uncle about his finances now, can I?”
Ian stared out over the dramatic, rolling terrain of his family seat to the mountains to the west. He realized he was in a position to further Augusta’s interests, to champion her situation when she couldn’t take on the challenge herself.
“You can’t nose about in his coffers, Augusta, but I can. I’ve put off the financial wrangling that goes on before a wedding of significance, but I’ll send off a few letters tomorrow and see what I can discover.”
“Don’t anger him, Ian.” She glanced around, as if they might be overheard here on this deserted hilltop. “Uncle has a mean temper, and he’s not… I don’t turn my back on him.”
“Neither will I. Tell me something, though. At what point did he offer to wed you to your cousin?”
“At the end of my mourning. I was preparing to move to Oxford, and he mentioned it in passing.”
If she regretted passing up that opportunity, her features gave no sign of it. “Had you seen the residence in Oxford before you removed there?”
“No. Aunt made it sound like a cozy manor and assured me I would have adequate staff to see to the place. They were to follow me from Kent with the coach and team I was to have. They never arrived—not the extra staff, not the coach and team. My cousin was in nigh-desperate straits when I arrived. I sold most of my personal jewelry, invested some of the proceeds, and hoarded the rest. We manage.”
She managed, Ian realized, because the promised help and support had never been sent, allowing the good baron to all but forget he had a niece. Which raised the question: Why would Genie avoid the opportunity to leave the control of such a father and establish her own household?
There was no solving that conundrum now, and there were better uses of these stolen moments. “Would you like to sketch for a bit?”
“You’re changing the topic. Thank you. My finances are not as dire as Uncle might think.
I sell everything I don’t consume, I teach drawing and piano to the local squires’ daughters, I turn all my dresses and sheets, I purchase little in the way of foodstuffs, and I took my trousseau with me when I left Kent. I also watch the funds very closely.”
“You cope. It’s the Scot in you that can make do with next to nothing and even thrive on it.”
He unstrapped his rucksack and withdrew a flask. “There are buttered scones in here along with your sketch pad. That flask holds tea, but I didn’t bring any mugs.”
He passed her the flask, shamelessly allowing their fingers to brush. She uncapped the lid and tipped her head back to take a sip. “I don’t know as I’ve tasted better, Ian MacGregor. What will you do while I sketch?”
“Nap. The nights are damnably short this time of year, and the days demanding. You’re not to tattle on me, either. The laird is expected to be indestructible and have the stamina of a goat.”
He pulled a thick, coarse tartan blanket out of the rucksack and laid it on the stubbly grass a short distance from the patch of rocks. When he straightened, she passed him the flask. “Nap then, but do we need to worry about those clouds?”
She pointed east, in the direction of the sea, where—damn the weather all to hell—the clouds were beginning to crowd together into something less than encouraging.
“We don’t need to worry about them just yet, but we want to be off this hill before rain arrives. The higher rocky patches have been known to come loose, though it’s more a problem in spring after the freezing and thawing.”
“May I sketch you, Ian?”
She already had, but now she was asking. He couldn’t possibly refuse her.
“Mind you flatter me, lass. Tone the nose down a bit, tidy up my hair. I may soon have English relations to whom that sort of thing will matter.”
A dismal prospect, that, especially up here, alone with her.
She opened her sketch pad and rummaged in the rucksack for a pencil. “I’m English, and I like your nose the way God made it.” She lowered herself to the blanket. “Here.” She patted the place beside her. “Just look out toward your home and tell me about it.”
He talked for half an hour, about exporting Aberdeen Angus bulls, about his ambivalence toward the damned sheep, about the darkness of winter in the Highlands and the few relations he had still dwelling farther west. He talked about the famine less than ten years before and the graves that couldn’t be dug fast enough.
He talked about Fiona and the difficulty he anticipated for her because her parents were only handfasted.
“I’ve heard of this.” Augusta reached out to winnow her fingers through his hair, no doubt rearranging it to suit her composition better. “Explain handfasting to me.”
“That’s the first time you’ve touched me, Augusta.” He didn’t turn his head to point this out.
“We’ve touched on many occasions. Maybe too many.”
She sounded troubled by that observation, so he did look at her. “Or maybe not enough?” Naughty of him, but she should not have left him such an opening.
She shook her head and put the sketch aside. “You must not encourage me, Ian. You’ve been kind, and I will always treasure the memories you’ve given me, but you mustn’t… you must not pity me.”
“Why would I pity you?” He pitied himself, truth be known. Now, when he wanted to have her on her back beneath him, and he was supposed to comport himself like some damned choirboy…
Some gentleman.
She drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, and laid her cheek on her knees so she faced him. “You think I’m the typical poor relation, living in very reduced circumstances, having little contact with any larger world, but I like my life, Ian. I’m grateful for it.”
He scooted around on the blanket so he faced her, then leaned back, bracing his weight on his hands. “What do you like about it?”
“It’s mine. In one sense, I depend on nobody for anything, and to a great extent, nobody has any right to impose on me.
I have a sort of freedom few women enjoy.
I had my Season. I had offers. I had an understanding with a young gentleman of good breeding and was very prettily courted.
I’ve come to the conclusion that in a few years, if I hadn’t been led off to the altar with him, I would likely have withdrawn to Kent, there to end my days arguing with my steward over whether to put the land in pasture or vegetable crops. ”
She sounded not pleased with her circumstances, but as if she were trying to convince herself to feel pleased. “You deserve more than that, Augusta. You deserve children, a family, the love of those dear to you. You deserve a future beyond that cottage in Oxfordshire.”
She was quiet for a long moment, her expression hard to read, while Ian was aware of the storm clouds drawing closer.
“Ian, I am not… I am not chaste.” She dropped her forehead to her knees.
Of all the things she might have said, he could not have anticipated that, and sorting through his feelings in reaction to her revelation was complicated.
“Was it by your choice, Augusta?”
“More or less.” She raised her face to the far mountains.
“The young man and I had an understanding. Our papas were working out the details, and our mamas were planning the ceremony. Mr. Post-Williams was persistent and comely, and on several occasions, we anticipated our vows. He told me it would get better. I did not see much improvement, myself.”
He hurt for her. Hurt for the detachment with which she offered this recitation. Mr. Persistent-and-Comely had much to answer for. “But you do not now have the honor of being Mrs. Post-Williams.”
“My parents died. When it became apparent I had no dowry, somebody less impecunious had to be recruited for the position of Mrs. Post-Williams. He was very oblique about it, but at least I know.”
“What do you know, Augusta?” And where was this Post-Williams now, so Ian might rearrange his comely face?
“I know what happens between men and women, Ian. I’m not going to die a virgin, ignorant of all life beyond my garden and my chicken coop, and yet, my reputation has remained unscathed.”
But she didn’t know. Ian was sure she didn’t know half of what ought to transpire between lovers. That was glaringly, maddeningly, god-awfully obvious.
Just as obvious as the fact that Ian should not be the one to enlighten her.