Chapter 7- Callum
Callum’s study was paneled in dark wood and ringed in bookcases.
Each time he stepped over the threshold, he couldn’t help but breathe in the familiar scent of musty books and lemon polish.
To Callum, this would forever be his father’s room.
He closed his eyes for a moment as the memories flooded him.
His grandfather had purchased the London house from a destitute earl back when he’d first received the title.
Though there were a great deal many other houses in London that had a longer provenance, in Callum’s mind, this one firmly belonged to his family.
It had been his grandfather’s, his father’s, and now his, and Ettrick was determined to see this house inherited by his own son.
Callum believed that legacy was exceedingly important; he felt a keen sense of duty to continue his family line, to hand the title off to a son he had raised to hold it well.
If he didn’t, the title might be given to Callum’s prat of an older cousin and his even worse children, who felt no responsibility toward people under their care.
But in order to have a son who would carry on the family name, Callum needed a wife. In order to raise a son worthy of the responsibility of inheriting the title, Callum needed an excellent wife.
He felt he had found such a woman in the author of the journal.
Whoever she was, she had a backbone of iron, impeccable morals, and a tender heart toward those in her care.
He silently thanked Providence for putting such a woman in his path—as strange as their “meeting” had been.
Callum sincerely hoped he was clever enough to find her and worthy enough to woo her.
His pulse thumped as he pulled the battered journal from his pocket.
He had been saving the last few pages until he had an uninterrupted span of time to study them.
Though he had some information to go on, it was spotty at best. He was hanging his future on her last entries, desperately hoping that they might plainly state some facts about her identity.
Though he might have a name, he counted the boys at St. Alban’s as far less reliable than the words from the author herself. If she signed the last entry as Rebecca or Caroline or anything else, Callum would discount the name Margaret forever.
Half an hour or so later, Callum took a deep breath and turned to the final page.
Dear Ruth,
I am about to write the most scandalous confession ever contained within your dear pages.
I know I’m not the ideal when it comes to appearance.
I am one of eight sisters, and were anyone to rank us from most beautiful to least, the middle section might be a topic of great debate, but the top belongs to > or -.
The bottom slot is even a less challenged position—it belongs solidly to me.
Compared to my sisters, I am ugly indeed.
Though this would be a much-bemoaned fact among some women, I bear it as a simple truth.
Not only am I blonde, I am not beautiful, as my sisters are, though they all try and shield me from that knowledge.
As if I don’t own a mirror! As if there aren’t a hundred gilded examples hanging in our very house!
Dear Ruth,
The time has come for me to seek out a replacement.
Your pages are worn thin, and I’ve written in every blank space—habit and sentiment demanded it, even though I have long been able to afford another journal.
This is not farewell, my dear friend—this is only a change of ensemble for you, I daresay…
Callum felt as if a bright firework had gone off in his proximity.
Finally, after all this time, he had certain facts he could work with.
He already knew that the mystery lady lived in London and was recently returned from Paris.
But now he knew she was one of eight sisters and had two brothers.
Such a prodigious family certainly would be known in town.
And his cousin Ellis had lived here his whole life.
Callum stood, intending to go downstairs immediately and ask.
On his way to the door, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the mantel.
He hadn’t shaved yet, his shirt was wrinkled beyond repair, and as he watched his own haggard reflection, a crumb from his breakfast tray dislodged itself and rolled down his front.
“A bath first, then,” he mumbled.
As he returned to his chamber and righted his person, Callum considered the lady’s final entries.
So she wasn’t beautiful. In fact, she’d called herself ugly.
Callum found he didn’t truly care. In his mind, his wife had a blank face and a nebulous figure—he hadn’t hung his heart upon any specific frame or feature.
The only possibility regarding her appearance that Callum truly feared was if the lady’s eyes didn’t point the same direction.
He’d always found that slightly difficult to manage; he never knew where to look.
Callum invariably found himself trying to follow the meandering of the wrong one, with nauseating results.
One of his stewards suffered from the affliction, and though it hadn’t put Callum off hiring the fellow, to prevent embarrassment on both sides, Callum preferred to write the man rather than to meet with him in person, whenever possible.
Some time later, Callum descended the staircase much repaired in appearance.
“He lives!” Ellis chortled from the sideboard, where he was pouring himself a short dram of amber liquid. He lifted the bottle in silent offering, and Callum shook his head.
“None for me. I only just recovered from a headache.”
“You needn’t lie to me. Your valet is a gossip—he told everyone you’ve been reading a novel all morning.” Ellis winked. “Only you and I know the truth. You’re studying the latest edition of Mr. Pickwick’s Guide to get a leg up on the Season, aren’t you?”
Callum frowned. “There’s a new edition out?”
He would be interested in reading it, but only to see if he could discover his mystery writer within its pages. He had no use for any of the other entries—he’d quite made up his mind.
“If you weren’t reading Mr. Pickwick, I confess I’m very curious to borrow your novel. I’ve never been much for reading myself, but if it’s captured your attention so fully, it must be entertaining indeed.”
“I’ll send it to your room.” It was a complete and utter lie—even now, the journal rested in the hidden breast pocket of his jacket, just over his heart. Callum settled on the sofa. “I did have some questions about the upcoming Season, if you’d be so good to help me.”
“Certainly. It’s one of the reasons I’m here, after all.”
“I thought it was to drink all my best liquor.”
“Never doubt my ability to keep two priorities in mind at once.” He toasted Callum with his glass. “What questions might I answer?”
“It’s a rather delicate subject, I’m afraid.”
“Everyone out!” Ellis waved his hand to encompass the footmen.
Callum looked heavenward as they exited. “You do realize that they’re my servants, not yours, don’t you?”
“And I must commend you on how well they follow orders. What’s this about a rumor, now?”
He sighed. “Leave it to you to jump to that conclusion. There’s no rumor at all, just some personal questions.”
“About me?”
“Certainly not. I doubt there’s much I don’t know about you.” Callum grinned. “I’ve seen you with your trousers down too many times to count.”
“Ah, cherished memories.” Ellis tilted his head and smiled. “There’s nothing quite as nice as a good full moon.”
Callum shook his head. “How do we always end up on the topic of buttocks when we’re together?”
“I must point out that in this instance, you were the one to bring it up. Besides, it could be worse. We could be the morose sort of cousins who always discuss death and funerals or some such.”
“It’s very difficult to keep a conversation on the correct path when you’re about.”
Ellis flourished his hand through the air and gave a mocking sort of bow. “You are very welcome. Very welcome, indeed. Now, stop beating around the proverbial bush and tell me what you want to know.”
“It’s about heirs.”
“Ah, I see.” He set his glass upon the side table. “I’d have thought your father had time to explain this to you—you were eighteen when he passed—but I see it’s left to me to—”
“Do shut up,” Callum interrupted blandly.
“Gladly.”
“As I have no brothers, it’s my responsibility to continue the family line. Forgive me for the necessary indelicacy of this conversation, but I was wondering whether you know of any ladies from large families?”
Ellis placed a finger to the side of his nose. “It does stand to reason that if a mother has born many children, perhaps her daughter might be capable of the same, but there’s no guarantee.”
“I’m well aware,” he said dryly. “Still, I’d thought it worth asking the question at the very least.”
“Let’s see.” Ellis tapped his chin. “The Earl and Countess Fontag had twelve children. Six sons, six daughters, but I believe the daughters are all married—doubtlessly to men who believe as you do. Lord and Lady Morris have eleven, the Cavendish family has ten, the Miltons and the Beauforts also have ten.”
“What of a family with eight daughters, do you know of any of those?”
“Eight daughters? Why would you want to marry a lady who might give you eight daughters?”
Callum shrugged. Perhaps a whisky wasn’t out of order, after all. He crossed the room and Ellis shook his empty glass at him. Callum retrieved it on the way.
Ellis continued, “In any case, I believe only the late Lord Cavendish had that many daughters, but he also had two sons. The eldest turned out to be a bit of a disappointment, but the second has more than made up for it, so it seems.”
Callum froze at the sideboard, his back still to his cousin. He forced his voice to be light when he asked, “How so?”
“Rumor is it the eldest bankrupted the family, but the younger has the Midas touch. Wealthy beyond all reasoning. They say every third ship in the harbor is his.”
“And you say he has sisters?” Callum turned and deposited the whisky into his cousin’s hand. Callum had given him a hefty pour to smooth the conversation.
“Thank you kindly. Yes, the man has a whole herd of them, though apparently only four of them are to be presented this Season.”
“What do they look like, do you know?”
Ellis arched an eyebrow. “Why are you asking about the Preston sisters? Are you low on funds?”
“Are you saying the only reason a gentleman would be interested in them is for their dowries?” Callum thought again of hunchbacks and of eyes that pointed different directions.
He firmly told himself it didn’t matter what the journal’s owner looked like, not when he was smitten with the lively contents of her mind, the strength of her character.
“Heavens, no. There’s none prettier than Lily Preston, but you’ll have lots of competition if she’s your goal, mark my words.”
Callum firmly told himself he must not throttle his cousin, no matter how frustrated he was with the man at the moment.
Often, Callum found Ellis’s roundabout way of speaking amusing, but not this afternoon.
Not when Callum felt he was so close to finding out something as momentous as the mystery writer’s identity.
He pressed a finger to his temple. “So what are the names of the four being presented?”
“In order, there’s Claire, Lily, Beatrice, and Margaret.”
Margaret!
Callum breathed deeply so his cousin wouldn’t see how affected he was, how impatient. He said lightly, “And you said Lily’s the prettiest? Describe her for me.”
“All the Preston sisters have that kind of mousy brown hair.”
Callum’s heart sank. The writer had very plainly stated that she was blonde—another thing that marked her as separate from her sisters in appearance.
Ellis frowned and continued, “Well, not to say that it’s not pretty enough. It is, actually—a very pretty mousy brown color.”
Callum sighed and pressed a thumb just below his eyebrow to stop the twitch he felt developing there. “So they all have brown hair.”
“Yes.” Ellis took another sip from his tumbler. “All of the eldest Preston misses have beautiful brown hair reminiscent of very attractive rodents.”
Callum stared at his glass. For a moment there, he’d felt so certain—
“Except for Margaret, of course.”