Page 23 of Enlightened
He barely mentioned his father, though, beyond alluding to him as the strategist of each of his children’s dynastic marriages or as the architect of his sons-in-law’s political careers. Murdo didn’t need to say much, though, for David to understand that the Marquess of Balfour cast a long shadow over his son’s life. Nor to realise that the marquess had something to do with this journey. He’d worked that out weeks ago.
The marquess was a prolific letter writer. Each week, at least one, sometimes two letters arrived at Laverock House. David had quickly come to recognise the heavy, off-white paper, the lavish seal and the precise pen work that marked the marquess’s correspondence. Whenever David arrived at the breakfast table and saw one of those distinctive letters waiting, he knew that Murdo would take it away to read it privately. And that soon after, the subject of Murdo going to London would crop up.
“Susannah’s far too young for Lansbury,” Murdo was saying now. Susannah was his youngest and favourite sister. “She never got the chance to go to balls and have admirers, and, of course, now she wants to do it as a young matron, except Lansbury won’t have it.”
“Why did your father select a man somucholder than her?” David asked. “Surely there must’ve been at least one man closer to her in age who would’ve been suitable?”
Murdo snorted. “It wouldn’t even have crossed his mind to wonder. He wanted to align himself to Lansbury, and Lansbury wanted a wife. Why not his eighteen-year-old daughter, even if Lansbury was thirty years older?”
“I’m surprised he’s not managed to marry you off yet, if he’s so ruthless,” David said. He’d begun mentioning the marquess more directly over the last day or two, curious to see if he could coax Murdo into saying more about his father.
As was usual when David mentioned the marquess, Murdo’s jaw tightened and he looked away, out of the window of the carriage. But just when David thought that was it, that the conversation was at an end, Murdo said, “It’s not for want of effort.”
“What do you mean?”
Murdo kept his gaze trained on the flat, dull landscape outside. “My father’s like a spider,” he said eventually. “His web goes on and on. I’ve been snipping at the threads all my life.” After a pause, he turned his head to look at David again and smiled, though it was no more than a tightening of his lips. No warmth reached his eyes. “Let’s not talk of him. It makes me peevish.”
It made him more than peevish, David thought. It made him unhappy.
To distract him, David began to ask questions about their surroundings and soon enough Murdo was telling him all about the county of Buckinghamshire, reciting the names of the local families who owned the greatest tracts of land in the area. He did it almost by rote, as though he’d learned it a long time ago. David listened, occasionally asking a further question, more interested in Murdo’s immediate yet oddly disinterested way of answering than in the answers themselves.
He’d been tutored in this.
After a little while, the carriage began to slow. David stuck his head out of the window, ascertaining they were approaching their next stop, an old, rambling coaching inn. Its roof looked recently thatched, and it had a sturdy, prosperous look about it. It was by far the nicest inn they’d stayed in since they’d left Edinburgh. Curling wisps of wood smoke trailed from the chimneys and hung in the darkening sky, not seeming to know where to go.
As though alerted to the proximity of food, David’s stomach let out a tremendous rumble, making Murdo chuckle.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“I’ve had nothing since breakfast,” David pointed out, his tone faintly defensive. He’d refused food at their previous stops, nauseated by the long hours in the swaying carriage. The afternoon leg of the journey had been easier on his stomach, though, and now his belly was complaining at its emptiness. Loudly.
The coachman expertly swung the team of four and the broad carriage through the inn’s narrow gate without so much as grazing a corner. And then it was the same routine they’d followed for the last few nights. They got out of the carriage while their trunks were unloaded by the inn’s servants and the ostlers unhitched the horses, and headed for the main body of the inn in search of the innkeeper.
They found him in the hallway, on his way out to meet them, a small, wiry man of indeterminate age, his thick, nut-brown hair belied by a deeply wrinkled face. David wondered if he wore a wig.
He had an obsequious manner that grated on David. It was probably necessary in his line of work, given the number of well-to-do customers he’d have who’d expect to be treated with proper respect, but there was something about his manner that verged on grovelling.
He introduced himself as Mr. Foster, and his eyes lit up when Murdo confirmed his own identify.
“Ah, YourLordship,” he said, with relish. “We’ve been expecting you.”
“You’ve been expecting myself and my coachman,” Murdo corrected. “But not Mr. Lauriston here. Are you able to assist us with an additional bedchamber?”
Foster smiled, displaying a set of strong-looking, yellow teeth, and, disappointingly, confirmed a second bedchamber presented no difficulty all. Murdo—ever accustomed to giving orders and expecting them to be carried out—demanded that hot baths be prepared for both of them and dinner served in a private parlour. Foster smoothly agreed to all of Murdo’s commands.
Within twenty minutes of their arrival, David was stripping off his travel-rumpled clothes and lowering himself into a blessedly hot bath, his first in days. The heat eased his pinched knee—always made worse by inactivity—making him sigh with pleasure and relief.
He stayed in the water till it was practically cold. When he finally got out, he quickly dried himself off, then gave his leg a brisk rub with liniment before dressing again. When he ventured out of his room, he felt cleaner and more relaxed than he had in days. He made his way to the private parlour Murdo had reserved, sniffing appreciatively as he went—the scents emerging from the kitchens were very promising—to find the innkeeper himself waiting outside the parlour door.
When Foster saw David, he greeted him with the same servility that had made David shudder earlier, even tugging at his forelock before opening the door for him. David gave him a curt nod and passed him.
The parlour was a cosy room, twee even. Murdo looked quite out of place in it, surrounded by floral china and Toby jugs and framed needlepoint pictures. He was too big, too male. A wolf in a woodcutter’s cottage. David smiled at his own whimsy and walked farther into the room, noticing with pleasure that Murdo’s expression warmed when he saw David. He suspected his own did the same.
The door closed behind them and immediately Murdo’s expression became less guarded. He quickly stepped up to David and captured his mouth in a quick but thorough kiss, his big hand resting at David’s waist. When he pulled back, his eyes were dancing.
“We shouldn’t,” David said, as though Murdo had posed a question. Despite his reluctant words, though, he was grinning, almost dizzy with happiness at Murdo’s brief, seemingly helpless show of affection. They’d shared little more than a few such kisses since they’d left Edinburgh, and this was the first night they’d managed to secure a private parlour for dinner. The closed door and drawn curtains made their privacy feel more secure than it possibly was.
“Probably not,” Murdo agreed merrily, adding, “Did you enjoy your bath? You look as though you did. You’re all pink-cheeked and shiny.”