Page 26 of Enlightened
“He didn’t believe you, I take it?”
She shook her head miserably. “I’m always in trouble with ’im. Always getting me wages docked.”
“You should find yourself a new position.”
“I’m saving to get married. Just another year and I’ll be away.”
“Is that so?”
Murdo dug into his pocket and brought out a leather purse, beckoning the girl over. Peggy approached apprehensively.
“Put out your hand,” he said.
She opened her hand, and he counted five guineas out into her plump palm.
The girl stared at the gold in her hand, and her other hand crept up to cover her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, sir,” she whispered. Then she looked up, horrified. “I mean, my lord!”
“Put it safely away, somewhere that odious little man won’t find it. We don’t want him to accuse you of stealing, do we? And here—” He drew out one of his cards and handed it to her. “That has my name and direction on it, just in case you have any more difficulties with him before you leave.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, still staring, awestruck, at the coins.
“You’d better get this lot cleared up before he comes back looking for you.” Murdo smiled.
She did as he bid her, wisely slipping the coins into the toe of her shoe first.
Once she was gone, David said, “That was quite a little scene you acted out with Foster. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you being quite soaristocraticbefore.”
“Like that, did you?”
“I wouldn’t say Ilikedit—I wouldn’t like you to act that way with me, at any rate—but it was very effective, I must say.”
“It’s effective with some people,” Murdo admitted. “Rest assured, I wouldn’t even bother trying it with an egalitarian like you.” He grinned at that, his black eyes gleaming with humour, and David was swamped, quite suddenly, by a wave of helpless love and affection. Love for this complex, sometimes difficult man who was, nevertheless, capable of great kindness.
This man who’d once said to David,“Don’t try to find a virtue in me, Lauriston. You won’t.”
David reached across the white tablecloth and took hold of Murdo’s hand, lifting it up to his mouth to graze a kiss across the knuckles, loving the warmth of the skin his lips brushed, and the strength in the long fingers that curved about his own.
Murdo looked briefly puzzled by David’s affectionate behaviour, but when David went to draw away, he tightened his hold on David’s hand, and they stayed like that for a long while, finishing their ale and watching the fire burn down to nothing but ash.
Chapter Nine
The clattering of horses and carriages in the inn’s courtyard began before the clock struck five the next morning. Groaning, David pulled a pillow over his face to shut out the noise, but it was no good. Soon enough, there were maidservants going up and down stairs and guests moving around, and David gave up all hope of any further rest.
He wished he at least had Murdo with him. They could have spent an hour or two together in bed. As it was, David found himself indulging in something he’d had no need to resort to for some time, bringing himself to a perfunctory climax with his own hand.
He got up straight after, washing and dressing without so much as looking in the mirror, tucking his overlong hair behind his ears and tying his cravat in its usual slapdash knot.
Murdo was in the breakfast parlour when he got downstairs, looking as tired and grumpy as David felt, albeit ten times as elegant. He grunted at David over his plate of kippers and suggested they make an earlier start than planned, given they were up, a suggestion David was only too happy to agree to.
The final leg of their journey was actually quite pleasant. They were only a few hours from London, and after a hearty breakfast and near enough a pot of coffee each, they were well fed and alert—for the time being, anyway, till tiredness caught up with them. By shortly after noon, Murdo’s carriage was pulling up outside Murdo’s London townhouse on Curzon Street.
David climbed out of the carriage, using his cane to avoid putting too much strain on his bad leg, ignoring Murdo’s approving smile. Once he stood on the pavement, he gazed around, fascinated. The townhouses that lined the street were remarkably similar to those at home, with the same classical facades, but here they varied in height, some of them a full storey or more higher than their neighbours.
The colour palette of these buildings varied too, brown brick and bright-white stucco. Very different from the ubiquitous sandstone which gave Edinburgh its characteristically gloomy beauty. It struck David, as he looked about him, that the sober townhouses of his home city were more elegant than this—collectively, at least. The unified lines of Edinburgh’s New Town, the sweeping crescents and classical perfection, were incomparable. Yet these houses, too high, too grand, spoke of something different, something entirely less collective. No New Town here. Here, they built what they wanted, where they wanted it, setting down their lofty houses in the middle of the city, right on top of whatever had been there before. A statement of individual pride and wealth.
“Come on,” Murdo said, touching David’s elbow. Realising he’d become absorbed in his own thoughts, David gave a self-conscious laugh and followed Murdo up the steps to the house.
The door was opened by a thin little man with bright, watchful eyes, sallow skin and neatly combed iron-grey hair—Liddle, Murdo called him. The man bowed to Murdo, welcoming him home in a quiet, precise voice.