Page 30 of Enlightened
David slowly turned back to look at Murdo, staring at him in bewildered astonishment.
“Oh, it’s not as though Iexpectedyou to say that,” Murdo added in a bitter tone. “I expected exactly this—for you to tell me I can’t get out of the engagement, that I’m honour-bound to go through with the wedding. To keep a fast hold of that precious pride of yours, that part of you that you guard so fucking close.”
David’s temper returned at that. “You chose to keep this from me,” he exclaimed, “and now you expect me to shrug it off within ten minutes?”
“No, of course I don’t! I wanted to tell you. But every time I thought about it—hell, I knew it would be like this. I thought if I could just resolve it first,thentell you…” He broke off, shaking his head, his eyes on the floor as though he couldn’t bear to look at David.
David didn’t know what to say. He was angry and grief-stricken. The fact that Murdo had deliberately kept this from him—through all those days and nights together at Laverock House—made him feel sick to his stomach. He wanted to walk out of this house and out of London and keep walking till he reached home.
“I’m going to see Elizabeth,” he said, suddenly decisive. “It’s probably better if we’re apart for a bit.” He made for the door, his arm brushing against Murdo’s as he passed.
“David—” Murdo said. His voice sounded rusty and broken, but he didn’t put a hand out to detain David, and David didn’t look back.
He’d come away without directions to Blackfriars, but he didn’t want to return to the house, so he just walked till he came upon a groom tending a gentleman’s horse outside another lofty townhouse. Once he’d got used to the man’s strong cockney accent, he discovered the way to Blackfriars was simple enough—walk east and stay close to the river, keeping an eye out for the tall steeple of St. Bride’s Church to the north.
Even with such simple directions, David felt somewhat disorientated. It was the sheer size of London. Like twenty cities in one, and everything scaled up accordingly. Streets that were miles long and mazes of squares and crescents and lanes. Every now and again, he made sure to stop a passerby to check that he was still going the right way.
It was easier once he had St. Bride’s Church’s steeple in his sights. The groom had told him that once he’d passed it, Blackfriars was very close, and, sure enough, a talkative costermonger was able to direct him to Shoemaker Row with a few simple instructions. David gave him a penny for a sorry-looking apple in thanks, passing the fruit to a beggar woman he passed a few minutes later.
As he walked on, the streets became shorter and narrower, a labyrinth of lanes whose tall, stooped buildings crowded together like a parliament of crooked old men sharing a fire. There were no cobbles here, just hard-packed dirt lanes riddled with potholes and muddy puddles. The walking was hard on David’s leg, and he found himself relying on his cane more than he liked to. He’d left Murdo’s house over an hour ago, and the temper that had sent him striding out the door had worn off some way back. Now, he was tired and aching and longing to reach his destination, even as he dreaded carrying out the task that had been given to him.
Elizabeth and Euan lived on a tiny street just off Shoemaker Row. It was a little shabby, but clean and well tended. A group of laughing children played with a couple of spinning tops in the street while their mothers exchanged gossip from their front stoops. When David paused outside Elizabeth’s door, one of the women looked over at him.
“You looking for someone?”
David took a chance that Euan would be going by his own name, even if Elizabeth was not.
“Mr. MacLennan,” he said. “He’s an old friend.”
“Oh, you’re Scotch, like them,” the other woman said then, smiling. “Well, Mr. Mac’ll be at his work, I’d think, but his missus’ll be in, I reckon.” She turned aside, satisfied now that she knew his business, and David knocked on the door, hoping they were right and that Elizabeth was in.
She was. She answered the door, looking pink-cheeked and dishevelled with floury hands and a tendril of dark hair stuck to her cheek.
For a long moment she just stared at David in utter disbelief, then she let out a cry and threw herself into his arms. He laughed, purely in surprise, then patted her back awkwardly. Despite everything, they had always been physically formal with one another, and this unbridled affection was entirely new.
Eventually, Elizabeth pulled back, and he saw that her eyes were wet and the hand that covered her mouth trembled.
“David—” she whispered. “It’s really you.”
“It is,” he said, smiling. “May I come in?”
She laughed at that, through her tears, a lovely happy sound that made him feel good. “Of course, what am I thinking? Come in, come in!”
She ushered him into a tiny hallway, closing the door behind them.
“You look well,” she said, looking him over. Her roving gaze snagged on his cane, and she added, “Did you walk here?”
“All the way from Mayfair.”
“Mayfair? Goodness me, that’s miles!”
“Yes, well, my knee’s grumbling a bit now,” David admitted. “Do you suppose I could sit down?”
“Of course! Look at me, keeping you standing here! Come into the kitchen and sit down. I’m making a pie.”
She bustled in front of him, and he noticed she’d put a little weight on. She was, once again, the round, cheerful girl he’d first known, rather than the thin, haunted one who had returned to Edinburgh after months of marriage to Sir Alasdair Kinnell. Now, in a plain, green-and-white gown with a serviceable apron over it, she looked very far from that sad, wealthy and finely dressed woman.
“You’re making a pie?” David repeated, following her into the kitchen, a small, cosy room, with a good-going fire in the hearth. “I didn’t even know you could cook.”