Page 65 of Kilgannon #1

Nor was my husband. He visited with his brother in a polite manner, but it was not the same.

There were no shared looks or laughter, although Malcolm did try to create the mood several times.

I wondered if Malcolm actually thought we’d all forget what had happened.

Did he mistake his brother’s endurance for approval?

I kept my thoughts to myself, or actually on other things, for I was with child again.

Louisa and Berta spent hours concocting special teas and herbal drinks for me.

I knew I worried them, but I felt fine, and although I told myself it was foolish, I kept the eagle stone with me at all times.

Matthew left just after the new year to return to school.

We would not see him again until summer.

We’d all miss him, but he was obviously anxious to return.

Gilbey sent him off with greetings to their now mutual friends, and I wondered if Gilbey was not wishing he could go along.

Life for him here, I thought, must often be boring.

I was relieved when Malcolm and Sibeal left us as well, off to Skye to visit her family.

With luck they’d not return for a long while.

And then the month was over and my family was gone as well.

I was alone often then, for Ellen spent much of her time with wee Donald, and Alex and Angus rode to all the clan lands, making sure all was well.

I worked on the accounts, but there was not much to do, and I roamed the halls with Berta, finding that she was, as always, efficient and thorough.

The boys spent most of their time with Gilbey, and the winter days were very long.

I dreamed of summer and a babe in my arms.

But it was not to be. On Easter morning I miscarried again and could not face the Easter celebration.

The news from the other clans was not cheering either, for everyone spoke of rebellion and the troops that James Stewart was sending with French gold to the eastern seaboard.

I spent the day in my bed, crying. Alex was torn between his duty to attend the Easter festivities and being with me, but I sent him from me with tears and the assurance that I would be well soon.

He left me at last, his expression bleak.

I mourned for this child and for the others we had lost and cried until I slept.

I think I slept for a month, for I remember little of that spring except for the day I found the eagle stone in a pocket and realized I’d not worn that skirt since February.

I held the small stone in my hand and wondered if it had any power or if I was being ridiculous.

But I could not help feeling that if I’d had the stone with me I’d have the child as well.

I told Alex my thoughts one afternoon as we stood on the dock watching the brigs being moored, the wind pulling at our hair. He turned to me, gently holding my chin in his hand. “It’s no’yer fault, Mary,” he said, and I felt my eyes fill with tears again.

“I know, Alex, but— ”

“But nothing, lass. It’s no’yer fault. We will accept what we are given, and no stone in yer pocket will change that.

” And then he laughed as he released my chin and stroked my cheek.

“It’s supposed to be the opposite, Mary Rose.

I’m the Gael and yer the Englishmen. Yer supposed to be scoffing at my superstitions, lass, not me convincing ye.

” I laughed then as well, pulling him to me.

“Perhaps I’ve lived here too long.”

“Aye.” He kissed me tenderly and sighed. “Or not long enough, aye? We’ve no’had our lifetime together yet, lass.”

“No,” I said, and put my head on his shoulder, looking past him to the loch and the blue mountains beyond. Blue water, blue mountains, blue eyes , I thought. No, I’ve not lived here long enough. Forever will not be enough.

Alex left soon after that for a trip to the Low Countries and France, and Angus went with him.

They’d be gone at least two weeks, perhaps three.

I didn’t want them to go. I stood on the dock in the rain with the boys and Gilbey and waved farewell with a heavy heart.

We trudged into the house together, and the boys went off for their lessons while I wandered the halls and at last settled in the library.

The rain had steadily increased and Kilgannon was very quiet today.

I had no wish to find Berta or Thomas and interrupt their work, and I settled down to check over the accounts, but that was disturbing, for the first entry I saw was the one that noted the money Alex had given Malcolm.

As if it were not enough that he’d almost killed Alex and that he’d stolen from him, Malcolm had had the audacity to beg a loan.

And Alex, as Malcolm had known he would, had given him the money.

Every time I saw the notation it irritated me, and today it was too much to deal with.

I closed the ledger with a slam, trying to put Malcolm out of my mind.

I pulled down Alex’s box of sketches and opened it’ expecting to see the drawings we’d looked at so often, but on the very top was one of me, standing in the mouth of Alasdair’s cave, the wind tossing my hair around me and tugging my skirt hem up.

He ’ ll be home soon , I told myself as my eyes filled with tears.

I put the sketches away. It was time to go and do something useful.

The next two days were uneventful, but the third brought Malcolm and Sibeal.

They arrived unannounced yet again after visiting Skye, and I was less than pleased.

Sibeal was warmer than she’d ever been, and she and Malcolm seemed to be at peace with each other.

Alex will be home soon , I told myself again.

At midafternoon on the third day of their visit, a gloomy April day when the mist hung low over the water, the Katrine returned from her trip to London and Ireland loaded with goods and news.

I went to meet the ship as she landed. The crew was tired but cheerful and waved as they approached.

Their families stood with me on the dock, and the greetings surrounded me like a wave.

The captain, usually a calm and measured man, was visibly agitated as he jumped onto the dock and brushed his wife’s welcome aside. She and I exchanged a look of surprise.

“Has the laird returned, madam?” the captain asked anxiously.

“No,” I said. “I expect him any day. Malcolm is here, though.”

He met my eyes. “Malcolm is here?” I nodded, feeling the all-too-familiar tightness in my chest. The captain seemed lost for a moment, then squared his shoulders.

“I give ye this letter, Lady Mary, from Laird Alex. I’d hoped he’d beaten me home, though I dinna see the Mary Rose.

Read it when yer alone, will ye not?” He handed me the sealed letter as if it might explode in my hand.

I looked at him in confusion and began opening the letter.

“No, lady,” the captain said, putting a hand on mine.

“Dinna open it here. And dinna let anyone ken ye’ve received word from Alex. ”

“Why?” I whispered, his agitation contagious.

“Read the letter, madam.”

“You know what it contains.”

His troubled eyes met mine, and he shook his head. “Not for certain, but I ken what I was told. It’s best ye tell no one.”

“I see.” I put the letter in my pocket.

As soon as I could I went to the library.

The captain had brought other letters as well—one from Louisa, another from Rebecca—and I put those aside now as I tore Alex’s open.

There were two letters, not one. Alex’s agent had written to Alex, and Alex had written to me enclosing the agent’s letter with his.

William Burton wrote that the Diana had been in London recently and was now in the Mediterranean but was due to return to London very soon.

She had been renamed and repainted, but he felt there was no mistake.

It was the same ship and the same captain, and he awaited Alex’s instructions.

Alex’s letter said they were going to find the Diana and would be home when they had.

It was a very long evening. I went to bed as soon as I could, pleading exhaustion.

I had not lied. The strain of the evening had enervated me.

But in my own room I could not sleep and rose again to pace before the fire.

I must find a way to get Malcolm and Sibeal to leave at once , I decided.

I stirred the fire, wondering how I could do that and how warm it was in London this evening, then settled into one of the chairs to read my letters.

Becca wrote that she’d had her baby, a healthy girl she had named Sarah Anne after the child’s grandmothers.

I pray, my dear Mary, that she finds a friend as dear to her as you are to me, though a great ocean separates us.

I sipped my wine and watched the fire. How I miss you, Becca , I thought, and how I envy you your sweet daughter.

I sighed and read on. She wrote of how happy she was, although she confessed that sometimes she was overwhelmed with loneliness and the feeling of being very far from home.

This is my home now , she wrote, but sometimes, when the rain falls and the roses smell a certain damp way, I remember us being girls and I miss who I was then. Do you ever feel this way?

“My dear Becca,” I whispered to the letter, “I do know how you feel.” I sighed again and reached for Louisa’s letter.

My aunt wrote of the affairs in London, both political and love.

The names were often unfamiliar to me now, and I realized as I had last July how very distant all that seemed.

No one but the Whigs was pleased to have George as king, but while London complained and bickered, no one was interested in changing it.