Page 20 of Most Ardently (Return to Culloden Moor #5)
20
A BOUNTY OF FRIENDS
* * *
T he morning light filtered through a thin mist as the small party at Brigadunn assembled to bid Violet farewell. Despite the early hour, everyone was present—Lord and Lady Ashmoore, Connor and Mercy, North and Livvy, Harcourt and Henley, Stanley and Georgetta, and Louis, all gathered on the front steps as Ashmoore's finest carriage was brought around.
“Ye must call upon us again soon,” Lady Ashmoore said, embracing Violet with genuine warmth. “Ash says I must consider ye family now.”
“Your kindness has been extraordinary,” Violet replied, “I am more grateful than you can know.”
North stepped forward, his customary reserve softened by a rare smile. “You have shown remarkable determination, Miss Cottsweather. I hope we will see you again.”
“Indeed,” Livvy added, then kissed her cheek. “You know where to find us.”
Harcourt, never one to maintain solemnity for long, clasped her hand with theatrical flourish. “What marvelous entertainment you have provided us all! The hit of the party, I daresay.”
Henley embraced her warmly. “And I would wager your adventure is not yet over.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. She obviously referred to Louis, but she was unaware their time had ended.
Rochester inclined his head. “Miss Cottsweather, should you ever require assistance of any kind, you need only send word. Never hesitate, do you hear?”
“I hear, Your Grace. And I thank you.”
Georgetta was next. “And do remember that sisters are the greatest asset. And I am happy to add you to my collection.”
Connor stepped forward, his manner less formal than the others. “Take care, lassie. We shall meet again.” He kissed the back of her hand and stepped away.
His wife was more practical. “I have taken the liberty of sending along several gowns,” she said. “They are merely collecting dust here, and you and your sisters and mother can give them new life.”
“That is most generous,” Violet began, but Mercy waved away her gratitude.
“Nonsense,” she said firmly. “And you must bring your mother and sisters to London soon. I insist upon introducing you properly to society. One never knows what opportunities might arise.”
“That is very kind,” Violet said, knowing her mother will be moved by the invitation, whether or not they might find the means to accept it.
At last, it was Louis who approached, standing before her with a formality of a new acquaintance, at odds with the days they had spent in each other's confidence. His face betrayed none of the disappointment she felt; indeed, he seemed unnaturally cheerful.
“Miss Cottsweather,” he said, bowing over her hand. “It has been an honor to assist in your quest.”
“Even though it ended in failure?” Violet could not help asking.
“Do not give up hope,” he replied, his voice oddly bright, his smile too eager by half. “The adventure may yet have a favorable conclusion.”
His optimism puzzled her. What reason had he to be so cheerful when their search had yielded nothing but disappointment? Perhaps he was simply relieved to return to his normal life, free from the obligation he had taken upon himself.
“I thank you for your assistance, Lord Astley,” she said, retreating into formality as a shield against the pain of their parting. “It was most gracious of you.”
With a final round of farewells, Violet allowed the footman to help her into the carriage. Four large trunks—Mercy's gifts—were secured on the back, and a young footman took his place beside the driver, sent along to assist with the luggage.
As the carriage pulled away, Violet glanced back through the window. Louis remained on the steps, a solitary figure. He raised one hand in farewell, and she returned the gesture with a lump in her throat.
The journey to Durrafair was not long in distance, but in spirit, it felt like crossing between worlds. With each turn of the wheels, the brief interlude of grandeur—of ballrooms and fine dresses, of treasures and clandestine kisses—transitioned to memories. And she gripped her hands, wishing she could hang onto them just a little while longer…
* * *
When the carriage finally turned onto the narrow lane leading to Durrafair, Violet steeled herself for the contrast. After days at Brigadunn, her beloved childhood home would appear diminished, its decay more noticeable. Yet as the house came into view—its weathered stones, its slightly sagging roof, its overgrown garden—she felt an unexpected surge of tenderness. Durrafair might be failing, but it was hers, infused with memories and meaning that Brigadunn, for all its grandeur, could never possess.
The carriage halted before the front steps, and the young footman rushed to open the door, offering his arm to assist her descent. Her mother appeared in the doorway, her face lighting with surprise and delight.
“Violet! I did not expect you so soon!” she exclaimed, hurrying forward to embrace her daughter. “What a lovely dress! Oh! And what is all this?” She gestured toward the trunks being unloaded by the footman and driver.
“Gifts from Lady Grey,” Violet explained. “She insisted I accept them.”
Her mother's eyes widened, but she quickly recovered her composure, instructing the footman to carry the trunks into the entrance hall. When she offered the young man a small gratuity from her meager purse, he declined with a respectful bow.
Once the carriage had departed, mother and daughter retreated to the parlor, where Violet found herself suddenly reluctant to relate the failure of her quest. Her mother, however, seemed curiously cheerful, almost excited.
“I have a surprise for you,” she said, retrieving something from a side table drawer—a small, leather-bound volume with a distinctive red cover. “Perhaps it will revive you after your adventure.”
Violet stared in disbelief. “Father's journal! But how?”
“I went to Perth,” her mother explained, a touch of pride in her voice. “I found Mr. Barnaby and explained the circumstances. He is not a heartless man, merely a practical one. He said this particular volume was unlikely to sell—too personal, too filled with what he called fanciful nonsense. He returned it with no charge.”
Violet took the journal with trembling hands, feeling the worn leather beneath her fingers. “This means more than you know, Mother.”
The familiar weight of it in her hands brought back a flood of memories—her father bent over these pages late into the night, his face illuminated by candlelight, muttering to himself as he scribbled notes and sketches. How many times had she crept down to find him thus engaged, only to be sent back to bed with a distracted kiss and a promise of stories in the morning?
She suddenly remembered the ornate key in her pocket and withdrew it. The jewels caught the light as she placed it in her mother's palm. “It is valuable—gold and precious stones. If you can sell it in Perth, the proceeds should be enough to bring Iris home.” Then she explained about the letter and her reason for going to Brigadunn. She left out the part about playing housemaid.”
Her mother's fingers closed around the key. “I shall leave at once,” she said, her expression resolute. “The carter's wagon passes within the hour. If I hurry, I can be in Perth by nightfall.”
“Let me accompany you,” Violet offered, suddenly reluctant to be alone with her heartbreak. For her heart was well and truly broken. Not over her quest, but over the man who could never be hers, and her suspicion that he never truly felt the same about her.
“No, my dear,” her mother replied firmly. “You rest. I shall manage this errand on my own.”
As her mother rushed to prepare for her journey, Violet remained in the parlor, her father's journal open on her lap. The familiar handwriting filled her with a bittersweet ache—here were his thoughts, his dreams, his obsessions, preserved in ink when the man himself was gone.
She began to read, carefully turning the precious pages. The first entries were primarily copied excerpts from the knight's tale, accompanied by her father's interpretations. He had underlined certain phrases, circled words he found significant, added notes in the margins questioning the meanings of seemingly innocuous passages.
“The knight sought three jewels, the key to his true loves heart,” he had written . “What jewel? What treasure? The tale speaks of no specific items. A metaphor, perhaps, or a deliberate obfuscation?”
Further in, she found detailed notes about the headstone inscription. “If ye'd join his treasured soul, look high within the lord's repose.” Her father had drawn dozens of tiny sketches in the margins: the kirk, the cemetery, the mausoleum where the local lords were buried, even Brigadunn itself.
“Not the Lord God,” he had written, the words heavily underlined . “A mortal lord. The master bedchamber at Brigadunn? Must find a way to examine it.”
With growing amazement, Violet realized that her father known of clues he couldn’t possibly have found in person. All must have come from the story itself. Or maybe from a pair of local witches…
Pages detailing failed attempts to access Brigadunn followed. Then his greatest frustration of all: The old bridge has to be the key. But why? Why?
And finally, pages filled with that one word.
The last entry, dated just weeks before his final illness, read simply: “I am a fool. The treasure is a phantom, a will-o'-the-wisp that has consumed years of my life and damaged my family's security. Better to have spent these years farming the land properly or finding respectable matches for my children. Forgive me, Elizabeth. Forgive me, my children.”
Violet closed the journal as tears poured down her cheeks. Her father had walked this very path before her, had confronted the same mysteries, had persisted despite the same frustrations. And in the end, he too had found nothing.
Yet there was comfort in this shared journey, in knowing that her quest had not been born of mere childish fancy but had solid foundation in her father's research. She had followed his footsteps faithfully, perhaps even surpassed them by discovering the face in the bridge that he had missed.
A sound from outside—the rumble of carriage wheels on gravel—roused her from her reverie. Visitors were rare at Durrafair, especially with her mother away. Violet rose quickly, smoothing her borrowed gown, and moved to the door.
Who could possibly be calling at Durrafair at such an hour? Not Lord Ashmoore, surely. She had only just left their company!
With her heart pounding, she ran to the door and flung it open…