He drew up a stool, and sat opposite his friend.
“You were supposed to be my guest.”
“One’s employer should not be one’s host,” Rani said, still smiling.
“I would say we’re partners,” he said.
Their relationship was one of symbiosis. He needed Rani to develop the formula. Rani needed a place to make the blasting powder as well as financial backing. Both of them, together, could achieve each man’s separate dream.
Rani’s ambition was to do something for his family, his town. And his goal? Not more wealth as much as autonomy. He’d been a loyal servant of the Crown, a respectful officer, a dutiful son. Had he ever been himself?
“I have good news,” Rani said, reaching over and picking up a piece of paper. “I have finished my calculations,” he said, handing the document to Gordon. “I believe that we have the perfect blasting powder.”
He stared down at the paper, realizing that he couldn’t understand Rani’s notations. He wasn’t a scientist; he was a soldier. He’d watched minié balls explode, watched as smoke obscured the battlefield, had calculated how to make a rifle’s aim more true, but all these things had been possible because he’d been exposed to the Works since he was a boy. Black powder was as familiar to him as the sound of battle. Anything more required the expertise of others.
“What do you need from me?”
Rani pulled a list from his vest pocket and handed it to him. “A few supplies.”
“You’ll have them as soon as I can arrange it,” he said.
Rani nodded. “As soon as I have the last ingredient, we can begin testing.”
The minute they did so, the whole of Invergaire Glen would know what he planned.
His father had called him an anarchist. The general had meant it in symbolic terms only. Even though he mentally questioned his superiors, he’d never disobeyed an order. Even though he thought the upper echelon of the British Army was occupied by the bored sons of peers who’d nothing better to do than play soldier, he’d grudgingly succumbed to their plans for him.
Now, however, it amused him to think of how much an anarchist he was actually becoming. In a matter of weeks, he’d be able to produce an explosion that would shake the world.
“W
hat do you mean, he wants biscuits?” Shona stared at the cook uncomprehendingly. “Who eats biscuits at this time of day?”
“He wants something like a scone, but not sweet. And round.”
The undercook from Rathmhor, who’d proven to be so talented in the kitchen, frowned down at the two bowls of rising dough.
The bread making had been halted to accede to Mr. Loftus’s request. Unfortunately, neither of them really knew what he wanted.
“He wants them big and fluffy so he can soak them in gravy.”
“Give him scones,” she said. “Can you cut them into rounds?”
The girl nodded. “Should I put raisins in them?”
The idea of raisins and gravy didn’t sound palatable to her, so Shona shook her head.
“Make them savory instead of sweet,” she suggested. “That ought to suit him.”
She was not given to hysterics, but it was barely one o’clock in the afternoon, and she was already feeling panicky. Despite her attempts to interest Mr. Loftus in conversation about Gairloch, he’d been more concerned with the state of his stomach.
His portion of breakfast had astounded her. At the rate he was eating, they’d have only enough food to last for another week. But, then, he’d brought some provisions. Not as much as they would need, but it was something. Gordon had contributed feed for the horses. At least they wouldn’t starve.
Perhaps Mr. Loftus had a particular malady, one involving hunger.
She’d seen the nurse twice today, once at breakfast, and another time when she’d come to fetch some hot water for Mr. Loftus’s shave. Evidently, the giant—Helmut—performed the valetlike chores for the American.
What a very strange group they were. But, then, she couldn’t have imagined that anyone wishing to purchase Gairloch would be anything but extraordinary. After all, the price was prohibitive, and the idea of buying a castle in order to experience one’s Scottish roots was a bit odd as well.
Not once had Mr. Loftus said anything about his Scottish ancestors. Nor had Miriam paid the slightest attention to any of Shona’s determined conversation this morning. Surely, if she was going to pretend to be a Scot, even one a few generations removed from the mother country, she should begin to appreciate the history of Gairloch.
No, Miriam’s attention had been for Fergus. Unfortunately, her brother had seemed more than willing to bask in her smile.
It was enough to give Shona a rash.
Where was Miriam now? Hunting down Fergus in order to spend more time with him? Or was Fergus giving the American woman a tour of Gairloch?
That would never do.
She knew quite well that he didn’t want to sell the castle. What he didn’t know was how close she was to resorting to the almshouse. The idea of being dependent on the charity of others made her stomach clench. As did the notion of living in a little parish cottage off Shoe Street, given food, fuel, and a ration of pity. Not to mention having to endure endless preaching.
The idea of it kept her awake at night, while humiliation fed her dreams.
How was she going to pay the Inverness shopkeepers what she owed them? She’d managed to convince most of her creditors to grant her a few months, in view of the possible sale of Gairloch. But if it didn’t go through, she didn’t know what she’d do. If the magistrate, in an act of grace, didn’t send her to gaol, she still owed the money, plus a fine.
In light of that undeniable future, sentimentality really wasn’t very important.
“Where is Mr. Loftus now?” she asked.
“He’s in the library,” Helen said, entering the room with a tray in her hands.
“Where’s Jennie?” she asked, speaking of the girl who was acting as maid for a time.
“Cleaning the dining room. What is Miriam doing? Fussing over her hair. Evidently, the weather in Scotland is damaging to milady’s locks.”
She’d never heard Helen be sarcastic, but exposure to the Loftus family would drive a saint to swear.
“Have you just served tea?” she asked, glancing at the contents of the tray. An empty plate, a cup and saucer, and a small china teapot, from her mother’s company china.
“Just a small portion left over from breakfast. Mr. Loftus is longing for scones, the kind his grandmother made for him.”
Maybe Helen could decipher exactly what the man wanted.
“I’ve spent a good long time listening to Mr. Loftus complain about a great many subjects,” Helen said. She began removing the empty dishes from the silver tray. “Did you know that, in addition to being a financier, he runs railroads?”
Shona shook her head.
“He does. He also owns two shipyards and is looking at property along the Clyde.”
“That would give him something to do in Scotland.”
“He was very fond of his grandmother,” Helen said. “Quite a lovely woman, I understand, with a voice like a sparrow.”
Shona frowned. “Sparrows don’t sing.”
“Mr. Loftus thinks they can. I didn’t correct him.”
“You’re a wonder, Helen. Truly.”
Helen smiled. “I’m very used to listening to my father. He had a tendency to go and on about things as well. It’s amazing, really, how often people just want to be heard. Mr. Loftus seemed gratified that I was paying attention. Evidently, Miriam doesn’t.”
She bit her lip rather than comment on the American girl.
“Any complaints about Gairloch?”
“Oh, he’s quite filled with complaints about Gairloch,” Helen said airily, not understanding that the words were like a spear to Shona’s heart. “But along with the complaints, he has numerous plans.”
“Plans?”
“He intends to install a boiler immediately. As well as new device they have in New York City. An elevator,” Helen said, sounding the word out slowly. “A platform to hoist people from one floor to another. He said it would make it easier for him.”
Shona looked at the cook, then sat on one of the benches in front of the table, uncaring that flour dusted her dress. “Then he’s serious about purchasing Gairloch?”
Helen looked at her oddly. “Of course. Why ever would he come all this way?”
To bedevil her; to cause her hopes to rise. She only shook her head in answer.
“He hasn’t seen the whole of Gairloch yet.”
“I imagine he will after his nap.”
“He’s napping now?”
What about his bloody scones?
“Elizabeth insisted upon it,” Helen said, wiping the tray. “She’s quite a lovely girl.”
Evidently, Helen had managed to learn more in a few minutes than she had in a day.
“I don’t suppose you know where Fergus is?”
Helen shook her head.
“Then we’ll plan on giving Mr. Loftus the grand tour this afternoon.”
Until then, she was going in search of her brother. Before she could leave the room, however, Helen stopped her.
“Mr. Loftus did ask me the strangest question,” Helen said, placing the tray in its spot in the pantry. She returned and faced Shona. “He wanted to know if we had any ghosts.”
“What did you tell him?”
Helen looked a little shamefaced. “I know it was wrong, but all I told him was that every Scottish castle had its share of ghosts. He evidently wanted one.”
She studied her companion for a moment. Perhaps she’d delayed too long. Before any more time passed, it was time to tell Helen the truth.
Chapter 11
“G
airloch does have ghosts,” Shona said. “Not just one, but two.”
Helen looked startled.
Shona sighed and stood. “Come with me,” she said, leaving the kitchen.
Several moments later, she stood in the Clan Hall with Helen beside her. Today, the room reeked of linseed oil and turpentine, and the yellow soap she’d used to scrub the floor.
“We have two ghosts,” she said. “One called the
bean tuiream
, or weeping woman, and the other who’s a piper.” She smiled. “All my life, I hoped to see one of the ghosts, because the Imrie who did was said to have great good fortune.”
“Did you?” Helen asked, wide-eyed.
She shook her head. Despite nights of sneaking down to the Clan Hall, shutting her eyes tight and wishing—and praying—for a peek at one of them, she never had. Truthfully, she wanted to see the piper more than the
bean tuiream
, because she didn’t want to be saddened by a ghost.
She’d imagined what the piper would look like if he ever appeared, the amorphous shape of the figure as he gradually formed, attired in an emerald-hued kilt and white shirt, holding the pipes on his shoulder, his gaze on the far horizon.
Helen looked at her, no doubt remembering the sound she’d heard a few days ago. The weeping woman was heard by most people, but she didn’t get a chance to reassure her companion.
“What utter blatherskite,” Miriam said from behind her. “That is the right word, isn’t it? You Scots have such colorful terms.”
“It’s not nonsense,” Shona said, turning and facing the American woman.
“You must tell Father. He’ll be so amused.”
Miriam, dressed in a striped blue and white dress—not the one she was wearing at breakfast—approached with a swaying gait that made her skirt swing much farther than decorum decreed.
“You cannot believe such things, surely?”
“Scotland is a much older country than America, Miss Loftus,” she said, feeling for her composure and finally finding it. “After another thousand years, people in your country might feel the same.”
“I doubt it,” Miriam said. “I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous. Ghosts?”
Helen’s glance was filled with caution. As if warning her that she wasn’t in a position to be dismissive of Miriam. Nor could she say exactly what she wanted to say, which wasn’t the least polite.
Perhaps she’d been spoiled in her life, always being able to say, within the limitations of good behavior, exactly what she wished whenever she wished. At the moment, however, she had no power at all. Not even that of a verbal rebuff.
Instead, she tucked away her irritation for another time and forced a smile to her face. She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know the expression was forced and false.
“Will your ghosts be pleased at having Americans living here?”
She was very much afraid that the Gairloch ghosts would not be pleased with the ensuing departure of the last of the Imrie Clan. But if Miriam had such derision for the ghosts, what would she say to that comment?
Even she and Fergus treated the ghosts with some respect. Not that the ghosts demanded it. Tradition did, handed down for a hundred years, ever since the piper’s haunting lament had first been heard in the corridors of Gairloch.
The pibroch wasn’t a warning to the Imries. She’d often wished it had been. Perhaps they might have been able to prevent their parents from going to Edinburgh. Or somehow prevented the death of a baby sister even years earlier. Her grandsire had said that the ghost played when he would, when the time suited him and not otherwise. For that reason, when she heard the far-off, faint sounds of the pipes, she stopped, recalled the day, and wondered at the reason for such a sad sound.
None of this would she share with the Americans, however. They might be buying Gairloch, but they’d no claim to her memories.
Perhaps it was necessary to be a Scot to understand. Blood had seeped into the soil of the Highlands. Freedom had been a cause so necessary to her ancestors that they’d willingly fought for it, died for it, and enshrined it in their songs and stories. Proud men rebelled against a yoke of any kind, whether it came from another clan, an invader from the north, or the English.
Surely an American would understand that, but she couldn’t be certain, and for that reason, Shona held her tongue.
“I’m sorry you don’t believe,” she said. “Perhaps our ghosts will make an appearance for you.”
“That would be vastly amusing,” Miriam said. “I should like to tell my friends about a Scottish ghost. Will he be wearing a kilt? Or be as handsome as your friend Gordon?”
“Colonel Sir Gordon,” she corrected.