“Perhaps we can take tea in the drawing room?” Ian
asked quietly. “If Henry wouldn’t mind. I’d like to speak with
you.”
“As you wish.” Isobel gestured to the butler, who
went to make the arrangements. She led the way into the Moores’
sweeping room, the bay windows overlooking the street.
“Isobel, I must beg your forgiveness. I should have
called on you earlier, spoken with you... months ago. If I
refrained from doing so, it was because I thought--hoped--there was
no need.”
Isobel stood with her back to him, poker straight,
tension turning her body into a long, poised column. “No need?” she
asked. “How is that?”
“It became clear to me,” Ian said in a low voice,
“that your family had expectations of me. Of us. I wondered if you
shared them...”
“You never asked, though.” She still could not look
at him.
“Indeed not, and that was to spare both of us an
embarrassing scene.”
“It was a scene I have imagined many times,” Isobel
replied in little more than a whisper, “and I never thought it
embarrassing.” There was an agonized moment of silence, and she
forced herself to continue. “But then, I thought you loved me.”
“Isobel... I’d hoped to love you! I wanted to love
you. It seemed so sensible, so right in many ways, and I thought
with time...” he trailed off, taking an uncertain step towards her.
“I have always regarded you with great affection.”
“Sisterly affection.”
Ian sighed heavily. “Yes.”
There was a discreet knock at the door, and the maid
entered with the tea. Isobel dismissed her and began to pour,
grateful for the actions to mask the grief and humiliation that
threatened to swamp her.
“I’m sorry,” Ian said quietly. “I should have
explained all this sooner. I’ve been a coward in many ways, and I
don’t use that word lightly.” He paused, his expression strangely
remote. “I don’t believe I’ve ever told you the circumstances that
brought me to Henry’s ship, and then to Boston.”
Isobel shrugged. “A family argument, Henry
said.”
“Yes, but a bit more than that. I was young and
rash, and I did something very foolish. I sold our farm--one that
my family had owned for a hundred years--for a pitiful sum, and I
did it because I couldn’t be bothered to read the contract
properly.” Isobel’s eyes widened in surprise, and Ian nodded,
realising he felt no bitterness. “Yes, it sounds quite
unbelievable, doesn’t it? Unbelievably foolish, but I was so intent
no playing the man, I behaved like the worst kind of little boy.
Even more so, after the deed was done, I fled. I signed on Henry’s
ship, and I have not seen my older sister--who bore the brunt of my
burden--since then. My younger sister, Eleanor, I’ve only seen
recently, and my father, I was told, died from the strain.” He
smiled bleakly. “Not the actions of a hero, are they? Or even of a
gentleman. Perhaps the most odious thing of all is that I’ve blamed
someone else for my own stupidity. He was not entirely innocent, of
that I can assure you. But I’ve come to realize it was my fault. If
I’d read the contract--if I hadn’t been so vain--” He shrugged.
“Things might have been so very different.”
Isobel stared at her teacup, twisting it between
pale fingers. “Ian, why are you telling me this?”
“I suppose,” he replied after a moment, “because I
realize I’ve done it again. I’ve been so intent on playing the
doctor, I’ve forgotten to be the man. I left Boston for nearly a
month, to conduct what I deemed important experiments for medicine.
I did it in the name of science and humanity, while ignoring the
fact that I was neglecting those God deemed to put in my care.” He
shook his head. “I won’t do that again.”
“You seem to blame yourself for rather a lot of
things,” Isobel said with the ghost of a smile.
“Yes, and I intend to make reparation.” Ian leaned
forward anxiously. “Isobel, tell me what I can do. I know what how
the tongues wag in this city’s society. Most people expected us to
marry.” He took a breath. “We still could.”
Isobel was temporarily robbed of speech. Her
eyebrows rose, and her teacup returned to its saucer with an
inelegant clatter. “Ian, you don’t want to marry me.”
“That’s not true,” he returned stolidly. “I care for
you a great deal, and I imagine that in time we could come to love
each other with the love of a husband and wife. Many marriages have
been built on less.”
“This is a tempting offer?” Isobel couldn’t help but
sound a bit querulous.
“An honest one. I will do right by you, Isobel, if
you’ll have me.”
“Well, I won’t.” She pushed herself up and paced
restlessly to the window, shocked to realize just how tempting
Ian’s offer actually was. For shame! Was she so desperate, so
pathetic? “I admit,” she said after a moment, her voice shaking
only slightly, “that I would like a bit more out of my marriage,
yes, even love as a husband and wife before the vows are
spoken!”
“I understand.”
“But you think I won’t get it?” She turned twitchily
to him.
“Isobel, you are deserving of a man far greater than
I am. I only want to do what is honorable.”
“You love Caroline Reid,” she said after a moment,
her tone now dispassionate.
Ian blinked in surprise. “She is marrying someone
else.”
“Is she? Who told you?”
“Her uncle himself.”
“Perhaps he was lying.”
“I thought so, but...” Ian shrugged. “I have not
been able to see Caroline, and she has not tried to see me...”
“She has not been in society this last week,” Isobel
mused. “Of course, things are quiet now, especially with the
typhoid. And yet... I wonder. Her uncle, you know, is not late of
this city, and he has been received in society simply because of
his connections in England. But the company he keeps here...! That
awful businessman, so coarse and unrefined.” She shook her head. “I
wonder if he tells the truth, is all.”
Ian sat back appraisingly while Isobel turned her
bleak gaze back on the street, wondering if it was pride or defeat
which caused her to plead Caroline’s case to her beloved.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The plaintive cry of a baby was the sweetest sound
Harriet had ever heard. She opened her eyes, waves of fatigue
rolling over her.
Betty stood beside the bed, smiling, although her
eyes were clouded with anxiety.
“The bairn?” Harriet asked, her voice coming out in
a rusty croak. “Is it all right?”
“A fine little lad.” Betty bustled over to the
cradle by the window and picked up a swaddled bundle. “See for
yourself.”
Harriet gazed at the tiny, perfect face with wonder.
“What a wee thing--Allan could hold him in one hand!”
“Aye, I can.” Allan stood in the doorway, grinning.
“He might be a wee thing right now, but I warrant he’ll grow to be
as strong as his brother here.” George peeked his head round Allan,
looking both excited and afraid.
“Mam? You’re all right?”
“Aye, I am.” Harriet struggled to a sitting
position. “Tired, though. I can’t even remember...”
“You fainted,” Betty said quietly, “right at the
end. But it didn’t matter. Your son came into this world healthy,
and I think he’ll stay that way.”
“You don’t think he’s too small?”
Carefully Betty handed the baby to Harriet. “Feel
the weight of him. He’s small, but solid. He’ll do fine, I’m
sure.”
Harriet nestled the baby close to her. He was tiny
and wrinkled, wizened in the way of newborns, like a little, old
man. But he was hers, and that made him beautiful.
Betty stepped back, taking George’s hand in hers.
“Maggie’s tending Anna by the fire. She’s been an angel, that
one--they both have.” She tugged gently on George’s hand. “Come
now, my little lad. We’ll leave your Mam and Pa alone for a
bit.”
Harriet looked up at Allan as he closed the door,
her face still shadowed with remembered worry and strain. “Allan, I
was so afraid.”
He came towards her swiftly, dropping a gentle kiss
on her forehead. “I know, my love. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. If I’d
any idea...”
“How could we?” She shook her head. “I wasn’t
expecting to think of it even until after the syruping.” She
paused, closing her eyes briefly. “I know many women suffer
greatly, the loss of not one child, but two, three, or even more.
Mrs. MacDonald has been expecting at least eight times, with only
one living. But ever since we lost little David, I’ve been afraid,
so afraid...” she trailed off. “Perhaps I’m just weak.”
“I could never think of you as that.” Allan softly
caressed the tiny head of their son. “I long to see a bloom in your
cheeks again. We must all look after your health. It’s a fearsome
thing, bringing a new life into this great big world.”
“That it is.”
Allan perched on the edge of the bed. “What shall we
name him?”
“I hadn’t even thought that far.” Harriet smiled.
“What do you think to naming him Archie, after your brother?”
Allan’s face lit with hope. “Would you mind
that?”
“Of course not. It’s good to remember our loved
ones.” She thought briefly, as she often did, of the little wooden
cross out in the copse, of the child and dreams she’d buried
there.
Then Harriet looked down at wee Archie, nuzzling
against her, his mouth opened in plaintive demand, and she
smiled.
She had much to be thankful for.
Ian gazed out at the bare branches lining the
Commons, the dirty snow piled underneath. A man, the collar of his
coat turned up against the wind, hurried past.
Impatiently Ian turned away, sifting randomly
through the papers on his desk. His mind seethed with questions,
questions to which he’d been able to find no answers. Ever since
Riddell’s butler had told him that Caroline was engaged to be
married, and then Isobel had given him another shred of hope, he’d
tried to discover the truth.
He’d asked for her at shops and modistes, trawled
the best streets of Boston for a glimpse of her face, but to no
avail. His delicately worded queries had merely resulted in shaken
heads, and Eleanor’s notes had no response.
Where was she? Something was wrong, Ian felt, and he
vowed he would discover what it was.
A knock sounded at the front door,
and Ian heard the low murmur of male voices. A moment later, his
manservant, Davies, entered his study. “Master Campbell, Master
Henry Moore and Rupert MacDougall are at the door, awaiting your
pleasure.”
“Bring them in, Davies,” Ian said, his voice brusque
with hidden anxiety as he remembered the business with the
forgeries. “And fetch us some brandy, if you please.”
The two men entered, Rupert walking slowly, his face
pale. The doctor in Ian immediately rose to the fore.
“Rupert, sit down. You look unwell.”
“A bit tired, perhaps,” Rupert replied in a voice
strained with effort, “but well enough to find these
counterfeiters.”
“Are you quite certain you’re able to pursue this?”
Ian asked. He took the other man’s arm to help him to a chair.
“I’m fine.” Rupert shrugged him off. “Nothing that a
few minutes’ sitting down won’t cure. The longer we delay, the
colder the trail gets. Who knows if Summers is even at his offices
now. He might have become scared, gone underground.”
“Perhaps,” Henry acknowledged. “We could let the law
handle this, you know, Rupert.”
Rupert scowled. “I thought we’d already talked about
this.”
“The money will be a loss anyway,” Henry persisted
in a quiet voice. “I can accept that. Lord knows, I’m grateful to
have my family safe. I don’t need to be chasing after criminals and
dollar bills--”
“It’s not about the money.” Rupert’s eyes were hard.
“It’s about justice. You know as well as I do that counterfeiters
go free. It’s impossible to find the men at the top, the men who
matter. So the marshals end up arresting a bunch of petty criminals
instead of the true masterminds, the true evil.”
“And how,” Henry replied, “do you intend to find
these masterminds, if the U.S. marshals cannot?”
“By following the trail, one step at a time. And the
first step is Summers.”
Henry shook his head wearily, and Rupert turned to
Ian. “Ian, you promised you’d help me. Does that stand true, or did
I come here for naught?” Ian was gazing out the window, and Rupert
made an impatient sound. “Aren’t you even listening?”
“I’m sorry.” Ian tore his gaze away from the passing
pedestrians with reluctance. He’d caught a glimpse of a cloak, a
loose tendril of curling, blond hair, and he’d wondered if it was
Caroline. Half of him wanted to run out of the room and chase the
woman, see if it was her. The other half knew it was hopeless.
“Ian?” Henry prompted, looking at him in
concern.
“I’m sorry. I’ve a few things weighing heavily on my
mind.”
“Something other than the matter at hand?” Rupert
raised his eyebrows in polite disbelief, and Ian felt a prickle of
irritation. “As a matter of fact, yes. As dear as this cause may be
to you, Rupert, I’ve no great desire to chase down criminals. My
profession is to heal, not to hunt.”
“Don’t come, then.” Rupert half rose out of his
chair, and Ian held up a hand.
“I don’t mean it like that. I promised to accompany
you, and I do out of as much as a brotherly concern for you as a
desire to see justice served. If I appear out of sorts, forgive me.
It’s only I received news this past week of Caroline Reid’s
engagement, and it has tried me sorely.” He tried for a smile, and
failed. “I know you have the anticipation of a happy home ahead of
you, whereas I have not. So again, forgive me.”
Henry looked surprised. “Caroline Reid engaged? I’d
no idea. To whom?”
“A man named Matthew Dearborn,” Ian replied bleakly.
“I’ve attempted to make inquiries about the man, but little is
known about him. He’s a businessman, wealthy, but hardly in
Boston’s society circles.” He thought of Isobel’s description of
him: coarse and unrefined. Yet obviously wealthy.