Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (9 page)

The trunks came, all eight of them. They were quite large
and filled up the parlor, which now seemed divided between the Psalms and what
they had come to call “The Search”.

The Psalms and The Search. These were the two things
Fletcher had a feeling Cathleen was torn between. Because of her obvious
displeasure in having him here, Fletcher had insisted that Cathleen and David
go on with their lives and work just as they had before.

Cathleen had happily agreed that this was best, but David
had not. It had left her a bit piqued that her grandfather preferred to work
with Fletcher, and it was for that reason, Fletcher suspected, that she was
determined not to join them.

In the past two days of sorting through the trunks, he had
more than one opportunity to observe her working quietly across the room,
occasionally picking out a tune, even singing at times, then meticulously
writing down the notes and words, while he and her grandfather examined the old
documents.

From time to time he would catch her stealing a look at
them, and whenever they came upon something of interest, she would stop work
and stare off into space, pretending to be engrossed in thought, but it was
more than obvious to Fletcher, and David too, that she was listening to every
word they whispered.

He found it amusing that regardless of her efforts to appear
otherwise, Cathleen was every bit as interested in his work as he was.

She was too stubborn for her own good, but that only made
Fletcher see her as more vulnerable, for despite her determination, there were
moments when she lapsed into a sadness that attracted him profoundly.
Initially, her beauty had drawn him to her, but the secret life she kept hidden
from him was what he now found most intriguing. He could not help but think it
was another man who had caused her sadness, another man who had given her that
unapproachable serenity that he longed to breach. It was not so much her
tranquility that bothered him but the fact that he was not the one who had
caused it.

A knock at the door turned out to be a neighbor who stopped
by to visit with David. Walking outside with the neighbor, David left the door
ajar, which was the perfect opportunity for Cathleen’s three orphan kittens to
creep inside.

Seeing them come into the room now, Fletcher watched them
make their way to where Cathleen sat at the piano. One of the kittens, a yellow
tabby, stopped under the piano, so fascinated with the swinging motion of
Cathleen’s foot that it took an occasional swat. The other two kittens hopped
up on the piano bench, the orange and white one climbing into her lap, watching
her hands move fluidly over the keys, unable to resist taking a swat as well.
The gray tabby was more captivated with the idea of jumping on the keys. He
pounced, and Cathleen ignored him for a minute, but when he began to make a
nuisance of himself, she picked him up and gave him a good scolding, then
reached down to gather up the other two.

Fletcher was fascinated, seeing her with her arms full of
three squirming, mewling kittens. She had a great deal more patience with
animals, he noted, than she did with him.

A warm sensation traveled through him as he watched the
orange and white kitten climb up the bodice of her simple gray dress, following
the curve of her breast, digging its claws into her collarbone—for which he
received a firm scolding and prompt removal.

“Would you like me to put them out for you?”

“No, I can manage.” She rose, carrying the three kittens
from the room.

When she returned a moment later she did not even look in
his direction.

She had shut him out, retreating into that unapproachable
serenity again. He was determined to break into it, so he tried distracting her
with conversation. “What did you do? Drown them?”

She gave him a frank look. “No. I rescued them from that.”

“An angel of mercy.”

“It is a commission.
‘Blessed are the merciful, for they
shall obtain mercy.’
Matthew.”

Amusement danced in his voice. “Haven’t you heard, Mercy
killed the cat?”

“What?”

“I heard a story once about a man who had a dog named Mercy.
It seems that this dog killed a neighbor’s cat, and when the woman came to
complain, she rapped smartly upon the door, and when the man opened the door,
she said, ‘Mercy killed my cat.’”

For a moment, Cathleen simply stared at Fletcher, and he
fully expected her to say something about his stupid attempt at levity, when
suddenly she began to laugh—a full-bodied laugh that made her so weak she had
to hold on to the piano for support.

David walked into the room at that moment, pausing to look
from one to the other. “Seems you two are getting along fine without me.”

Cathleen was using the sleeve of her dress to wipe the tears
from her eyes. “Just don’t listen when he tries to impress you with his wit,”
she said weakly.

David was smiling. “Why is that?”

“Because he hasn’t any.”

“Am I that bad?” Fletcher asked.

“Aye. You are awful.”

After that, they settled back to work. An hour or so passed
before Fletcher glanced up and caught her looking at him. He gave her his most
inviting look. “You are welcome to join us,” he said.

She jerked her head around quickly. Without a smile or a
word to him, she gave the impression that she was enthralled with her work, but
he knew that was not the way of it.

He exchanged amused glances with David and chuckled to
himself, deciding he’d give her another day.
One day
, he thought,
and
then she’ll abandon the Psalms to work on The Search.

It was a bet he made with himself, and if he was right, the
reward would be…

He thought for a moment and decided that just to have her
work with them would be reward enough. Then he found himself deep in thought
about that. He was getting to know her a bit better, but he did not even begin
to understand her, and he found that to be a great challenge.

Fletcher loved challenges.

He had learned much about both Cathleen and her grandfather
in the few days he had been with them. For obvious reasons, it was mostly his
observations about Cathleen that interested him. She was an early riser, a
woman who did her farm chores quite routinely each morning. By the time she
prepared the noon meal, she had milked the cow, gathered the eggs, fed the animals—both
her own and the orphans she had inherited—and worked in her garden. In the
afternoons she did her charity work, which he found was quite varied. In the
evenings she sat with her grandfather, going over the notes he had taken on the
Psalms, then picking out tunes on the piano and singing the verses to songs she
had learned as a child, her voice high-pitched and quite the loveliest thing he
had ever heard. After an hour or so, David would leave her to work alone while
he crossed the room to work with Fletcher.

Already, Fletcher had found many things about Cathleen that
reminded him of his mother, and it was at these times, when she sat before the
piano, playing and singing, that he found himself missing his family the most,
for it had been Maggie Mackinnon’s way to play the piano and sing in the
evening, with the children joining in when they were young.

Often, he would find himself watching her, learning her
movements—the exact tilt of her head when she was thinking, the way she closed
her eyes sometimes when she played, the way she looked at her grandfather when
he didn’t know she was looking. He wondered what it would be like to have her
look at him with the same tender concern.

As always, he was amused at the way Cathleen tried to
maintain her distance and disinterest while at the same time giving in to her
natural feminine curiosity. It did not take him long to learn that she, like
her grandfather, was more than interested in his work. He was now certain that
her coolness toward him was not because she did not care for him but simply
because she wanted to protect herself as well as her grandfather.

Defending those she loved was one of many things he admired
about her, and one more thing that reminded him of his mother, for Maggie
fiercely safeguarded those she loved.

“There isn’t anything in this batch worth looking at,” David
said, moving a stack of papers to his left. “Have you found anything?”

Fletcher sighed and dropped his head, rubbing the tired
muscles of his neck. “No. Nothing more than some minutes of the church session
and a few references to the making of pewter communion tokens. The only wedding
mentioned was for Ann Granger and Adam Fife. Nary a Ramsay in the bunch.” He
leaned back, placing his hands at the back of his waist and massaging there. He
was unaccustomed to sitting for such long spells, and his back ached. At that
moment, his gaze locked with Cathleen’s. For a second they looked at each
other, then she looked away.

As David had predicted, sorting through the documents in the
trunks was slow, tedious work, and besides cramps in his neck and back, it was
hard on Fletcher’s eyes. More than once he had sighed and leaned back in his
chair, twisting and stretching, his hands wearily rubbing the exhaustion from
his eyes, only to open them and see Cathleen watching him. She would then use
this as an opportunity to ask him a question.

Today he was surprised when the question turned out to be,
“Do you want me to help?”

He forced himself not to smile. It had taken her only a few
days. “I can always use another good pair of eyes,” he said.

As if she had been waiting for the invitation, Cathleen
stood, closed the cover over the keyboard, and crossed to the table where he
and David worked.

“Would you like me to bring you some tea and shortbread first?”
she asked.

“That would be a most welcome diversion,” Fletcher replied.

“None for me,” David said, rising. “I think it’s time for me
to retire. My heart wants to continue, but my poor old eyes have given out.”

“Good night, Grandfather,” Cathleen said, kissing his cheek.
“Sleep well.”

“Like a babe,” David said, giving Fletcher a wink.

“
‘The sleep of a laboring man is sweet,’
” she
whispered softly. “Ecclesiastes.”

Cathleen went into the kitchen, and by the time she came out
with two cups of tea and a plate of shortbread, Fletcher was back at work.

She put the cups and plate down between them, then took her
grandfather’s seat next to Fletcher. “What would you like me to do?”

He carefully placed a stack of fragile papers in front of
her. “Search through these. Look for anything that has the name Ramsay or Duke
of Glengarry on it.”

Cathleen nodded, then glanced at the clock. It was half past
nine. As she began to read the first document, she understood why this was so
hard on his eyes. The paper was watermarked and yellowed with age; the ink had
faded to a light brown. In many cases the penmanship was overly ornate, making
the words difficult to decipher.

She sipped at her tea as she worked, but she became so
engrossed in what she was doing that she did not look up until she finished the
stack Fletcher had given her and her tea had grown cold.

She was about to reach for another pile of papers, when he
covered her hand with his, his hand warm, his fingers intertwining with hers.
She flinched, and her gaze lifted to meet his. She stared at him, mesmerized,
until she realized what she was doing and had to look away.

“Cathleen…” he said, and she glanced back at him. He gave
her one of his charming, lopsided smiles that had become so familiar to her.
“Even you must rest sometime. It’s after midnight. Already I fear you will hate
me in the morning for keeping you up so late.”

She looked down to where his large brown hand covered her
small white one. She had never allowed a man to hold her hand before, and she
was amazed that she could feel the effect of it throughout her body. She tried
to pull her hand away, but he held it fast.

“Why have you never married?”

“No one ever asked me,” she said, as she again tried to
withdraw her hand.

But he continued to hold it firmly. “I find that hard to
believe.”

She jerked her hand, and still it did not come free.
“Perhaps that is because you don’t understand what it means to be kind and
understanding. The men I know would never force themselves upon a woman.”

“And you think I would?”

“You are forcing your attentions upon me now.”

“Am I?”

“You are holding my hand…against my will.”

“And no fine Scots gentleman would dare such a thing?”

Her heart pounded. “No, he would not.”

“Then I am surprised any of them marry,” he said. “Often a
woman doesn’t know what she wants…until a man shows her.” He released her hand.

“And you have a lot of knowledge about women, I would
imagine.”

“Enough,” he said. “I did have a mother and two sisters.”

As if he knew what she was thinking, he grinned. “Why, Miss
Cathleen, you weren’t referring to
amorous
knowledge, were you?”

Her mouth took on all the characteristics of a prune. “Of
course not!” she snapped.

“That’s what I thought. I can’t imagine your thoughts ever
straying to subjects such as reproduction or fornication.”

“Isn’t that amazing, for I don’t picture yours straying to
such thoughts either. No, I don’t picture your thoughts straying at all.
Wallowing
would be a better word.”

At that, he threw back his head and laughed heartily.

She was mortified over what she had said. If her grandfather
knew… “Shhhhh,” she said hotly. “You’ll wake Grandfather.”

“And we wouldn’t want him to think you were enjoying
yourself, would we?”

She came to her feet. “I think it’s time for me to go to
bed. Good night, Your Lordship.”

“‘Fletcher’,” he corrected, rising. “I have asked you to
call me Fletcher.”