CHAPTER 4
A
ndrew met the pony cart on the track coming back from the village. His son was seated on Mrs. MacLaren's generous lap, swathed in a thick sweater, cap, and mittens, which must have belonged to one of her grandchildren. His cheeks were rosy and he was laughing until he caught sight of his father. Instinctively he shrank into Mrs. MacLaren's bosom, earning Andrew a look of concern from his housekeeper.
He remembered what Miss Peartree said. If children and animals liked you, it meant something to Mrs. MacLaren. Perhaps he'd have to get a dog to convince the woman he was not a devil, although in his heart he knew he was. His own child was afraid of him. Marc probably felt Andrew was responsible for robbing him of every known thing in his world, including his name. There was no way to explain the truth to him now, or perhaps ever. How could he tell the child he was a bastard, conceived in triangular sin to hold on to ducal consequence? That his parents were dead because of him? Andrew was an expert liarâany lie he told the boy would be preferable to the truth. By the time Marc was old enough, perhaps he'd have a story fashioned that would be palatable.
He gave a falsely good-natured smile to the little group. “Good morning. Lovely day, isn't it?” He gestured to the sun, which showed no sign of hiding behind a snow-filled cloud just yet. The MacLarens nodded enthusiastically and gestured to the pile behind them. Clothes for Miss Peartree, Andrew guessed, too late to do him any good. Her naked image was burned upon his eyelids. “I'm just going for a walk. Carry on.”
The island wasn't more than a few miles long and wide, and a third of it was his. He took a breath of bracing sea air and watched the birds careen above his head. There must be thousands of them out here. Traces of them were everywhere, from their droppings to the nests tucked into rock and tall grass. He didn't know one gull from another, but the previous owner of Gull House certainly had. Perhaps the next time it was fair enough to venture outside Andrew would take the man's journals with him. He needed to do something to turn his mind from the captivating Miss Peartree, although bird-watching might not be sufficiently engaging.
One night in his new home and he was ready to jump from the rather jagged cliffs on either side of him. Perhaps when his arm was better, he'd teach himself to rappel down them, hunt for eggs himself. He was hungry enough to eat a raw egg right now.
He headed down the sloping track until the village was in sight and peat smoke perfumed the air. The turf-roofed stone houses clustered close together as though they were cold themselves, facing a sheltered cove. He could see quite a few bundled-up people taking advantage of the sunny day in their dooryards, spinning, mending nets, gossiping. Very likely gossiping about
him
, talking about his arrival. A humble sign swung in the wind over what appeared to be a tiny store.
Suddenly, Andrew didn't want to bear their scrutiny. He took an abrupt turn on a footpath that wound along the eastern ridge. The waves thundered and crashed on the beach below, birds wheeled and squawked in the sky. For a place in the middle of nowhere, the noise was deafening, louder to Andrew than London ever was.
But yet, there was nothing whatsoever to do.
Andrew was afraid he'd made a grave mistake asking Edward Christie to secure him property here. It wasn't as if he missed human contactâhe'd had quite enough of that, ever dissembling, fawning, flattering to line his pockets. If he never again had to pay a compliment to a portly viscount or an aging dowager, never had to position himself between an unhappy husband and wife, that would be fine. He'd whored long enough.
But how was he to occupy himself here? It wasn't as if he had an estate to run. There was no home farm to oversee, no tenants' roofs to repair, no horses in the stable whickering for a run. The decaying outbuilding to Gull House might garner his attention for a while, although it was more suited to keeping chickens than prime horseflesh. A few chickens wouldn't go amiss, though. Andrew didn't truly fancy eating seabirds' stolen eggs. Perhaps a cow, milk for Marc since Miss Peartree didn't seem to think much of goat's milk.
He'd have to go home and make a list. A long one. And he might solicit Miss Peartree's opinion, if he could focus on a spot over her head and not into her lovely gold-flecked eyes. Sighing, he chose the long way home, hoping the girl would be properly dressed by the time he got back.
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After a two-hour tramp exploring the coast of his new domain, Andrew was ready to warm up and eat. His stomach was more than empty, his fingers were frozen, and his gentleman's boots had done nothing to repel the frost on the uneven grassy path. He fumbled at the kitchen door, then held back his laughter as he interrupted his housekeeper and his governess in the middle of a bilingual argument.
Be careful what you wish for
. Miss Peartree was now draped in an oversized pea-green sack, the sleeves rolled up in a bunch to expose her dainty wrists. Mrs. MacLaren was running basting stitches up one side of the dress in a futile attempt to fit it to the little governess. There would be enough fabric left over for at least another exceedingly ugly garment should they decide to cut into it, if Mrs. MacLaren didn't cut into Miss Peartree first. It was clear Miss Peartree was not a bit grateful for her new clothes.
“I hope it's safe to come in now,” he murmured.
Miss Peartree shot him a scornful look but said nothing. Marc looked up shyly from his pot on the floor and then resumed banging. Andrew couldn't decide what was worseâthe domestic intranquility of his servants or his son's attempts at percussion.
“Couldn't we find him something less noisy to occupy him with? A set of blocks or something?” he shouted over the noise.
“You should ask Mr. MacLaren to make him some. He has his tools with him today,” Miss Peartree shouted back. Curious, Marc stopped his drumming and stared at the adults. Andrew tamped down his desire to pick his son off the floor. It was enough that the boy wasn't crying when he looked at him.
“What an excellent idea, Miss Peartree. I will directly after I finally have my breakfast. Lunch now, I guess. I was somehow distracted from food earlier. The condition of the kitchen quiteâshocked me. I expect I should apologize.” Not that he was a bit sorry. Miss Peartree had been a tempting morsel.
Miss Peartree took a step forward, and Mrs. MacLaren yanked her back by her skirts. “I left a sign on the door, sir. I never expected you to take the back stairs.”
“No harm done. In fact, there's a great improvement to your person. The bath has done wonders for you. I wish I could say the same about thatâthatâshall we call it a dress?”
Miss Peartree's lips twitched. “I call it an abomination. You should see what else this evil woman brought me to wear. It seems she still hates me.”
“You must admit it's better than what you had.”
She sniffed and pinched the material that hid her hips. “I'm not sure about that.”
Mrs. MacLaren threw up her hands, stuck her needle back into a pincushion, and snapped the lid of her sewing box shut. She said something in Gaelic with finality.
“Getting you to stand still is a trial, I take it.” Andrew went to the sideboard, lifted the linen napkin from a loaf, and began to cut a slice. He was gently shooed away by Mrs. MacLaren, who pointed to a kitchen chair. Andrew obeyed and watched the older woman assemble a simple lunch for him of bread and cheese and pickles, replete with a mug of ale. Marc sidled up to the table, staying a safe distance away.
“Marc, would you like a bite?” He tore off a corner of the bread and held it out. After thinking a long moment, Marc snatched it from Andrew's hand and crammed it into his mouth.
Mrs. MacLaren beamed and patted his son's curls. She set to making Marc a little plate of his own.
“We've eaten already, you know.” Miss Peartree frowned. Mrs. MacLaren said something right back that Andrew interpreted as “Marc is a growing boy.” The housekeeper filled a cup with milk and placed it and the food quite close to Andrew. If Marc wanted it, he'd have to climb onto the bench and get it. Sit within spitting distance of his father, emphasis on spitting. Andrew inched back a little to make it easier for the child to proceed. He was relieved when Marc hauled his little body onto the scarred wooden bench, straightened himself, and tucked into his second lunch.
Miss Peartree relented and helped herself to a pickle. The three of them sat in companionable silence in the warm kitchen, watching Mrs. MacLaren move capably between the larder and the stove preparing tonight's fish pie dinner. Thanks to the provisions they'd brought over on the boat yesterday, his household was spared from eating roasted gulls or their eggs. One could not precisely go to market with a basket over one's arm out here, although Andrew had seen the store. Perhaps tomorrow if the weather held he'd have the courage to go down and face the islanders and check out the village itself. Maybe he could even bring Miss Peartree and Marc with him.
Marc began drooping over his plate. The governess swept him up in her arms and whispered something in Italian in his ear. He shook his head no but was not defiant. No self-respecting boy would admit he was tired and needed a nap. She carried him upstairs, singing softly. Andrew was left with his housekeeper, who looked as if she'd prefer to be alone in her kitchen kingdom.
He took the hint. Making a great show of patting his belly and bowing, he shut himself in his bookless library. A dozen crates were lined up along the walls. Mr. MacLaren must have taken the liberty of prying them open while Andrew was out on his ramble, but their contents were undisturbed. A very good thing, too, for Andrew did not want to shock the man with his naughty books.
But he had othersâhistories, novels, scientific treatises. His education had been a hit-or-miss affair, so it had behooved him to teach himself that he might move smoothly in society. One would never guess that Andrew Rossiter was the son of a common Edinburgh prostitute.
Not that his mother was common. She'd been extraordinarily beautiful, a golden angel as he remembered through his little boy's lens. She'd had rich patronsâone of whom had been his unknown fatherâbut when he was seven she had become ill and left him. Disappeared. Whether she was dead or simply in despair, the result was the same. Andrew had managed somehow on his own for a few weeks before Donal Stewart found him.
Andrew was not going to let himself wallow in the unpleasant past. He removed the lid on one of the boxes and unwrapped a small marble statue of Pan. Safe enough. He placed it upon a shelf, then rummaged around for other objets d'art. Many had been gifted to him by grateful patrons, who had far more money than sense. He admired the bric-a-brac for its worth, not for sentimentality. He had little in his past to miss, but much to regret.
Bah. He was doing it again. He shoved the empty box aside and began on the next. Books this time. Leather-bound and gilt-inscribed. He lined them on a shelf methodically bringing them out to the very edge. Andrew was particular when it came to his surroundingsâhe appreciated beauty and order. How he was going to set Gull House to rights would be a monumental task, although somewhere in the house came the steady tapping of a hammer. Mr. MacLaren had gotten right to work. Andrew's new home's deficiencies needed no explanation, which was fortunate as whatever Andrew said would not be understood. But the MacLarens seemed competent and hardworking. He would keep them on, but certainly for his own sanity Miss Peartree had to go.
As if she knew she was in his thoughts, she knocked on the library door, not waiting for an invitation to barge in. She had changed into something else equally huge and hideous, only instead of pea-green it was more vomit yellow. Andrew raised an eyebrow.
“You might have waited for me to say âenter.' ” He could have been doing anything in hereâgratifying himself with the image of Miss Peartree's far lovelier appearance this morning, for example.
“Marc is asleep, even through the hammering, poor lamb. I thought I would ask you if you need any help unpacking.”
Well, this was something new. Miss Peartree actually looked meek and biddable. Ridiculous as well. “I'm perfectly capable of moving a few books on my own.”
“Of course you are. I meant no disparagement. How did you injure your arm, anyway?”
“An accident,” he said tersely.
“The same one that killed your wife?”
He had been mistaken. She wasn't here to help but to hound him. “Miss Peartree, you ask far too many questions. Even an upper servant such as yourself should know your place. I cannot think how your previous employer tolerated your inquisitiveness.” He plunked a stack of books down on his desk with a deliberately loud thud, hoping to frighten her away. Instead, she took the top off one of the crates and peered into it.
Damn it!
Before he could tell her to close the box, she had lifted what was surely one of his more salacious volumes and opened it.
To her credit, she neither blanched nor blushed. There was no sign of a ladylike swoon, no shriek, no revulsion. She looked up at him quite calmly, the book still open in her hands. “Oh! I can see now why you wanted to do this task alone. I know you care nothing for my opinion, but these books should not be around an impressionable child. What if Marc were to come upon them?”