Read The Devil Wears Tartan Online
Authors: Karen Ranney
She grabbed two of the books to the far left and returned to her bedchamber, retrieving her spectacles from her bedside table. Only then did she mount the steps and slide beneath the sheets again.
Gilt-etched leather made up the covers of the journals, reminding Davina of books her aunt had bought her from Florence. She opened the cover delicately so as to not damage the spine, now cracked with age.
On the frontispiece “Julianna Magreve Andrews” had been scratched out and “Julianna Ross” written above in a flowing and beautiful script.
Can love come so suddenly? Does it happen in the time that it takes to utter a sentence? Oh dear God, if it does, it has happened to me. I have fallen in love. I have fallen in love. Shall I say it again? I, Julianna Andrews Ross, have fallen in love. Such an emotion, love. Such a horrible and torturous thing to feel and yet marvelous and wonderful and entrancing all at the same time.
He came to sit at my side today when I was in the garden. I was sketching, and he sought me out. I pretended not to be aware of him at first. I wanted to be detached. But then I turned and he was looking at me.
Aidan. Such a wonderful name. It fits him, somehow. Aidan. It goes with his black hair and his smile. Such a lovely smile he has. Such a lovely manner about him.
Davina sat in the middle of the bed, drew her legs up, and balanced the book on her knees. She soon forgot her qualms about reading the dead woman’s journal, being captivated by Julianna’s story.
Marshall’s mother was evidently in love with her husband, but it didn’t seem as if the emotion was reciprocated. One entry in the second journal was telling:
He is going back to Egypt. Even though I am heavy with child, he is leaving. When I questioned him as to why now, he only looked away. Can he not bear to be with me? Am I so repulsive that he would much rather be in Egypt?
He will return, he said, in time for the birth. Yet he and I both know that isn’t the truth. He will return when he feels the inclination to do so, and I will bear my child alone.
I would much rather hate Aidan now.
The next entry was commonplace, regarding a new spice Cook had used in what was evidently a delicious stew. A few entries later, Julianna recounted a plant cutting a neighbor had brought. Nowhere did she mention Marshall’s birth, and he was mentioned only in passing toward the end of the journal.
I wanted to give Marshall a brother or sister. Perhaps it was for the best, given his difficult birth. What a joy he is to me. Why should I ever long for another child, with such a son?
Davina went back to the cupboard and retrieved a few more books, choosing a journal dated 1857, thirteen years earlier. Julianna had died in 1862. Did she know that she only had five years to live? Was there any inclination in her writings that she was conscious of the passing years?
The tone of Julianna’s entries was generally happy, and only once did she seem less so.
Aidan is coming home. I received word via his factor today. The season in Egypt is finished, and his health has suffered for it. And so the Earl of Lorne has come home to be earl again.
Their marriage was not, evidently, a happy one, each living a separate life from the other. Davina skipped ahead several weeks to find an entry after the Earl of Lorne had returned.
Aidan lives for the dynasty of a forgotten age, in touch with his treasures as he has never been with human beings. I have seen him stroke the statue of a long-dead queen or gently touch a bandaged hand of one of his mummies with more tenderness than he has ever shown to another living soul. Does he not understand that those of us who draw breath also need attention?
Did Marshall emulate his father? Did he, too, want a marriage in which two separate lives never touched?
Davina picked up another journal, and then almost immediately wished she hadn’t.
I have returned, just this afternoon, from the specialist in Edinburgh. He is quite an avuncular man, given to nodding often, which sets his large mustache to bobbing furiously on his face. I found myself concentrating on the ends of the mustache rather than the sound of his voice, which is rather high and whiny. I suppose a man cannot be blamed for the sound of his voice, but it seems to me that he would make an extra effort to counteract the appearance of femininity by adopting a more sober kind of dress. Unfortunately, my doctor chooses the rather appalling shade of plum for his waistcoats. But who am I to criticize the fashions of others? I am no portrait of elegance myself. I have no patience for it. Now, I have no time for it.
There, the very reason for my journey to Edinburgh. I cannot delay the words any longer, but in my foolishness, I think that if I do not write them down, they are less real. Instead my doctor’s diagnosis will simply hang in the air, not fastening itself to me. How foolish I can be, sometimes. I cannot help but wonder if other people have such reluctance to face a terrible truth?
I feel as if my body is collapsing in on itself and will disappear until I am no more than an envelope. All they will find of me is a tiny, much-folded square of Julianna.
But I am delaying again, am I not? Silly woman. My reluctance to write the word will not prevent death from coming for me, eager and intrusive.
I had the oddest thought returning from Edinburgh today. Thank the dear Lord that Aidan is in Egypt. Otherwise I am sure that he would choose to use my body as one of his experiments and mummify me according to what he has discovered about his beloved country and its rather horrifying practices. I shall make it abundantly clear to Marshall that I am simply to rest in the family crypt, and nothing untoward is to be done with my remains.
There, I’ve said it again. My remains. Dear God, I am so frightened. I did not intend to die when I went to Edinburgh. I thought it womanly trouble. I am of that age, and gladly acknowledge it. I can no longer bear children, even though I have never lost the urge to practice for the act. Those days are long gone for me. They have been long gone for a time, unfortunately. When one’s husband ignores one the only choice is take a lover or become a martyr. I do not have the tolerance for martyrdom, but I find adultery even more onerous.
I can’t help but wonder occasionally if Aidan finds comfort in the arms of an Egyptian woman. I should like to kill him if he does.
In all actuality, he deserted me long before he started returning to Egypt with such regularity.
And I grew accustomed to his absences regardless of where his body resided.
I am dying, the doctor says. I have a cancer. In his very high, very squeaky voice, my physician informed me that he would do everything in his power to make the end as pleasing as possible, but that it would not be painless. I do not like pain.
There the journal ended.
Davina extinguished the lamp and lay alone in the darkness, her heart aching for a woman she’d never know.
A
t dawn Davina awoke, certain that something was not quite right. What had awakened her? The journal she’d read just before falling into a troubled sleep? Or the fact that Marshall had never joined her last night?
She pulled the bellpull, but after five minutes Nora still hadn’t arrived. Nor had a footman, inquiring after her needs.
She gave the bellpull another tug, but didn’t wait until Nora joined her to dress. She dispensed with metal hoops, choosing a smaller set with tapes. A petticoat or two would be proper enough, and she laced herself very lightly in preparation for a good deal of physical work.
She chose a serviceable dress that was still too new for the task she’d given herself. Unfortunately, however, she’d not been allowed to bring any of her worn day dresses, her aunt deciding that she’d have no reason to ever need to wear a garment with a frayed hem or a threadbare collar.
You’re going to be a countess, Davina. A countess does not go on foraging expeditions. If you go walking
in Ambrose’s woods, you will do so with a parasol and a servant or two to beat the bushes out of your way.
She had no intention of walking in the forests that surrounded Ambrose, but she did want to explore the attics. Instead of her more substantial shoes, she chose casual slippers. She’d probably rue the choice, but the leather shoes that laced up the side were uncomfortable as well as heavy. By the end of the day her big toes hurt and her heels pinched. She’d much prefer to walk around in slippers even though it was like being barefoot.
Without Nora, the only way to fix her hair was to plait it in one loose braid and secure it to the back of her head. She did so, frowning at herself in the mirror. After last night her eyes looked shadowed, the expression in them troubled. She’d not slept well.
Just when she’d dropped off to sleep she heard something that sounded oddly like an animal screaming in pain. She’d been so distressed by the sound that it was a very long time until she’d fallen asleep again.
She opened the door to her bedroom, wondering where the maid’s quarters were. Nora was always very dependable, and if she’d not arrived, it was because she was ill. Davina hoped it was only a minor ailment, a complaint that could be rectified by a day spent in bed.
Was there a physician living at Ambrose? A dozen questions occurred to her, but each of them flew out of her mind when she noticed the flurry of activity in the direction of the earl’s suite.
She flattened herself against the wall as a footman ran past her, toward the room. The doors were open
and a parade of people were entering and leaving, some more hurriedly than others.
Davina pushed past the knot of people in the doorway. A footman jostled her, and she pushed him impatiently out of the way. He retaliated by pushing back and cursing at her. When he turned and glanced down at her, he flushed and bowed low.
“Begging your pardon, Your Ladyship,” he said, finally moving out of her way.
Davina would have spoken to him but she suddenly saw Nora. The maid was leaning against one of the mattresses alongside the wall. One arm cradled a china bowl, its rim splashed with blood. A cloth, also bloodstained, was clutched in her hand. The color was stripped from the girl’s face until it looked oddly gray.
Fear curled in the bottom of Davina’s stomach. Her knees wobbled as she pushed herself through the crowd of people.
Something was horribly wrong.
She pushed her way closer to the bed. Marshall lay flat on his back, two men standing on either side of the mattress. One of the men was his uncle, but the second man was a stranger.
Marshall’s right arm was bandaged. Blood dotted the sheets and trailed to a shattered window not far away.
“What happened?” she asked. At another time, she would have noted the absolute calm of her tone and congratulated herself on it. Now it was enough to push the words past the sudden constriction in her throat.
“You should not be here, Davina,” Garrow Ross
said. He nodded to the footman who’d been so annoyed at her. “Thomas, see the countess to her room.”
The footman stepped forward and would have bowed to her again had she not stopped him with an outstretched hand.
“I have no intention of leaving,” she said. “Not until my question is answered. What happened?”
“There are some questions that should not be asked, lady wife,” Marshall said. “You would not like the answers.”
They exchanged a long look.
“Did you have one of your fits?” she asked, reaching out and touching his leg beneath the covers. A thoroughly shocking thing to do, especially in front of other people, but she needed to be reassured that he was all right. That simple touch was enough for the moment.
Garrow looked startled. “You know about his fits?”
She nodded. “What did you see?” she asked, ignoring Garrow and focusing her attention on Marshall.
“Is there a reason for such hysteria?”
Davina glanced behind her to find the housekeeper standing there, addressing a young maid who was blotting her eyes with her apron.
“Girl, get yourself to your room, and don’t leave it until you can compose yourself. Your time will be taken from your half day off. Now go.”
The young maid melted away, and it was then that Mrs. Murray looked in her direction. “The staff must remember their comportment at all times, Your Ladyship, even in difficult situations.”
The words sounded uncannily like those she’d heard
all her life, but Davina didn’t respond. Now was not the time to make a scene. Instead Davina turned and addressed the stranger.
“Who are you, sir?”
“He is a friend of mine,” Garrow said in answer to her blunt question. “Who just happens to be a physician. A wedding guest of yours, who thankfully agreed to stay a week or so. Without him, I’d have been sorely pressed to treat Marshall.”
“Which you have done,” Marshall said. “And now all of you can leave. Jacobs, see the countess to her room.”
Jacobs moved from the rear of the room and came to stand beside Davina. He exchanged a glance with Marshall and nodded before turning to Davina.
“Your Ladyship,” he said, “if you please.”
She glanced at Marshall but he didn’t look in her direction.
“Marshall?”
“Go away, Davina,” he said, without an inflection in his voice.
“It’s for the best, Davina,” Garrow said. He hesitated for a moment and then spoke again, in a low voice that couldn’t be overheard. “I think that until he’s well, you shouldn’t be alone with him.”
What utter rubbish.
She didn’t make the comment to him, but remained silent instead. Sometimes older people, older men, often took silence for assent. They reasoned that a woman would not dare to disagree with them. Silence gave her the freedom to ignore their dictates and do what she chose.
“Marshall?”
He stared at the ceiling. “I want all of you out of my chamber. Now.”
Once more Jacobs bowed to her, and this time she allowed him to escort her from the room.
But before she left, she stopped in front of Mrs. Murray. “There is nothing wrong with a little honest emotion, Mrs. Murray. Comportment has its place, but so does humanity. We cannot all be made of stone.”
The two of them faced each other, neither speaking. Finally Davina simply walked away, Jacobs beside her, and Nora trailing behind.
She thanked Jacobs at the door and sent Nora back to her own chamber to change clothes and wash the blood from her hands.
Davina closed the door and leaned her forehead against it, wishing that she might begin the day again. She’d awake and Marshall would be beside her. They’d kiss, share a laugh, and plan their day. Except she couldn’t go back and rearrange life to her liking, could she? If she could, she’d have her mother alive as well as her father. And her marriage? She’d still marry Marshall, and what kind of silly fool did that make her?
Garrow’s friend peered into his face.
“Your Lordship, do you know who you are?”
“Of course I know who I am,” Marshall said, feeling some degree of satisfaction when his identity came immediately to him. “Marshall Ross, Earl of Lorne. Is that sufficient enough for you? Or do you require additional proof?”
He noted the glance exchanged by his uncle and the other man. Was he being treated like a child? His right arm still hurt like blazes and his ribs felt as if they were bruised.
He didn’t volunteer the fact that while he knew exactly who he was, Marshall wasn’t entirely certain what had transpired in the last twelve hours. The last memory he had was of deciding not to visit Davina.
Davina. She’d looked at him as if she were frightened. What the hell did he do about that? Nothing—she was wise to be afraid of him.
He sat up, pushing away the physician’s solicitous hands and ignoring his comments.
“Out of my room,” he said, addressing the servants still milling about.
The footmen obeyed right away; a maid had to be propelled out the door by one of the young men. The housekeeper looked as if she’d like to remain in place. Only after they exchanged a long look did she nod and leave the room.
He turned to the physician. “Thank you for your assistance, sir, but as you can see, I no longer have need of you.”
“I’m Polonius Marsh, Your Lordship,” the man said, performing a sketchy bow. “I would like to leave you with a few instructions for the care of your arm.”
“What about my arm?” He glanced down at the bandage.
“You have cut yourself, Your Lordship. On the glass from the window. A very nasty gash it is.”
He craned his head to see the window in question,
wishing that he could remember. Sometimes it happened that way. Sometimes he had perfect recall, able to remember exactly which demons had appeared to him and in which guise. Other times his mind was wiped as clean as a blank slate.
He stood, feeling the room swim around him for a moment.
“You should rest, Your Lordship. You’ve lost a considerable amount of blood.”
“I doubt I shall die of it.”
“You’d be better to rest. Recuperate and let your blood multiply.”
“I don’t want to remain in this bed,” Marshall said, realizing that he was fully clothed. Hadn’t he undressed at all last night? Dear God, but the demons had come early.
“I can give you something for the discomfort, Your Lordship. Your arm is going to pain you.”
Marshall almost smiled at that. “I won’t take it,” he said. “Better a little pain than to lose my senses.”
“I assure you, sir, you would be better served by remaining prone for some time.”
Marshall walked to the wardrobe, grateful to note that the room didn’t swirl around him. “I’ll be fine, Doctor. Thank you for your care of me.”
“Marshall.”
“Don’t pontificate, Uncle,” Marshall said, beginning to remove his shirt. He was used to the sight of his own blood—he’d seen enough in China. But he didn’t have to inflict that sight on his servants.
He walked past his uncle, again thankful that his steps were steady and sure. Out of the corner of his
eye he studied the window. The shards still remaining in the frame could have sliced his head off. Perhaps he should give some thought to installing bars on the inside of the windows.
If his privacy hadn’t been so important to him, he would have installed a footman in his room as a bodyguard. Or have Jacobs sleep in the next room. But he’d lived seven months in close contact with forty men, and he now prized his solitude.
He walked to the door and stood beside it. This time his uncle understood. Dr. Marsh was a bit slower to comprehend.
“Your Lordship, I do protest. You need to remain in bed.”
“Thank you for your kindness, Dr. Marsh.”
Implicit in his comment was a farewell. Garrow nodded, signifying his understanding. Dr. Marsh would be on his way home by afternoon, after an intent conversation about the wisdom of keeping the events in this room confidential.
When the door closed behind them, Marshall braced his left arm against the door and swore softly. His right arm hurt abominably, and there was a thudding headache in the middle of his skull that threatened to burst from his forehead. But his physical symptoms didn’t bother him as much as the sick feeling of regret he felt.
When would it end? One morning he wouldn’t awake. Or he would awake in hell, a prisoner there forever.
“Lord Martinsdale, I must tell you that I don’t feel comfortable doing what you’re asking,” Theresa said,
staring at the man seated on the opposite side of an enormous mahogany desk.
She’d often thought that Lord Martinsdale summoned those who reported to him in this office in order to intimidate them. The chamber had no impression on her.
The portrait of the Queen was mounted on the wall behind him, slightly elevated to give the impression that Victoria was overseeing all that transpired. The bookcases along three walls were mahogany, the carved cornices matching the columns of the desk. Burgundy curtains were draped across the windows framing the door on the fourth wall.
It was, simply put, the office of a man of power, and one who didn’t mind wielding it.
“Is it not a bit late to be using that particular word, Mrs. Rowle? There were numerous occasions when you were not comfortable. Besides, the situation is ideal for someone of your talents.”
“Hardly ideal, Lord Martinsdale. The man is a relative by marriage.”
He fixed a severe look on her, as if he could compel her to act by a glance.
“The man is a disgrace,” he said. “That is the best I can say about him.” He gestured toward the documents on his desk, documents he’d revealed to Theresa not five minutes earlier. “Surely you can see that for yourself. I would do anything, even trade upon your relationship with the man, to snare him.”
“But you’re not the one who is to snare him, Lord Martinsdale. You have left that task for me.” She managed a smile by sheer will.
“I can think of no one better, Mrs. Rowle. In addition, I’ve been led to understand that he appreciates the company of intelligent, refined women.” He bent slightly from the waist. “Not to mention beautiful.”