True Heart (5 page)

Virginia almost huffed in disbelief, but habit prevented her. “Would you have believed me?”

“I do not know, but I like to think I would have written a letter for you.”

Compared to the former owner of Poplar Knoll, Mrs. Parker-Jones was a saint. But the Morelands' cruelty was a part of the past. Cameron was on his way. Virginia would be free again. At the thought, her hands shook and she gripped the small glass until her hands grew numb.

“Please believe that I would have helped you.”

Acknowledging the mistress's kindness seemed of great importance to Virginia. “Saying that you might have helped me is enough.”

“Merriweather, have—” Turning to Virginia, she said, “Is miss the proper address for a duke's daughter?”

Class distinctions were one of the reasons the colonies had fought and won their independence from England. Virginia had spent her youth beneath the banner of revolution. Could she adjust to the social structure of her homeland? Not immediately.

By way of explanation, Mrs. Parker-Jones said, “My family was from Pennsylvania—rather provincial, you see. So I haven't any experience with the gentry.”

A reply to that honesty was easy. “The proper way is my lady, but I'd like to be called Virginia.”

“Then Virginia it is. Merriweather, have Virginia's things brought to the guest room facing the river. You'll need dresses, hats, and shoes. Everything. They cannot see you as you are.”

Reality set in and, with it, the second most defining statement Virginia had every heard. The first had been on the deck of Anthony MacGowan's ship. His words still had the power to wound.
Get to the galley or I'll chain you in the hold until we dock in Norfolk. If you tell anyone on this ship who you are, I'll throw you overboard and say you fell.

Merriweather left. Virginia put aside thoughts of Anthony MacGowan and the fear he'd instilled in her. “Please tell me everything that Captain Brown said about my family.” A cruelty struck her. “Are my parents alive? My sisters, my brother?”

“I'm sorry, but he said nothing about them. He did say that one of your sisters lives in Glasgow.” She demurred. “But I've already said that part.”

“Which sister?”

“She is the countess of Cathcart. How many sisters do you have?”

“Seven that I know of. My brother, the youngest, was only three when I . . . left.”

Plaintively, Mrs. Parker-Jones said, “What happened, Virginia?”

The answer sat like a rock in her belly. As a child working in the tobacco fields, she'd falsified her life. With each passing season, she imagined a new past for herself. But the truth had always been there, looming like a great shadow over her head. Eventually she'd settled for the truth. “A foolishness too great to tell.”

“I hope you do not hold Mr. Parker-Jones or myself responsible.”

How could she? Along with the plantation, the tobacco fields, and the slaves, they'd purchased her indenture and those of the other bond servants. It had been a business transaction for them; no malice had been involved. “No, I do not.”

“We acted in good faith.”

“I know, and for their sins, MacGowan and the Morelands will pay in hell.”

“How can I help you?”

Virginia couldn't settle on any one thing, for she wanted the impossible. She wanted her childhood back. She wanted to wake up in her bed at Rosshaven Castle on the morning of her tenth birthday. “At the moment, I'm not sure what to ask for.”

“Your vocabulary doesn't need much work, but I'm afraid I can't teach you Scottish. Or do you remember how to speak it?”

She'd avoided dredging up old memories; now she must sift through the imaginings and call up the true past. “In the MacKenzie household, both English and Scottish are spoken.” She almost mentioned her mother's heritage, but why should Mrs. Parker-Jones care about that irony?

“Good. Will you tell me about your siblings?”

“There's Lily, Rowena, and Cora. They were nine, eight, and six when last I saw them. And Kenneth, my father's heir. He was three.” She remembered a laughing fair-haired boy, they called Gibberish because he talked too fast.

“What of your other four sisters? You said you had seven.”

“They're older.” The addition came easily; Virginia had practiced that ability, too, since coming to Poplar Knoll. “They are seven and twenty years old now.”

Mrs. Parker-Jones frowned. “All of them are the same age?”

With the calling up of those memories came a sense of peace and love. “Papa's very handsome. He went to court and fell in love with four women at once. When they bore his children, he took Agnes, Lottie, Sarah, and Mary from their mothers and raised them himself—until my mother came to Scotland.”

Mrs. Parker-Jones opened the book. “This was written by the earl of Cathcart. ‘Edward Napier.' She spoke his name with the proper respect due the nobleman who invented tools for the common man. “He names his wife in the dedication.”

“It must be Sarah. Papa always said a blueblooded lord would woo her, and she's so very beautiful and as bright as any Oxford scholar.”

“No, it's not Sarah.”

The oddity of the conversation baffled Virginia but in a pleasant way; she was discussing her family with someone who believed her. “May I read for myself?”

Embarrassment brought a flush to her scarred cheeks. “I did not know you could read.”

A prevarication popped into Virginia's mind. She would not endanger Merriweather for the kind gift of sharing the newspaper with a lonely girl. Then she remembered that she needn't make excuses for herself any longer. She took the book and traced the golden letters on the binding.
Plows for Field and Farm,
by Lord Edward Napier, earl of Cathcart. Virginia knew the Napier name. Every plantation and farm used the tools he'd invented. The Napier plow was as common as the Morgan rake.

With a shaking hand, she turned the pages. On the dedication page, she found the words, “For my children, Christopher and Hannah, and for dearest Agnes, who has made us a family again.”

Agnes. Fondness choked Virginia. Agnes, the trouble finder, as Papa used to say. Agnes had fallen in love and married an important man. Bully for her.

“You remember Agnes fondly?”

“Fondly? Of course. She's my sister.”

What other great events had occurred in Virginia's absence? Was Papa alive? Mama? The possibility that they might be dead was too wretched to contemplate.

Virginia clutched the book to her breast. Surely her family had lost hope of finding her. She remembered the exact moment she'd given up hope of finding them. It had been her fifteenth birthday. But by putting away the past, she had bettered the present. From that day forth, her life at Poplar Knoll had become livable. With one exception. But she wouldn't think about those dark times. Not now.

“What are you thinking, Virginia?”

“They gave me up for dead.”

“Not anymore.”

If that was true, if Cameron and her family now expected to find her, what regrets would they bring with them? How had they dealt with her loss?

“I'm sorry. But I've said that to you before. When I learned about what Mrs. Moreland had done to you, I could not fathom a deed so cruel.”

The darkness of denial blanketed Virginia. Never again would she visit those evil times. “I don't want to talk about that.”

Mrs. Parker-Jones shivered in revulsion. “No, I don't suppose you do.” Composing herself, she continued. “I wasn't blessed with children, but I do come from a large family. We lost a brother once. I'm certain your loved ones were bereft at losing you.”

Bereft. She thought of the funerals she'd attended with her family. Cameron standing beside her, helping her place a rock on the cairn in tribute to a family friend. Save Cameron's strong presence, the memories were vague. Had the MacKenzies constructed a cairn in memory of her?

“Imagine how happy they are now.”

Mrs. Parker-Jones looked so distressed Virginia felt bound to comfort her. “All will be set to rights when Cameron comes for me.”

“What will you tell him of your life here?”

Dread chased away her joy. How could she look her family in the face and tell them the truth?

“I do not know.”

Everyone had given up hope of finding Virginia. Everyone except Agnes MacKenzie. For the first five years, Cameron had kept the faith. He'd searched the world and yearned for the girl he had planned to grow old with. When he'd finally accepted defeat, he'd done so with the help of her father, Lachian MacKenzie. That had been five years ago. Five years of peace with himself, years of accomplishment and restful nights. He couldn't start believing again. But the closer he traveled to America, the greater the battle.

Three weeks and four days out of Glasgow, her hold perfectly weighted with stone, the
Maiden Virginia
eased into the James River. Cameron stepped aside and allowed Quinten Brown to take the helm. Never had anyone other than Cameron's father or his crew piloted his ship. Cameron had sought out Brown in Norfolk. The man assured Cameron that he could steer a man o' war safely up the James River. To Cameron's disappointment, Brown had no knowledge of who had created the hallmark, only that it had come from Poplar Knoll. Rather than hire another man's ship to sail the unfamiliar waters of the James River, Cameron had hired the man.

The crew went about their tasks, but their attention was fixed on the English captain at the wheel. MacAdoo Dundas was more blatant in his unease, for he noisily hammered an extra horseshoe into the mast.

“She's a fine one, Cunningham,” said Brown, loud enough for all to hear. “I'll not run her aground, so you can belay that scowl.”

Cameron tried to stand at ease but could not.

Beside him, Agnes MacKenzie laughed. “Well said, Captain Brown.”

Agnes had married Edward Napier, earl of Cathcart. She'd even shunned Highland tradition and taken his name. But she'd always be Agnes MacKenzie to Cameron. More than a friend to him, she was the true believer he could never be. She'd pledged her dowry and her life to finding Virginia. Cameron's efforts paled by comparison, but Agnes had yet to deal with the guilt she felt over the loss of Virginia. Perhaps now she would be spared that pain.

She'd been out of the birthing bed only two days when Cameron had arrived in Glasgow and spied the cask. Upon seeing the hallmark, she'd packed a bag and sent messengers to every member of her family. Then she'd demanded that they sail immediately for America.

That's when her husband had stepped in. Edward Napier had lost his first wife to an Atlantic crossing, yet he could not refuse Agnes this voyage. As her physician, he'd insisted that she stay abed for at least a week. She had compromised and rested for three days.

Amazed at her resiliency, Cameron watched her sway easily with the motion of the deck. A year older than she, he couldn't remember a time when he hadn't known Agnes MacKenzie and her three sisters. Then Virginia had come along, and Cameron's life had forever changed.

“Do you think Virginia will favor Papa or Mama?” she asked.

MacAdoo politely excused himself, but his sour mood was evident in the stiffness of his gait. He'd taught Virginia to climb the rigging.

“Cameron, are you listening? How tall do you suppose she has grown?”

Cameron gritted his teeth, lest he give in to temptation and begin to hope. Virginia was dead. The hallmark on that cask was a coincidence. Some smitten cooper with courting on his mind had created the romantic design.

Agnes clutched his arm, her brown eyes narrowed in determination. “She's alive, and I say she favors Father.”

On the subject of Virginia, Agnes had always spoken succinctly, but a new conviction now fired her belief. She'd sailed with Cameron to China and spent a year learning the weaponless fighting skills of the emperor's best. She could bring any man to his knees with one well-placed blow. Garbed in bright yellow wool, her golden hair twisted into a shapely do, she looked like a helpless noblewoman. A contradiction. A foolish assumption.

Cameron couldn't help but smile.

Her brows flared. “Are you mocking me, Cameron Cunningham?”

He held up his hands as if to ward her off. “Never.”

“Are so.” She smoothed the fit of her butter yellow gloves. “But then I suspect you are anticipating the uncomfortable conversation you must have with Adrienne Cholmondeley.”

The problem of Adrienne was his affair, and he made a practice of never speaking with Agnes about his love life. How could he when she believed his betrothed was alive and any romance he enjoyed was a betrayal of Virginia?

He knew the way to deal with Agnes. “On the matter of whom Virginia favors, I say one MacKenzie female with your father's temperament is quite enough.”