True Heart (7 page)

Cameron removed his. MacAddo shuffled his feet and murmured, “Forgot mine.”

Agnes said, “I'm certain Merriweather will not hold it against you.”

“We are not so formal in America,” the butler said, smiling.

In the entryway, a footed silver bowl, engraved with the dove motif, graced a table fashioned in the style made popular during the reign of Queen Anne. Straight ahead, a long hall led to the back of house. Without carpet, the oaken floorboards gleamed from a recent polishing. A potted palm and a standing screen with thin lace panels cast shadows in the narrow corridor and blocked the view of what lay behind it.

They were led into the first room on the left, a formal parlor. On the inside wall, a gilded mirror faced the front windows, bringing more light into the room. Unlike most such rooms, Cameron found this one inviting and the chairs arranged for easy conversation. Had Virginia sat in this room?

“Excuse me,” said the butler. “I'll tell Mrs. Parker-Jones that you are here.”

Cameron put the cask on the floor at his feet. Agnes sat but not for long. Nervously, she walked around the room and examined the three paintings on the wall.

“This is clever.” She indicated a small picture beside the window. On canvas, the artist had reproduced the exact view of the front lawn and the river as seen from this spot. Instead of a frame, a small windowsill surrounded the view. Only in this rendition, towering poplar trees in full bloom flanked the brick path. Agnes peered closer. “The artist has an interesting name . . . Duchess.”

On either side of an arched doorway, the other two paintings were portraits, a man and a woman. From the style of their clothing, the work had been done some years ago.

Tension rippled through Cameron, and just when he thought he could bear it no longer, they were joined by a woman about fifty years of age. She wore a green linen dress with modest panniers and only a little lace. Her dark hair was liberally streaked with gray, and her complexion bore the deep scars of pox. She had either suffered the disease as an adult, or the artist had been kind in his depiction of her in the portrait, for she was the same woman, albeit older and her cheeks now scarred.

She smiled nervously and extended her hand. “I'm Alice Parker-Jones.”

“I'm Cameron Cunningham, and with me is Lady—”

“Please, Cameron,” Agnes interrupted. “No ceremony.”

Cameron began again. “With me is the ordinary Agnes MacKenzie Napier and a gentleman of Perwickshire, MacAdoo Dundas.”

How-do-you-dos were exchanged. Seats were offered and declined.

Polite conversation was the last thing on Cameron's mind. He managed to say, “You have a beautiful home.”

“Thank you. It's rather new to us. My husband purchased it two years ago after the previous owner passed on.”

She was certainly forthcoming, which boded well.

“Merriweather said you are from Scotland. You had a pleasant voyage?”

Agnes, a master of rhetoric, dawdled at adjusting her gloves.

Cameron said, “Very pleasant, and I'm sure you're wondering why we've come. We're seeking information about the design on this hogshead which, I understand from Quinten Brown, comes from Poplar Knoll.”

She didn't spare a glance at the cask. “Yes, it does. What is it you wish to know?”

Beside him, Agnes squirmed with the need to take control of the conversation, but he knew that good manners would prevent her from interrupting again.

He took a deep breath and asked, “Who drew the design?”

“Our housekeeper did. She's very talented.”

“May I speak with her?”

“May I know why?”

Cameron had made the speech hundreds of times in dozens of countries. The words came easy. “She may be someone we know. Someone lost to us ten years ago.”

“Ten years, you say? My sympathies.” She smiled sadly. “You are welcome to talk with her, but I'm sorry to say she has no memory of her life before Poplar Knoll. A fall from a horse, I believe.”

An awful possibility struck him. “You mean her mind is damaged?”

“No, not like that. She's bright and resourceful. She simply cannot remember where she came from or how she got here.”

“How long has she been here?”

“I'm not sure. When the previous owner . . . died . . . we asked her to stay.”

“What age is she?”

“About twenty, I would say.”

Agnes expelled a breath.

Hope stirred to life in Cameron. But past disappointments demanded caution. If Virginia hadn't contacted him because she'd forgotten the past, how had the hallmark gotten on the cask?

“It's Virginia,” Agnes said. “I know it is.”

“Virginia?” their hostess repeated. “Yes, that is her name, but I understand it was given to her because she did not know her own, and she was found in Virginia.”

Mrs. Parker-Jones seemed unaffected to Cameron, as if she were prepared for the conversation. Odd. He thought she'd be surprised. According to Brown, his visit to Poplar Knoll upon returning from Glasgow and speaking with Cameron had been brief and the conversation with Mrs. Parker-Jones uninformative. Perhaps she was merely protecting a member of her staff.

“Fetch her,” Agnes commanded.

“Please,” Cameron rushed to say. “And if you will be so kind, we'd like to speak privately with her.”

She glanced wearily at Agnes. “Very well, but remember, you are strangers to her.”

If their hostess were subtly conveying advice, Agnes was having none of it, for she'd assumed what Cameron called her “countess mien.” Mrs. Parker-Jones looked away first, as did most people when faced with a determined MacKenzie female.

Leaving the room, she entered the long hall he'd noticed upon their arrival.

Silence filled the parlor, but if expectation were a sound, the noise was deafening. Could this colonial housekeeper be Virginia? A memory loss explained why she had not contacted them years ago.

Cameron allowed the thought to sink in. Virginia, with no memory of Scotland. Virginia, alive and well.

Agnes threw her arms around him. “I knew we'd find her.”

MacAdoo collapsed into a chair but bounded to his feet again. Cameron felt ready to bolt through the door and find Virginia himself. The moment of truth was upon them.

Let it be her,
he silently prayed.
Please, God, let it be Virginia.

When Mrs. Parker-Jones did not return immediately, he moved to the doorway and peered into the long corridor. About half the distance down the hall, two females were silhouetted behind the lace screen. He recognized Mrs. Parker-Jones's heavier, shorter form. The taller, slender woman beside her was a mystery, a willowy shadow. They were conversing, but from so far away, Cameron couldn't hear their words. He'd bet next year's profits that the mistress was telling her who they were and explaining what had occurred.

The older woman moved away and disappeared into the doorway nearest the potted palm. The form behind the screen bowed her head. The poignancy of her stance, the importance of the moment, filled Cameron with hope. He went still inside. To every saint he made a promise of favor.

“Will she never come?” Agnes railed, throwing her arms in the air. “What's taking so long?” Fabric rustled. “Do you see her?”

Cameron turned. Agnes was moving toward him. He thought of the woman behind the screen and the turmoil she must be feeling. More, he knew that he had to be the first to see her. She belonged to him.

Hiding his resolve, he shrugged. “Nay, I don't see her, but 'tis a large house.”

“I cannot bear a moment more of this waiting.”

“Of course you can. She'll come when she's ready.”

“ 'Tis easy for you to say. You gave her up for dead when Papa did.” She gasped. “Hoots, Cameron. I'm sorry. You must feel wretched.”

She didn't mean those hurtful words; she was just impatient. “Blessed better suits me.”

“I may go mad in the waiting.”

“I'll see what's keeping them.”

“I'll go too,” she said.

MacAdoo started to rise, but Cameron signaled him to stay put. To Agnes, he said, “I must also find the necessary. Will you go there with me as well?”

All impatient noblewoman, Agnes huffed and turned away. “Just be quick about it.”

Congratulating himself, Cameron started down the hall. The stately form behind the screen had not moved. As he approached, he considered what he would say. Logic told him that if she was Virginia MacKenzie, he should offer her solid proof. Then he remembered the one item that had linked them together so many years ago.

*  *  *

Heaven help her, for Virginia couldn't make her feet move. It was too late to change her mind. Mrs. Parker-Jones had already told them the story of a memory loss.

Them.

Virginia's heart soared. Cameron, Agnes, and MacAdoo awaited her in the front parlor. She had truly been rescued at last. Life among her family awaited. The beautiful woman in the yellow dress was Agnes, the older sister who'd always told Virginia to look to her wits in times of trouble. She couldn't have survived without Agnes's good advice. She remembered the dedication in Napier's book. Agnes was now the countess of Cathcart.

What of everyone else? In moments, she'd know. All she had to do was pick up her feet.

Footfalls sounded in the hall. A heartbeat later Cameron peered around the screen. The moment he saw her, he breathed a sigh.

Staring up at him, she felt a burst of pride. No longer gangly and cocky, he cut a powerful figure in his Highland garb, and the kindness in his brown eyes reached out to her, same as always.

Smiling, he moved closer. “I saw your shadow and thought you might be frightened.”

He hadn't forsaken her.

Now she must pretend to have forgotten him.

She recalled her blackest moments at Poplar Knoll. With those horrors in mind, she could easily conceal her thoughts. “I'm somewhat overwhelmed.”

“Then we'll go slowly, but the sum of it is, we're all happy to our souls to have found you.”

Regard for others was not new to him, she decided and felt tears fill her eyes. “I'm very glad that you've come for me.”

“Good, then I'm safe until you remember what I gave you on your sixth birthday.”

She had to duck her head. Oh, Lord. She felt ready to crack apart inside. He'd given her two badger's teeth on a string to replace her own front teeth. She hadn't talked to him for an entire week she'd been so angry.

Gathering strength, she looked up. “You're certain I am who you think I am?”

He gave her a smile that weakened her knees. “Aye. You're Virginia MacKenzie.” Reaching into his sporran, he retrieved the scarf she'd given him in the stables at Rosshaven Castle on the day of their formal betrothal. “You stitched this for me a long time ago.”

She didn't have to pretend surprise; she hadn't expected to see that piece of silk and girlish vanity again. It brought back a flood of memories. At first sight of the hallmark, Cameron had shamed it for a silly design. But he'd been young and brash and more eager for manly pursuits than for tending the feelings of a love-struck girl.

How did he think of her now? “It was special to you?”

“Very special, and see, you haven't forgotten everything.” His kind eyes gleamed encouragement. “You remembered the symbol.”

“But not apurpose. I thought I'd just thought it up.”

“The rest of your past will come back to you. Just give yourself some time.”

The rest would come. An hour ago she had decided to wait a week or so, then suddenly regain her memory. But that plan was faulty and might arouse suspicion. Unknowingly, he'd given her a way out of the lie. Each day she could pretend to remember a little—a person here, an event there. Yes, that was a better plan.

But she must move cautiously, start in the logical place. She'd made a list of questions a person with no memory would ask. With those queries in mind, she gave him back the scarf. “Are you Cameron Cunningham? Mrs. Parker-Jones said that was your name.”

Assuming a military stance, he clicked his boot heels together and gave her a formal nod. “At your service, my lady.”

The title brought her up short, but she had wits enough to ask a question. “Why do you address me so?”

“Because your father is the duke of Ross, and that makes you a lady.”

He spoke of Father in the present tense. Papa was alive. What about Mother? Why hadn't they come with him? Apprehension clutched her heart. “You know my parents?”

“Of course, and you'll be reunited with them soon.”

Virginia felt a relief so deep she closed her eyes to savor it.

His hand gripped her arm. “Will you swoon?”

Euphoria made her giddy. She looked up at him and smiled. “I pray not. I'm just more overwhelmed by the moment.”

“Of course you are, but take heart, Virginia. We're in uncharted waters too.”

Her name rolled off his tongue like a lullaby. Never again would anyone call her Duchess. Henceforth she'd sleep in a bed and wear soft clothes. She'd read any newspaper she chose, and books. She'd acquire enough books to make a fine library. She could travel at will, go in any shop. She was free.

“Good,” he said. “I can see you've cornered the gist of it.”

She wanted to ask him how soon they would set sail but decided against it. Another, more personal question begged to be asked. “Would you have known me? Do I look the same?”

He grew pensive, but his gaze never left her. “You're very beautiful, but all of the MacKenzie women are.”

“I was not seeking flattery.”

“Very well. You're much taller than I expected. Sarah will rejoice at that.”

“Sarah?”

“One of your sisters, and speaking of that, if I don't take you in to see Agnes, she'll have you redefining the word
overwhelming.
Trust me, you wouldn't wish that event on your meanest enemy.”