Lucy Muir (20 page)

Lord Murray became aware that his gillie was staring fixedly at the sky, and followed the direction of his glance. The sun was indeed rising high, he thought, taking the silent hint. It was time he returned to the castle and tended to his business. He could not neglect all his duties because of his personal heartache. He must accustom himself to working despite the pain, for he doubted he would ever be free from it again.

* * * *

Phoebe ignored the soft knock at the door of her bedchamber, turning her head into the pillow in case Celeste should peek in to see if she were awake. Perhaps it was cowardly, but she suspected Celeste might lecture her again about speaking frankly to Lord Murray, and she did not want to listen. The past week had been a difficult one, and she wanted to spend this day, her last full one at Castle Abermaise, by herself. She needed the time to fortify herself for the long journey home with Celeste and Miles, a journey that would take Celeste ever closer to her happiness, and Phoebe ever farther from hers.

For Celeste’s prediction had not been fulfilled— Phoebe and Lord Murray were no nearer to cordial relations than they had been a sen’night ago. His manner towards her had not changed at all during the past week. He was unfailingly polite to her, but his courtesy was an impenetrable wall, keeping her at a distance. Only once when she had surprised Lord Murray looking at her had Phoebe thought she discerned a flash of pain in his eyes, but that was the only emotion she had been able to detect. And even that, Phoebe admitted reluctantly to herself, might have been wishful thinking on her part.

A tear escaped from Phoebe’s eye and rolled wetly down her nose into the thick goosedown pillow. If only she could understand why things had altered so.

The more Phoebe thought on the matter, the more she was inclined to believe Olivia had been correct, lowering as the thought was, and that it was her lack of fortune that had caused Lord Murray to change his mind. As Celeste had noted, Lord Murray did not seem the type to hold a grudge, and privately Phoebe agreed, but if Lord Murray required his wife to bring a sizable dowry into the marriage, that would explain a great deal.

In her heart, Phoebe longed to do as Celeste had advised and ask Lord Murray directly if it was her lack of fortune that was keeping him from her, but a combination of diffidence and fear kept her from doing so. Not only did she not wish to put Lord Murray in the embarrassing position of having to admit he was in pressing need of money, but neither did she wish to risk putting herself in the mortifying position of finding out the truth was something even worse. What if his distant behaviour was caused not by the fact that he could not afford to marry her, but because he had simply discovered he did not love her?

Phoebe heard a door snick shut, and the sound of Celeste’s light footsteps passed Phoebe’s bedchamber and faded down the hallway. Feeling safe for the moment, Phoebe slipped out of her bed and began dressing without ringing for her maid. This morning she did not want anyone’s company.

As she completed her simple toilette, Phoebe looked about her room with a feeling of sadness.

Tomorrow she would leave. Never again would she see this grey-and-gold room with its elegant Chippendale furnishings. The time she had spent at Castle Abermaise would become like a dream. Phoebe pictured herself in the years to come, an aging ape-leader living in the memories of what once was. Well, she thought, trying to give herself the courage to face her bleak future, it would be better to have something to remember than never to have experienced anything at all of love. But still that was small compensation for the pain of losing her heart’s desire.

The thought of her empty future gave Phoebe an idea of how to spend her last day. She would revisit all the places where she had been so happy, impressing their images indelibly upon her mind so she would be able to recall them in every detail for years to come. And the first place she would go would be to the place above the lake where Lord Murray had kissed her.

Phoebe pulled a pelisse from her wardrobe and threw it over her shoulders, not thinking to take a hat. After checking to see that no one was in the passageway, she slipped out of her bedchamber and managed to step quickly and quietly past the door of the breakfast room without being seen by Celeste or anyone else. As she descended the stairway into the main hall, the sound of the pipes filled her ears, and she saw Dinsmore striding back and forth across the Great Hall, playing one of the mournful tunes he seemed to prefer of late. The piper’s eyes flickered over her as he marched past the stairway, and Phoebe smiled, but her smile was met with a stern look of disapprobation. Everyone seemed out of sorts with her of late, Phoebe thought dismally as she continued down the stairs.

As Phoebe crossed the Hall, the aroma of Mrs. Baird’s delicious cooking wafted past her nose and a hollow feeling in her stomach reminded her she had not had any breakfast. Not wishing to join the others at breakfast, Phoebe decided to ask Mrs. Baird for something she could take with her to eat on her walk, and turned back towards the kitchen. As she approached the doorway, Phoebe could hear raised voices and smiled to herself. Balneaves and Mrs. Baird were arguing again. That, at least, was back to normal.

“I tell you, only straight speaking will put things right at this point,” Balneaves’s voice came to Phoebe.

“Straight speaking willna dae a thing wi’ two who be sae doure an’ blin’, ye Hieland limmer,” Mrs. Baird retorted snappishly.

“Stubborn and blind they may be, but I—” Balneaves broke off as he became aware of Phoebe standing in the doorway.

“Good morning, Miss Hartwell. Is there anything you require?” he asked formally.

“I wished to ask Mrs. Baird if she had something I might take with me on my walk. I find that I am very hungry this morning,” Phoebe replied, with an uncomfortable feeling that Balneaves, too, was displeased with her for some reason. Was everyone upset with her because of the Atwoods’ precipitate departure?

“Och, aye,” Mrs. Baird said, nodding. “Tak some o’ my farls,” she offered, holding a basket of thin oatcakes out to Phoebe, who took two and slipped them into the pocket of her pelisse.

Mrs. Baird’s glance ran over Phoebe, resting a moment on her bare head. Suddenly she smiled and patted Phoebe’s hand. “Lassie,” she said in a warm voice, “I ken you hae been sair fashit o’ late. You micht gae tae speir help o’ the water-kelpies afore you gang awa.”

“I did plan to go to the lake this morning,” Phoebe admitted, hoping her low spirits were not as obvious to everyone as they evidently were to Mrs. Baird. “But I did not know that I could apply to the kelpies for their assistance, since unlike Celeste, I was not sent by the faeries.”

“Ane niver kens what themsels micht dae an it taks their fancy,” Mrs. Baird said. “But it canna hurt tae try.”

“Perhaps I shall ask them for their help, then,” Phoebe agreed with a smile, grateful that one person at least did not appear to be at outs with her. She thanked the housekeeper for the farls and made her escape from the castle, the gillie rising from his seat at the hall table and following her as she left.

Phoebe walked slowly down the path to the lake, munching on the farls and noting every bush and flower, trying to impress them upon her memory.

The individual plants immediately next the path were about all Phoebe could make out, for a heavy mist roamed the landscape, its tendrils curling through the bushes and swirling about her feet, settling in an impenetrable blanket in the hollows. But Phoebe could still see enough to find the side path Lord Murray had shown her the day he took her to his special place, and her steps quickened as she began the climb. As the path became steeper and rockier, Phoebe heard the gillie close behind, ready to assist her if she should need it. It
was a tiring climb, but at last Phoebe scrambled onto the large rock overhanging the lake. When she had seated herself securely, the gillie moved back to stand a discreet distance away. Phoebe waved her thanks to the imperturbable kinsman of Lord Murray and turned her attention to the mist-covered lake.

Never again would she look out over this beautiful view, Phoebe thought unhappily, and after the morrow never again would she see the castle, or Dinsmore, the gillie, Balneaves, Mrs. Baird, or Lord Murray. Scotland would become part of her past. For a few minutes Phoebe allowed herself to indulge in a fit of the dismals, and then took herself severely to task. She was really becoming quite morbid, and it simply would not do. She might be losing Lord Murray, but she still had her family, Celeste and even Wilfred. Losing one person did not mean the end of all one’s happiness. She must not forget to appreciate what she had.

A moist cool breeze blew in from over the lake, and Phoebe pulled her light summer pelisse more closely about her shoulders as she gazed at the water. How mysterious it appeared under the shifting blanket of morning mist. One moment she could see the surface clearly, and the next her view was obscured. The kelpies must be about, she thought, or the Daoine Shi’. On a morning like this such spirits seemed very real. One could almost see them darting in and out the mist. Perhaps she
should
ask them for their help, as Mrs. Baird had advised, Phoebe mused. If it did not help, it could not hurt, either.

She looked down into the dense blue water lapping softly at the rocky shore where it was visible in a break in the shifting mist and whispered very quietly, “Help me, please, stay here where I belong.” Under the eerie spell cast by the thick grey mist, Phoebe half-expected some sign that the faeries had heard her plea and felt ridiculously disappointed when there was no response other than the calls of the birds as they glided over the lake looking for a meal.

Phoebe sighed resignedly and stared into the distance. She had been sitting still for several minutes, lost in her thoughts, when a rock clattered loudly in the muffled quiet. She turned her head, expecting to see the gillie, and gasped in surprise as her eyes lit upon Lord Murray standing a few yards away. Clad as he was in buckskins and a plaid, she might have mistaken him for a character straight out of
Lady of the Lake
had it not been for the woman’s silk-lined straw bonnet dangling incongruously from his left hand.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Hartwell, I did not mean to startle you,” he said. “Mrs. Baird saw you walking this way without a head covering, and was worried lest you take sick from the morning mist and cold, so I thought to bring your bonnet to you.”

Phoebe said nothing, and Lord Murray began to feel very foolish. The excuse to follow Phoebe that had sounded so plausible at the time Mrs. Baird had confided her worry to him now seemed lame indeed. What must Phoebe be thinking of him, a man who would follow another’s betrothed to such an isolated spot? Uncertainly he held the bonnet out to her.

“Thank you,” Phoebe said, finding her voice. The shock of seeing Lord Murray so suddenly had momentarily deprived her of her senses. For a second she had actually wondered if the kelpies
had
conjured him up. She took the bonnet and set it on the rock beside her, searching for the right words to say. Had Lord Murray truly come to bring her the hat, or was it possible he had used it as a pretext to come speak to her privately?

“I have disturbed you; I shall take my leave,” Lord Murray said, the feeling he was making a fool of himself causing him to clip his words.

“There is no need for you to leave, Lord Murray,” Phoebe replied, chagrin at his manner making her voice equally cool. “It is your land, after all.”

Another chill breeze blew in from the lake, rocking Phoebe’s bonnet and causing her to pull her pelisse more tightly about her shoulders.

Lord Murray noted Phoebe’s shiver and longed to warm her by taking her into his arms and holding her close, kissing her as he had before in this very place. He wondered if she remembered that time, too. Was it possible that was why she had come here? He looked hopefully into her eyes, searching for some sign she still cared for him a little, but their clear hazel revealed nothing,

Another, stronger, gust of wind blew, swirling about and abruptly changing its direction, blowing Phoebe’s bonnet into the lake.

“Oh, dear!” Phoebe exclaimed. “And after you took such trouble to bring it to me,” she cried, looking after the hat in dismay.

The first sign of emotion Phoebe showed, and it was over a straw bonnet! Exasperation further chilled the timbre of Lord Murray’s voice.

“It is of no moment, Miss Hartwell. But do allow me to escort you back to the castle. The weather is chill and you are not dressed appropriately.’’

“You need not trouble yourself, Lord Murray. I
am quite warm enough,” Phoebe responded briefly, feeling frustrated and not a little angry at the impenetrable cool civility that was such a contrast to the passionate nature Lord Murray had revealed the day he had kissed her in this very place. Certainly at this moment it was impossible to reconcile the two sides of his character. In confusion, Phoebe rubbed her hand over her suddenly aching temples.

Lord Murray viewed Phoebe’s action with a real concern for her well-being. “I must insist you return to the castle with me. I would not wish to incur young Atwood’s wrath by returning you to London ill,” he added, deliberately introducing the name of her betrothed to remind himself to have a care.

“Wilfred?” Phoebe questioned, wondering what Lord Murray was talking about. A mortifying possibility leapt into her mind. Surety he could not be hinting that she ought to return to England and set her sights on Wilfred. She rose and walked to the edge of the rock, not wishing Lord Murray to see the hurt she was certain was evident in her eyes. She stared fixedly into the lake, her eyes searching for the straw bonnet that had fallen below. She spied it as it floated out from the shifting mist on the lake’s surface. The kelpies had certainly not helped her much by conjuring up Lord Murray, if indeed they had, Phoebe thought sorrowfully.

“Miss Hartwell—”

“I told you I am fine,” Phoebe interrupted without turning around. “And I am sure Mr. Atwood will be satisfied with my condition when I return to London, whatever it may be. Please do not concern yourself for me.”