The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
Page 60
“Oy,” Daniel shouted over the banisters. “Angus. Bring a dram o’ whiskey.”
The burly footman who’d been passing through the hall turned on his heel and went back into the dining room. “Are they always like this?” Beth asked, breathing carefully. “At each other’s throats? Oh, aye. Always shouting about something. You’ll get used to it.”
“Will I?”
“You’ll have to, won’t you? But they’ve been unhappy.” Beth blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “What about you? Are you unhappy?”
Daniel shrugged his lanky shoulders. “You mean because my mum tried to murder me and my dad and then offed herself? I never knew her, and Dad’s done his best.” His matter-of-fact acceptance of his mother’s violence twisted Beth’s heart. It had been the same in the East End, ten-year-old girls whose prostitute mothers had been beaten by their men shrugged shoulders and said tightly, “She were a whore. What’d she expect?”
Unaware of her pity, Daniel took the cut-crystal glass that Angus brought and thrust it into her hand. Beth sipped, the smooth taste of whiskey curling pleasantly on her tongue. Ladies don’t drink spirits, she heard Mrs. Barrington say. This despite the secret brandy bottle stashed in Mrs. Barrington’s bedside table.
“Tell me something, Daniel,” Beth said tiredly. “In the dining room, when Ian laughed at me, you all stared like the ceiling had come down. Why?”
Daniel wrinkled his forehead. “Why? ‘Twas because Ian laughed. I don’t think any of us have ever heard Uncle Ian laugh out loud before. At least not since he got sprung from the asylum.”
Beth progressed on her riding lessons until, by the end of the week, she could ride unassisted as long as Cameron or Ian rode alongside her. She learned to use her legs to guide the horse and not flail or grab the reins to keep her balance. The soreness began to slacken as her muscles became accustomed to the exercise. By the beginning of her second week of lessons, she could climb into bed with only a soft moan of pain. Ian proved amazingly capable at massaging the stiffness out of her.
Beth became fond of the old horse she rode. The mare had a mile-long pedigree name, but her nickname among the stable lads was Emmie. While Beth and Emmie plodded across the vast lands of Kilmorgan, Ian and Cameron raced or put their horses over fences. Ian was an excellent rider, but Cameron seemed to become part of his horse. When he wasn’t giving Beth lessons, he worked at training the filly he’d brought, letting her run on a long line he held in competent hands.
“It’s his gift,” Ian said to Beth as they watched him one morning. “He can do anything with horses. They love him.” With people Cameron was harsh and often rude, and his language colored the air. At first he apologized to Beth, but after a while he forgot to. Beth remembered what Isabella had told her, that the Mackenzies had lived as bachelors for so long, they didn’t think to soften their manners around ladies. Beth, used to East End toughs, decided she could bear it. As she’d told Inspector Fellows, she was not a wilting weed.
She learned to treasure Ian’s conversations with her, like this one about Cameron, because she never saw him much outside of bed. Over the next two weeks, he closeted himself with Hart, or the two went riding alone, and neither would say where.
Cameron kept on with Beth’s lessons without indicating that anything was unusual. Beth tried to ask Ian once what he and Hart were doing, and Ian answered laconically, “Business,” before looking off into the distance. It maddened her to not understand, but she hated to poke and pry. Hart had been right; she barely knew Ian, and perhaps this was what they always did.
I can’t expect them to change their entire lives for me, she chided herself. Another part of her would respond, But he’s my husband. . . .
Things went on like this until one afternoon when Cameron took her riding beyond the park up into the hills.
It was a beautiful day, with a fine summer breeze dancing through the trees. Patches of snow lingered on the highest peaks of the mountains, the sun never quite warming it enough to melt it.
“There’s a folly in the woods out here,” Cameron said, riding beside her. His own horse was a glossy black stallion. The stable lads were afraid of the beast, but he obeyed Cam without fuss. “My father built it for my mother. There weren’t enough ruined castles in the Highlands for him, so he decided to build a fake one.”
The brothers never spoke much about their mother, or their father either, for that matter. The portrait of their much-bearded father glared at her every day from the top of the second-floor staircase, but she’d never seen a picture of their mother. She nudged Emmie to move faster, interested. Behind her Cameron’s horse stumbled. Beth turned in alarm to find Cameron already dismounted and anxiously examining the stallion’s hoof.
“Is he hurt?”
She spoke to Cameron’s broad back. “No, he’s all right. Threw a shoe, didn’t you, old lad?” He patted the horse’s neck. “Go on up to the folly. Emmie knows the way.” Beth swallowed, never having ventured out by herself, but she decided she had to sometime. She nudged Emmie onward, and the old mare plodded up the path toward the higher hill.
The day had turned hot, the air close among the trees. Beth wiped her face as she rode, hoping the folly would hold a cooler breeze.
She saw it before long, a picturesque stone building with moss on it. The flat sides had tiny windows and artfully crumbling brick. She could see why the folly had been built in that particular place, however. The view was breathtaking. Fold after fold of land rolled away toward the flat gray sea far away. A creek gushed in a gorge that dropped from the folly’s front edge.
The burly footman who’d been passing through the hall turned on his heel and went back into the dining room. “Are they always like this?” Beth asked, breathing carefully. “At each other’s throats? Oh, aye. Always shouting about something. You’ll get used to it.”
“Will I?”
“You’ll have to, won’t you? But they’ve been unhappy.” Beth blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “What about you? Are you unhappy?”
Daniel shrugged his lanky shoulders. “You mean because my mum tried to murder me and my dad and then offed herself? I never knew her, and Dad’s done his best.” His matter-of-fact acceptance of his mother’s violence twisted Beth’s heart. It had been the same in the East End, ten-year-old girls whose prostitute mothers had been beaten by their men shrugged shoulders and said tightly, “She were a whore. What’d she expect?”
Unaware of her pity, Daniel took the cut-crystal glass that Angus brought and thrust it into her hand. Beth sipped, the smooth taste of whiskey curling pleasantly on her tongue. Ladies don’t drink spirits, she heard Mrs. Barrington say. This despite the secret brandy bottle stashed in Mrs. Barrington’s bedside table.
“Tell me something, Daniel,” Beth said tiredly. “In the dining room, when Ian laughed at me, you all stared like the ceiling had come down. Why?”
Daniel wrinkled his forehead. “Why? ‘Twas because Ian laughed. I don’t think any of us have ever heard Uncle Ian laugh out loud before. At least not since he got sprung from the asylum.”
Beth progressed on her riding lessons until, by the end of the week, she could ride unassisted as long as Cameron or Ian rode alongside her. She learned to use her legs to guide the horse and not flail or grab the reins to keep her balance. The soreness began to slacken as her muscles became accustomed to the exercise. By the beginning of her second week of lessons, she could climb into bed with only a soft moan of pain. Ian proved amazingly capable at massaging the stiffness out of her.
Beth became fond of the old horse she rode. The mare had a mile-long pedigree name, but her nickname among the stable lads was Emmie. While Beth and Emmie plodded across the vast lands of Kilmorgan, Ian and Cameron raced or put their horses over fences. Ian was an excellent rider, but Cameron seemed to become part of his horse. When he wasn’t giving Beth lessons, he worked at training the filly he’d brought, letting her run on a long line he held in competent hands.
“It’s his gift,” Ian said to Beth as they watched him one morning. “He can do anything with horses. They love him.” With people Cameron was harsh and often rude, and his language colored the air. At first he apologized to Beth, but after a while he forgot to. Beth remembered what Isabella had told her, that the Mackenzies had lived as bachelors for so long, they didn’t think to soften their manners around ladies. Beth, used to East End toughs, decided she could bear it. As she’d told Inspector Fellows, she was not a wilting weed.
She learned to treasure Ian’s conversations with her, like this one about Cameron, because she never saw him much outside of bed. Over the next two weeks, he closeted himself with Hart, or the two went riding alone, and neither would say where.
Cameron kept on with Beth’s lessons without indicating that anything was unusual. Beth tried to ask Ian once what he and Hart were doing, and Ian answered laconically, “Business,” before looking off into the distance. It maddened her to not understand, but she hated to poke and pry. Hart had been right; she barely knew Ian, and perhaps this was what they always did.
I can’t expect them to change their entire lives for me, she chided herself. Another part of her would respond, But he’s my husband. . . .
Things went on like this until one afternoon when Cameron took her riding beyond the park up into the hills.
It was a beautiful day, with a fine summer breeze dancing through the trees. Patches of snow lingered on the highest peaks of the mountains, the sun never quite warming it enough to melt it.
“There’s a folly in the woods out here,” Cameron said, riding beside her. His own horse was a glossy black stallion. The stable lads were afraid of the beast, but he obeyed Cam without fuss. “My father built it for my mother. There weren’t enough ruined castles in the Highlands for him, so he decided to build a fake one.”
The brothers never spoke much about their mother, or their father either, for that matter. The portrait of their much-bearded father glared at her every day from the top of the second-floor staircase, but she’d never seen a picture of their mother. She nudged Emmie to move faster, interested. Behind her Cameron’s horse stumbled. Beth turned in alarm to find Cameron already dismounted and anxiously examining the stallion’s hoof.
“Is he hurt?”
She spoke to Cameron’s broad back. “No, he’s all right. Threw a shoe, didn’t you, old lad?” He patted the horse’s neck. “Go on up to the folly. Emmie knows the way.” Beth swallowed, never having ventured out by herself, but she decided she had to sometime. She nudged Emmie onward, and the old mare plodded up the path toward the higher hill.
The day had turned hot, the air close among the trees. Beth wiped her face as she rode, hoping the folly would hold a cooler breeze.
She saw it before long, a picturesque stone building with moss on it. The flat sides had tiny windows and artfully crumbling brick. She could see why the folly had been built in that particular place, however. The view was breathtaking. Fold after fold of land rolled away toward the flat gray sea far away. A creek gushed in a gorge that dropped from the folly’s front edge.
