Page 14 of The Scottish Duke
“I’m so glad. It’s nice to feel at home wherever one is, don’t you think?”
Every time she saw the woman, the duchess remembered something about her. They’d spoken of her father and his work. The duchess had even recalled her birthday, which was a sincere surprise.
“I had to do it,” Nan said now. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I know you think you had to.”
She understood, she really did, but understanding didn’t make the situation easier. Either the duchess was going to descend on her, or the duke was going to send someone to threaten her. She could imagine what the man would say. Something along the lines of dissuading her from communicating with the duke in any fashion.
She could go for the rest of her life without communicating with the Duke of Kinross. What a fool she’d been about the man.
She stood and stared down at the floor, the window, anywhere but at Nan. Slowly, she made her way to the door, wishing some words would come to her.
“You’re my friend,” she said finally. “You’ve always been my friend, Nan, from the first day we met. That will never change.”
They hugged at the door.
“I’ll come next week,” Nan said. “I’ll bring some more biscuits with me. And maybe some coal.”
She was not going to weep in front of Nan. Instead, she bid her friend good-bye and watched as Nan left the house and hurried back to Blackhall.
Dear God, what was she going to do now?
She wasn’t going to think about the Duke of Kinross. Why should she? He certainly hadn’t spared one thought for her.
The Chinese Parlor, decorated in crimson and black, was filled with objects acquired by a previous duke on his journeys through the Orient. Alex found the room oppressive, himself, but his mother liked it not only because of the unusual furnishings but because the room was bright most of the year.
Of all the people in the world, Alex trusted her the most. He’d never told her that, but he suspected she knew. Just as he thought she was aware of most of his feelings.
They’d never talked about Ruth, for example. He’d never expressed how he’d felt to learn that his wife had been unfaithful. Nor had he ever mentioned his confusion and despair over her death in childbirth. Or whether the child who’d died had been his. His mother never speaking Ruth’s name was a tacit admittance that she knew how he felt.
Although she was in her late fifties, Louise Russell, the Dowager Duchess of Kinross, didn’t seem to age. Her black hair was without a touch of gray. Her face was unlined and her figure hadn’t developed the plumpness often associated with matronly women.
If her eyes, the same shade as his, were sometimes farseeing, that was less due to the effects of time than the experiences she’d endured. His brother and sister both died of the influenza epidemic that had taken his father. In a matter of weeks their immediate family had been decimated, going from five to two.
He’d been sixteen at the time and unprepared for the onslaught of grief. His brother, Douglas, had only been ten, and his sister fourteen. Moira had the promise of being a beauty like their mother. Her hair had been black as well, her eyes a clear blue and almost always sparkling with amusement. She seemed to see the world as a great and grand adventure into which she’d been born.
Despite his mother’s caution, he had been at Moira’s bedside when she died. He held her hand while the fever burned fiercely through her. He’d wanted, in those hours, to say something reassuring, to let her believe that she could win the battle against this insidious disease. In the end, in her last lucid moment, Moira had turned to him and smiled. Just that, a farewell smile, but in her eyes had been a hint of amusement, as if she saw what lay beyond and thought Heaven to be a marvelous place.
Decades had passed, but there were times when he felt her presence so strongly that he wanted to turn to greet her and ask if she was one of the angels. Did she guard the inhabitants of Blackhall? Or did she just report what sins and transgressions they’d committed to the Almighty?
Strange, but he hadn’t realized until he stepped across the threshold just now that they didn’t often speak of Moira, either. Was that his mother’s conscious decision? Did she push away those thoughts that might bring her pain? If so, perhaps he should ask her how he could do the same.
His mother was seated in her favorite chair before the window, her embroidery frame stand in front of her, her gaze on the approaching night. She was so still she might have been a statue, something carved with realism: Dowager Duchess, Receiving Bad News.
Dread kept him silent as he walked across the room.
He sat on the sofa facing her.
“You’ve been very busy,” she said. “I’ve hardly seen you lately.”
“I’m cataloging the samples we’ve obtained.”
“Why does this work interest you so much, Alex?”
No one had ever asked him that question. Nor did he think she really wanted to know now. He had the feeling she was easing into the conversation, that the topic she really wanted to discuss was difficult for her.
His mother had a generous allowance for her personal needs, plus an inheritance from his father. Had she exceeded that? He’d never known her to squander money, but there was plenty in the Russell coffers if she needed it.
