Page 24 of To Wed an Heiress
“It’s tatie scones and fish skink,” she said. “Your favorites.”
It was except for the fact that he had eaten it entirely too much in the last month. Beggars, however, couldn’t be choosers. He’d spent a good deal of money on his airship. Too much, actually, and now he had to pay the price by eating fish until he was certain he was growing gills.
He put down his tools, looked up at her, and surrendered.
“Just bring it in here,” he said.
He’d taken over the Laird’s Room, a small chamber off the Clan Hall that allowed him some privacy. Here his work was shielded from prying eyes. Not that he had all that many visitors. He’d gotten a reputation for being a recluse and a grumpy one at that. Or maybe it had been Irene who scared off any visitors. She was as protective of his time as he was.
“I’ll not do that,” she said. “You’re alone too much as it is.”
“You do remember that I pay your wages?”
“That’s something else entirely,” she said. “We’ll be talking about an increase there. Jean earns more than I do and doesn’t do half my work.”
Her sister worked for the Macrorys. If he hadn’t liked Irene so much, he would have dismissed her the minute he learned that. The familial relationship, however, had proved to be helpful over the years. He had some insight into the family’s actions, thanks to Irene and her sister.
“I’m not made of money like the Macrorys, Irene.”
“Then you’d better get busy and invent something else,” she said.
That admonition was new.
“I’ll take my dinner in the kitchen, then.”
He had no intention of eating by himself in the dining room. The place was a gloomy cave and he avoided it as much as possible.
Besides, this way, Irene would join him for dinner. Duddingston was large but empty, a catacomb of memories and ghosts, whistling winds and strange noises. No doubt she wanted the company as well before she went home to her cozy little cottage.
“I’ll be there in a moment.”
She took that for the capitulation that it was and nodded.
He folded the torn sail and wondered if it could be mended. Irene had known of a seamstress who’d helped him fashion the cloth around the wooden struts. Could tiny stitches make it air worthy again or did he have to start with a new sail? Cost was a factor, but so was safety.
He’d review his finances and see if he could afford a new sail. Otherwise, he’d have to stay on the ground and make theoretical assumptions rather than actually flying.
Maybe he was as insane as Mercy said. Normal people, however, didn’t change the world and he was all for doing a little changing. There were ideas that needed to be explored. Inventions that needed to be made.
Sometimes he felt that the world was filled with cupboards, some of them open but most of them closed. All a man had to do was to choose a field and open the cupboard. It’s why they were laying transatlantic cable. Why it would soon be possible to send a telegraph from London to New York. It was why the roads were paved with a smooth surface that made it possible to travel long distances in relative comfort. Why the steam engine had been invented and why there were almost daily advances in medicine. Science was only one of the cupboards that was being opened.
He wanted to be among the first to understand the principles of flight. That meant actually being up in his own aircraft and not on the ground.
Maybe he’d even prove to Mercy that he wasn’t insane but merely a visionary.
Had she been warmly welcomed by her relatives? No doubt they were filled with indignation about the accident. He could just imagine the conversation.
He’d enjoyed talking to Mercy, even liked their sparring, at least until he’d found out who she was. After that, he simply wanted her gone from Duddingston.
Perhaps he was insane, after all. Otherwise, why would he remember the look on her face when he told her to leave? It wasn’t indignation or humiliation. She hadn’t been embarrassed. No, he had the errant thought that he’d hurt her feelings. That was so ridiculous an idea that he pushed it from his mind as he left the Laird’s Room.
Walking through Duddingston was like visiting the past four hundred years ago. The castle had been built for defense. Comfort hadn’t been a consideration which meant that succeeding generations had tried to make the structure more habitable. For the most part it had been a battle between the castle being a home or a fortress. When the west tower had crumbled, there hadn’t been money to repair it. The same with parts of the curtain wall. He had spared the time and money, however, to replace the roof where it had fallen into the Clan Hall.
When Duddingston was still intact there had been plenty of clan members, people who needed to be sheltered in times of trouble and protected in times of plenty. The Caithearts had never turned their backs on their clan, but the numbers had dwindled over the years, people choosing to emigrate or move to the south of Scotland where the living was easier. They hadn’t been like the Macrorys who’d made members of their clan little more than serfs and then, when the land couldn’t support them, tossed them from their homes and replaced them with sheep.
His title of laird was only ceremonial, carrying with it none of the very real responsibilities of his grandfather and those before him.
As he passed through the Clan Hall, he could almost hear the protests, the raised voices, the clamor from gatherings far into the past. If the laird proposed something unpopular there would’ve been raised fists, red faces, and Caithearts who stood with legs spread apart and hands on hips, ready to do battle.
