Page 46 of To Wed an Heiress
“I didn’t, really. He saved himself.”
“That’s not what I heard. His Lordship told me what happened. He gives credit where credit is due.”
Mercy could feel her cheeks warm.
“Fool man. He had no business going up in that fool contraption, but will he listen to me? No.”
Mercy couldn’t help but wonder if Irene pinned Lennox’s ears back when she objected to what he was doing. He, in turn, probably took the occasion to slip free of her criticism whenever he could. Some people would have simply dismissed Irene or insisted that she mitigate her comments. The fact that Lennox didn’t do either added another level of complexity to what she knew about him.
Where was he now? She kept herself from asking because she didn’t want to betray her interest. Irene might tell Jean and by nightfall the story could be wafting through Macrory House. She didn’t need any tales to reach her grandmother.
No one had to know that Lennox fascinated her or that she appreciated his looks. She even liked the way he walked, in a loose-limbed gait as if he’d mastered the ground beneath him.
She’d never met a man as confident. Not even Gregory, who’d come home a hero.
“Lennox is very kind,” she said.
“You’re the kind one, Miss Mercy.”
She really didn’t deserve all that praise. She’d done only what anyone would do confronted with the same circumstances. When she said as much to Irene, the older woman clucked her tongue and shook her head.
“‘Modesty is the beauty of women.’ One of my mother’s quotes.”
Mercy hadn’t the slightest idea what she should say to that. Luckily the kettle began to make an odd warbling sound.
Ruthie entered the kitchen, alone this time. She stopped at the door and tilted her head. “What’s that sound?”
“That would be the newest invention,” Irene said with a smile. “Lennox has put a whistle on the top of the kettle and when it’s ready it lets me know.”
“It sounds like a cricket,” Ruthie said. “When a cricket whistles on the hob, it’s a bad sign.”
Everything was a bad sign to Ruthie.
“I think it sounds like a bird,” Irene countered. “I will admit it took a few days for me to get used to the sound. At first I thought I needed to check the chimney for another nest. The birds do like to make their home there.”
Irene moved the kettle to the back of the stove. “I’ll be making you some tea and when the carriage is ready Lennox will let us know.”
Mercy reluctantly sat at the table, wishing she’d left before the offer of tea. Scottish tea was unlike anything she’d ever tasted. It was so strong that most people added milk and sugar to it, making it much too sweet for her. The alternative was to drink it straight. In the few times she’d done so, she couldn’t rid herself of the metallic taste in her mouth for hours.
One of her earliest memories was traveling to North Carolina with her parents. Her mother had impressed upon her that it was always necessary to adapt to their destination. Therefore, when she was given grits, she never said a word in protest. Or when she was expected to eat something called hush puppies or breaded fish, she only thanked the cook, never commenting that the foods were heavy and nearly tasteless to her.
So in Scotland, she would drink what the Scots drank and keep silent. To do otherwise would be rude and disrespectful.
Still, she much preferred coffee. Or maybe another taste of whiskey. What would her family think to learn that?
Lennox came into the kitchen, greeting them with a quick smile.
“Did you find everything you needed at the market?” he asked Irene.
“Aye, I did, and most of it dear enough.”
Irene looked as if she’d like to say more but Mercy and Ruthie’s presence kept her silent.
For the first time since Mercy had arrived at Duddingston Castle, she felt uncomfortable, especially since it was easy to assume that the castle and its owner had fallen on hard times.
“When did you invent the tea kettle?” she asked, hoping to dispel the awkward silence.
“I didn’t invent it,” Lennox said. “I just improved upon it. About a year or so ago.”
