Page 101 of To Wed an Heiress
Chapter Forty-Six
Mercy was in the kitchen with Irene trying to master the art of making oatcakes when the bell rang. Ruthie was upstairs, having volunteered to help Connor with some task. Although Ruthie’s splint wasn’t due to be removed until next week, she was adamant about being useful. Mercy thought she simply wanted to be around Connor. Since she felt the same about Lennox, she understood completely.
“It might be someone from the house,” Irene said. “With more of your things.”
For a week there had been no communication with Macrory House—other than the letter Lennox had sent by way of Irene. When Irene had visited the day before yesterday, Gregory was still there and Flora was waxing eloquent about how brave he was and how mistreated by the Earl of Morton.
According to Ruthie, who’d been allowed to come to the castle two days ago, Flora had expressed more than a little interest in Mercy’s former fiancé. Gregory was no doubt fanning that flame. After all, Flora was an heiress.
Flora was more than willing to have him, with Mercy’s blessings.
The bell rang again.
“I’ll go,” Mercy said, making her way to the pump and washing the oatmeal from her hands.
She should have known who it was as she made her way down the corridor and through the Clan Hall. She opened the heavy oak door and stared.
Her father stood there in the ruined tower of Duddingston Castle, looking as proud and defiant as any Scot.
“Daughter.”
James Gramercy Rutherford had never addressed her in such a fashion. Whether it was an absence of minutes or hours, he always gave her a hug. Now his arms remained at his sides. That was one clue to his mood. His expression was another.
Her father was enraged.
He was one of the titans of New York with an appearance that was instantly recognizable. Mercy had lost count of the times he’d been called a pirate in the papers.
His hair was a uniform gray, no mix of black hair with silver threads. His pointed beard was black, however, as was his sweeping mustache. He squinted at her, a habit he had which either indicated that he wasn’t fond of wearing spectacles or he was just naturally suspicious. She’d always thought it was the latter.
All he needed was a gold earring and an eye patch.
When he laughed, however, it was a booming laugh that made her think that’s how God must sound.
He was tall and thin, because he often forgot to eat, being involved in his study of endless accounting ledgers and reports from the managers of all his various enterprises. More than once a maid had brought him a plate from the kitchen only to retrieve it hours later barely touched.
Her father’s one passion was good whiskey. She had the errant thought that he’d come to the right country.
His character was such that he was focused forward. He never talked about the past and if he was disappointed about anything in his life, he never admitted it.
He looked down at the threshold and then up at her. “May I come in?”
Making a decision, she stepped back and opened the door fully. “Come in, Father.”
Hopefully, Lennox would understand.
She led the way down the corridor and into the expanse of the Clan Hall. Her father stopped and looked up at the soaring ceiling, the mass of armaments and pennants on the walls, and the other artifacts nestled in the embrasures.
“An impressive room.”
“Duddingston Castle is over four hundred years old. Lennox’s clan settled this part of the Highlands.”
Her father only nodded. She expected him to ask about Lennox, but he didn’t. No doubt the Macrorys had already briefed him before this visit.
She led him to the throne-like chairs in front of one of the two massive fireplaces.
Lennox was in the courtyard, involved in making adjustments to the new airship design. She gave some thought to telling him that her father was here, and then just as quickly dismissed it. She and her father needed to talk privately.
He stood in front of the chair and she knew he wouldn’t sit until she did. She took the adjoining chair, arranged her skirts, and dusted off a bit of flour from her apron.
