Page 58 of My Highland Rogue
The world was suddenly open to her. They could do anything they wanted.
He loved her. She loved him. She was going to marry Gordon, and they’d never be apart again.
That thought warmed her as she went about her duties. There weren’t any disagreements between the maids or problems with the footmen or stable boys. Harrison hadn’t issued any impossible demands. Lauren didn’t need her. The baby seemed well and, other than acting like a baby, was thriving.
When Lauren announced that they’d decided to name the baby Mary, Jennifer didn’t hide her tears.
One day, she too would be a mother. She could almost see her little boy, nestled in the crook of her arm. Perhaps she and Gordon would have a large family. A boisterous group of children who filled their home with noise and love.
More than once she caught herself humming as she went about her duties. She greeted and smiled at everyone she saw. If Harrison had appeared, she would have even been cordial to him—that’s how happy she was.
The world was a wonderful place and she was the happiest person in it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Elizabeth Chapel wasn’t named for the period of time when it had been built or for any type of architecture. Instead, it had been named after a previous Countess of Burfield, Elizabeth, who was known to be devout almost to a fault.
Adaire Hall was laid out like a square, although after the north wing had burned down, it consisted of only two wings and the original part of the Hall. Behind the ruins of the north wing were a half dozen fair-sized outbuildings, plus the stable, dairy, and barns.
The chapel was located to the east of the Hall, at the end of a serpentine path winding through the statuary gardens.
Gordon opened one of the chapel’s double doors. The squeaking hinges made him wonder how long it had been since anyone had entered the building. Perhaps the last time had been the countess’s funeral.
His mother’s funeral.
He could still remember the procession, pallbearers carrying the coffin through the chapel to the crypt. He’d stood in the back, wishing he could be with Jennifer to comfort her, to holdher as she wept. She’d struck him as particularly alone, seated next to Harrison and McBain.
The rage that suddenly swept over him was boundless yet impotent. Who did he punish? Sean, a man dying in agony? Betty? She was already beyond any earthly penalties. The inescapable fact was there was no one to bear the brunt of his anger.
Since it was a bright day, the chapel was lit by yellow and red hues from the stained glass windows on three sides. The founding members of the family had been devout, but he didn’t think that Harrison had ever invited a visiting minister here.
Gordon made his way down the central aisle, passing all the pews that had been filled on his mother’s funeral. Like a larger cathedral, the chapel had an upper recess for the choir, its own impressive sounding organ, and an arched roof with crossed timbers. Above the altar was a stained glass window, one of three. Two doors sat side by side just beyond the altar. The one on the left led to the sacristy, the one on the right to the crypt.
He and Jennifer had explored the crypt once as children. They’d dared each other, and crept down the stairs. He remembered the musty odor that had seemed to cling to him for hours afterward. At the time, with a child’s logic, he had thought it was because of all the long-dead Adaire bodies.
Now he knew that it was simply because the crypt was below the earth, and what he smelled was dampness. There were no windows to allowsunshine to filter in. For that reason, there were candles in various spots, along with matches. At the base of the steps he found the nearest one and lit it, carrying it with him.
He went to stand before the wall facing east. One brass plaque was lighter than the others. He reached out with his right hand and placed his fingers over the incised letters. Mary Alice Adaire, Countess of Burfield. His mother. He wished he’d known. He wished he could have had the freedom of being her son, to embrace her, to kiss her scarred cheek. To tell her thank you for saving him. Thank you for caring more about him than her own safety or health.
Thank you for his life.
Yet, even not knowing who he was, she’d treated him with kindness and love. She’d been as maternal to him as she might have been knowing the truth. She had taught him well, preparing him for the day when he would have no one to watch over him or to care.
His heart ached in a way he could never remember feeling. After a moment he identified the emotion: regret. Perhaps he’d experienced it before, but never this way, never this deeply.
His earliest memories featured Jennifer. They were laughing, holding each other’s hands as they were running up one of the hills behind Adaire Hall. Jennifer loved the woods, but she was forbidden to explore them. Even at five, he was more adventurous and probably manipulative. He always urged her to come with him, but she, a year younger, always pulled back, saying in that sweet, lilting voice of hers, “Mama said not.”
More than once in his childhood he wished he had a mother like the countess.
He always seemed to interrupt his parents when they didn’t wish to be bothered. Or ask questions for which there were no answers. Or tempt Betty to take out the switch she kept hanging by the front door for times when her patience was thin and his daring was great.
All his life he’d had a feeling that he didn’t fit in, and now he knew why.
He was having a difficult time reordering his history. The process would probably take years instead of minutes. He wanted to howl, to scream, to claw at life itself, demand that those days, weeks, months, and years be returned to him.
Jennifer had always been an integral part of who he was. She’d been important to him, vital to who he knew himself to be. The day wasn’t complete until he’d talked to Jennifer. No problem was that difficult once they’d talked it over. No anger so insurmountable once they’d spoken. She was so vital to his life that he couldn’t remember any significant event without her presence in it. When she went off to Edinburgh to be with her godmother for weeks every few months, he’d suffered for her absence.
Betty had known. All those years when she’d seen the relationship developing between him and Jennifer, she’d known the truth. All those years when she’d criticized him for drawing breath, she’d known who he really was. Her selfishness had been stronger than her decency, so she kept silent.
