Page 71 of My Highland Rogue
He found himself walking toward what was left of the north wing. The countess—his mother—had told him that in addition to the nursery, there had been a gun room here, the portrait gallery, a spare larder, and a number of other rooms.
He remembered, when he was a boy, that a team of workers imported for the task had come to Adaire Hall. For weeks they’d pulled down the remaining bricks stained black by the fire. Sean had complained about them and Betty had told him that they were Irish workers.
“Starving, most like,” she said. “Be glad you’ve got a meal in your belly, boy.”
Even though they’d razed the black bricks, the foundation was still there, incised into the earth, a reminder of the tragedy that had happened all those years ago. When he’d been reborn as the gardener’s son.
Sean had planted hedges and flower beds over the stones, and Gordon walked the outline of thenorth wing now, imagining the chaos of that night. All of the servants had been able to escape the blaze, but none of them had thought to alert the nursery staff.
The countess had seen the fire as the alarm had gone out. Instead of staying safe, she’d climbed the steps, intent on reaching her infant son, only days old. She’d gotten to the nursery just as the fire had expanded, taking out half of the third floor. Three of them had tried to escape, but only the countess with her child—him—and Margaret had made it to the second floor. From there, he’d been told, they’d had to jump to safety. The countess had taken the time to rip her skirt into lengths. She’d tied them together before wrapping him securely in a bundle. Once she was certain he’d be safe she’d dropped him slowly to the rescuers below. Flames had surrounded her and only Margaret’s quick wit in pushing her to safety and jumping afterward had saved their lives.
He glanced back toward the main building and the terraced gardens leading up to the older part of the house. He could remember the day he’d felt drawn to the countess, had walked up to her wheeled chair and presented her with a bouquet of flowers he’d hastily plucked from Sean’s beds. He knew, at the time, that he’d probably be punished for doing so, but it was worth it. His gesture had drawn a smile from the countess, and he’d smiled back at her.
Had he instinctively recognized the woman who’d given him birth? Or was it simply that she was the antithesis of Betty?
Not only had she saved his life, but she’d changed it with her kindness. She’d given him an education that he wouldn’t have gotten without her. She’d given him part of herself, not knowing that he was her son.
He was leaving today. He’d already sent word to Peter to prepare the carriage. He’d go back to London and begin his legal fight to reclaim his name and birthright. He would never use Harrison’s name, but the title was his.
“Gordon?”
He heard her voice, but couldn’t bring himself to turn and face Jennifer. He’d never considered himself cowardly, but seeing her at the funeral yesterday had been almost more than he could bear.
“We need to talk, you and I.”
No, they didn’t. The fewer encounters with Jennifer, the better. He hadn’t even been able to write a note to her. The words wouldn’t come. If he didn’t see her, he could pretend that he was handling this situation with equanimity, that he was equipped to understand and even accept it.
“I really must insist.”
Didn’t she realize that you rarely got what you wanted in life? Life was a series of compromises. He’d learned that, even before leaving Adaire Hall.
He finally turned, wishing that he had been able to leave without seeing her.
They stood on opposite sides of the foundation. A curious place to have this confrontation, but perhaps the best spot of all.
“Gordon, what is it?”
Was there something on his face, some expression he couldn’t control? Something in his eyes, perhaps, that indicated what he was feeling?
“I’ve been told you’re leaving. Weren’t you going to say anything to me? What’s wrong? Will you at least tell me that?”
There, something he could respond to without feeling like his guts had been ripped from him.
“I have to return to London.”
“Were you going to go without telling me?”
Yes, if he could have. It would be easier. It would have been better.
The morning sun danced on her hair, bringing out auburn highlights. Her cheeks were slightly pink, indicating her emotions. Her green eyes were too imploring, too filled with emotion for his comfort. She was wearing a burgundy dress beneath her black cloak and looked every inch like Lady Jennifer, perfect, beautiful, and once his.
“I have to go,” he said. He sounded dispassionate enough. There was hardly any inflection in his tone.
She took another step toward him, and he almost turned and walked in the other direction. He couldn’t be near her. He couldn’t be close. Even now, knowing what he knew, he wanted to enfold her in his arms and comfort her.
A habit of a lifetime was difficult to break.
He should cling to those five years when he hadn’t seen her. Five years when he’d had practice in missing Jennifer.
