Page 43 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
How strange to feel jealousy for that person she’d been, innocent and more than a little naive.
“Did you dance with many women?”
He smiled at her like he knew how foolish she was being and wanted to reassure her.
“I never imagined a place like this as a boy,” he said, blessedly changing the subject from London. “Besides, I was too busy worrying about earning enough money to eat.”
“Yet you still dreamed,” she said.
He nodded. “You always have time for dreams.” He stared off into the distance, and she wondered if he was recalling those years in Edinburgh.
“Was it an awful childhood?” she asked, then realized the question was unbearably rude.
“At times,” he said, before she could call back the question. “After my father died, I remember being afraid all the time. A friend of my father’s loaned me the money to bury him.” He glanced over at her. “That was the first debt I paid.”
She settled onto the ledge beneath the arched window, uncaring about the damage to her skirt, hoping he would continue to speak about his childhood and worried that doing so would trouble him.
“I couldn’t let the girls know how desperate we were, so I worked harder than I ever had before.” He smiled. “I sold broadsides for hours every day, then went back to the office and worked with Mairi to write them for the next day. Being out on the street helped me, because I heard what interested people, what worried them, what angered them.”
She pulled up her skirt and, she hoped, with a ladylike grace, scooted into a more comfortable position.
“How did you go from being a printer to inventing an ice machine?”
He grinned at her, such a charming expression that she couldn’t help but smile back.
“I used to clean the typeface with ether. Every time I did, it got cold. That fascinated me. I wondered if there was a way to get the air cold.”
“Was there?” she asked, fascinated.
“As a side effect,” he said. “But I also discovered I could create ice.”
“And your sisters never again had to worry about their meals.”
“Add another mouth,” he said. “My cousin, Fenella. Mairi invited her to live with us when her parents died.”
“Do they ever come to Drumvagen?”
He leaned against the stone wall. “They do. Mairi’s only two years older than me, but she thinks she’s my mother.” He glanced over at her. “Fenella occasionally accompanies her. Ceana hasn’t come back to Scotland after her marriage, but I think it’s probably only a matter of time.”
“Did you never wish for a brother, rather than all those females?”
He laughed. “My life was filled with relatives. I can’t say I wanted another.”
“I wanted a brother or a sister,” she said, giving him a confession of her own. “Maybe my childhood would’ve been easier. My father would not have cared so much about my studies. Or maybe he would have visited me more than twice a year.”
“While I think being an only child could be a blessing,” he said. “Mairi always wants to know why I haven’t married. She harangues me constantly about my plans for the paper. She gets into arguments with Brianag.”
Before she could comment that Brianag was a formidable figure, he moved to stand in front of her.
“See, you’ve changed this place already,” he said. “The grotto will forever smell of roses, and I’ll be able to close my eyes and say to myself, Virginia was here. I’ll mark the exact date and time.”
He mustn’t do that to her. He mustn’t cause her to want to weep simply with words.
Or perhaps that was her conscience rearing its head.
She moved her skirt aside so he could sit.
“What will you be thinking when you come here?” A foolish question, and one she should not have asked. His smile gently chided her, but he answered nonetheless.
