Page 66 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
She should forget him, but how did she do that, especially with his son looking more like him each day? How did she smile into Elliot’s face and pretend his father was dead?
Above all, how did she rid herself of this feeling of guilt? How did she live with herself for the rest of her life?
Should she write him? Should she put pen to paper and somehow find the words?
Dearest Macrath, you are a father of a son, born on a wet and rainy March day in a burst of energy. He’s a darling child, handsome and intelligent. I see great things in his future.
Perhaps, rather than writing him, she would keep a journal. She’d record Elliot’s accomplishments. She’d tell him what she thought when their child smiled at her, and how her heart ached to think he would never see and never know of Elliot.
When Macrath married, she’d find a way to be glad about his happiness. She wouldn’t think of them living at Drumvagen, a jewel of a house mirroring Macrath’s hopes for a clan. Soon, he’d have children, Elliot’s half sisters and half brothers.
Elliot would never know his father, and the knowledge rested on her soul like a huge black stone.
Macrath married was the same as Macrath in Australia, out of sight and out of her life. Not entirely, however, with his son’s face looking back at her every day.
If she did keep a daily journal, what would she write?
Today, our child turned four months old. He is growing faster than I would have thought possible in size and knowledge. He knows my face as I lean over him and reaches for me.
He reminds me of you, dearest Macrath. Not only because of his intent look, but his smile. It seems to have been taken from your face.
Elliot’s nose wrinkled and his face started to turn red. His cries were full blown in seconds. She propped him on her shoulder and rubbed his back, hating to hear him whimper.
“I think he’s hungry,” Ellice said, coming into the garden followed by Eudora. Ellice was carrying a tea tray and Eudora another plant that she placed near the bench were Virginia was sitting.
They each wore summery dresses of black silk with white cuffs and collar. Eudora looked well in black but it washed out Ellice’s coloring.
“You’re right,” she said, standing and cradling Elliot in her arms. “If you’ll excuse us, I’ll go and feed him.”
The girls look startled, just as they did every time she reminded them she was rearing Elliot in a forbidden way. Granted, she’d allowed Enid to hire a nursemaid, a sweet young girl named Mary who cared for Elliot at night. Even so, she still nursed him.
Enid had lectured her almost every day that such behavior was not done in London society. She had stood firm, however, refusing to be swayed. Every day, she simply walked away, taking Elliot to a secluded corner where she could feed him in peace.
As she left the garden, she looked down into his face. “You’re going to be such a handsome man, aren’t you?”
His mouth twisted.
“Will you break a woman’s heart? Just like your father? Please don’t do such a thing,” she told Elliot, placing him against her shoulder and rubbing his back.
His head bobbed against her cheek, and she placed a kiss on his delicate ear.
“Do not let a woman yearn for you. Find one you can love, and make her yours, even if you have to spirit her away.”
What would’ve happened if she’d stayed in Scotland with Macrath? A selfish act, and one that would have pleased her but put Enid, Eudora, and Ellice in peril.
Now their future was assured. Their present was protected. All she had to worry about was forgetting the past.
Someone should warn Virginia that sitting in the sunlight would cause her skin to darken and look more common.
Paul watched her caring for the child, the spawn of the Scotsman, like he was the eleventh Earl of Barrett in truth. He admired her for the courage of the ruse, for daring to do something few of her contemporaries would do, even as he loathed her for it.
She could have chosen him. Together, they could have raised their child as the earl. He would even have stayed in the background, allowing her to be portrayed as the earl’s widowed countess, content to be her lover by night and her servant by day.
She’d never given him the chance.
He supposed the child was comely. Children had never interested him.
Each of these titled brats boasted a better future than the one he’d been granted. Without doing one thing, they would be feted and applauded, supported and praised. They would, simply by drawing breath, be congratulated.
