Page 93 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
Two more scars Hannah hadn’t mentioned sat near her hairline. Her face was thinner, her chin and nose more pronounced. Her mouth seemed larger. But it was the change in her eyes that fascinated her. She looked worldly. Experienced. Like she’d seen the suffering of the world and understood it.
Had smallpox done that to her? Or had giving birth changed her in some way?
Slowly, she lowered the mirror.
“I’m different, aren’t I?” she asked.
Hannah smiled. “You’ve been sick, your ladyship. That’s what you see.”
“No one could be a more diligent nurse,” she said. “Or a more caring one.”
“You were a good patient. Except when you were going off on a journey just when you were making a turn for the better.”
She gave Hannah a rueful smile. “It might look foolish, but I couldn’t do anything else.”
“I know, your ladyship. But if you injure yourself, Elliot will be without a mother.”
Virginia smiled. “You’re very wise, Hannah.”
“My mother used to say I had an old soul. She also said I was a bossy thing, forever giving people orders, even as a child.”
“It must’ve been difficult for you to go into service.”
“Why would that be, your ladyship?” Hannah asked, frowning.
“You didn’t find it so?”
“We were all trained to go into service. What else were we to do? Oh, we could have gone to work in one of the mills, but I think it’s a better position to be your maid then to stand for eighteen hours in a dusty factory.”
She’d never once considered that going into service might be something to be preferred. Nor had she ever had to worry about food or housing—at least until Lawrence died.
The morning of her assault on Drumvagen, Virginia sat at the table as Hannah prepared to leave, as she did every day. She hadn’t told the other woman of her intent, and now watched her fill an earthenware container with heather, the scent perfuming the air.
“Do you think he’ll change his mind today?” she asked her maid.
Hannah only glanced at her and shrugged.
Each day, through Hannah, she’d sent word to Macrath that she had recuperated and would like to see her son. Each time, he’d sent back a note with only four words on it:When you leave Drumvagen.
At least he’d not starved them. Every morning and evening a wagon appeared in front of the cottage. Hannah would come back inside with a large stew pot filled with something smelling wonderful. She’d be accompanied by either a maid or a young man bearing a small crate filled with other items like tea, pudding, jars of preserves, and a loaf of bread.
Hannah kept the small stove at the end of the cottage fueled with firewood delivered every few days. Now, on the fateful morning she would make her assault on Drumvagen, Hannah placed a cup of hot tea in front of her.
“You’ll be drinking it,” she said. “And I’ve some hot broth with chicken.”
“Are there no end to your abilities?” Virginia smiled at her. “You can deliver babies, be a nurse, and now you cook.”
“I try to be of use,” Hannah said, turning away, but not before she saw the flush on the maid’s cheeks.
“You have been,” she said, sipping her tea. “What would I have done without you?”
Besides her other capacities, Hannah acted as intermediary with Macrath, who allowed her to check on Elliot and speak with Mary and Agatha. Each day when Hannah returned, Virginia asked the same questions and Hannah dutifully answered. Had he grown? Was he well? Did he smile? Has he learned anything new? Did Mary or Agatha express any concerns?
She hated having anyone be proxy for her, even dear Hannah.
Every day for the past two weeks Hannah had gone to Drumvagen and was allowed into the nursery, a converted guest room on the second floor. Evidently, Macrath did not want his son relegated to an upper floor. That was the first thing that surprised Virginia. The second was that Macrath was in the nursery every day, either supervising his son’s care or simply being with him.
“He looks at him, your ladyship,” Hannah had told her, “like he can’t believe Elliot is there and half expects him to disappear any moment.”
