Page 118 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
So had Thomas. After their engagement had been announced, he and Lucilla had wanted to call on Manachan, to confirm that his recovery was progressing and also to learn if he’d made any headway in identifying who had been behind the various incidents on the estate, but the day after their banns had first been read, Manachan had written, both to heartily congratulate them and to ask them to stay away.
He’d written that matters were tense within the clan, and he would appreciate it if they kept their distance at that time.
They had, of course, acceded to that request. Their lingering concerns had been somewhat allayed when Manachan had responded to the invitation to the wedding, both on behalf of the clan and of himself and his family, declaring that they would all be present.
But Manachan hadn’t come forward to take the position reserved for him at the end of the front pew. Thomas and Lucilla had both noticed the empty spot, but as yet they’d seen none of the Carrick family other than Niniver, who was presently engaged.
“I can’t imagine,” Lucilla said, “that after what he wrote, he wouldn’t have come. Perhaps he didn’t feel up to being swallowed by the crowd and stayed at the back of the church.”
Thomas nodded. If Manachan had stayed back, Nigel, Nolan, and Norris would have, too. Raising his head, he scanned the crowd. “Perhaps we should circulate and see if he’s by the edges somewhere.”
Lucilla squeezed his arm. “We should circulate anyway, but that’s an added incentive.”
Turning to her cousins and Antonia, she excused the pair of them, and they moved into the crowd.
A stone wall surrounded the church grounds, keeping the crowd tightly packed; the day was fine, if cool, and no one was in any great hurry to pile back into their coaches. For all those present, weddings were gatherings designed to catch up with family and friends; everyone was content to stand in the fresh air and chat.
Several chairs had been carried out from the church and set here and there. Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives—old and frail but with eyes that still saw everything—sat in one, commanding a small circle of attendants; Lucilla and Thomas had already paid their respects, so they didn’t pause there, but continued wending around the edges of the crowd.
They finally found Manachan; he was standing at one corner of the lawn, leaning heavily against the stone wall and gripping two canes, both planted in the lawn to either side.
His hat was pulled low over his face, and a fine woolen scarf swathed his jaw, rising nearly to his beak of a nose.
When Lucilla and Thomas reached him, Manachan dipped his head as low as he could. “Congratulations to you both.” He straightened, and his piercing eyes, just visible in the shadow cast by his hat’s brim, lifted to Thomas’s face. “You’ve made me very proud, boy. Your father and mother would have been thrilled.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I did tell you to learn to think with your heart and not just your head.”
“You did, indeed.” Thomas dipped his head; although his uncle was swathed top to toe, with only a small section of his face visible, it was clear the earlier improvement in Manachan’s health hadn’t lasted. Lowering his voice, he asked, “How are you?”
Edgar was, as ever, at Manachan’s side. Thomas glanced at Edgar as he spoke—and was even more disturbed by the stony blankness in Edgar’s expression. Rather than meet Thomas’s gaze, Edgar stared straight ahead.
Manachan waved irritably. “I’m well enough—well enough to be here to see you wed.”
Lucilla’s eyes had narrowed on his face. “Which means you’re not as well as you should be.” She would have stepped closer and peered at Manachan’s face, examined his eyes, but he shifted one of his canes into her path, forestalling her.
“Never you mind about me. As I told all of my dear family”—Manachan flicked one of his canes toward Nigel and Nolan; having spotted Thomas and Lucilla speaking with Manachan, the pair had detached from the crowd and were approaching—“I will not be the black witch at your wedding.”
Nigel halted beside Thomas, his gaze on his father. “We tried to tell him you wouldn’t mind if he didn’t come, not given his ill health, but, of course, he wouldn’t listen.”
“I’m still The Carrick, boy,” Manachan growled. “You mind your manners—and have you wished Thomas and Lucilla well?”
Nigel’s lips tightened; turning to Thomas, he offered his hand. “Congratulations, cuz.”
Nolan followed Nigel; releasing Thomas’s hand, he bowed to Lucilla. “Miss—” Nolan paused, then amended, “Mrs. Carrick.” His brows rose and he glanced at Thomas. “I suppose that makes you a part of the clan, too.”
Lucilla smiled. “Indeed. And my new position gives me an even better right to treat the head of the Carrick clan, don’t you think?” She turned her green gaze on Manachan.
He held up a hand in a fencer’s gesture of surrender. “Tomorrow. You can come and see me tomorrow afternoon—both of you. But for my sake, promise me you’ll enjoy this day without a care—it’s your wedding day, and by the grace of God and the Lady, you’ll only ever have one.”
Even shadowed by his hat brim, even though he was physically weak and, it seemed, under some degree of strain, Manachan’s gaze was still strong; Thomas could feel its weight as it rested on him and Lucilla, demanding and compelling acceptance, obedience.
Inwardly sighing, Thomas inclined his head. “Tomorrow afternoon, then. We’ll call on you then.”
Manachan went to say something, but his breath caught in his chest. He half bent, wheezed—but when Thomas and Lucilla reached for him, he fended them off. “No—off you go. You’ve your other guests to see to.” He managed to breathe again. Straightening, he continued, “Now I’ve seen you and paid my respects, I’m going to head off home.” He looked at Lucilla. “If you see your parents, please give them my regards and my apologies for not dallying to speak with them.”
“Of course.” The look Lucilla threw Thomas was questioning.
He understood what she was asking, but Manachan patently did not want any fuss made.
Pride. He understood the emotion. And given that Manachan seemed even more infirm than he had been before, leaning heavily on Edgar as he pushed away from the wall and turned toward the gate, perhaps his pride was one thing they needed to acknowledge and support.
