Page 34 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
Mama drew in a sharp breath and nodded. “I applaud you for wanting to be honest,” she said. “But I’d advise caution.”
“You want me to lie to him?”
“No, sweet girl, but there’s a difference between being deceitful for our own ends, and protecting ourselves. I-I couldn’t protect you when you were a child. I know the time will come when you must strike out into the world, when you must leave me and find your own life, and I confess I live in dread of that moment, for you’ll not have me to protect you. You must rely on others—one other, at least.”
“Mr. McTavish says he doesn’t value birth or decorum,” Clara said. “He values honesty.”
“A man will declare that he can weather any storm if he believes the storm will never come.”
A tear splashed onto Mama’s cheek, and Clara’s heart ached to see the pain in her eyes.
“Forgive me, my darling,” Mama said. “I’m so sorry that the shadow of my past lies over you, that you must protect yourself from the contempt of others because of my actions—that you bear the scars of the wickedness that entered my life.”
Almost instinctively, Mama reached for her upper arm, where Clara knew there to be a scar hidden underneath her sleeve. It was a scar that matched her own—an ugly red mark in the shape of aD.
“You’ve nothing to blame yourself for, Mama,” Clara said. “You were hurt by a wicked man, yet you’re kinder than anyone I know—kinder than all those ladies who’ve been brought up in the world of dukes and lords. You gave me nothing but love, and I’m only ashamed of my behavior when I came here, the things I said to you. But I’m proud that you’re my mother.”
“And I couldn’t be more proud of you, my darling,” Mama said. “Your stepfather is equally proud, even if he cannot find the words to tell you. He’s always been better atshowinglove, rather than making pretty speeches. And I would far prefer a man to show his feelings than give me false promises and empty words.” She wiped her eyes and smiled. “I daresay your Mr. McTavish is adept at both showing and speaking his feelings. Highlanders are notoriously frank.”
“Like wayward daughters?”
“Your frankness does you credit,” Mama said. “Perhaps I was wrong to want a London Season for you. The suitors who prance about Mayfair’s ballrooms are far from honest. And the truth always has a habit of revealing itself eventually—better it happen while you’re able to control that revelation.”
“You mean I should tell Mr. McTavish the truth about my past?”
“Only if it becomes necessary—and you’ll know when that time comes,” Mama said. “Well, I suppose I’d better have thecook bake another cake or two if Mr. McTavish is going to call on us again.”
“I’ll tell her,” Clara said. “I’ll bake it myself to save her the extra work.”
“Dearest girl!” Mama said. “How could Mr. McTavish fail to fall in love with you?”
She drew Clara into her arms, and Clara rested her head on her shoulder. They fell into a companionable silence, watching the glow of the sun as it slid toward the horizon, bathing the landscape in a soft pink glow.
“Mama?” Clara said.
“Mm-hmm?”
“What if he doesn’t like me when I tell him the truth?”
“Then I’ll cut his—what was it?” Mama said. “Oh, yes…hisballocksoff.”
Clara let out a giggle, then her mother squeezed her hand.
“If he does judge you for that over which you had no control, then he’ll have shown himself to be undeserving of you. In which case you’re best discovering that before you set yourself on a path from which you can never return.”
Clara shook her head. The notion of his turning away from her in disgust was too painful to contemplate. She’d made the mistake of telling one of the lads from Pickton Farm that she was a natural child, and he’d taunted her about it, calling her a tart’s brat—until Papa Harcourt threatened to have the family tossed out.
If even a farmer’s boy looked down on her for having been born out of wedlock, what might the son of a laird think when he discovered her past?
“There’s no use worrying about it until the time comes, my darling,” Mama said, stroking Clara’s hair. “In time, your Mr. McTavish will show his worth. And if not, then you’ll alwayshave a home here. I couldn’t bear to part with you for anyone less than the finest of men.”
Chapter Seven
The wall, thoughit would be dwarfed by Beinn Urraim, the mountain of Murdo’s homeland, was an extraordinary sight, a vast stone structure that separated Scotland and England, stretching to the horizon in both directions and falling away to the north like a giant cliff edge. The path wound along the top, where the wind tore at his coat, as if it sought to pull all comers toward the edge until they tumbled over the wall.
Miss Martingale—Clara—skipped ahead, swinging her basket on her arm, like a gamboling fawn in spring, seemingly oblivious of the danger.
Today marked his fourth visit to Pittchester Castle in as many days. Yesterday, his cousin accompanied him, together with his aunt and uncle. In the carriage home, Uncle Adam had slapped Murdo on the back, called Clara a fine filly, told him to “get to it,” then resumed his attention on his paper.
