The Virgin of Clan Sinclair (30 page)

Chapter 1

London, England

July, 1869

T
he ferns near the window wiggled their fronds as if they wanted to escape the room.

Virginia Anderson Traylor, Countess of Barrett, wiggled on the chair and wanted to do the same.

She sat in the corner of the parlor, swathed in black. Her hands were folded on her lap, her knees pressed together, her head at the perfect angle.

How many times had she thought about this scene? In the last year, at least a dozen or more, but in her imagination she’d always been surrounded by weeping women rather than sitting a solitary vigil.

She stood, unable to remain still any longer. She’d been a good and proper widow for nine hours now. For the last four, she’d watched over her husband’s coffin alone.

Her thoughts, however, had not been on her husband.

A dog howled, no doubt the same dog that howled for three nights straight. Ellice, her sister-in-law, thought he’d announced Poor Lawrence’s death.

The parlor where she sat stretched the length of the town house. Two fireplaces warmed it in winter, but now it was pleasantly temperate. The room had been refurbished with the infusion of money she’d brought to the marriage. The wallpaper was a deep crimson, topped by an ivory frieze of leaves and ferns. Four overstuffed chairs, upholstered in a similar crimson pattern as the wallpaper, squatted next to a tufted settee. A half-dozen marble-topped tables, each adorned with a tapestry runner, filled the rest of the available space, their sharp corners patiently waiting to snare a passing skirt.

No doubt Enid meant for the room to be the perfect showplace in the Earl of Barrett’s home. What her mother-in-law had accomplished, however, was a parlor reeking with excess. Even the potpourri was overpowering, smelling so strongly of cloves that her nose itched and her eyes watered.

The coffin was crafted of polished mahogany, wider at the shoulders and narrow at the feet, with three brass handles on each side. A round brass plaque over where Poor Lawrence’s heart would be was engraved
OUR BELOVED
.

Not
her
beloved, and he hadn’t shown much love toward his family. The hyperbole, however, was expected of them. So, too, all the mourning rituals that would be carried out in the next year.

Perhaps Lawrence had arranged for his own coffin and the plaque was a last thumb in the eye to his wife, mother, and sisters.

For her sitting, she’d insisted the top of the coffin be lowered. The other members of the family would probably want to view Poor Lawrence once more.

“A bad heart,” Enid had called it. A bad disposition as well, although perhaps she shouldn’t fault him for being angry at the circumstances he’d been dealt. A semi-invalid since birth, he’d been limited in what he could do, to the point of being imprisoned in this house.

Poor Lawrence was what she called him in her thoughts. To his face, she’d been a proper wife. “Dearest husband,” she’d said on those occasions when he allowed her to visit him.

“Dearest husband, how are you feeling?”

“Dearest husband, you’re looking better.”

“Dearest husband, is there anything I can bring you?”

He never answered, only slitting his eyes at her like she was an insect he’d discovered in his food.

Lawrence was, whether it was right to say such a thing about the deceased, a thoroughly unlikable person. Yet John Donne, the poet, stated that every man’s death was a loss to be experienced by all mankind.

With age, Lawrence might have changed. He might have become a better person. He might have even been generous and caring.

How foolish it was to ascribe virtues to the dead they never owned in life. Lawrence wasn’t a hero and he wasn’t kind. Look at how he’d thrust them all into poverty.

She could easily understand his antipathy toward her. After all, didn’t she feel the same for him? Why, though, would he treat his sisters and mother with contempt? Why punish them when it was obvious they hadn’t done anything but treat him with kindness and care?

Every day, Eudora and Ellice called on their brother. Even if Lawrence wouldn’t see them, they still returned, time after time. Eudora selected books she thought he’d like to read from their library. Ellice relayed stories to him of their days and the world outside the house.

Enid was as fond as any mother could be, worrying about Lawrence’s health, querying his attendant about his cough, his color, his weakness. Despite his wishes, she insisted the doctor make regular visits, and listened when his examination was done.

What had Lawrence done to repay them? Guaranteed they would forever be dependent on others.

He could, just as easily, have given some of her father’s money to his mother—or to her—to ensure their future was secure. Or he could have spent it on personal property not subject to his will.

But he hadn’t done anything kind or caring.

At least, now, she would never again have to pretend to be a loving wife. These sleepless hours were little enough sacrifice for such blessed freedom.

Custom dictated the curtains be drawn, but she’d opened them at midnight, unable to bear the closed-in feeling of the room. The mirror was swathed in crepe. Candles sat burning on the mantel beside a clock stopped at the time of Poor Lawrence’s death.

The room celebrated death, but she’d never been afraid of death. She was not overly fond of the dark, heights, or the ocean, however, and she detested spiders.

“The world is not going to swallow you whole, Virginia,” her father had said more than once. “There’s no reason to be a timid little mouse.”

She circled the bier, her fingers trailing over the polished top of the coffin, closer to Poor Lawrence in death than she’d ever been in life except one time, the night their marriage had been consummated, six months after their wedding. On that occasion, he’d kissed her, so passionately it jolted her. The coupling, however, had been a painful experience, one she’d not wished to repeat. To her relief, he felt the same and they never touched again.

Enid, Dowager Countess of Barrett, pulled open the sliding doors of the parlor, then closed them just as quickly.

Her mother-in-law was stocky and short, her shoulders as wide as her hips. When Enid headed toward her, it was like facing a solid wall of determination. Enid’s brown eyes could be as warm as chocolate sauce. Now they were as cold as frozen earth.

“Have you decided?”

Even though it was just before dawn, her mother-in-law was dressed in a black silk dress with jet buttons. Her hair was pulled back from her round face and contained in a black net snood. Although she wore a full hoop, she expertly navigated the room filled with furniture, moving to occupy a chair close to the bier.

“What you propose is so . . .” The words trailed away.

“Practical? Logical?” Enid asked.

Virginia walked to the window, trying to find some way to respond.

“Do not think Jeremy will support us, my dear. He will banish us from this house with a quickness that will surprise you. What he doesn’t do, his harridan of a wife will. They’ll care nothing for what happens to us.”

“Would you?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at her mother-in-law. “If the situation were reversed, would you care for Jeremy and his wife?”

“And their brood of children?” Enid sighed deeply. “I don’t know. They’re badly behaved children.”

Virginia bit back a smile. Yes, they were, and she dreaded any occasion when she had to encounter Jeremy’s seven children.

If Lawrence had left behind one child, they wouldn’t be having this conversation.

Her mother-in-law was a planner, witness her brilliance in arranging a marriage between Lawrence, an invalid, and an American heiress. One thing Enid hadn’t been able to do, however, was inspire Lawrence to bed his wife on more than one occasion.

She rarely called Enid “Mother,” falling back on a habit of not addressing her at all unless it was in the company of others. Her own mother had died at her birth, a fact she’d been reminded of endlessly as a child. Not by her father, who seemed surprised when she was trotted out for his inspection at Christmas and during his one summer visit. A succession of nurses and governesses, all hired to tend her and keep her out of her father’s way, ensured she knew her entrance into the world had been accompanied by the greatest tragedy.

She couldn’t even imagine her mother’s disembodied voice on this occasion. Would she have sided toward logic and survival? Or would her mother have been horrified at Enid’s suggestion?

“Something must be done,” Enid said. “You know as well as I.”

The title was going to pass to Lawrence’s cousin, Jeremy. He was a perfectly agreeable sort of person, pleasant to Virginia when they met. She didn’t see anything wrong with him assuming the title. The problem was, everything Lawrence had purchased since receiving the bulk of her estate: the numerous houses, parcels of land, dozens of horses, farm equipment, and furnishings. Lawrence had ensured they would also go to his cousin by willing them to the “male heir of his body.” Without an heir, the property traveled back up the family tree to Jeremy.

Without any cash or assets they could sell, they’d be penniless.

All she had was her quarterly allowance, and it wouldn’t buy more than a few bottles of perfume. She had her mother’s jewels, but they were more sentimental than valuable since her mother evidently had not been ostentatious in her dress. One good ruby brooch and a carnelian ring could be sold. How much would those bring her? Not enough to care for all the people who needed to be supported.

They were in dire straits, indeed.

Unless she produced an heir to the estate.

What Enid was proposing was shocking. Somehow, she needed to get with child and quickly enough that he would be viewed as Lawrence’s heir.

“It’s a solution to our dilemma,” Enid said. “Have you given any thought to it?”

She nodded. She’d thought about nothing but their situation in the last four hours. God help her, but here in this room with her husband’s body in a casket, she’d thought about nothing but him.

Macrath.

Chapter 1

Edinburgh, Scotland

October, 1872

N
othing about the occasion hinted that it would change Mairi Sinclair’s life. Not the hour, being after dinner, or the day, being a Friday. The setting didn’t warn her; the Edinburgh Press Club was housed in a lovely brick building with an impressive view of the castle.

Still, possessing an inquiring mind, she should have somehow known. She should have seen the carriage pull into the street behind them. She should have felt something. The air should have been different, heavy with portent. Hinting at rain, if nothing else.

Perhaps a thunderstorm would have kept her home, thereby changing her fate. But on that evening, not a cloud was in the sky. The day had been a fair one and the night stars glittered brightly overhead, visible even with the glare of the yellowish gas lamps along the street.

A gust of wind brought the chill of winter, but her trembling was due more to eagerness than cold as she left the carriage. Straightening her skirts as she waited for her cousin to follow, Mairi wished she’d taken the time to order a new cloak—her old black one was a bit threadbare at the hem. She would like something in red, perhaps, with oversized buttons and a hidden pocket or two for her notebooks and pencils.

Her dress was new, however, a blue wool that brought out the color of her eyes and made her hair look darker than its usual drab brown. At the throat was the cameo that her brother and sister-in-law had given her on their return from Italy.

“We saw it and thought it looked like you,” Virginia said.

She’d responded with the protest that it wasn’t a holiday or her birthday.

Macrath had merely ignored her and pinned it on her dress. “The best presents are those that are unexpected,” he said. “Learn to receive, Mairi.”

So she had, and today she was grateful for the thought and the gift. The brooch enhanced her dress.

She didn’t see, however, that the finely carved profile looked anything like her. She didn’t have such an aristocratic nose, or a mouth that looked formed for a smile. The hairstyle was similar, drawn up on the sides to cascade in curls in the back. Perhaps that was the only point of similarity.

Fenella joined her in a cloud of perfume, something light and smelling of summer flowers.

Her cousin was a pretty girl, someone people noted even though she rarely spoke in a group. Fenella’s blond hair created a halo around her fine-boned face, accentuating her hazel eyes.

Mairi had seen a swan once, and the gentle grace of the bird reminded her of Fenella.

In addition, Fenella was far nicer in temperament than she was. Whenever she said that, her cousin demurred, but they both knew it was the truth.

Fenella’s cloak was also black, the severe color only accentuating her blond prettiness, while Mairi was certain that she herself looked like a very large crow. However, she wasn’t going to be deterred by her appearance or any other minuscule concern on this most glorious of occasions.

She strode toward the building, clutching her worn copy of
Beneath the Mossy Bough
in her left hand, her reticule in her right. Her hated bonnet was atop her head only because Fenella had frowned at her in censure. Otherwise, she would have left it behind on the seat.

Before they could cross the street, three carriages passed, the rhythmic rumble of their wheels across the cobbles a familiar sound even at night. Edinburgh did have quiet hours, but normally only between midnight and four. Then, the castle on the hill above them seemed to crouch, warning the inhabitants to be silent and still, for these were the hours of rest.

She knew the time well, since she was often awake in the middle of the night working.

“Are you very certain this is proper, Mairi?” Fenella asked as they hurried across the street.

She turned to look at her cousin. Fenella was occasionally the voice of her conscience, but tonight nothing would stop her from attending the Edinburgh Press Club meeting.

“It’s Melvin Hampstead, Fenella,” she said. “Melvin Hampstead. Who knows when we will ever have the chance to hear him speak again?”

“But we haven’t been invited,” Fenella said.

Mairi waved her hand in the air as if to dismiss her cousin’s concerns. “The whole city’s been invited.” She shook her head. “It’s Melvin Hampstead, Fenella.”

She climbed the steps to the top, opened the outer door and held it ajar for her cousin. Inside was the vestibule, a rectangular space large enough to accommodate ten people. Yellow-tinted light from the paraffin oil sconces illuminated the door at the end, guarded by an older man in a dark green kilt and black jacket.

At their entrance, he stood, folded his arms across his chest and pointed his gray-threaded beard in their direction.

“Is it lost you are, then?”

Mairi blinked at him. “I don’t believe we are. This is the Edinburgh Press Club, is it not?”

“That it is, but you’re a woman, I’m thinking.”

“That I am,” she said, clutching the book to her bodice. “We’ve come to hear Mr. Hampstead speak.”

“You’ll not be hearing him here,” he said. “The meeting is closed to women.”

The man didn’t even look at her when he spoke, but at a spot above her, as if she were below his notice.

“That can’t be true,” she said. “Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been publicized so well.”

“This is the Edinburgh Press Club, madam. We do not admit women.”

“I’m a miss,” she said, stepping back. “Miss Mairi Sinclair, and I’ve a right to be here. I’m the editor of the
Edinburgh Gazette.
”

“You’re a woman by my way of thinking,” he said. “And we don’t admit women.”

She had the urge to kick him in the shin. Instead, she batted her eyes ever so gently. She’d been told she had beautiful blue eyes—the Sinclair eyes—plus she was occasionally gifted with the same charm that Fenella effortlessly commanded.

“Are you very certain?”

Evidently, he was immune to both her eyes and her lashes, because he frowned at her.

“It’s Melvin Hampstead,” she said. “I adored his book,” she added, holding it up for him to see. “If we promise to slip in, not speak to anyone, and simply stand in the corner, wouldn’t you allow us to enter?”

“No.”

No? Just no? No further explanation? No chance to convince him otherwise? Simply no?

She frowned at him, one hand holding the book, the other clenched tight around her reticule and the notebook inside. She carried her notebook everywhere, and the minute she could, she was going to record everything this man said, plus his refusal on behalf of the Edinburgh Press Club to allow her to enter.

“Is there a problem?”

She turned her head to find a man standing there, a bear of a man, tall and broad, with a square face and eyes like green glass.

“No, Provost Harrison, no problem. I was just telling this female that the Edinburgh Press Club did not allow women.”

She’d listened to tales of Scotland’s history from her grandmother, heard stories of brave men striding into battle with massive swords and bloodlust in their eyes.

This was one of those men.

He, too, was attired in a kilt, one of a blue and green tartan with a black jacket over a snowy white shirt. She could almost imagine him bare-chested, a broadsword in his right hand and a cudgel in his left. The sun would shine on the gleaming muscles of his arms and chest. He’d toss his head back and his black hair would fall over his brow.

There were men, and then there were men. One was male only because he wasn’t female. The other was the definition of masculine, fierce and a little frightening, if her heartbeat was to be believed.

He braced his legs apart, folded his arms and regarded her with an impassive look.

She knew who he was, of course, but she’d never seen the Lord Provost of Edinburgh up so close. If she had, she’d have been prepared for the force of his personality.

If he meant to intimidate her, he was doing a fine job of it, but she would neither admit it nor let him see that she was wishing she’d thought to remove her cloak so he could see her new blue dress.

Nonsense. Was she turning into one of those women who couldn’t be bothered with anything more important than her appearance?

Perhaps she should ask herself that question when she wasn’t standing nearly toe-to-toe with the Lord Provost, with him looking half Highland warrior, half gentleman Scot. Or if she could have ignored his strong square jaw, full lips, and his sparkling green eyes.

“Is there a problem, miss?”

At least he’d gotten the miss part correct.

“No problem. But I don’t understand why I can’t attend Mr. Hampstead’s lecture.”

He raised one eyebrow at her.

“The Edinburgh Press Club does not allow women as members, I believe.”

“Mr. Hampstead’s lecture has been promoted throughout Edinburgh.”

“For men to attend.”

She could feel her temper rising, which was never a good sign. She had a tendency to do and say foolish things when she forgot herself.

She was very aware that there were inequities in society. For that reason, Macrath was the titular owner of the Sinclair Printing Company. For that reason, she signed her columns with either her brother’s name or another male’s. For that reason, she pretended Macrath was out of the office temporarily when men came to call to discuss a matter with the owner of the
Gazette.
She always took the information, made the decision, and wrote the supplicant with her answer, once more pretending to be her brother.

She had to hide behind a man to do her daily tasks, run a business, be a reporter, and publish a newspaper, but she’d never been faced with the situation she was in at the moment: being refused admittance solely because she was a woman.

It should have occurred to her, but because it hadn’t, she felt the curious sensation of being blown off her feet.

“What does it matter that I’m a woman?” she asked. “Does Mr. Hampstead’s lecture only appeal to men?”

Right at the moment, she didn’t like the Edinburgh Press Club very much. Nor did she like the gatekeeper or the Lord Provost. Most of all, she didn’t like the burning feeling in her stomach, the one that felt like humiliation and embarrassment, coupled with the knowledge that she wasn’t going to win this skirmish.

Fenella evidently noted the signs, because she grabbed her elbow. “Come, Mairi, we should leave.”

“I believe that would be the wisest course,” the Lord Provost said.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

Did he think he was the first man to have tried to put her in her place? She was faced with criticism every day, and every day she had to deflect it, fight it, or ignore it.

“I would have thought, in your position, that you would speak for all citizens of Edinburgh, not just the men. Or is it because I don’t have the ability to vote that you dismiss me so easily?”

He didn’t say a word, the coward.

“Your silence indicates that you can’t dispute that.”

His lips curved in a faint smile. “On the contrary, my silence might be wisdom instead. I have found that it isn’t wise to argue with those who are overemotional.”

The breath left her in a gasp. “You consider women to be overly emotional?”

“I do not address women, miss. Only you. The club is a private organization, not one funded by or for the citizens of Edinburgh. I have nothing to do with its workings. I am simply a guest. Had I the authority, I would allow you entrance.”

She smiled. “Then you do think women should be admitted.”

“I think it’s the only way to silence you.”

She almost drew her foot back, but a soft sound from Fenella stopped her.

“Thank you, sir,” Fenella said, stepping in and preventing Mairi from responding by grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the stairs. “We’ll be on our way.”

In her daydream, she sailed past the Lord Provost with dignity and poise while he wistfully stared after her. The truth was somewhat different. She left, but when she looked back, he was grinning at her.

L
ogan Harrison watched as the woman went down the steps, glancing back at him from time to time.

She had high cheekbones stained with pink and a chin that looked stubborn enough to double as a battering ram.

He smiled at her frown, which made her scowl even deeper.

He normally avoided angry women, but something about her made him want to annoy her further, just to see how fast her temper rose.

Her eyes blazed at him and her lush mouth was thinned in irritation. As he watched, she said something to her wiser companion. She evidently didn’t want to leave. She’d probably be content to argue with him all night.

He rarely had the opportunity to argue with people. Gone were the fevered discussions of his earlier political life. He was at the point now that people respected his position too much to counter his pronouncements.

They practically backed out of the room.

Although he was the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, he wasn’t God. Granted, his position dictated that he was also the Lord Lieutenant for the city, which meant he greeted members of the royal family—some of whom did think they were God.

“Who is she?” he asked. Robertson glanced at the woman then back at him.

“A Miss Sinclair, sir. She claims to be the editor of the
Edinburgh Gazette.
”

“Does she?”

He knew the paper but he made a mental note of her name. She claimed to be its editor? Another interesting facet of the woman, one that had nothing to do with the fact that she had an arresting face and a figure that hinted at lushness beneath her cloak.

He watched as she entered the carriage, regretting that circumstances wouldn’t allow him another chance to continue their discussion.

“H
e had no right to insult me,” Mairi said as she entered the carriage.

“He didn’t insult you,” Fenella said. “If anyone did, it was the Edinburgh Press Club. They’re the ones who refused to allow women.”

“Next you’re going to tell me it’s the way of the world and I should simply accept it.”