Scotsman of My Dreams (29 page)

 

Epilogue

January, 1863

D
alton was seated at his office chair in front of the library window, enduring another examination.

“How long has it been, Your Lordship,” the physician asked now, “since you noticed the new changes in your vision?”

“About two weeks. I can see a little sharper in my left eye. Not to the point of being able to read, of course, but shapes seem to have more shape, if that makes any sense.”

Dr. Marshall smelled of licorice. Did the man notice that his home was pleasantly scented with cinnamon? His cook had become an expert at making Minerva's favorite scones in the last six months.

The physician leaned so close that he could feel the other man's breath on his face. Any second now Marshall would stick his nose in his eye and there would go any recovered vision he had.

He was required to look into a bright mirror reflecting the sun, then another instrument that made his eye water.

Finally, the physician reared back. “I'm holding up my hand, Your Lordship. How many fingers am I showing?”

“I'm ecstatic to be able to see that it's a hand, Dr. Marshall, but I have no idea how many fingers are showing.”

“But at least you can tell it's a hand, Your Lordship. That is an improvement.”

“I can see my wife's face,” he said. “I haven't been able to do that before.”

“Truly, Your Lordship?”

There was a strange note in the physician's voice, making Dalton wonder exactly what the man was thinking. That he was odd for marrying when he didn't know what his wife looked like? Or that he was imagining things?

This morning he'd awakened beside Minerva, the dawn light illuminating her face in that flash of a second. Sleeping, she'd been beautiful, even more arresting than James had said. In that next instant the image of her had blurred, as if Providence had granted him sight for only that perfect moment.

He hadn't said anything to anyone, but he'd called for the physician.

“Will my vision get better?”

“Only time will tell, Your Lordship. It's conceivable. It's a very good sign that you've improved and not gotten worse.”

“Is that possible?” he asked. “That it would get worse?”

The physician straightened. “If you'd asked me that question a few months ago, I would have had to prepare you for the fact that it would probably become much worse. But now?”

“Yes? Now?”

“Now I think we can safely say that you will continue to improve. Perhaps one day you might be able to read. But I do want to be notified the minute anything changes.”

“Of course.”

Minerva would be the first one he told, and then Dr. Marshall.

Even her name made him smile. Minerva Todd MacIain. It was fitting that a woman who was so interested in Scotland have a Scottish name.

He would tell her what the physician said the minute they returned home. First, however, she was all for showing him a surprise at her old house.

Minerva's surprises came in many different styles. Like when she presented him with Florie, a mare new to the stables at Gledfield. She had a tender mouth and a gentle gallop, the perfect horse for a one-­eyed equestrian.

Another surprise was the day she announced that Lady Terry had left her Partage Castle. The poor woman had died before Minerva could visit with her in Scotland, but she'd made Minerva an heiress.

“Now you're a countess with her own castle.”

“I'll gladly share it with you,” she said. “I'll make you my assistant.”

He smiled, remembering a few of their adventures in Scotland.

But the greatest surprise Minerva Todd MacIain had given him was news only a month old.

He was to be a father. She was to be a mother. The two of them were to be parents, a miracle that kept him awake some nights, worrying about whether he would be an acceptable father. He suspected their first child would be a girl. She was adamant it was a boy.

Life was full and rich, in a way he'd never contemplated in his hedonistic days. He did things he'd never thought he'd do, silly things that would have garnered his disdain only years earlier. Last night, for example, he'd arranged for a dance in their garden.

“Come,” he said to her. “It's a romantic time of evening, Minerva. What the Scots call gloaming.”

“It is,” she said. “There's a haze in the air like Scotland, but I can still hear the carriages in the square.”

“You can also smell the honeysuckle and the roses my mother planted. She would have liked you.”

“Would she?”

He nodded. “I think she would have heartily approved of you. In fact, I can almost hear her say, ‘Dalton, Minerva is just the woman for you.' ”

She laughed and he felt his heart expand. Who knew that Minerva had such an infectious laugh? She sounded like a young girl only days away from childhood, carefree and delighted.

He turned and lifted his left arm. Suddenly, the sounds of violins flooded the garden.

“Have you hired an entire orchestra?”

“Only a quartet. Come and dance with me, Minerva.” He held out his arms. “My dearest Minerva, my wife, the most astounding woman in the world, will you dance with me?”

“Here, Dalton?”

“Here,” he said, “in our own private garden.”

She walked into his arms and allowed him to lead her into a waltz. A little more decorous, probably, than one performed on a ballroom floor. Down the paths and around the garden they whirled and laughed. If some of the servants watched through the windows, they hadn't minded.

Now his wife had another surprise for him and he couldn't imagine what it might be.

As they entered the town house, he waved to the Covington sisters, no doubt peering from one of the windows. The three of them had been guests at their wedding and they'd entertained the women at dinner twice in the last few months. He would always be grateful to them for saving Minerva the night she was kidnapped.

Lewis would go to prison if convicted of Arthur's death and most certainly for arranging Minerva's abduction. His feelings about that were complex. He felt a measure of guilt that he hadn't been a better influence over Lewis, and sorrow that Lewis had destroyed his life because of greed. Added to that was relief that his brother's plans, aided by Howington, who was also incarcerated, hadn't succeeded.

An audit of his finances had proven what he suspected. Howington had helped himself to thousands of pounds while he was in America.

“Now, as to my surprise,” she said, once she'd handed over her coat and bonnet to the maid.

He did the same, thanking the young girl.

“It's Neville.”

“We'll find him,” he said, injecting more hope into the words than he felt.

He'd already sent a sizable sum to the British Legation to finance Neville's release from the prison camp where he was being held. The delay, he'd been told, was due to the press of war and the fact that negotiations had broken down numerous times.

“No. You don't understand. He's here, Dalton,” she said.

She put her hands on his chest, lifting her face. Why had he ever thought her plain? Even a blind man could see her beauty.

“He's home.”

He stared down at her, a dozen emotions all vying to be victor in that moment. He finally settled on patience, assuming a calm he didn't feel.

“He's finally home.”

Was he supposed to sing hosannas? Evidently, if the beatific smile Minerva gave him was any judge.

His willingness to bring Neville home was born from his love for her, not his belief in the man's innocence.

“Will you talk with him? Will you hear him out?”

He'd promised her that, hadn't he?

Taking his hand, she led him down the hall and into the parlor.

“I love you,” Minerva said once they'd entered the room. “But I also love my brother. So I'm going to leave the two of you alone to talk in hopes that you will remember that, both of you.”

He stared at the door she closed.

“Dammit, Minerva.”

“I've often felt the same way,” Neville said. “She puts you on a pedestal and you can't help but fall off it.”

Neville was seated in one of the wing chairs in front of the fireplace.

He turned and went to stand in front of his brother-­in-­law, staring at the man. Even with only one eye, he could see the changes the year had made in Neville.

“You look like hell.”

The other man shifted in his chair, and when he did, the loose fabric of his trousers pressed against his legs, revealing limbs like twigs.

Dalton had never seen anyone as thin. His wrists stuck out of his jacket. His Adam's apple was prominent and his face was barely more than a skull covered in skin.

“The voice of honesty, finally,” Neville said, smiling. “You would be surprised by all the ­people who have told me how good I'm looking when I know I'm a ghost. Oh, I'm a ghost with a little meat on its bones, but some days I feel so transparent that I'm sure ­people can see through me.”

He was surprised Neville had survived the voyage home.

“I understand I have you to thank for rescuing me.”

“It wasn't me, but my cousin.”

Neville inclined his head slightly. “My thanks to him, then.”

“He's a she, actually. Glynis's first husband was with the British Legation in Washington. I knew they were trying to arrange a trade. I didn't know they'd been successful.”

“Just in time, I understand,” Neville said. “They're no longer trading prisoners. So I'm doubly grateful.”

Dalton sat on the adjoining chair, considering his words. He loved his wife. He admired her. He wanted to be around her for the rest of his days, but in this he had to obey his own counsel.

“Why the hell did you try to kill me?”

“Minerva said you thought that.” He shook his head. “I didn't.”

“I saw you aiming at me.”

“I wasn't aiming at you, but at Harris. He'd been saying some things I thought were odd for days. I wondered what he had planned. The moment we rounded the curve on the path, I knew what it was. He had his pistol trained on you. My only choice was to shoot him.”

“Did you?”

Neville shook his head. “His aim was better. We thought you dead at first, you know.”

Neville rested his head back against the chair as if the conversation tired him.

“If you'll remember, he was slightly ahead of us and to the left. I was riding beside you until the trail became too narrow and I moved back.”

The shooting was a blur to him. He hadn't been able to remember much of what happened just before he was shot and nothing afterward. The image of Neville raising his pistol was the clearest memory he'd had.

“Why? Why was he trying to kill me?”

“You need to talk to your brother,” Neville said.

“Is that what he said, that Lewis had paid him?”

Neville nodded.

“Dying men confess all manner of sins. They wish to go to their maker with a clean conscience. At least that's what happened in prison camp. More than once when I thought I was dying I told anyone who listened about my regrets.”

“Your sister always believed you would come home.”

Neville smiled, the expression more sad than amused.

“One of my sins, Dalton. That I was never as good a brother as she was a sister.”

He knew a great deal about regret.

“We were damn fools, Neville. I was the biggest one of all.”

“Minerva doesn't think so, or she would never have married you. My sister is a damn good judge of character. At first I couldn't see how you would suit. Then I realized the two of you are very much alike.”

A knock on the door signaled the end of their privacy. A moment later Minerva entered, followed by Mrs. Beauchamp with a tray. From the looks of the pastries piled high, they were trying to fatten Neville up in a day.

“Are you done?” Minerva asked after the housekeeper left the room. “Or do I have to hide all the pokers and knives?”

He exchanged a look with Neville.

“We're done,” he said.

He had made peace with his past in order to savor his future. Neville's appearance was the last part of that past. He didn't know if his story was the truth, but he suspected it was, especially if Lewis featured in it.

A strange thing about love, he thought as Minerva stretched up to kiss him. It blunted all the aggressive emotions. One couldn't hate or distrust in the presence of love.

In the future, if rumors were told of him and his role as the once infamous Rake of London, ­people might nod at each other and exchange stories. Hopefully, they'd say that he'd taken to being quite a good earl. They would probably talk about Minerva as well, telling tales of how she loved to dig in the soil of Scotland and wear something too much like trousers to be entirely proper.

Those same ­people might say that two such shocking creatures deserved each other.

Indeed, they did, and he, for one, was damn thankful.

 

Author's Notes

J
ohn Godfrey Saxe's poem, “The Blind Men and the Elephant,” was actually written in 1872. I've utilized a little literary license by allowing Minerva to quote it ten years earlier.

I was reading about George Alfred Lawrence—­the author of Guy Livingstone, a novel published in 1857 featuring a handsome Guards officer. Mr. Lawrence decided, in December of 1862, to leave England and volunteer to serve General Lee as a staff officer. This led to my discovery that other men had also left England with the express purpose of participating in the Civil War. Ergo—­Dalton MacIain was born.

The incident Dalton relates, with he and his men flipping a coin to decide who would go to the North and who would go to the South, was taken from recollections of Field Marshal Viscount Wolseley as related in James A. Rawley (ed.),
The American Civil War: An English View
(Mechanicsburg, Pa., 2002), p. xiii.—­and
A World on Fire: Britain's Crucial Role in the American Civil War,
Random House Publishing Group.