The Secret Gift (30 page)

Libby was physically trembling as, with that parting shot, Lady Venetia turned and sailed out of the room.

Graeme came up behind Libby and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. “Libby ...”

She turned to face him, tears blurring his face before her. She drew a breath deeply, trying to take hold of her fragile emotions. Somehow, a small part of her had thought that perhaps when Lady Venetia saw her, realized that she truly was a flesh-and-blood person and not some bitter unwanted memory, her feelings might change. Perhaps she’d even dared to hope that they might find a way to bridge the enmity of the past, find a way to accept one another.

“I don’t know which is the more difficult to bear. Her unjustified hatred of me, or knowing the only blood relative I have left in this world wishes I were never born.”

Graeme enfolded Libby in his arms, and she gave in to the storm of her emotions, weeping, into his chest.

“Shh,” he said soothingly, kissing her hair. “She’s nothing but a wretched, embittered old woman.”

“But she’s something else, too. She’s my grandmother. She’s supposed to be sitting in a rocking chair, knitting mittens and spending her weekends gardening.” She lifted her head, looked at him. “Is what she said true? Do you think I spent last night with you in order to get this house?”

“Libby, that doesn’t even make sense. Don’t do this. Don’t allow her bitterness to tarnish what we shared together last night.”

He cupped her face, wiping away her tears. Libby looked at him and knew he was right. She nodded. “Thank you. Thank you for being here.”

He answered by lowering his head and touching his lips to hers.

Behind them, Flora stood in the doorway, watching the two embrace. “Ehm, excuse me, Mr. Mackenzie?”

But they were oblivious to her.

“I ...” She hesitated. “I just wondered if you would be needin’ anything else afore I go home for the night? Ehm ... excuse me?”

She waited another moment, then shrugged. “Good night, then.”

Flora turned, a small, knowing smile lifting one corner of her mouth.

Libby was literally up to her elbows in soapsuds when she heard an unfamiliar voice calling up the stairs.

“Hallo ... ? Is anybody home?”

“I’m up here!” she shouted to the door behind her and plunged the scrub brush into the bucket, yanking her hand out to slop soapy water over the floorboards. She was on her knees in one of the upper bedrooms, sleeves of her Boston College sweatshirt rolled up to her elbows, her hair pulled back in a lopsided sort of ponytail atop her head. She’d been working on that particular room all morning, moving out furniture, taking down window hangings before turning her efforts to the floor, setting her aching arms to the task of scrubbing what must surely be two hundred and fifty years’ worth of dirt.

“Excuse me?”

Libby turned, pushing an errant lock of hair from her eyes with one dripping rubber-gloved hand. “Yes?”

“I’m ...” A smartly dressed woman came into the doorway, staring at her with open curiosity. She wore a fitted navy pin-striped suit with a red silk scarf draped around her neck. Her hair, dark and dusted with silver, was cut in an updated, stylish pageboy.

“You must be Flora,” she said in very refined, accented English.

“No, I’m Libby. Flora’s not here.”

“Oh. I was ...” She looked at Libby closely. “I was looking for Graeme.”

Libby sat back on her heels. The knees of her jeans were soaked from the floor, and she was barefoot. “Oh. Graeme is out with Murphy.”

“I see. And Murphy would be ...” The woman took a guess. “The gardener?”

Libby smiled, shaking her head. “No, Murphy’s the dog.” She motioned toward the window. “They’re down on the shore playing fetch right now.”

The woman turned, looked toward the beach beneath the castle cliffs where two small figures were walking near the shore. “I see ...”

When she turned again, Libby stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m—” She stopped, yanked off the rubber glove, then tried again. “I’m Libby Hutchinson.”

The woman nodded and shook her hand. Libby had never seen more beautifully manicured, elegant hands. She wondered who she was. A business associate of Graeme’s, perhaps?

She had her answer a moment later.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hutchinson. And I’m Gemma Mackenzie. Graeme’s mother.”

Graeme tossed his windbreaker over the corner chair as he strode into his office, heading straight for his drawing table. Libby had been right. A half hour in the outdoors had certainly helped to clear his mind. Now he felt ready to tackle the last of his drawings.

He froze when he noticed the figure seated behind his desk.

“Mother?”

She might as well have been the queen for as unexpected a sight as she was.

The countess looked at her son over the rim of her reading glasses with that same expression she’d given him as a boy when he’d gotten poor marks at school. She even shook her head.

“ ’Tis a sad, sad day when a mother has to learn from the newspapers that her son came to London and didn’t even bother to call her.”

“Mother, there’s an explanation.”

“I am aware of that, Graeme. I just met your
explanation.
Upstairs, scrubbing your floor.”

“You met Libby?”

“Yes. I recognized her from her photograph.”

Graeme narrowed his eyes. “What photograph?”

She tossed a newspaper on the desk before him. Graeme looked at it, his eyes catching on the headline.

WALTHAM’S SECRET NIGHT ON THE TOWN.

Beneath the text was a grainy photograph of Graeme and Libby sitting on the upper level of the red double-decker bus, laughing and looking very intimate. The caption read:

This chance tourist’s snapshot confirms the rumors that Graeme Mackenzie, the Marquess of Waltham and future Earl of Abermuir and Duke of Gransborough, recently sneaked into town with an unknown young lady. Rumor has it he rented the entire London Eye for a private midnight rendezvous before stealing off to a cozy South Kensington hotel suite for the night.

Graeme felt all color drain from his face. “Bloody hell!”

“Now, do you want to tell me what this is all about?”

He didn’t answer her. Instead he reached for the keys to the Land Rover, grabbing the jacket he’d removed only moments before.

“Graeme, where the devil are you going? Am I to receive any explanation whatsoever? Graeme!”

“I’ll be happy to explain it, Mother, in full detail, as long as it’s during the drive to the village. Are you coming?”

Graeme did explain. He told his mother everything, finishing just as he pulled to a skidding halt in front of the village’s newsagent.

He looked at his mother. “I’ll be just a moment.”

The bell dinged in protest as he yanked the door wide, striding straight past the racks of greeting cards and souvenir key chains to the newsstand. He grabbed up every copy of the paper his mother had shown him, along with every copy of every other London newspaper he saw, then dumped them on the counter before the astonished clerk.

“How much?” he asked.

“For all of them?”

“Yes.”

“What in heaven do you want all those papers for?”

“I use them for wrapping fish. I’ve got a lot of it. I’ve been fishing.” He didn’t give her the opportunity to comment further. “How much?”

“I’ll just need to total it up ...”

She reached for the stack to count out the exact number of copies he had, and started punching buttons, one by one, into the cash register.

Graeme swept the papers off the counter, tossing a fifty-pound note at the woman. “That should cover it.”

He turned for the door, leaving her openmouthed with astonishment behind him.

Graeme dumped the papers onto the backseat of the Land Rover, then started the engine, swinging the vehicle into reverse.

His mother waited until they’d driven out of the village before she spoke again. “Are you in love with this girl, Graeme?”

“What?!”

He pulled off the road onto the verge. He stared straight ahead out the windshield. “How the hell do I know? How could I possibly know? I can’t even go out on a date without having to worry it will be broadcast across the entire bloody BBC!”

Gemma Mackenzie, known to most of the rest of the world as the Countess of Abermuir, the Iron Lady of the Lords, looked at her youngest son and felt her heart swell. She had never seen him so tied up in knots before. Even when he’d been seriously dating that Amanda person, he’d hadn’t let it affect him like this. He certainly wouldn’t have been running out to buy up all the newspapers over her. Whoever she was, this little American, she had managed to do something this mother had begun to think impossible.

She’d given Graeme Mackenzie back his heart.

Ever since the tragic deaths of his brother and father, Graeme hadn’t just gone into physical hiding. He’d gone into emotional hiding as well. The losses had devastated him, devastated them both, but coupled with the pressure of his new future role, Graeme had simply buckled. Gemma hadn’t confronted him about it, fearing that she might push him further still behind the protective wall he’d built around himself. Instead she’d tried to sort it out for him, making decisions, making appearances for him, even making the arrangements for him to get married, thinking it would help to pull him out of his lethargy.

But this—this was something different and wholly unexpected.

When they got back to the castle, Graeme looked at his mother across the front seat. “As I told you, Libby knows me only as Graeme Mackenzie, castle caretaker. I’d appreciate your not doing anything to have her think otherwise.”

“But Graeme, surely you will have to tell her everything eventually.”

“I am aware of that, Mother. And I will, as soon as I know she—”

He stopped himself before he could reveal the truth of his feelings. It didn’t matter. The countess knew what he would have said anyway.

Graeme would tell her just as soon as he knew Libby loved him, too.

Her mother’s heart twisted, knowing the dangerous game he played. “As you wish, my dear. As far as I’m concerned, I just came up to visit my son as I was passing through for a weekend in the Orkneys.”

“Thank you, Mother. You’re the best.”

Gemma smiled, shaking her head. “Well, at least you have the good sense to realize it.”

The American girl came forward to meet Graeme and his mother the moment they exited the Land Rover.

Gone were the soap-soaked jeans, lopsided ponytail, and rubber gloves. She now wore a pale blue blouse that matched her eyes and a pair of smart wool trousers. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a modest barrette with bits of it curling softly about her face. Tiny silver earrings winked from her ears.

She looked lovely.

“Graeme, is something wrong?” she asked. “You tore out of here so suddenly.” She stared at the stack of newspapers Graeme had just brought out of the Land Rover. “What are you doing with all those newspapers?”

“I, uh ...” Graeme froze, words eluding him.

Gemma stepped forward to answer for him. “They’re mine, dear. I ...” She scrambled for something to say. “I just can’t make a move without checking my horoscope. Have to read them, all of them, every single day.”

She scooped the papers out of Graeme’s arms and into her own, careful to shield the front pages from Libby’s view.

Libby looked at her curiously. “I just made some tea.”

“Splendid!” the countess said, and turned, vanishing through the door, calling as she went, “I’ll be there in a moment. Just need to check these first ...”

Graeme looked at Libby and smiled, acting as if his mother’s behavior were perfectly normal. “Would you please tell Flora we’ll be having a third for supper tonight?”

“Flora? Oh, hmm. That might be a problem. I gave Flora the day off. She wanted to take her children to Inverness. The latest Harry Potter film is showing.”

“Indeed? Well, I suppose we could go to the café in the village, then.”

“Afraid we won’t be able to do that either. It’s Wednesday. Half-day closing in the village today.”

“Oh. Hmm ...”

“I’m sure I can manage something,” Libby offered even as her brain was screaming,
No! Don’t do it!

Little did he know that the closest she’d ever come to reading a recipe was reciting the entrée numbers from the takeout menu of her favorite Chinese restaurant back home.

“Well,” he said, “if you’re sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble ...”

“No trouble at all. I’ll just pop down to the village store before they close to see what I can find.”

She wasn’t totally without a plan. Libby knew that the Widow MacNamara sold pre-prepared meat pies and other quick-fix meals as a means of keeping herself busy while supplementing her monthly income. Prepared fresh each day, they were ready and waiting in the market cooler every morning, awaiting a convenient hour in the oven. And if there was one thing Libby did know, it was how to preheat an oven for a TV dinner. This would be virtually the same thing.

Graeme offered her the keys to the Land Rover, and in minutes she was off.

But at the store, the cooler that usually held the selection of Mrs. MacNamara’s delicacies was ominously empty.

“Jamie,” Libby said, calling to Ellie Mackay’s teenage son. He worked sometimes weekends in the store so his mother could see to the office work. “Are you out of Mrs. MacNamara’s pies?”

“Oh, aye, Miss Hutchinson. Cooler’s on the fritz. Had to ask her to hold off for a few days. Won’t have any more till Monday when the repairman comes.”

Libby felt the beginnings of panic start her pulse to racing. Her only other alternative was the chip shop down the street, which was open all the time, but she really didn’t want to serve Graeme’s mother a takeaway meal for dinner.

“And I’ve got a guest for dinner tonight. Have you nothing else?”

“Ehm ...” He thought about it. “My mum has a haggis in the fridge in back. Just made it fresh this morning.”

Libby grabbed at the lifeline he offered. “She wouldn’t be upset if you sold it to me?”