True Heart (14 page)

In an overdone tone of authority, he said, “Don't let that dashing Cunningham sweep you off your feet before you've found them.”

“He's very handsome and charming, isn't he?”

“Yes. Stand proud of yourself, gal, and think of us. We're losing a duchess. The MacKenzies and Cunningham have everything to gain.”

The weight left her. “If you are ever in Scotland . . .”

“I shan't be.” He stepped back and smiled. “I think I shall enjoy living under a freely elected president rather than the Hanoverian king of England.”

His dignity was contagious, and pride infused her. “God bless you, Merriweather.”

Tucking the medallion into her basket, she took her time walking away from Poplar Knoll. She had also said her good-bye to Mrs. Parker-Jones, who had cried and again expressed her regret. Virginia had comforted her and promised to write as soon as she arrived in Scotland.

As Virginia walked the path of herringbone bricks that led to the river, her steps grew light. She'd come here as a child. Somewhere between a bewildered ten-year-old and the woman she was today, a girl had thrived. That child had learned to tend her own wounds, both inside and out. When loneliness had threatened to smother her, she'd fought back tears by imagining herself at home in her soft bed, her mother singing a favorite lullaby.

Now she was free, but as she boarded the ship named for her and prepared to lie to those who loved her, she felt as if she were stepping into another kind of bondage.

Cameron was all smiles and charm. He'd donned his tartan plaid, a yellow shirt, and cockaded hat. The feather rippled in the breeze.

Agnes paced the deck, the heels of her shoes clicking on the boards. Quinten Brown stood at the ship's wheel. MacAdoo and two others stood ready to cast off.

“Do you have everything you need?” Cameron said, taking her arm.

Stronger legs would help, she thought, trying to still her wobbling knees.

Agnes threw up her arms. “Of course she does. But whatever she's forgotten, we'll buy in Norfolk.”

Cameron closed his eyes and winced. “Save me from her, Virginia, for I swear she can drive a man to madness and bruise him with words.”

He didn't look bruised. He looked confident and appealing to Virginia. She thought of the kiss they'd shared in the forest, and her stomach bobbed.

“Captain Cunningham. Wait!”

Turning, Virginia saw Mrs. Parker-Jones running down the path, a package in her hands. “You've forgotten the painting.”

Painting? What painting?

Cameron yelled, “Hold the plank.”

A confused Virginia watched Mrs. Parker-Jones board the ship and push a framed painting into his hands. It was the drawing from the parlor. “Why do you want that painting?” she asked.

“ 'Tis a gift for Mary.”

“Let me see.” Agnes took it from him. “I remember this. It was in the parlor. It's rather like that drawing Mary made of you and Virginia as children.”

He glanced at Virginia and vowed to make her forget the name Duchess. “Aye, 'tis. Mary will appreciate the style.”

Agnes grew smug. “When we return with Virginia, Mary will draw you again as a savior, but instead of redeeming Scotland's tartans, she'll give you a palm and lance and declare you Pancras, the savior of children. You'll again be the talk of the isle.”

With great conviction, he said, “Nay, Mary will leave me out of her political cartoons.”

Immediately alert, Agnes barked, “What secrets do you know about her?”

“Enough to save my pride. A pity you have no such weapon against Mary's wicked quill.”

“You cannot hold her hostage and keep quiet about it.”

They argued like Georgieboy and his sister. Virginia stepped into a familiar role. “Will the two of you bicker away the day? Or shall we leave this place?”

They both laughed. Agnes started to hand back the painting but stopped. “Mrs. Parker-Jones?” she said. “Who is this Duchess who signed the painting?”

Fidgeting, the mistress eased toward the gangway. “She was a bond servant acquired by the former owner.”

Virginia hurried to say, “She left years ago for Kentucky.”

Cameron took the painting from Agnes. “Well, I'm sure Mary will enjoy her work.”

“I shan't detain you further. Have a safe journey. Fare you well, my lady.”

At the formal address, Virginia cringed in fear. She didn't know how to be a noblewoman. Her knowledge of the gentry had ceased when she was ten years old. Before that, she'd been forgiven slips in protocol because she was a child. She'd been indulged.

Wood scraped against wood as the plank was taken up.

Virginia marshaled her courage.

“Stand by the braces, mates,” Cameron shouted. “To the sea we go.”

A cheer went up, and crewmen scurried in the rigging and manned the mooring lines. Amid a slapping of canvas, the ship began to move.

The moment of freedom was at hand. Virginia's throat grew tight.

“Care to stand at the bow?” Cameron asked, his hand sliding to the small of her back. “Without Agnes?”

“Haud yer wheesht!”
Agnes shouted, but her tone belied the command to silence Cameron.

Unable to speak, Virginia nodded and, on stillshaking legs, moved to the front of the ship. A MacKenzie tartan draped the bulwark and fluttered in the breeze. Everything and everyone moved too slowly. She gripped the railing and pushed as if she could speed the ship along.
Fly away from here,
she urged, and like a wagon hitched to a fine team, the
Maiden Virginia
eased into the fast-flowing current.

They stood at the bow in companionable silence. Behind them, Agnes chatted with Captain Brown. Sloops and barges passed, even a water jenny, as the tinker's boat was called. Occupants of the other conveyances waved; Cameron and Virginia returned the greeting. The farther they sailed, the more her tension eased, and when she breathed in the salty smell of the ocean, she knew a keener sense of relief.

Seemingly satisfied that Brown was not steering them to disaster, Cameron rested against the rail. “Are you saddened at leaving?”

What could she say? What
should
she say? “A little.” That was the truth; she felt miserable for the lies.

“How did you spend the holidays here?”

The truth was too bittersweet. “In church,” she lied. “That's where we have the Nativity play.”

He stared out at the river, his eyes narrowed against the wind. “The Parker-Joneses accompanied you to services?”

She intended to embellish the tale, then change the subject. “Yes, they have their own pew.”

Glancing down at her, he said, “Tell me about the Nativity.”

Around the bend in the river came another ocean vessel, its sails trimmed, a dash of colorful cloth in the rigging.

“Were you in the play?” Cameron prompted.

Merriweather had spoken of the guilt her family and Cameron carried. Virginia felt it now. “Yes. We use farm animals. When I was young, I played an angel. One year I was the wise king carrying frankincense.”

“You have rare spices in Virginia?”

She smiled at that. “It was actually pieces of sugar cane . . . for the children. And how do you spend the holidays?”

“At sea most often. Had you ever considered leaving Poplar Knoll?”

She thought of the poorly made raft. That girl had swallowed defeat and learned from it. But she must be careful in her answer. She chuckled and said, “Oh, yes. Every year at spring cleaning.”

He laughed too, and she reminded herself to tell him more of such stories.

“Ahoy, the
Virginia.”

The sailing ship was almost abreast of them.

Agnes raced to the bow. Cameron clutched Virginia's arm.

“It's Papa and Juliet.”

“It's your parents.”

Cameron and Agnes spoke at once, but their words were unnecessary. Virginia recognized the couple at once. Papa had never cared for hats; the years hadn't changed that. He still wore his hair longer than fashion; he even sported braids at his temples in the Highland way.

Agnes waved her arms. “We've found her!”

They waved back, Mama's mouth tight with the effort to hold back tears. Papa hugged her, then cupped her face, much the same as Cameron had caressed Virginia earlier in the day. Rather than kiss Mama, Papa spoke.

She shook her head.

He spoke again.

In resigned agreement, she nodded.

Papa ripped off his jacket and climbed the ship's rail.

“Hoots!” cried Agnes. “He's going to swim over.”

Virginia's breath caught, and she clung to Cameron. As she let the tears flow, she watched the best man o' the Highlands plunge into the River James to reach her.

“Man overboard!” Cameron yelled.

Traffic on the river slowed.

Moving behind Virginia, Cameron grasped her upper arms. “Worry not. He's an excellent swimmer.”

She knew that, but it didn't lessen her shock. In stunned bewilderment, she leaned against Cameron. Crewmen on the other ship hoisted a rowboat over the side. She bit her lip to stave off a cry as her mother was lowered into the boat.

MacAdoo threw a rope ladder. Hemp squeaked beneath her father's weight. She couldn't see him, but from the movement of the rope, she could discern his progress.

Her heart clamored into her throat. Time slowed to a crawl.

As trim and as agile as a man half his age, Papa bounded over the rail and landed barefoot on the deck. He'd shrunk, she thought, but no, she'd just grown taller.

He wore a pale gray silk shirt and long breeches of dark blue wool. She stood frozen as he brushed his hair from his eyes.

In the commotion, Agnes had hurried to the bow and fetched the MacKenzie tartan. “Here, Papa.”

He wiped his face, his attention fixed on Virginia. “Do you know how much I've missed you, lassie mine?”

Where would she find the strength to lie to him? And why hadn't he found her years ago?

Cameron spoke softly. “If you did remember the past, you'd run to him.” A nudge at her back pushed forward. “He loves you more than spring. Go.”

Her feet moved, and in the next breath, she was engulfed in her father's arms. The earliest of her memories, tucked safely beside an image of her mother brushing her hair, was this feeling of being surrounded by the strength of Lachian MacKenzie. He radiated joy and affection.

“I love you more than spring.”

He'd said that often. She wanted to tell him that he'd been in her thoughts every day, but she couldn't. The little girl in her soaked up his love. The woman squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth, holding on to that love and savoring it. Dampness seeped into her dress, but she didn't care.

Drawing back, he turned with her to face the approaching rowboat. “Juliet!” With his mighty hands, he gripped Virginia. “It's our lass, our Scrapper.” His voice boomed across the water. “Bless Saint Ninian, it's our lass!”

From the boat, Mama waved. “Virginia!”

“MacAdoo,” Cameron shouted. “Man the ladies' chair. The duchess of Ross is coming aboard.”

Virginia saw movement on the deck, saw MacAdoo hauling an odd chair to the bow, but she felt distanced from the events around her. She couldn't look away from the woman in the blue dress, the woman who looked young enough to be her sister.
Mama.

“Virginia?”

Cameron was calling to her. He gave her a smile of encouragement, and she reached for him. Her father held her fast.

“What happened to you, lass?” Papa's voice was raw with yearning and thick with the burr of the Highlands. “Why did you not send word to us sooner?”

She girded herself and told him the first lie. “I couldn't.”

“Sir!”

“Papa!”

Cameron and Agnes came to her rescue. Cameron gestured to Agnes. “You do the explaining, button maker.”

Virginia didn't know why, but at the endearment, Agnes shot him a knowing look that promised retribution. “Hoots, Papa. She doesn't know who she is. 'Tis her memory. I mean to say she now knows who she is, but she didn't until—”

“You're stammering, Agnes,” he interrupted, tossing her the cloth. “ 'Tisn't like you.”

Cameron stepped between them. “What Agnes is trying to say is that Virginia has no memory of us.”

“What?” he roared, his hold on her tightening.

Agnes wadded the tartan. “A horse tossed her on her head, and she lost her memory.”

Then Papa's hands were in Virginia's hair, feeling her scalp, looking for an injury.

She found her voice. “ 'Twas years ago, sir.”

“Sir?” His blue eyes, the same shade as hers, studied her. Awareness unfocused his gaze. Then he shook himself. “Do you recall nothing, lass? Nothing of your kin or of Scotland?”