The Laird Takes a Bride(102)

In a little while, Fiona was able to go to Mother and embrace her again, and Isobel, too.

She was able to make her way to the coffin and, with tears streaming down her face, say her farewells to Nairna. Goodbye, my dearie. I’ll love you always. I’ll never forget you.

She was able to say to Logan Munro, in a civil and reasonably steady voice, I’m so sorry for your loss.

And she was able to ask what needed to be done, what she could do to help, and to start on the herculean task of organizing a stunned and grieving household.

After, Fiona was never able to fully piece together the details of the days that followed: it was all a gray unreal blur, the clan gathering, her sisters Dallis and Rossalyn arriving with their husbands, the funeral, the sad interminable meals and the long sleepless nights.

More tears for Nairna.

A sudden hole in the fabric of the universe; a little, bright light winked out.

Solitary prayers in the chapel.

A quiet interval with Father, explaining her return, and its permanence, Father only nodding, saying nothing, accepting.

Mother collapsing, needing constant attendance and finding in Isobel an unexpected source of strength.

One day dissolved into another.

The mourners left.

Her sisters departed.

Mother slowly recovered.

But Logan Munro stayed on.

The fact of his presence barely pierced the shroud of misery in which Fiona was enveloped. He was simply there. At meals. In the evenings, in the cold draughty saloon that served as their drawing-room. She would come across him in a passageway, or see him half-lounging on a sofa in the solarium, talking with Mother and Isobel, or find him by the horse paddocks, not riding, but leaning against a railing and staring off into the distance.

Everywhere she turned, it seemed, there he was: a handsome figure of a man, very tall, very broad-shouldered, black-haired and black-eyed, dressed all in black. An object of sympathy, a devoted husband who had tragically lost his young wife. The softhearted maidservants couldn’t do enough for him, and would endlessly watch him with tender, eager eyes.



“Well, that was . . . interesting,” said Duff, as he and Alasdair rode away from an afternoon event described by their hostess —well-known in the neighborhood for boasting that she had twice been to a museum in Glasgow, and four times to a concert—as a Lyrical Poetical Musical Entertainment. It was remarkable, really, just how many of the local young ladies were keen to display their musical abilities and were fond of reciting the work of derivative, second-rate poets specializing in lurid descriptions of hellish landscapes, bad weather, love affairs gone wrong, and very long death-scenes.

“Interesting? If you say so,” Alasdair replied.

“Didn’t realize harps have become so popular.”

“Nor I.”

“Not particularly fond of them, personally.”

“Perhaps you should be, Uncle. As Lady Niocalsan made a point of observing within my earshot, a jeune demoiselle playing the harp is provided with an excellent opportunity to display her figure to best advantage.”

Duff laughed. “That,” he said, “is inarguable.”

They were riding along a wide trail flanked by trees whose leaves had passed their glory of red, orange, yellow; many had already fallen, littering the ground in a final display of brilliant but dimming color. In the far distance, the high craggy mountaintop of Ben Macdui was dusted with snow, and a chill, nippy and invigorating, was in the air.

“You’ve been quite sociable these days, lad,” said Duff, mildly.

“Just keeping busy, Uncle.”

“Aye. And you’re very much a favorite among the demoiselles, I notice.”

“You flatter me.”

“You know I don’t. And I couldn’t help but notice this afternoon that you seemed rather taken with young Miss Hameldon.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, but I also could see, at yesterday’s grouse shoot, that Miss Rattray was constantly by your side.”

“So?”

“So I’m wondering, lad, what’s on your mind.”

Alasdair looked over at his uncle. What could he say? Fiona has been gone for seventeen days and sixteen nights, in our bedchamber I can still smell the faint pleasing scent of her rose perfume, and the castle has never been so desolate. Oh, and inside I seem to still be composed of a single block of ice, and also I wonder how, precisely, I’m going to get through this life. Other than that, my mind is as beatifically empty as that of an Eastern mystic.

Aloud he said:

“I’m trying to move forward.”

“Ah.”

“The need for an heir and all that.”

“I see.”

“Weren’t you the one telling me that a wife is nothing but a brood mare?”