The Lord’s Highland Temptation

Chapter Five

Mairi woke early, as she was accustomed to doing since some of the housemaids had left and Nellie was the only one left with time to act as lady’s maid to her mother, Davina and herself. Mairi made certain she did not need a great deal of Nellie’s help, merely tying the laces of her stays and her dress.

She next went in search of Mrs Cross to see what assistance the housekeeper required that day, but first she knocked on Niven’s door.

‘Who is it?’ he responded testily. And sleepily.

‘You know it is me, Mairi,’ she replied. ‘I’m going to send Erwin to you to help you dress, then come straight to the kitchen to bring Mr Lucas his breakfast.’

‘Oh. Yes.’ Niven’s voice brightened. ‘Mr Lucas. I’ll be ready. Have Erwin come right away.’

Erwin was slightly more experienced as a footman than Robert, so he was tasked with acting as valet to Niven. Wilfred, their father’s valet, was over seventy, and it was taxing enough for him to serve their father, but he had provided Erwin some rudimentary training.

Mairi descended the stairs to the hall and entered the morning room, where Erwin was setting the table for breakfast.

‘Good morning!’ She made her tone cheerful. It kept her spirits up and, she hoped, the spirits of their overworked servants.

Erwin stopped his work and bowed. ‘Good morning, miss.’

‘When you are done here, would you tend to Niven?’ she asked. ‘He has much to do today before he goes out.’ Of all the times for him to visit his friend.

‘Yes, miss.’ Erwin placed the cutlery next to the breakfast plate with less precision than their butler would have done.

‘Thank you, Erwin,’ she said breezily, using the servants’ door to lead her to the ground floor, where she found Mrs Cross, the housekeeper, in an intense conversation with Betsy, one of their two maids, while Cook looked on from the worktable where she was rolling out dough for biscuits for the afternoon tea.

‘Good morning,’ Mairi said again in a cheerful tone. ‘I came to see how I can help today.’

Mrs Cross rubbed her brow. ‘Let me think. Your mother will not want to see you polishing furniture, but you could tidy up her room and your father’s like yesterday.’

‘I will see to it.’ It did not seem like enough to do. Mairi turned to Cook. ‘Mrs MacNeal, Nevin will be down directly to bring Mr Lucas his breakfast. Shall I put together a plate for him?’

Mrs MacNeal shook flour from her hands. ‘Miss Mairi, the fellow left already. Robert told us.’

‘Left?’ But he was still ill! ‘When?’

‘A while ago, miss,’ the cook responded. ‘Robert told me right when I took the loaves out of the oven.’

Mairi touched one of the loaves. It had cooled considerably.

Still, Robert might have been mistaken.

Mairi hurried out of the kitchen and ran to the footmen’s room, but Robert was not there. She hastened to the butler’s room, opening the door without knocking. It was empty. There was a stack of coins on the table. She picked them up and counted. Enough for the doctor’s bill and more. She sank into a chair and fingered the coins.

Things were back to rights again, then, were they not? As if he’d never been there. They could all go on as they had done before...

Except he’d been ill the night before; she was certain of it. His forehead had glistened with sweat and his skin had been hot. The fever certainly had returned, just as the doctor said it might.

She placed her hand over her mouth. Goodness, what if he collapsed again? What if he were not found until he was dead? How would Davina and Niven feel then?

How would she feel?

She glanced at the clock. There was time before she’d need to tidy her parents’ rooms. She could go in search of him and reassure herself that he would not die on his way to wherever he was going. She had enough on her conscience; she did not need to feel responsible for a man’s death.

She rose and resolutely walked out of the room. On her way past the kitchen, she called out, ‘I am going out. I will be back soon.’ Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed her old cloak, which hung on a hook by the garden door. She swung it around her shoulders and went outside.

He had probably followed the track that the wagons used to deliver goods to the back door of the house. She walked briskly down it.

Before it met the main road, she called to John, the stable worker, who was exercising an unfamiliar horse in a paddock. Her father’s latest purchase, no doubt. ‘Did you see a stranger walk by here?’

He nodded. ‘He asked directions to the village.’

‘Thank you!’ That, at least, was a more sensible plan than traipsing over the hills as he must have done before.

Mairi walked as quickly as she could down to the main road that led to the village. If he was as ill as she feared, she would catch up to him.

* * *

Over a quarter of an hour later, she saw a figure seated at the side of the road.

The Englishman. Head bowed. Elbows resting on his knees.

She quickened her pace. ‘Mr Lucas!’

He raised his head, apparently with some effort. ‘Miss Wallace.’

He was certainly still ill.

She stood in front of him. ‘What are you about? Your fever is back, is it not?’

He rose to his feet.

She continued her scold. ‘The doctor said you must rest. For ten days at least. Now look. You are sick again.’

‘Do not concern yourself, Miss Wallace.’ He swayed.

She glared at him. ‘You can barely stand up.’

He straightened. ‘I am well enough to make it to the village.’

But the village was three more miles from here. At this rate it would take him all day to reach it. ‘Are you? You looked fatigued enough after walking this short distance. How long have you been walking? An hour? It will only get harder the further you go. I am persuaded that someone might very well find you in a ditch. Imagine how my brother and sister will feel when they hear you are dead, after they went to such exertions to save you.’

‘None of you should think of me at all,’ he protested.

She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Davina and Niven will, though. You owe them your life. You should consider their feelings in this matter.’ And hers.

He glanced away. ‘Tell your brother and sister I reached the village.’

If he did make it to the village, Mr Grassie would undoubtedly learn of it. Perhaps people would say her father had turned out a sick man. The last thing they needed was more talk about their family.

‘Come back with me,’ she insisted. ‘Come back and remain the ten days. Or more if necessary. Stay and make Davina and Niven feel they’ve done something that counts.’

And because she could not bear it if he died.

* * *

Lucas could make it to the village. He was not that ill. The tower of the church was visible on the horizon, as were some village rooftops. It wasn’t far. He’d endured worse hardships than this. He’d withstood long marches through Spain. He’d fought on when stabbed by enemy swords. He’d come close to death, but pushed through to keep his brother from being killed.

Except at Waterloo. At Waterloo he’d abandoned Bradleigh.

How could he explain to the lovely Miss Wallace that he did not deserve to live? All he wanted was to forget; to numb the pain.

She ought to have let him die. She should not have pulled him back with her entreaties to live. She should leave him now and, if he were lucky, he would die in a ditch, like she had warned him against.

Suddenly weary again, he sank back to the ground.

She stood above him, hands on her hips. ‘Is this where you would like Davina and Niven to find you dead?’

The fresh, earnest faces of those two young people flashed through his mind. Would he indeed be injuring them if he simply let go of life, here at the side of the road?

Miss Wallace lowered herself to sit next to him, hugging her knees. As she did so, Lucas suffered a spasm of coughing. She lifted an eyebrow as if to say, See? You are sick.

When he could talk again he looked her in the eye. ‘Why do you want me to return with you, Miss Wallace? Your family is in straitened circumstances, I understand. I am only a burden to you.’

Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. ‘I should throttle Niven. You could not have learned that from anyone else.’

Not that he would tell on the boy.

She blew out a pained breath. ‘My father’s finances are...’ she paused ‘...a bit challenging at the moment, a fact we certainly do not wish the world to know.’

He held up his palm. ‘My word. I will not tell.’

She shook her head. ‘I can see it plainly. If you make it to the inn—or are found in this ditch—our family will be the talk of the village. The Baron of Dunburn turned out a fevered traveller.’ Her voice was mocking. ‘We do not deserve that sort of gossip.’

No, they did not. Families experiencing financial difficulties never desired the speculation of others.

It was one thing to toss away his worthless life, quite another to hurt the people who’d rescued him.

And this woman who’d nursed him back to life.

He dropped his head in his hands. ‘Very well. I will return with you.’

He felt her straighten her spine. ‘And you will stay the ten days the doctor ordered? Longer if you are still ill?’

He did not answer her right away. ‘On one condition.’

‘What condition?’ Her voice turned wary.

He lifted his head and faced her. ‘No one waits on me.’ Not her. Not her brother. ‘I take care of myself. Your cook can fix me a plate for meals, but I will walk down to the kitchen and carry it back myself. I’ll take care of my clothes as well. And anything else.’

Her clear blue eyes searched his. He fought an impulse to look away.

Finally she nodded. ‘Very well.’

‘Let us go, then.’ He attempted to stand, but his legs threatened to buckle. She bounced to her feet and held his arm, helping him up.

He lifted her hand away. ‘I am able to walk.’

She fell in step with him, walking close enough, he suspected, to grab him if he became unsteady. After a few steps he wiped his brow.

‘You still have a fever, do you not?’ she accused.

‘Possibly,’ he admitted.

It was some effort to walk at a normal pace, but he had enough pride left to prove to this lady that he could have made it to the village.

She broke the silence between them. ‘Why are you in Scotland, Mr Lucas? Why were you wandering in the hills on my father’s land?’

‘I do not know why I was on your father’s land,’ he told her. ‘I do not remember much about that day.’ He’d begun to feel feverish when he’d left that last inn. He’d medicated himself with whisky, he recalled. A lot of whisky.

‘Where were you before that?’ she asked.

‘What town, do you mean?’

She nodded.

The towns and villages were all the same to him. ‘I do not recall the name.’

‘Why are you in Scotland?’ she pressed.

‘Travelling.’ If you called running from life travelling.

She stopped and gazed at him a long time before starting to walk again. The silence between them returned and he was grateful she did not force him to say more about himself. He wanted to forget himself. Even these few questions brought back the turmoil inside him, but, just as when he’d been delirious with fever and her voice had been the one thing he could cling to, her presence next to him held him together even better than a bottle of whisky.

They finally reached the gate of the property, marked by a wrought-iron arch made out to spell Wallace. Lucas’s legs were aching with fatigue, but he pressed on.

When they came to the door, he opened it for her. She glanced at him as if surprised he could do such a gentlemanly thing.

As they stepped into the hallway, she turned to him. ‘Do you need anything?’

He raised a finger. ‘Remember our agreement. I take care of myself.’

‘I could tell Cook to fix you breakfast,’ she persisted.

‘I will do it.’ Later. After he’d rested. ‘Go on to your other tasks.’ He suspected there were many.

‘I will say goodbye, then,’ she said.

He was reluctant to part from her, but bowed and walked directly to the butler’s room. Once there he removed his topcoat and sank into the upholstered chair, placing his feet up on the nearby stool.

He closed his eyes and felt a fog in his head from the fever and the exertion. He did not need her company. He did not deserve it.

He shifted in the chair. He’d keep to himself. He could do that. It was only ten days.

* * *

Lucas rested that day and the next. All traces of his fever had gone by that second day and there was nothing reminding Lucas of being unwell but an occasional cough. He’d been blessed with a strong constitution and always bounced back quickly from any illness or injury.

As agreed, Lucas had been left to care for himself, merely needing to visit the kitchen when hungry and carry his food back to the butler’s room. He would have done very well in the village inn—Miss Wallace’s sacrifice had been totally unnecessary, but he’d made his bargain with her and, unless she freed him from it, he would honour her wishes.

* * *

Upon waking this third day, Lucas felt restless. The four walls of the butler’s room were closing in on him and the prospect of further inactivity was intolerable. His window looked out on to the yard and, from what he could tell, it seemed to be a fine sunny day. It almost made him believe in hope.

He picked up his breakfast tray and carried it back to the kitchen.

Cook looked up as he appeared in the doorway.

‘Another excellent meal, Mrs MacNeal.’ The woman always looked so harried. He felt sorry for her. ‘Where shall I put the tray?’

‘Ah, Mr Lucas.’ She gave him a tense smile as she chopped bright orange carrots, tossing the pieces into a brass pot. She inclined her head. ‘In the scullery.’

He carried the tray to the scullery, which was laden with dishes needing to be washed. He returned to the kitchen and asked, ‘Where is the scullery maid?’ He’d become used to seeing the young girl there.

‘Evie is helping Mrs Cross today.’ The cook wiped her brow with the back of her hand. ‘Mrs Cross told me I must wash the dishes today, but I dinnae ken how or when!’

Lucas shrugged. ‘I’ll wash your dishes for you.’

He might as well do something useful.

Mrs MacNeal gaped at him. ‘You, sir?’

‘Why not?’ He felt too well to still be contagious.

‘Do you know how?’ she asked sceptically.

‘I’ve been around kitchens before, Mrs MacNeal.’ As a boy he’d loved to hang around the kitchen—all the better to be given extra treats. ‘I can manage it.’

She waved a hand. ‘Well, put on an apron and go to it, then.’

Lucas washed, dried and put away every dish. As soon as he finished, the footman who’d cleaned his clothes brought more from the family’s breakfast.

The young man stumbled back a step on seeing Lucas in his apron.

Lucas could not help but be amused. ‘I thought I might help.’ He smiled.

The footman blinked. ‘Are you not fevered, then?’

‘Well recovered,’ Lucas assured him. ‘I must stay for another week, so I might as well work.’ He nodded to the man. ‘I am John Lucas.’

The young man’s forehead furrowed. ‘I know that, sir.’

Cook called over to them, ‘He wants to know your name, Robert.’ She shook her head in dismay.

‘Aye.’ The footman turned back to Lucas. ‘I am Robert.’

Lucas nodded again.

‘Back to work, Robert,’ Mrs MacNeal cried, ‘before Mrs Cross finds you still.’

Robert hurried out.

Lucas finished this latest round of dishes and Cook thanked him profusely. He returned to the butler’s room, but it felt more confining than ever. He stood at the window and put on the butler’s battered hat. The sun still shone and the sky was a clear azure. He spun around and walked out of the room again.

He stopped by the kitchen. ‘Mrs MacNeal, if Miss Wallace thinks I’ve absconded again, explain that I am merely taking a turn in the garden.’

‘I will. I will.’ Cook looked up. ‘Do not make yourself ill again, Mr Lucas.’

He knew himself. The fever would not return. ‘No fear of that.’

He made his way to the servants’ door and stepped outside, lifting his face to the sun and filling his lungs with the clean, fresh air. Off to the right was the kitchen garden, where one of the maids appeared to be tending the plants. He walked towards her.

As he came near, the maid looked up.

‘Miss Wallace!’ he said in surprise.

She wore an apron over her dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat. She held a hoe in her hands.

‘Mr Lucas, what are you doing?’ Her tone was suspicious.

He walked closer, holding up his hands. ‘I assure you, I am well. Completely recovered. But do not fear. I am not escaping. I simply wished to take a walk.’

She peered at him a long time as if assessing his health for herself.

He’d not seen her since his attempted departure. She looked like a vision from some bucolic painting, tilling the soil.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked. But what he really meant was, Why are you working in the garden like a labourer?

She lowered her gaze and stabbed the earth with her hoe. ‘Oh, I am turning the earth to ready it for autumn planting.’