Page 107 of The MacGregor's Lady
The tide would turn in less than thirty minutes, and Mills was not one to miss the tide. “Fetch me a drink, why don’t you, Ian? Con promised.”
Ian rose. “He promised we would not let you start drinking until you were under your own roof. Enjoy the sunrise.”
So this wake was to be a solitary one, though Asher’s grief was sincere indeed. Sooner or later, when he’d shown the colors long enough as Earl of Balfour and laird of clan MacGregor, he’d travel to Boston and attempt to argue his wife into returning to Scotland. She’d refuse, and because their situation was no kind of marriage for raising children, she’d eventually demand that he return to Scotland.
“It is beautiful here.”
An old voice, a very old voice. Asher resigned himself to exchanging civilities and then finding more solitude from which to watch his dreams sail away.
The elderly woman perched three seats over, sitting so straight her back did not touch the chair. She stared out across the harbor like an eagle scanning its territory.
“Good morning, madam, and yes, this is a lovely city.”
His unlikely companion was very small, with snow-white hair in a tidy coronet, and clothing in the height of fashion. Her palette ran to magenta, blue, and green, like a peacock. She ought to have a lady’s maid fussing about at least, and several shawls. She took out a silver flask. “Today is a beautiful day, a wonderful day.”
She offered him the flask. It wouldn’t be sociable to refuse. Out on the ship, activity on deck increased and men scrambled aloft.
“My thanks.” He passed the flask back, the drink both appreciated and of excellent quality.
“You are welcome.” She took a businesslike draught and tucked it away.
“Are you recently arrived to Scotland?” Though what did he care if one old woman was enjoying her travels? What did he care about anything?
“I arrived last night, and today I am to rejoin my granddaughter. She has been very foolish, very stubborn, but she is good-hearted. I have come to talk sense into her.”
Would to God that—In an instant, the entire universe shifted. Hope erupted like a geyser while Asher took the chair beside the old woman. “Your granddaughter is Hannah Cooper.Youcame.”
When she turned her head, it was exactly like a raptor deigning to peer at a scurrying mouse. “Of course I came. You are her Asher? One doesn’t ignore letters such as yours. Such detail, even to choosing my inn for me. You must take me to my Hannah immediately. She must not return to Boston when her fool of a stepfather wants to lock her away in one of those awful places. They have pleasant names, but what goes on there is enough to drive any woman to lunacy. Fetch her to me, this moment, please. I am old, and I do not hurry well.”
Her accent held French and maybe…Mohawk?
Asher shot to his feet. “I can’t take you to Hannah just yet, but by God, I can fetch Hannah to you.” He paused three paces from the door to the inn. “What of her mother and her brothers? Are they coming?”
One nod. “As you suggested. Hannah’s mother announced that she was going to visit her sister in Baltimore, scooped up the boys, and her imbecile of a husband was relieved to see them off on a visit. They will arrive here next week.”
Before she finished speaking, Asher had the door to the inn open, while out on the water, the first sail on Hannah’s ship had dropped and was flapping madly in a crisp morning breeze.
***
“’Tis a gift from yer auntie.” Ceely pushed the package into Hannah hands. Without thought, Hannah’s fingers closed around the parcel. Up on deck, she heard the anchor chain wrapping, wrapping around the capstan as the anchor was drawn up, the sound like a tightening noose around Hannah’s heart.
In minutes the ship would turn for the sea, and Hannah’s terrible choice would befaitaccompli.
WhathaveIdone?
“Open yer package, mum.” Hannah was scaring her maid. Behind stolid Scottish sense, Ceely’s voice bore a hint of alarm.
Pretty red ribbon came away easily, revealing a maple wood box with a carved figure of some sprig of foliage on the top. Hannah opened the box, and found in its velvet-lined contents an array of small bottles.
She picked up a bottle at random. “Dr. Melvin Giles’s Root Juice and Tincture of Everlasting Health.” Dr. Giles shared the box with various remedies and elixirs, most of which, Hannah knew well, would put her to sleep.
It was a solution, of sorts, to the problem of how to endure, how to become like the mountains—though there would be no dignity to it. Hannah took out one small bottle, opened the top, and sniffed. The cloying, seductive aroma of the poppy wafted forth, sickening, but tempting…
“There’s a note, mum.” Ceely did not approve of this gift—thisweddinggift that was in truth a parting gift. Censure was manifest in the extra-prim set of her mouth and the narrowing of green eyes.
Hannah picked up the note: “Hannah, if you return to Boston without marrying your earl, you’ll need these far more than I ever did. Love, Enid Draper.”
No tender sentiments from the new bride, no fond doting from a devoted step-auntie, only oblivion in a bottle. In twenty bottles. Hannah stared at the bottles lined up so neatly in the pretty box. They looked like dead fish, those bottles, salted and packed away for systematic consumption.
