Page 67 of The Highlander's Alluring Spy
Enclosed is a sealed envelope, intended for my Father. If the reader could ensure that the sealed document arrives so that Lord Daniel Winterbourne of Elfinstone may peruse it privately, I would be exceedingly grateful.
And thus, with my wishes for your continued health and great fortune, and that of our beloved Queen and Country, I end my report.
Your loyal and obedient servant,
Magnolia Winterbourne, Lady of Elfinstone.’
Magnolia leaned back to survey her work, sprinkling sand to dry the ink and gently blowing to clear it. She would need to write to her father, but what on Earth would she tell him when she barely knew what came next herself?
To keep herself occupied, she wrote out a duplicate of the first letter to tuck away in her secret drawer. It was her habit to have copies of all written correspondence; one never knew when they may need to access the exact wording of documents once more.
By the time she had signed her own name with a flourish a second time and folded the copy, she knew that the only way to get what she needed to say on paper was to write from the heart. So, she once again dipped her pen and began to write.
‘My esteemed Father, to whom I have not spoken in far too long and with all the love and duty that my position of your daughter commands…’
Now what? There was so much to say, and she hardly knew her own thoughts. She wanted nothing more than to be fully honest with her father, but how could she be so when she barely felt she knew what honesty meant?
Magnolia’s father had done everything for her. He’d educated her, trained her, and brought her up to believe that she was more than just some silly girl. He’d comforted her when her mother died and taught her how to stay strong.
She’d thought she would stay by his side forever.
How could she tell him she was considering abandoning him? And what was more, could she really go through with it?
I wish you were here now, Father. I could tell you all, and you could help me decide what to do.
Magnolia wrote of Lizzy, of baby John, of Cousin Mary and her pregnancy, asking after all of them politely before enquiring about her father’s health. She knew she was stalling, but the words she needed to write wouldn’t come.
Have you been worried sick all this time? If I write the truth, will you be alone, no Mother, and no me?
The thought of Daniel growing old alone in the estate made her heart constrict. Was she selfish? Was there indeed no good left in her?
The truth. Magnolia owed her father the truth.
She wrote of the discoveries she’d made here. She’d discovered no war, no plotting. Instead, there was a little girl who smiled like sunshine. An old blind man who saw more than Magnolia ever would. A gentle farmer’s widow and a loving maid who went out of their way to welcome a stranger.
She wrote of the Scottish kindness as well as–in spite of–their poverty. She wrote of their community and how well they bonded together against tragedy. She’d filled near two pages before she paused, realizing she still hadn’t written the words she needed to.
I must tell him about Nathair. He deserves to know with whom he now shares residence in my heart.
But how? Where to start? How could she describe the Laird, their connection, how she felt whenever she saw his gentle smile? How could she do it justice? She could explain the cold, hard facts, but would that even begin to cover it?
God above help me. I have no idea how to do any of this.
Magnolia swallowed. She could stand on the edge of this no longer. As ade factoCountess and a Lady of the Realm, as a member of the Order, and most importantly as a Winterbourne, she owed her father the truth.
And so, she wrote. She covered two more pages before she was done, describing Nathair, describing her own feelings, explaining how torn she felt at having to choose between worlds. She even admitted that, right now, she didn’t think she was remotely capable of leaving.
There was wetness in Magnolia’s eyes when she signed her name, not of sadness but of an amalgamation of emotion she could barely comprehend. She missed her father dearly, and Lizzy, of course, but there it was in ink on paper.
Scotland was home.
Nathairwas home.
Could it possibly stay that way? England was home, too, and had been her whole life. Father was home. The Order was home. Could she really just discard it like so much refuse?
For the moment, I can.
Right now, Magnolia could not think any further ahead than the moment. The future was murky, and she only knew that she could never be sure of what waited behind the thick fog.
