He probably could have withstood nearly any insult, if the marquess hadn’t started to laugh. He heard more laughter, and realized for the first time that there were other gentlemen in the audience hall. Maybe they laughed because the marquess laughed and they owed him something. Maybe they were as oblivious and mean-spirited as the hawk-beaked, simple-looking marquess and his stout wife.
“I get seasick in my bathtub,” the marquess declared and looked around, pleased with his wit, which made theothers laugh harder. He waved away the drawings. “Peddle these somewhere else.” He gave Olive a look of supreme distaste. “Are you entirely through? It’s late and I have had enough petitioners.”
His face warm from embarrassment, Douglas knew he was done, disgusted and ready to shake the dust of Edinburgh off his shoes. He glanced at Olive to confirm her own willingness to leave, and he saw something that alarmed him: the great anger that Joe Tavish swore frightened him.
Olive’s eyes had taken on a hard look quite out of character. In alarm, he watched her nostrils flare and then her lips tighten. She took several deep breaths, and he knew she was trying to calm herself.
It was useless. The great injustice inflicted on her dear ones bubbled to the surface and ruffled the calm demeanor of the kindest lady he knew.Should I stop her?he asked himself and knew the answer. He moved closer to her instead, not to grab her and hustle her from this awful place where no one cared, but to stand with her. Whether Olive Grant knew it or not, he was her man and he wasn’t about to desert her. It had nothing to do with duty or oaths or vows made to higher powers. This feeling was elemental and long overdue in his life and in his heart.
He put his arm around her waist and felt her tremble. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not ever again,” he told her. “Say what you came here to say, my dearest.”
Chapter 36
Well?” The marquess asked, quiteout of patience.
They came closer, moving as one. Olive took the children’s drawings from the portfolio she carried. She quickly sorted through the tragic pictures, drawn by children who had no resources to protect themselves from evil they did not understand.
“I hardly know where to begin,” she said, “but I will be brief, since I am evidently taking you away from something more important.”
The countess nodded. When she seemed to realize that Olive’s words were said in sarcasm and not concern, her eyes narrowed. A glance at the marquess told Douglas that he wasn’t partial to nuance.What a slowtop you are, he thought, disgusted.
She brought out little Margaret Randall’s drawing of a kitten on fire. “Meggie’s mother tells me that her daughter cries herself to sleep each night, remembering this. Take a good look, please,” she demanded in a voice so compelling that everyone in the room looked.
“The family was yanked from their home anda torch put to it,” Olive said, her voice even, under supreme control. “Meggie’s kitten fled the flames, and the soldiers threw the wee morsel back into the burning house. Two times the kitten tried to escape, the last time on fire. She was thrown back into the flames. Meggie Randall still wakes up in terror, hearing her pet suffer and die.”
“It’s just a cat,” the marquess said in a voice so bored that Douglas wanted to pummel him.
“It was a wee child’s pet,” Olive said and handed the drawing to Douglas. She pulled out Tommy Tavish’s drawing. “This is perhaps more serious and is what makes Tommy Tavish shudder and grind his teeth in his sleep. I’ve heard him do that.” She held out the drawing of the Tavish family huddled against gravestones with a less-than-adequate tarp covering them. “They tried to find shelter in the cemetery after their home was destroyed. The soldiers drove them away even from the graveyard. The Tavishes fled with a Bible and two candlesticks.” She handed this one to Douglas.
Doug looked over her shoulder as she stared down at Flora MacLeod’s drawing. He knew what it was, but his gorge rose anyway.
“Take a good look, my lord and lady, at this pleasant tableau. A good look!” Her voice rose, as though all the pain of the dislocated Highlanders was funneled through her heart and soul. Douglas thought her magnificent.
She showed the picture to the others standing close.
“Apparently it wasn’t enough that Flora’s mother was dying of consumption and lying on a mattress in the cold rain. One of the soldiers decided to vent his anger in the way that the worst of men do while Flora and her grandmother were forced to watch. Take a good look!”
Her voice rang to the rafters. Doug prepared to grab Olive and run before anyone laid a hand on her, but the audience hall was silent, waiting. From the corner of hiseye, Douglas saw other audience members craning to see the picture. More than one turned away.
“Let me add that this tormented, violated woman’s husband had fought and died with your Highland regiment, Lady Stafford, in New Orleans, America, brave to the end and fighting for his king and country.”
“I have seen quite enough,” the countess said. Douglas noted with dismal satisfaction that her face had gone chalk white.
“Only one more then,” Olive countered and pulled out Euna MacGregor’s drawing. “Little Euna stays awake at night remembering Mary MacKay burning to death inside her cottage because she was old and bewildered and refused to leave it. Don’t you dare turn away from this!”
There was something mesmerizing about Olive Grant. No one in the room dared to turn away. He remember the more skillful drawing that Joe Tavish had given him, and which he had stowed in the same sleeve that contained his rejected yacht sketches. He pulled it out and held it up.
“This one goes with that one,” he said. “Joe Tavish said this man, this factor of yours, Lady Stafford, watched the whole thing. I do believe his name is Patrick Sellar.”
He heard whispered voices and glanced to the source, only to stare in shock at the man in the drawing right there in the hall. “You, sir,” he said. “You. Joe told me that when someone objected to what was happening, you said, ‘She has lived too long. Let her burn!’ ”
“That’s a lie!” the man shouted. He started toward Doug, but someone restrained him.
“Is it?” Olive asked. Douglas had to hold her back when she started toward Patrick Sellar, her hands balled into fists. “These children and Joe Tavish have sealed these images in their brains.”
She turned to Douglas and he saw the tears in her eyes. “This good man is our surgeon in Edgar. Tell them whatyou told me about these drawings.” She put the rest back in their pasteboard sleeve.
“When I … when I return to my village …” There. He had said it. His village. Edgar was his perfect medical practice and had been all along.
