TWO
And who, indeed, that has once seen Edinburgh, but must see it again in dreams, waking or sleeping.
—Charlotte Brontë, letter
All too soon the time they’d allotted to Edinburgh began to draw to a close, and there was still no sign of Callum Henshall.
“We can’t return to Sidmouth without at least trying to see him,” Claire insisted. “You have his direction from his letters. Let us pay a call. Then you will learn why he hasn’t responded instead of assuming the worst. And you need not fear you are being too forward. I will sayIinsisted.”
William grinned. “And I shall happily share the blame.”
Sarah relented. “Oh, very well. Just to put my mind at ease.”
Had Mr. Henshall given up on Sarah and begun courting someone else? Was that why he had not replied nor come to see them? She hoped the truth would not prove to be worse than she imagined.
The next morning, Sarah dressed in a becoming frock and Claire curled her dark hair with a hot iron.
“You look lovely, Sarah,” Claire assured her.
Sarah thought the blue eyes staring back at her in the mirrorlooked weary as well as wary. She had not slept well, anxious as she was about the upcoming visit.
They set out for Kirkcaldy early that day, taking the new steam-poweredBroad Ferryacross the Firth of Forth to Dysart. From the harbor, they hired a driver with an old landau and even older horses to take them the rest of the way. Since the day was fine, they lowered the folding hood to enjoy the scenery. The wind spoiled the curls Claire had arranged so neatly on either side of Sarah’s face, but the views were worth it.
About a mile from the harbor, the driver pointed out the ruins of rough-stone Ravenscraig Castle, and recognition flashed through Sarah. She recalled a long-ago meal around the Sea View dining table and Mr. Henshall’s green eyes alight with nostalgia as he enthralled them with tales of his childhood, describing the abandoned castles near his home and a time he and a few other lads“stormed Ravenscraig and laid siege to it with our wooden swords....”A land agent had set his dogs on them, and they’d had to hide in a shepherd’s hut until the beasts gave up the chase, lured away by haggis.
Even now, Sarah smiled at the memory. His handsome face, good humor, and rich, accented voice were still clear in her mind.
The driver hailed a passing farm wagon and asked for directions to Whinstone Hall. Leaving the town of Kirkcaldy behind, they followed a wooded track until they reached a rambling two-story house of dark stone, its front door and windows framed in lighter sandstone. Sarah saw stables, a few other outbuildings, and fields dotted with grazing sheep beyond.
The front lawns were neatly trimmed, but the shrubs were in need of pruning and the flower gardens grew in weedy disarray.
After helping the ladies alight, William led the way to the front door and knocked.
As they waited, Sarah’s heart beat painfully hard. She pushed a limp curl off her face and then twisted her gloved hands together. A friendly cat approached and rubbed against Sarah’s ankles, seeking attention, but Sarah was too distracted to oblige. Would Mr. Henshall be there? How would he react to seeing her on his doorstep? With pleasure or discomfort?
A few moments later, a housemaid welcomed them inside and showed them into a nearby parlour. “The master is away,” she said, “but the lady of the house will be with ye shortly.”
The lady of the house?
Was the maid referring to Effie, or...?
As they sat down to wait, Sarah’s stomach sank. Had Mr. Henshall married someone else without telling them? Perhaps a Scottish woman who shared his homeland and way of life? If so, could she truly blame him?
The woman who entered a few minutes later was perhaps a year or two older than Sarah’s seven and twenty. She had a thin, pretty face and light ginger hair, and she walked with the faintest of limps.
“Good day,” she began. “I wasna expectin’ callers. What may I do for ye?”
Definitely a Scottish woman, down to her accent and red hair. In fact, she looked a bit like Effie.
William had risen at her entrance, but she gestured for him to be seated, while she perched on the edge of the settee.
Sarah said, “I did write to Mr. Henshall to let him know we were coming.”
“Did ye, now? I don’t recall him mentioning it.” She chuckled. “Then again, I tend to forget things or mislay them now and again. Are ye acquainted with Callum?”
Callum.The woman’s familiar use of his given name stung.
“Em, yes,” Sarah faltered. “I am Miss Sarah Summers. Mr. Henshall and Effie stayed with us in Devonshire the summer before last. We have corresponded several times since then.”
