Eilidh abruptly turned away from the window, retreating the few steps to her bedchamber before her eyes could do something foolish . . . like linger on Master MacTavish.
She did not trust the man.
He had always been too attractive for his own good. A bit of a lothario, her father had always said. A little too ready to act on the appreciative looks women sent his way.
Consequently, she would be avoiding Master MacTavish as much as possible.
Fortunately, her bedchamber was a lovely retreat. Eilidh sat in one of the wingback chairs before the fireplace.
The dressmaker and her assistants had left an hour past.
She likely should have refused the gift of clothing, but poverty had a way of squeezing the pride out of a person. The clothing was worth a small fortune if sold, and she was in desperate need of funds. Master MacTavishdidowe her family a debt. Her father, had he lived, would be glad to see it paid.
And because of that, Eilidh had not been shy when ordering. If Master MacTavish had the funds to donate a small fortune for Reverend Gillespie’s return trip to the New Hebrides, he could certainly afford extra coin for her wardrobe.
And what a wardrobe it was. Three day dresses. A walking dress. A pelisse. A spencer. She even had an evening gown in the loveliest shade of purple—asilkevening gown. All with matching bonnets and gloves and shoes and a gloriously soft Paisley shawl of Kashmir wool.
A cream muslin dress and the pelisse would be ready for tomorrow.
What would Simon make of it when she returned to him? Would he mourn the fact that his straitened finances would have struggled to afford her such luxury? Or would he rejoice in their good fortune, as now his income did notneedto accommodate a new wardrobe for her?
Briefly, she contemplated writing him, requesting his aid in returning home. Simon would come to her immediately. She knew this.
But she would be leaving the day after tomorrow, as soon as this business with the procurator fiscal was done. She would likely arrive before any letter reached Simon. Therefore, writing him was a moot point.
Nothing would induce her to remain here. To pick at the black scar of that missing year.
She stared into the flames flickering in the hearth.
Memory was a funny thing . . . what she did and did not remember.
She remembered her life beforeThe Minervawith vivid clarity—her parents, her brother. She could easily recall their fine house, perched on a rise of land outside of Dumbarton along the Firth of Clyde. From the sitting room window, they had a view of the vast inlet with Dumbarton Castle nestled atop a mount jutting out of the water.
She and her mother would sit for days at that window—her mother embroidering while Eilidh read aloud. Every few minutes, one of them would lift her head to study the expanse of the firth, watching ships come and go, praying for Captain Fyffe’s safe return.
And her father always returned unharmed, with tales of exotic lands and gifts for herself and James.
That was . . . until the fateful day when Eilidh was fifteen. Onthatday, her father’s crew had carried him home on a litter. A falling mast had clipped his right side, shattering the bones in his arm and badly damaging his leg. The arm had survived, but her father had lost the use of it, and his leg healed poorly, requiring him to use a cane for the rest of his life.
Naturally, her father had been forced to retire, greatly diminishing their income. They sold their lovely house and moved to meaner quarters close to the wharf.
Eilidh’s mother descended into melancholy over the change in their circumstances. She had passed away not even a year later.
Eilidh swallowed and turned away from the fire. She slid her feet from their slippers and tucked them underneath her. The sun dipped toward the horizon, sending long streaks of color across her bedchamber.
Why were these the things she could remember? The punishing blows that battered the Fyffe family?
Every last heartache crystalline in her memory.
After her mother’s passing, her father developed clear signs of consumption. Eilidh took in sewing to provide extra coin. James worked odd jobs for a local stable. And for a while, it had been enough.
Her father had worried about their future—Eilidh’s and Jamie’s. She wrote out the letters he dictated from his sick bed, begging Master MacTavish to take on James. She had poured her own heart into her father’s words, praying between sentences that MacTavish would honor her father’s kindness. That he would agree to be a guide to James as Charles had been to Kieran.
It had taken seven letters and nearly twoyearsfor Master MacTavish to respond. With each missive sent and silence received, Eilidh had seethed in frustration. And when he finallydidreply, it was with vague excuses about being waylaid in Sydney or some such. Eilidh had doubted the truth of it.
The Royal Mail reached Sydney.
Master MacTavish had simply not cared enough to address their needs.
