“No, thank ye.” Eilidh shook her head.
The agitation currently churning in her stomach rebelled at the thought of food. After so many revelations, her cherished numbness was at best a scattered wish for calm. She needed a moment to rebuild her equanimity.
Fortunately, as if sensing her need for relief, the gathered men moved on to discussing thingsnotrelated to her.
Mr. Campbell described the painting he was working on for submission to the Royal Academy salon. Lady Kildrum had built an enormous glasshouse studio for her husband behind the west wing of the house. Mr. Campbell spent most days there painting.
Lord Lockheade spoke of changes he was making to his principal seat, Frome Abbey, in Wiltshire. Apparently his wife, Lady Lockheade, was spending time with her sister, nephew, and self-important brother-in-law in London, allowing Lockheade a chance to visit Scotland.
“Don’t think ill of me,” Lockheade said, a rueful smile tugging his lips. “I adore my Lottie with every piece of my soul, and I am glad she has found a measure of accord with her sister. But I am not as forgiving as my wife and, therefore, welcomed the excuse to avoid Lady Margaret and Lord Frank.”
Laughter greeted his comments.
As the men talked, Eilidh’s gaze kept skittering back to study Master MacTavish. There werefivemen in this room—all of them handsome—and yet her eyes only seemed to care about Master MacTavish.
Was it the fact that he was a finely-formed man? After all, with his pale eyes and dark hair, he cut a memorable figure and well he knew it.
Sir Rafe spoke of the farming he was undertaking with his small estate in Perthshire, wishing to secure the property for his children. His wife, Lady Sophie Gordon, had given birth to a healthy baby boy just four months prior.
“He’s an eater, is my lad,” Sir Rafe said with a smile. “He’s nearly as wide as he is tall at the moment.”
This led to Lord Hadley talking about his daughter, Isolde. “She discovered running about three weeks ago, and it’s been a bit of a nightmare, if I’m honest. She can vanish in the blink of an eye.”
“She’s dauntless, that one,” Mr. Campbell smiled.
“I can feel the gray hairs coming on.” Lord Hadley pulled at his light brown hair. “Do ye hope for a lad or lass with this baby, Ewan?”
“My biggest wish is for Violet and the bairn tae be healthy.” Ewan blushed and reached for his wife’s hand. “But I adore the thought of having a daughter.”
“You would,” Lady Kildrum laughed, leaning her head affectionately on his shoulder.
“Well,” Sir Rafe nodded, “I hope we’ll be able tae greet your new babe at the midsummer festival in June.”
“You will all be most welcome.” Lady Kildrum rested a hand on the curve of her belly.
Eilidh swallowed, staring at her ladyship’s fingers. At the tender way Lady Kildrum cradled the babe in her womb. At the gold wedding band winking in and out of the light.
Eilidh had to look away after a second, her eyes stinging, her own fingers curling inward around the scar on her palm.
Why was it some wounds never healed entirely?
The men continued to speak back and forth around her.
Of course, their superficial conversation was only a smoke screen for the true concern weighing on them all.
“What will happen with the procurator fiscal?” Eilidh finally asked, unable to stop the question from spilling forth into a lull of conversation.
“Mr. Patterson? He will merely ask questions about what ye remember, Miss Fyffe,” Lockheade said, gently.
“But I don’t remember anything,” Eilidh protested.
“Aye, and Mr. Patterson has been told that ad nauseam,” Sir Rafe sighed.
“The authorities have questioned us more than once over the years,” Lord Hadley added. “But then some wee tidbit of information surfaces, and we’re summoned once more.”
Hadley and Sir Rafe exchanged a weighted look with Master MacTavish.
Eilidh frowned, her own eyes darting between the men. “Am I missing something here?”
