Rather, Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Buchan—Fettermill’s reigning ‘walking heralds’—never missed a chance to poke a stick into the buzzing hive of Leah’s regret.
They relentlessly pointed out how long in the tooth Leah was becoming, how her chances at matrimony deteriorated a wee bit more each year, how blessed they were that their daughters did not share Leah’s husbandless, prospectless state.
Leah knew how the conversation would go if she remained standing here much longer.
“Och, it’s too bad your looks have gone off so,” Mrs. Clark would say.
“Aye. Ye should have married when ye had the chance, lass,” Mrs. Buchan would agree, eyes limpid and pitying. Because, of course,everyoneknew what had happened with the vicar in London twenty years ago. “Who will look after ye now? What with your father passed on and Malcolm with his new wife?”
“It must be difficult tae feel like a guest in your own home,” Mrs. Clark would add.
And Leah would, once again, feel the shameful weight of those long-ago choices. Of her stupidity in allowing a few heady minutes in the company of onebrawman to chart the course of her life.
Because Mrs. Buchan was right—Leahshouldhave married when she had the chance.
Instead, she had allowed her practical mind to be stuffed with the heady thought of a man like Fox Carnegie and had neglected to truly examine the ramifications of her actions. Had she married the vicar, Mr. Hay, she would have secured her future. She would have been her own mistress and had her own children.
Of course, she never admitted this to a soul.
So many years on, it was too late to repent anyway. Mr. Hay had long ago remarried another young woman, and Leah had attracted no other suitors since.
After the debacle in London, she had settled back into mothering Malcolm and Ethan and, with Cousin Elspeth’s help, managing the domestic necessities of the farm.
The years had passed, each blending into the last so smoothly that even Leah, with her exceptional head for organization, lost track of them.
When Ethan was ten years old, Uncle Leith had decided that he was the Penn-Leith with the most promise. So Uncle had taken Ethan to live with them in Aberdeenshire, sending him to the same grammar school the infamous poet, Lord Byron, had attended.
For her part, Leah had minded her father’s house and cared for aging Cousin Elspeth and ensured that Malcolm, with his quiet, watchful eyes, spoke at least two or three sentences a day.
Thinking of Malcolm . . .
Once more, Leah looked past Mrs. Buchan and Mrs. Clark, attempting to spy her brother in the crowded kirkyard.
“I cannae believe no one has told ye the news yet,” Mrs. Buchan was saying.
“Aye,” Mrs. Clark jumped in, pushing her spectacles up her beak-like nose. “Captain Fox Carnegie will be a welcome addition to the neighborhood.”
The wordsCaptain Fox Carnegiestruck Leah’s psyche with a jarringthwack, wrenching her attention back to the two women.
“P-pardon?” she managed to stammer.
Mrs. Clark beamed, approving of Leah’s shocked reaction.
“Captain Fox Carnegie is the gentleman who purchased Laverloch.” Mrs. Clark’s smile widened, pleased that she was the first to tell the news.
Leah continued to stare in stunned silence. Her brain sluggishly attempted to piece together the information.
Fox Carnegie.
HerFox Carnegie? The ideal gentleman who had all but guaranteed Leah’s spinsterhood?
It had to be the same man. The name was too unique to be anyone else.
He had purchased Laverloch? How? And . . . why?
Leah glanced around the churchyard as if expecting to see Fox Carnegie’s blue eyes gazing back at her.
But of course, he wasn’therehere. Not yet, at least.
