Leah feared she was seeing a similar pattern in Fox. The tell-tale signs of a true drunkard.
Would she have married him had she known he struggled to control his drinking? That he only wanted her as a housekeeper and would share nothing more of his life with her? That the friendship, respect, and trust he had implied when proposing would not be forthcoming after their nuptials?
Mmmm, perhaps better not to answer that question.
Once the idea of being his wife had rooted itself into her brain, it had been impossible to weed out.
First, to finally join the ranks of married women . . . to have her own singularly beloved person.
And then to behiswife, specifically. This man who had been the lodestar of her youth, the one who had filled her heart with yearning, year after year.
And was he truly a drunkard in every sense of the word? Or merely a man battling through difficult circumstances?
Did such a distinction matter?
Howa man arrived at being a drunkard was rather moot, she supposed. The end result was the same.
The bald reality was painful to admit—Leah scarcely knew Fox Carnegie. She had been twenty ways a fool to not insist upon a deeper acquaintance before their marriage.
Yes, he could be kind—hewaskind—but he was also a deeply private person who struggled with wounds, external and internal. Why else would he turn to the bottle if not to silence demons?
Taking in a deep breath . . . and then, another, she wiped her eyes one last time.
Crying would do no good. What was done, was done.
Leah stared at the wedding ring on her finger, spinning it with her thumb.
Her choices now were simple: accept the reality of Fox and his expectations, or mire herself in regrets.
Ever the practical, optimistic sort, she chose acceptance, as painful as it was to admit.
Regret would give her nothing more than two red eyes, a sore head, and an aching heart.
Things she hadn’t the time for.
After all, Madeline was lost. Wee Tam and George Jamieson needed an emissary to parley for truce. And there was an entire castle of workmen to feed.
Fox Carnegie’s drinking and low opinion of herself weren’t even in her top three concerns at present.
Leah peered down the long hallway of the south wing, windows striping the passageway in bands of light.
This section of the building appeared to have been added roughly a hundred years prior. It flaunted the same large, airy windows as Thistle Muir and lacked the heavy medieval fortifications of the central keep.
But given the thick layer of grime, the south wing had likely been shuttered since Major McAlpin’s younger days. The smell of mildew and dust hung in the air.
“Madeline?” she called.
Nothing.
Leah lifted her skirts and began peeking her head into each room off the hallway . . . bedrooms, most of them, with tester beds, sagging mattresses, and mismatched furniture. However, one room held an assortment of crates, trunks, and stacked furniture, though given the shuttered window, it was difficult to discern much else.
“Madeline?” Leah said with every door opened. “Please come out. We’re worried about ye.”
Silence hovered in the air alongside the dust stirred up by Leah’s skirts.
No sign of Madeline.
Very well. She would check the floor above.
