And second, like himself, Isla had suffered greatly in his absence. Of course, she had. But he had never imagined it as a crushing force that had caused her to reach for a new cause. One that, like the army for him, had bent and reformed her desires and priorities.
“Tell me,” he urged, suddenly desperate to know, to relearn each piece of her. “Every last experience. Every reason ye love Malton Hill so much.”
Because it was painfully obvious that she did.
She laughed and finally pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbing her eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall so thoroughly in love with the estate. But I arrived with my heart full of affection and desperate for an outlet—or perhaps it was too newly wounded and quick to empty—but . . . Oh, Tavish. Malton Hill is so beautiful! Like a jewel box nestled into the green hills outside of Tetbury—honey-colored limestone and arched Tudor windows set with thick, wavy glass. Gray calls the house an antiquated pile, and I suppose he is right, as it has acres of wood paneling and plastered ceilings that haven’t been fashionable in at least two hundred years. But it ismyantiquated pile.”
It was as if she were describing a beloved child, the way her eyes softened and her voice took on an almost astonished quality. As if she couldscarcely believe something so clever and wonderful existed, and that she had been the one chosen to care for it.
Oh, Isla.
She broke off a small piece of their birthday cake, chewing it slowly. “Don’t mistake me. It isn’t a grand estate like Dunmore with corridors of bedchambers and a room for every hour of the day. It’s a modest country house, polite in its manner rather than extravagant. Big enough to be grand in its own way, but small enough to feel like home. My home.”
The sort of fine house Tavish was unable to provide.
That bit went unspoken, of course.
“It sounds like a wee paradise,” he said instead. “I can picture ye thriving in a place like that.”
And he could.
In his mind’s eye, she strolled through airy rooms, dappled with English sunshine, a beatific smile upon her lips. A man joined her there—someone with Fletch’s expressive face and merry demeanor. Children spilled in, blond-haired and rosy-cheeked, speaking in elegant English tones.
A scene that would never include Tavish.
Something of his bitterness, no matter how slight, must have spilled out.
“Tavish, you mistake my meaning. The house is certainly lovely, but even if the house burned tomorrow . . . it’s the people of Malton Hill who hold my heart. The previous Duke of Grayburn had neglected them. When compared to the vast holdings of the dukedom, Malton Hill is the smallest of properties. Gray hadn’t had the time to assess everything yet, so he was unaware of its shambolic state.”
Side by side on the sofa, both eating their birthday cake, Tavish listened as she told of arriving there, her despair and grief. And how, little by little, the house and estate awakened her. How she cast off the old steward with his slovenly ways and hired the new, bright-eyed Mr. Cranston with his modern, ingenious ideas to manage the house and farm and tenants. How she integrated with the community—dining regularly with Dr. and Mrs. Sumsion and courting a friendship with the prickly Mrs. White—until she became one of them.
The sun was dipping toward the horizon, the Savoy cake nearly gone, by the time she finished.
“I don’t have much power as a woman in the larger world, but at Malton Hill, my actions make a difference. I have ensured that my tenants have sound roofs overhead and windows that don’t leak. I rallied other women in the village and established a dame school for the laborers’ children to learn how to read and write. I reviewed practices in the parish poor house and worked to make conditions there more humane. And in the process of doing all of that, I became someone different. A woman who knows her own mind and has the confidence to help others. Do you not see how much Malton Hill means to me?”
And he did.
Tavish could see with astonishing clarity the magnitude of her commitment to her people.
His beautiful Isla with her vast capacity for compassion would never give them up. Nor would he ever ask her to. Some things were simply more important than romantic love.
“Of course, ye would fight for those people. It’s all your fierce heart knows how to do. Ye were like that as a lass, and ye remain the same today. Ye love with your whole self.”
And if she heard in that an echo of her own love for him, long dead and gone, then so be it.
“I do love them. It unlocked this maternal instinct I didn’t realize I possessed. A need to shelter and protect.”
And here was another key to the woman she had become. A change just as profound as his own. While Tavish led and shepherded men, fighting for her safety here at home, she was doing the same work, only on the opposite end. Fighting to ensure the women and children of the men he led not only survived, but thrived—bettering their situations and learning important skills.
Yet more proof as to why he loved her so.
The sheer scope of her determination humbled him.
“I want ye to have Malton Hill, lass. I want ye to keep your people.”
“It’s all I dream about, to be honest. I spent two years there after you left. I would be there still, but Gray likes having me close, both to act as a hostess and to ensure I marry where he wants.” So sardonicthat last bit. “So we compromise. I spend half the year at Malton Hill between September and March, hiring a widow friend to act as my companion while there for propriety’s sake. I then join Gray for the Season in London. Often, I can plead the month of August, too. But not this year.”
“Because of Fletch?”
