The fire burned low in the hearth, casting eerie shadows up the bookcases. Originally the dining hall of the medieval tower house, the library featured a high-barrel vaulted ceiling and the family coat of arms carved into stone above the mantelpiece—three holly leaves flanked by two knights under the family motto,sub sole sub umbra virens,which translated as “flourishing both in sunshine and shade.”
“So what brings ye home now of all times?” Callum asked once they were each holding a glass of the fine Bracklamore whisky Tavish had brought with him. “This whisky is excellent, by the way.”
Tavish saluted him with his own glass.
As usual, Callum vibrated with energy—one knee bouncing, body shifting in his chair—some part of him always in motion. To be truthful, it surprised Tavish that Callum was here at all. His brother always appeared more at ease outside of family obligations, chasing some dangerous pursuit or another. Daring curricle races in London. Sailing a boat across Montrose Basin in a tempest. Climbing the sheer face of Cairnfell without a rope.
The more perilous an activity, the more certain it was that Callum would seek it out. Boredom was the true enemy of his existence.
“I’m right glad ye like the whisky.” Tavish stretched his feet toward the fire before returning to his brother’s question with, “I have a spot of business in Aberdeen.” A secret marriage to address, rather, but his family knew nothing of his history with Lady Isla. “And I am planning on meeting up with a pair of army friends for a week of hunting near Corgarff and finalizing plans for America.”
“Ye still set on heading to Pennsylvania then?” his father asked.
“Aye. I enjoyed my time in the States. And there is significantly more opportunity there.”
After banishing Bonaparte to Elba in 1814, a portion of the 95th rifles had been sent to assist efforts in defending British interests in Florida and Louisiana. Though the British had eventually admitted defeat and returned home, Tavish had found the States themselves to be an alluring mix of economic possibility and lofty idealism.
“What is your plan then in Pennsylvania? Live on the frontier in a log cabin and farm the land?” Callum pushed to his feet and began pacing. “That sounds like a rather dreary life for an earl’s son.”
Of course Callum would think so.
Anger, well-worn and familiar, spiked Tavish’s pulse. Bitter words stacked on his tongue:
Aye, opera dancers and gaming hells are rather thin on the ground in rural Pennsylvania, so of course ye would think the place a dead bore.
From long habit, Tavish breathed through the sudden rush of fury and bitterness.
Callum’s compulsion to seek thrilling pastimes didn’t harm only himself. The rest of the family had suffered because of it over the years, Tavish in particular.
He had forgiven Callum—hehad—but as Tavish still dealt with the consequences of his brother’s folly, resentment festered.
One of a myriad of reasons why Tavish had delayed returning home.
“I assure ye, Pennsylvania is a mite more sophisticated than that. Have ye not heard of Pittsburgh?” Tavish pasted on a stiff smile. “My friend, Captain George Ross, is the son of a prominent whisky distiller. Bracklamore whisky in Moray, to be precise.” Tavish raised his glass. “Heknows everything there is to know about growing rye and turning it into the best whisky inside or outside of Scotland.”
Callum fixed him with a pained look. “Ye intend to become a whisky distiller? Is that what we Balfours have been reduced to?”
Tavish merely lifted an eyebrow at Callum’s tone.No thanks to yourself,that eyebrow said.
Callum at least had the decency to look away.
“Aye. I have some capital from the sale of my commission and an understanding of the lay of the land in the States. Ross has the knowledge to create the whisky. And we have another friend, Fletch, who has promised to invest the rest of the monies needed. We’ll hammer out all the finer details when we meet at the end of next week. Our thoughts are to give the whisky producers in Kentucky a run for their money. True Scottish whisky made like it is in the old country. None of this apocryphal Irish nonsense they get up to in Kentucky.”
Lord Northcairn sipped his glass appreciatively. “It’s excellent whisky, Son. Ye shall have to send me a case of your first bottles.”
Their conversation drifted off after that, wandering first to corn futures and wool prices before becoming lost entirely in Lord Northcairn’s musings on a horse he had an eye to purchase.
With what money?Tavish longed to ask.
Neither Callum nor their father asked Tavish any further questions.
But then, that had always been the way of things with them. Northcairn had his heir in Callum, and Tavish was merely an afterthought. If he told them he had spoken with his secret wife at Cairnfell this afternoon, they would likely respond with polite noises. Maybe ask Tavish how he was going to support her. Nothing more.
Well, until Tavish informed them that his wife was Lady Isla Kinsey. Then, the vitriol and recriminations would fly. The talk of Kinseys enraged Balfours, just as much as Balfours infuriated Kinseys.
What a bollocking mess this had all become.
In the end, it was Mariah who knocked on his bedchamber door just after he retired for the night. She came bearing a tray of hot chocolate and shortbread.
