A muscle ticked in Nicol’s jaw and he reached for the bottle. “More whisky?”
Lindsay shook his head and watched as Nicol refilled his own cup, a large measure with no water to dilute it this time. He threw the spirit back in one mouthful and carefully set the cup down.
“I didn’t only have to invest money when I joined my firm,” he said, after a brief silence. “I was required—that is, Iagreed, to marry the daughter of the senior partner.”
Lindsay’s gut twisted at Nicol’s bleak expression. “Your marriage was arranged?”
Nicol nodded.
“Was it—were you happy together?”
“No.”
Only that.No.
Lindsay had a thousand questions on his lips. He wanted to know what caused the sick misery he saw in Nicol’s gaze, but how could he ask? How could he press down on what was clearly a painful wound? But even as he sat there, in an agony of indecision, the matter was taken out of his hands. Through stiff lips Nicol said hoarsely, “I was a terrible husband.”
“I’m sure you—”
“I was,” Nicol insisted and dropped his head into his hands.
Lindsay stared at his downbent head, the neatly combed hair in its simple queue, gleaming barley-gold in the flickering firelight.
“What did you do that was so bad?” Lindsay wanted to bite his tongue off as soon as the words escaped—what was he thinking prying like that?—but Nicol didn’t seem offended. He lifted his head out of his hands, though he kept his gaze on the floor, and began to speak.
“She liked me well enough when we were first introduced, but once we were married, she discovered how serious and dull I was. As for me, I found her...” He winced, self-loathing in his eyes. “I found her... annoying. She was young, you see, and I was not very patient with her. Soon enough, I was staying away as much as I could. I told myself it was what she wanted too. But then, after she died—” His voice gave out and he stopped for a moment before continuing. “After she died, I found her diary.” He glanced up then and his grey-blue gaze was fierce. “She was—desperately lonely. Sounhappy. I made her feel that way.”
“Nicol—”
Nicol ignored the interruption, pressing on almost desperately. “I hadn’t wanted to marry her,” he said. “I wasobligedto do so. To me, she was a price that I paid to take a step up in the world. And then—that night...” He trailed off.
“The night she died?”
Nicol nodded, closing his eyes. “She went into labour and it went badly. I’d not been particularly interested in the prospect of becoming a father, so I’d not really expected to feel anything. But when the baby came and they gave her to me—such a little scrap—I couldn’t stop looking at her. She was so tiny and perfect and fragile.”
Lindsay swallowed against the lump in his throat, watching this man who’d seemed so grim and unemotional till now, unravelling before him. The pain in his eyes was stark as he recounted his story.
“They’d given me the baby to hold while they tried to help Katie—she was bleeding badly—but they couldn’t save her. And then they couldn’t save the baby either. When the wet-nurse came, she wouldn’t suckle. She died that same night.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lindsay breathed.
Nicol didn’t seem to hear him. “Weeks later, I found Katie’s diary. It was then I understood what I’d done. How very unhappy I’d made her.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Lindsay said.
Nicol took a deep, shuddering breath and rubbed his hands over his face, visibly pulling himself back together. Eventually he set his hands on his knees and met Lindsay’s gaze.
“I do my blame myself though,” he admitted, his voice calmer now. “I felt like a prisoner in that marriage, but I was too blind to see that she was a prisoner too. And the worst of it is, there’s nothing to be done about it. Not now. Not ever.” He shook his head then. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I never talk about it.” He reached for the whisky bottle again and this time Lindsay let him refill his cup too, refraining from pointing out that Nicol had only invited him in for one drink.
Lindsay sipped his replenished whisky, watching Nicol over the rim of his cup. A pall of grim sorrow hung over the man.
Gently, Lindsay changed the subject. “So,” he said. “What do you plan to do about Cruikshank now?”
Nicol glanced up. “There’s not much I can do about his lies other than deny them. He has no legal recourse against me for my uncle’s loan so there’s no question of him raising a case against me. As for his obligations to my firm, he still owes us the final payment for the works to the new house—seventy-six pounds to be precise—and I mean to get it from him. I will plague him personally till he pays up and if he refuses, I will take him to court.” He sighed. “I can only hope the judge is not a White Raven too. One of the gentlemen at tonight’s dinner is a sheriff and another sits in the Court of Session. Any case that came before either of them would be doomed to failure.”
“Ah,” Lindsay said, his tone heavy with understanding. He wished he could say something to reassure Nicol that all would be well, but he remembered too well Cruikshank’s blank, watchful gaze on the closed door after Nicol had stormed out of the dinner. Somehow, he felt sure that Cruikshank meant to make Nicol’s life difficult over this.
For a minute or two, they sat in oddly companionable silence, sipping their whisky. Then Nicol said, “May I ask you something?”
