The other woman didn’t answer for a moment. When she did respond, it was in a tone that warned Sarah that confidences wouldn’t be forthcoming. “Does it matter, cousin? What Grandfather wants is what will happen.”
Douglas left his meeting with Donald Tulloch, and, while waiting for Robert, took advantage of the fair day to explore more of Kilmarin. The whole of Kilmarin was less beautiful, perhaps, than Chavensworth, but built for the rugged land on which it sat.
He began to climb, feeling a need to find the highest point of land, a feeling he’d known as a boy desperate to escape the filth and despair of his surroundings.
At the top of a small hill, scarcely taller than a knoll and nowhere near the mountain he’d wished for, Douglas stopped, planted his feet apart, and surveyed Kilmarin and the surrounding countryside.
This was Scotland, his land, his home. Here, he’d played as a boy, dreamed of being more than he was even when he was hungry and cold. He looked to the left, where grayish blue hills gave way to rolling glens, the braes carpeted with lush green grass. To the right was the River Tay, sparkling in the morning sunlight, the sight of it bringing a lump to his throat.
He’d wanted so much as that small boy—to be bigger and stronger, to be able to protect himself. He’d achieved every one of his dreams and even more.
He loved.
That single emotion seemed a miracle in itself. Having never felt it from his parents, he hadn’t known how to accept it from others. Alano’s kindness to an angry young man had been initially rebuffed. Only later, many months later, had Douglas realized that some people didn’t need to hit the defenseless to prove they were stronger. He’d begun by respecting Alano, and from that respect had come friendship. Because he’d been able to feel friendship for another person, he’d learned to love.
A frightening emotion, love. Far more frightening and powerful than anything he’d ever experienced, including fear. Perhaps love was what made heroes of simple men.
He would do anything for Sarah. He would climb mountains and swim the River Tay for her. He would lay bare his soul, and stand in wait, naked and defenseless, for her scorn.
Perhaps he could become someone braver than he was, someone magnificent and capable of great and wondrous acts. All for love.
He would open the envelope of time and show her who he’d been, reveal the boy filled with rage and determination and the man overflowing with curiosity and passion.
For her, and in deference to what he felt for her.
Toward the end of the day, Sarah and her cousin were walking through the corridor belonging to the family rooms when Linda suddenly stopped in front of one of the doors.
“This was your mother’s chamber when she was a girl. Would you like to see it?”
Surprised, Sarah turned toward the door. Kilmarin was evidently so large bedrooms could be set aside and never used again. She nodded, and Linda withdrew a key from the ring she carried, inserted it into the lock, and stepped back.
Sarah walked forward, turned the latch, and entered the room.
The curtains were shut against an afternoon sun, but light streamed between the panels.
She’d thought her mother’s chamber at Chavensworth was lovely, but it was nothing compared to this room. A four-poster bed decorated with stunning ivory and red panels sat against one wall. Adjacent to it was a large armoire, and on the opposite side of the room were both a vanity and a small desk. There was no dust anywhere. Neither was there a musty scent, as if the room had often been aired.
As if the room were readied for Morna’s return.
“Do you know how to get back to your own room?” Linda asked softly.
She nodded.
“Then I shall leave you.” She came to Sarah’s side and pressed a key into her hands. “If you would lock the door when you’re finished. Grandfather does not like the room disturbed. He keeps it just as it was before your mother went to England.”
“Like a shrine,” Sarah said softly.
Linda didn’t answer, only turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Sarah stood motionless, wondering at the scent in the air. Something that smelled of roses, or perhaps lilies. Something lighter than the perfume her mother had worn at Chavensworth. A girl’s perfume, perhaps.
Slowly, Sarah walked toward the vanity. On thewooden top was an array of crystal bottles, some of them still revealing traces of perfume. A long silver comb sat beside a silver-backed brush. To the left of the vanity, and reflected in the oval mirror, was a small oil lamp.
Had her mother sat here as a girl, wondering about her future? Dreaming about it, in the way that young girls are wont to do?
Sarah thought her heart would break.
Sarah opened the right-hand drawer of the vanity, startled to find that it was filled with jars and bottles, some of whose contents had long since evaporated. One or two, she was surprised to find, were still full, like the container of talc, and the jar of pomade. Had Morna left for England, then, without any of her personal possessions?
