“To be honest, he pressed marriage. I do not wish to discuss it now,” Meg said bluntly.
“I do not trust the man,” Guy said. “Mr. Stewart seems far more trustworthy by comparison. Just be cautious, dear Baroness. Remember we are here to help. Aye so, Mrs. Shaw?”
“Oh, aye,” Angela said, her blue gaze caught in Hamilton’s dark glance.
Tears stung then as Meg saw a glow of love there. Happy for them, she felt struck by longing and regret, too. The journal pages blurred before her eyes. “I shall keep it in mind. Do be gone, both of you. There is much to do, and I feel a headache coming on.”
“I shall bring you tea,” Angela said, and left the room with Guy Hamilton.
Chapter Sixteen
“Thank you fortaking the time to meet with me, Mr. Logan.” Seated in a wooden chair beside a wide, polished mahogany desk, Dougal reached into his pocket and pulled out a small linen-wrapped package. He laid it on the desk surface.
Samuel Logan, a heavyset gentleman with gray side-whiskers and a preference for tobacco, for the room reeked of it, nodded. “I always have time for a nephew of Sir Hugh MacBride. Chambers Street Publishers was honored to produce his poems.” He gestured toward the bookcases lining his walls, where Dougal noticed his uncle’s volumes of poetry and other writings prominently displayed. “We published something of yours, as well. Do you have something else?”
“Nothing at the moment. Your firm was kind to publish a series of my articles about lighthouse design that appeared in theEdinburgh Reviewa few years ago.Principles of Pharological Design with Respect to the Forces of Natureis hardly exciting reading.”
“On the contrary, it was fascinating stuff,” Logan said. “We have respectable orders every autumn forPharological Designfrom engineering classes at universities in Scotland and England too. It provides you a wee income, eh?” He smiled. “What brings you here, sir, if not another treatise?”
“I do have something, but I am not the author. It is merely an inquiry.” Dougal slid the package across the desk. “I thought youmight find it interesting. A dear friend who lives on a Hebridean isle wrote this wee journal. I do not have your talent for judging the best in books, but I think it worth a look.”
Logan reached over an untidy pile of papers and books to pick up Meg’s journal. Setting a pair of gold-wire glasses on his nose, he flipped through the book, nodding thoughtfully. Finally, he looked up.
“Did the author appoint you as messenger, sir? There is a distinctly feminine sensibility to this wee journal.” He peered over his spectacles.
“She gave me her journal as a gift, and I thought to show it to you. I do not think she would mind that. But she does not believe her work worthy of publication. As you can see, it is not a personal diary, but rather a chronicle of nature on the Isle of Caransay.”
“Aye, remarkable.” Logan turned pages. “Your friend is quite talented. These are skillful drawings, pleasing and precise, with poetic descriptions too. Exquisite thing. It’s as if we’re peeking into a lady’s diary while she shares her love for her home in the Isles.” He turned more pages. “She brings the place to life, yet remains anonymous. Marvelous. Quite unique.”
“I hoped you might like it.”
Logan paged through the rest of the book, then glanced up. “Is this all of it?”
“There are other journals, I believe, and all treat the flora and fauna, weather, the geological character of the island and so on. She manages to capture the beauty and variety of life on the island, along with the seasons and the moods of the sea, too, in these elegant drawings. I assure you the other journals would be equal in merit to this one.”
“I would like to see the others, if she is agreeable.”
“She made these just for the joy of the work, but I think she would be happy to share them in book form for others to enjoy.”
“We may be able to arrange that. This is beautiful.” Logan sat forward. “There is a great deal of interest in Highland culture just now. People are mad for Scotland, its history and culture. Mad to tour the Highlands and purchase any souvenir they can find. Some think we should not perpetuate the romance of plaids and bagpipes and heather, but honestly, it helps the Scottish economy to do so. Queen Victoria herself writes Highland journals, did you know?”
“I have heard so.”
“A Hebridean journal written and illustrated by a Scotswoman would be quite popular.” Logan tapped the desk with his fingers. “Do you think she would agree?”
“Perhaps. I will ask her.”
“Tell her of our great interest in publishing them.”
“I hope to see her when I return to the island. We are building a lighthouse out there.”
“Excellent! Let me give you a letter of introduction.” Logan took up a sheet of paper, dipped a pen, and began to write.
Waiting, Dougal flipped pages in the little book, skimming past delicate studies of flowers, seashells, and other delightful images. He paused to read some marginal notes in Meg’s lovely handwriting beside images of Sgeir Caran, the rock, the sea, the birds.
Eagles mate for life,she had noted beside a sketch of two birds in flight.This pair has been together many years. Their loyalty is transcendent. As they soar over the sea rock in unison, one realizes the profound poetry of their devotion, the love of two souls who will never part.
A shiver ran through him, deep and secret, as if Meg herself had whispered in his ear. He closed the book quietly.
