Then a petite woman walked to the center of the stage. Her brown hair was pulled back, tucked with a delicate spray of pink roses. Her cream-colored gown was simple and elegant. Miss Jenny Lind looked like an innocent young girl, though Meg knew she would be in her thirties by now. Clasping her hands, Miss Lind began to sing.
Her voice flowed outward, pure as crystal, a delicate trill like a lark in the morning. Listening, Meg felt her worries and fears melt and ease under that magical sound.
Then her glance caught the glint of golden highlights over brown hair, broad shoulders in black, the turn of the head, gaslight illuminating the handsome face for a moment. Though he did not glance upward, even at that distance she knew him, and her heart pounded.
*
During the interval,as the crowd flowed into the theater’s wide foyer, Dougal noticed the crush around a woman and her small party. From his vantage point in a corner, Dougal could scarcely see her, but he heard murmurings that the Baroness Strathlin was at the heart of that cluster. Not wanting to be seen, he turned, silent and guarded, back to his companions as they chatted with acquaintances.
He had come to the theater with his cousin Mary and her husband, Dr. Connor MacBain, determined to get through the evening somehow. He stood as cold and stiff as the marble column beside him, nodding greetings as necessary, polite but distracted.
For a moment, he saw her clearly as the sea of gowned ladies and black-clad gentlemen shifted. She was turned away, draped in an opera cloak of dark-blue velvet, but he knew the shape of her head, the slender set of her shoulders; had pushed his fingers through the golden waves of her hair. Now it was caught up in a silvery net and pinned with gewgaws and silver stars.
As she tilted her head with a smile for someone, her lovely profile achingly familiar, his heart surged. She was uncommonly beautiful, and he loved her still, wanting her so intensely that it hurt to look at her.
He had once told Meg MacNeill that he would never give up on what he desired in life. But standing there, he felt uncharacteristically defeated. Betrayed. Persistence was a challenge.
Yet his nature was to persevere, and he would. That beautiful young woman was not who he had believed. Somehow, he must forget her and go on, shedding bitterness if he could. And his nature also demanded that he finish that lighthouse somehow, even if he had to build it himself, stone by stone, and fund it from his own pocket by next year.
But forgetting Meg MacNeill might take him his entire lifetime.
*
The carriage slowlyedged forward in a long line of gigs, hansom cabs, and coaches approaching Charlotte Square. Dougal peered ahead through the side window and soon picked out the baroness’s townhouse a little distance ahead. In a row of homes designed to look like a single palatial façade, the grand house on the corner seemed larger, richly lit by lanterns hung about the entrance where carriages crept forward and stopped to let passengers step out with the help of liveried footmen. The lady was sparing no expense, he thought sourly.
“The concert was marvelous,” Mary MacBain said as their carriage rolled slowly along. “Miss Lind has an exquisite voice. And I am ready to move about after sitting for so long.”
“We shall soon be dancing, dear,” her husband said. Dougal smiled, appreciating his cousin and her husband for their hospitality, freely offered whenever he was in Edinburgh. And he was very glad they had been invited to attend the concert and Lady Strathlin’s soiree. At least he could be certain of two friendly faces.
As their vehicle lurched forward, Dougal flexed his gloved hands. He had felt detached from life for a few days while he absorbed the shock of realizing Meg MacNeill’s identity and betrayal. Miss Lind’s singing had been soothing, but he resisted mellowing this evening. He needed a hard, brittle shield of anger around his heart.
“What a crowd at the theater, and now here on the street,” Connor said.
“I think the theater was even more crowded because Lady Strathlin was there,” Mary said. “There has always been an air of mystery around her. That only makes people curious to see her.”
“You mentioned meeting her,” Dougal said. “And so you were also invited.”
“We were introduced at a concert last year,” Connor answered. “But in the press of the crowd and in dim light, I could not quite see her face, and Mary said the same.”
“You do not have a good memory for faces, dear, though I barely saw her either in the crowd. So when she came to the house one night last week, neither of us knew her!”
“But she arrived under another name,” Dougal said. His nostrils flared.
“Aye, Meg MacNeill. But after she left, I found her card, and realized she was Lady Strathlin,” Connor said.
“So you said,” Dougal murmured. “I wonder what she wanted.”
“Just to talk to you. It seemed important to her. A private matter,” MacBain said. “To do with your lighthouse dispute, I suppose. Perhaps she has had a change of heart since her law firm is doing everything possible to prevent the light from going up.”
“Perhaps,” Dougal said.
“She seemed nervous and wanted to remain discreet. Yet you have not yet met?”
“I have corresponded with her, but mostly through lawyers.” He twisted his mouth awry. “Essentially, I asked permission to build on her island, she refused through her soliciting firm, I asked again with the authority of the Lighthouse Commission and the government. We are not acquaintances so much as…adversaries just now.” He felt the impact of his words like a blow. Why had she come to the MacBain house at all?
“She has a very generous nature,” Mary said. “She is kind and without arrogance, so it is surprising to see animosity develop between you over the lighthouse.”
“Surprising, aye.”
