10
He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Magnus entered the castle foyer, Isla close behind with a pug in arm, Rhona trailing her with another. Footmen fanned out behind them, shouldering two trunks more than when she’d left. His wife’s indulgent parents never let her go without extra baggage. Soon they’d need a separate wagon to haul it all.
She climbed the stairs with her maid after greeting Mistress Baird. “Please send supper to my room. Dr. Hunter has ordered bed rest.”
“Very well, mistress.” The housekeeper sent Magnus a tight smile before he turned into the study. “Welcome back, sir.”
Magnus paused in the doorway, entirely focused on the cask in his path. “Some eau-de-vie?” he quipped. “The carriage horses are lathered this morning, I take it.”
“’Twould seem so. The beach was quite busy into the wee small hours.” She approached from behind. “Would ye care to eat alone in the dining room tonight?”
“Nay. My study will suffice.” He unclasped his cloak, weary of rich Edinburgh fare. “Something simple. Oatcakes. Cheese. Whatever Cook has on hand.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll see it arranged.”
He went to stand by the largest window, arguably the best view of any in the castle save his turret bedchamber. From here he had full command of the formal garden and beyond it the sea and countless leagues of coastline. If he leaned to his left, he could almost scale the wall and see into the kitchen garden and the stillroom beyond, its door open.
Lark was still at work, likely, as it was just two o’clock. Still time enough for him to ride about the island and learn of anything that had transpired in his absence. A gladness he’d never felt in the city swept through him like a headwind. Clearing his mind. Filling his soul. Home.
Half an hour later after he’d sampled the cask the captain had left him, he sought the stables, bypassing the stillroom. Lark was singing as she often did, once saying it sweetened and dignified her work. Low and melodic, her voice snuck out and halted him on the shell path.
He took a step back, toward her domain. But he had nothing to say to her, truly. Nothing other than hearsay. Jillian had told a housemaid who’d told his manservant that the captain was talking of taking Lark to the colonies. The dismay he’d felt upon learning it cut to the bone. But why wouldn’t he want to be done with the islands’ foremost smuggler, if not Lark? She was a free woman. Free to wed whom she pleased. Even an unprincipled ship’s captain.
Her singing ended. He heard a cupboard open and close. As he’d recently seen her, entertained her and Granny in the city, he had no cause to seek her out except to inquire if the rumor about America was true.
Other than the pleasure he always felt in her company.
Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee.
A strong check in his spirit sent him on his way again. Yet the tug to tarry remained.
“My mistress said you’re to read Dr. Hunter’s instructions at once.” Rhona handed Lark a sealed paper.
The doctor’s writing hand was much like him. Forceful. Exacting. Bold. He gave detailed instructions for Isla’s new health regimen: Complete bed rest. A strong cup of nettle tea upon arising, sweetened with a little island honey. A steam inhalation of various herbs. No sweetmeats. Fresh curd cheese and fish daily. Two cups of cold fertility tonic at bedtime, consisting of burdock root, milk thistle, and raspberry leaf. No less than ten hours’ sleep.
Would he make an invalid of her?
“Well?” Rhona said, arms crossed.
“Well . . . what?” Lark returned with a rare flash of fire.
“You’ll need to provide me the prescribed herbs.”
“And I will, once I’ve finished my task.” Lark waved a hand at the crowded worktable. A large bowl, a sack of salt, and a great many dried flowers and herbs left little room for Rhona’s request. “Return in an hour’s time and ye shall have what ye seek.”
Rhona cast a wary eye about. “What is that horrible smell?”
“Valerian root. ’Tis helpful for sleep.”
The lady’s maid covered her nose with a handkerchief and hastened away.
Mindful of Rhona’s order, Lark hurried her task as best she could. At last she had a great quantity of leaves and petals preserved in sea salt for a fragrant potpourri that even Isla liked. Well within the promised hour, Lark cleared the table and set about honoring the doctor’s wishes. Mayhap she should petition Providence again for a miracle too.
Half the island was his dominion, and the other half belonged to those who paid rent in exported corn. Tethering his mount to a hitch rail at one end of Balliemore near the Thistle, Magnus walked the length and breadth of the village, engaging the few shopkeepers and tradesmen and learning the latest news and needs.
A blacksmith was coveted. He’d fetch one from the mainland. The annual visit of the tailor was overdue. Could he hasten his coming? The island physic feared the smallpox had again reared its ugly head. Just last spring he’d inoculated fifty-three of the islanders at the laird’s insistence, at two shillings sixpence a head. Should he inoculate the rest? Aye, without hesitation.
Magnus had had the pox long ago. Had Isla? No scars marred her skin. Why did he not know that for certain? Because she’d been in Edinburgh during the outbreak and he’d thought it best not to worry her. Why did he feel less cumbersome gauging the health of villagers than he did his own wife?
Removing his wet hat and thumping it against the door frame to remove the worst of the damp, he entered the Thistle with its customary stink of spirits and taint of fish. On this ill-scrappit day, the taproom was full, the captain occupying his usual corner seat. Magnus had heard the revenue men had been this way, tipped off by a supposed spy. Plying them with spirits had kept them away from the last lucrative haul that left his horses so spent. The captain’s smug smile seemed confirmation that all was well, or at least calm, the weather notwithstanding.
As he was seldom at the Thistle, no seat was familiar, and he wished himself back in his book-lined study, boots up on a leather stool. Betimes the tavern left him wanting a bath in the nearest loch.
“Ho, yer lairdship!” Several voices rang out, and Magnus nodded a greeting, intent on the captain’s corner.
An extra chair was brought along with a pint of ale.
“So what brings ye?” the captain asked.
“News of the run.”
“Three hundred ankers sent inland.”
“Minus the one in my study.”
“Aye. The Philistines are off the island and the spy’s been dealt with. We merely lashed him at Lark’s request.”
“She requested ye lash him?” Magnus queried, eyebrow raised.
“Nay.” The captain laughed and called for another pint. “She requested we do nothing, lamed as he is. But ye well ken some punishment must be dealt. The man has earned a few stripes for loose lips.”
Magnus took a long drink of the heady brew. The knowledge sat like gravel in his gut. As laird, he was concerned foremost with every islander’s well-being, yet here he sat listening to news of a lashing that was more likely vengeful beating.
“’Tis Lark that most concerns me,” Magnus said.
The captain’s smugness shifted to concern. “She’s well?”
“Aye.” Magnus still felt the warmth of her singing in the stillroom. He cut to the chase. “I dinna want her involved in any more free trading.”
“Nay? I asked her to leave yer stable doors unlocked this last time. But she refused.”
“Given they’re yer stables and yer horses, I think it matters little. I’ll not forget how ye were caught violating the Dress Act a twelve-month ago. No fine was forthcoming. Ye walked away.”
“Free trading isna looked on so kindly as being kilted. Ye’ll likely hang.”
The captain shrugged. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Then leave Lark out of it.” Magnus underscored his words with a direct gaze that the captain did not hold.
Eyes averted, the captain swallowed more ale. “They wouldna hang a woman.”
“They would indeed. I’ve seen it done in Edinburgh’s Grassmarket.” It had been a public spectacle of which he wanted no part. Though the woman was unknown to him, he’d felt sick to his boots.
“We’re to sail for the Isle of Man once the weather clears.” The captain recovered his good humor. “East India and Dutch goods. Virginia tobacco—fine pigtail and coarse roll. Spanish brandy from Barcelona.”
“I’d rather leave the spirits alone. ’Tis a form of slavery. Besides, there’s talk in Edinburgh of sending more cruisers into the channel to target the Isle of Man’s smugglers who load cargo there.”
The captain leaned back in his chair. “As I said, I’ll take my chances.”
“Then do so without Lark,” Magnus restated in parting.