A not so distant love, p.2
A Not-So-Distant Love, page 2
“Would ye have us stand by and say nary a word as we wave ye off halfway across the world?” Father asked, his Scottish brogue becoming more pronounced.
The room had narrowed to the three of them—Charlotte, her father, and her mother. “Could you not at least ask me why I wish to go?” she pleaded. “Try to understand?”
Her father pinched the bridge of his nose.
Charlotte was on her feet, crossing to the desk where her father stood. “Did you not travel before you were married? You spent years abroad, doing business in Barbados, seeing the world, making a life for yourself. Can you not grant me even a taste of that same privilege?”
He shared a glance with Mother, and a look Charlotte couldn’t decipher passed over his face. “I . . .” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “’Tis not the same. Ye are . . .” He softened his voice before finishing. “My daughter.”
“And as your daughter, I am asking you. Please. Let me go.” She came around the desk. “I wish I could put into words the feeling inside me. I just . . . I want you to know, both of you, that I wouldn’t go if I didn’t absolutely feel I must.”
Mother stepped forward. She placed her hands on Charlotte’s shoulders, her blue eyes searching. “Tell me this is not about what happened with Lord Seymour.”
Charlotte’s throat twitched. She glanced down, unable to hold her mother’s gaze. “It isn’t. Not really.” She needed to go. It was true she needed more time and distance from that ill-fated Season in London, but more than that, she needed the fresh breath of air that travel would afford her. Needed a brief escape from her looming future and a title so heavy she wasn’t certain she had the strength to shoulder it.
Mother’s voice held a mild note of chiding. “You’ve not been back in the two Seasons since.”
Expecting this very question, Charlotte had practiced her response—a convincing answer filled with logic—but now her mind went frightfully blank, her eyes filling with unwanted tears.
Father rubbed his thumb down the center of his forehead. “Say what ye will, but I think it is precisely that. Wounds ye’ve still not recovered from. And yet ye expect we’ll not object ye boarding a ship, crossing the Atlantic, and staying in some fledgling city where we can do nothing tae protect ye?” He exhaled, sitting down heavily in the chair by his desk.
Mother released Charlotte and turned to Father. “Charlotte has been restless ever since your father died, Callum. I’ve known something was coming. She needs . . . a change.”
“Ye think we should let her go?” Disbelief punctuated his words.
Let her. Let her. As if she were still a child, to be allowed—or disallowed—to do things. She, a twenty-two-year-old marchioness. Normally such words would rouse Charlotte to anger. And yet, as Father kneaded his hands together, knuckles leaching of color, she felt like a child again. She had never been able to bear his disapproval.
Suddenly she was kneeling before him on the rug, his large hands clasped in her smaller ones. “I’ve tried to ignore it, Father. To smother it. But this . . . itch . . . it won’t leave me. I’ve prayed about it for months now. I feel as though I am supposed to go.” Her pulse beat erratically.
“I understand yer wanting tae go, Charlotte. I do.” He sighed. “My hesitations have everything tae do with my love for ye and my selfish desire to keep ye near.” He swallowed, his gray eyes the color of the winter sea. “But perhaps it is my love for ye . . . that will allow me tae let ye go.” He squeezed her hands, his gaze shining with emotion.
Warmth pooled in Charlotte’s chest, a testament to the truth of his words.
“I could go with her. As chaperone.” Harriet’s words broke the silence, as unexpected as they were relieving. A piece of home Charlotte could take with her.
“Ye’d do that?” Father let go of Charlotte and turned to Harriet, a telling inflection in his voice.
Harriet got to her feet. “Without my Archie, I . . . I don’t want to wither away here as I wait to die. Besides, what is a woman my age for if not to serve as a stuffy old chaperone?”
In two steps Father was across the room, his arms around Harriet. “Ye blessed woman. I cannae think of anyone else we could possibly trust our Charlotte with.”
Tavish chuckled quietly.
“Stuff and nonsense,” Harriet muttered, squirming away.
Charlotte rose from her knees, going straight into Father’s open arms. The fresh piney scent of him nearly undid her.
He held her close, one hand cradling her head against his chest. “I do not want ye tae go. I’ll make no secret of that. But if ye feel that ye must, then ye must.” He pulled back briefly, his face stern. “And I’ll escort the three of ye tae Aberdeen myself.”
Charlotte swallowed against the emotion climbing her throat. She hadn’t known how badly she’d needed her parents’ support until now. Relief gusted through her, along with a rising tide of excitement. Over Father’s shoulder she caught Tavish’s gaze, and he gave the briefest nod—an acknowledgment that their plan was at last coming to fruition, that they were taking a step of faith neither could yet fully imagine, and that ready or not, an adventure awaited them both.
* * *
A glowing lamp hung outside the stable doors. Inside, Charlotte was unsurprised to see Clyde, the stablemaster, near the front stalls. At this time of year, with several of the mares ready to foal, there was always someone on duty. “No foals yet tonight, though I did see a wee two-legged creature with braids come through the doors a few hours past.” He winked and handed her his lantern. “Mind, ye didn’t hear it from me.”
Charlotte smiled her thanks as she trod the hard-packed dirt to the far stall, where their collie, Gypsy, and her litter had been tucked away. Iseabel sat there, back to the wall, three puppies nestled in her arms. Charlotte raised her lantern, casting light into the small space. “Found you,” she said softly.
Iseabel didn’t look up, even as Charlotte lowered beside her. She continued to stroke the heads of the black-and-white pups, their small bodies tucked against her.
“Have you named them?” Charlotte asked, trying to extend an olive branch.
Iseabel nodded. “This is Burns. The one with the white on his nose is Keats. And the small one, a girl, is Austen.”
Charlotte laughed. “A litter of poets and writers of prose. How delightful.” Endearing, really. Charlotte ran two fingers over the head of the puppy closest to her. “Mind if I take Austen?”
Iseabel placed the puppy into Charlotte’s waiting hands. The pup nestled into the crook of her arm.
Neither of them said a word. Only the soft whines of the puppies and the occasional swish of a horse’s tail broke the silence.
Charlotte glanced at Iseabel, praying she’d be guided in what to say. “When I tried to hold one of the pups the other day, Gypsy growled at me.”
“She’s always protective for the first few days.” Iseabel reached for another collie that had finished its meal, tucking it in next to Burns and Keats. “She doesn’t like anyone touching them or taking them away. Now that they’re a week old, she’s a wee bit more mellow.”
“Perhaps,” Charlotte suggested, “she just needed some time to grow accustomed to the idea of her puppies not always being right beside her?”
One of the pups licked Iseabel’s hand with its tiny tongue. “I cannot bear it if ye leave, Charlotte. I cannot.” Giant tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over, trailing down her cheeks.
Her heartfelt words cracked Charlotte wide open. She pulled her sister close, wrapping one arm around her, bringing her head to rest on Iseabel’s. Was she making a mistake? Though quiet by nature, Iseabel had always been willing to confide to Charlotte. Charlotte had assumed their sisterly bond was strong enough to overcome anything—their eleven-year age difference, their disparate personalities, and the distinctive directions their futures would take. But what if, in Charlotte’s search for that missing something, she lost the someone she loved most in the world?
They snuggled together, each grieving the months they’d be apart and the changes the passing of time would undoubtedly bring. Iseabel finally stirred, lifting her head, looking up at Charlotte with tearstained cheeks. “I want ye tae go, if that’s what ye want. I really do,” she said bravely.
Charlotte poked her. “Just think. By the time I come back, you might be taller than I am.”
Iseabel looked up at her. “Taller or not, promise ye will come back.”
“I will. Of course I will.” She knocked her head softly against her sister’s. “After all, what is a future duchess without her duchy?”
The first vestiges of a real smile appeared on Iseabel’s face. “I am glad tae think Tavish won’t be alone.” Her smile became a yawn.
“Come,” Charlotte said. “The puppies need their rest and so do we.” They tucked the puppies back in with Gypsy and walked past the other horse stalls.
“Can I sleep with ye tonight?” Iseabel asked.
“I insist on it.” Charlotte squeezed Iseabel against her side. “Every night until I leave.”
When they returned to the house, light glowed from beneath the door of Father’s study. Charlotte had no doubt as to her parents’ topic of discussion. “You go up and change,” she whispered to Iseabel. “I need to speak with Mother and Father for a moment.”
Iseabel nodded, turning silently toward the stairs.
Charlotte approached the door quietly. She lifted her hand to knock but paused as Father’s voice filtered through the door.
“There’s a weight on my chest, Katie.” A pause. “After all I missed, ye ken . . .”
“I know.”
Charlotte put her ear to the door.
A heavy sigh from Father. “We should have told her.”
Charlotte’s pulse thumped, both from listening where she shouldn’t and from the regret that laced her father’s words.
“No,” came Mother’s vehement reply. “A child’s unwavering trust in a parent is a gift. I’m grateful she has it. I still think it was the best choice.”
“But don’t we owe her the truth?”
Mother’s voice lowered. “If you feel you must tell her, then do so. But know this: you are worthy of trust. Mine and hers.”
“I’ve made plenty of mistakes, as well ye know. And there’s the worry we’ve both shared—that she’s looking for something in a husband she’ll no’ find, nae matter how trustworthy the man. Now seems a prudent time tae tell her.”
Charlotte’s heart stuttered in her chest, the urge to barge in and demand to know what they were talking about almost too heavy to resist. Yet she remained frozen, unable to move.
“Remember, we must let her make her own way,” Mother said. “You, more than anyone, should understand her need for that.”
“Aye, but I’d rather her learn from my mistakes.”
“We’ve taught her well, Callum. We’ve given her our faith. Now we may need to have a bit of our own.”
After a long silence, Charlotte heard the scrape of the desk drawer opening. She retreated a few steps, made heavy footfalls, and then knocked.
Mother appeared almost instantly, her face wreathed in a warm smile. “We wondered when we’d see you.”
Father came up behind Mother, and Charlotte looked at the two of them through different eyes. What had they been talking about? Much as she wanted to know, she kept silent. If they wanted her to know, they would tell her in their own time.
From behind his back, Father held up a weathered-looking leatherbound book. “This is my journal from a few years before I married yer mother up until ye reached the age of four or so.” He placed it in her hands. “I’d like ye tae have it.”
The thought of having something so personal—Father’s innermost thoughts, the intimate details of his life—felt almost sacred. She held it against her chest. “Thank you,” she breathed.
“Save it for yer months away. A way tae keep us close.” He took Charlotte in his arms. He felt as solid and strong as ever, and within his embrace, the looming fear of secrets and the coming unknown faded. “‘For where yer treasure is, there will yer heart be also,’” Father whispered against her hair. “I’ve a feeling my heart will be in Pittsburgh for as long as ye are there. ’Twill not be easy tae let ye go.”
“For me either, Papa,” she said, resurrecting the term she’d used for him as a young girl. She meant it too. Making such a momentous decision seemed almost easy in comparison with the thought of seeing it through.
Father pulled Mother into their embrace, and the three of them held each other. Within the warmth of their small cocoon, Charlotte memorized the smell and feel of them, trying to soak up their strength and faith to use as a shield as she stepped into the future. She took comfort in the certainty that no matter how far away she went, home would always be here.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that change was on the horizon. That the Charlotte who would soon bid her home, her parents, and all she’d ever known goodbye would not be the same Charlotte who returned.
Chapter Two
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
August 5, 1835
Alec Galloway turned down Oliver Avenue, his throat tightening as he stepped into the shadowed cemetery that rested between First Presbyterian and the Trinity Cathedral. Despite the busyness of the Pittsburgh streets just a few paces away, there was a hallowed quiet here that suited his heavy mood.
The air was still, with not even a breeze to disrupt the reverence that seemed to pervade this refuge for those who had passed. Alec’s path required careful maneuvering as he stepped over older gravestones marked by the passing of years—weatherworn and more often cracked and crooked than not. His footfalls became slower, weightier, as he approached the stone that marked Nellie’s resting place. The newness of the marker only twisted at his heart, for it felt as though it had been a lifetime since she’d left him. It stood tall and stately, engraved simply, with only a small smattering of lichen that hinted at the three years that had passed since her death.
Nellie had always had a bit of an ethereal quality, and now she’d become hardly more than a specter in Alec’s memory. He tried to recall the softness of her smile, the light in her sapphire eyes, but a certain haziness clouded those images. Likely because in those last months, there’d been little of either.
He knelt, setting his black leather medical bag beside him, and lowered his head. A passerby might have believed him to be communing with God, but he’d firmly shut the door on that relationship three years before. He was here now only as penance, to flay himself with the stripes of anguish and regret he deserved.
Hard as he tried to summon a few brief words—a tribute perhaps, or a confession of sorts—it was useless.
He had failed her.
Nothing he might say could change that.
A quarter of an hour passed. Five minutes before the bell towers would strike the noon hour, Alec rose and rubbed at his beard, smoothing his face of any traces of grief or regret, the only evidence of his stay in the cemetery the dampness on the knees of his trousers.
He picked up his bag and exited the graveyard, fillings his lungs with air, the pulse of the August heat descending on him fully. The streets were packed with carriages, wagons, and carts, all proof of a city in its growing years. Sweet smells from the bakery mixed with the refuse of the thoroughfare, and shopkeepers greeted potential customers above the din of the docks.
Alec strode forward, fingers clenched around the handle of his bag. He had a noon appointment, and he didn’t intend to be late.
“Dr. Galloway! Just the person I was hoping to see,” boomed a familiar voice. It belonged to the man Alec respected and loved most in the world and who, ironically, was also the one that on today, of all days, he most hoped to avoid.
Passersby stepped aside and whispers stirred as Martin Magann walked into Alec’s line of sight. Some might have thought it was his well-trimmed silver beard or his gilded walking stick that garnered such attention, but Alec knew better. The man had a certain magnetism—partly born of his easy and affable manners, but the greater reason could be credited to his unrivaled benevolence.
Alec owed everything to the man’s generosity, which was why he greeted Martin with at least an effort of cheer. “How are you faring, Martin?”
“Better than you, I presume.” There was a note of concern in his voice. “Today, no doubt, is a hard day.”
Hard. Yes. The anniversary of Nellie’s death was always hard. Alec swallowed and nodded. “How can I be of service?”
Martin’s brow furrowed. “Walk with me, will you?”
Alec’s hand tightened on his bag, and he glanced up the street, toward the row of elegant homes where Mrs. Easton lived. “I cannot be late for—”
Martin waved his cane dismissively. “We both know the only real malady from which Mrs. Easton suffers is loneliness. No matter what time you arrive, you’ll be waking her from a nap. She’ll care not a whit if you’re a quarter hour late.”
His old friend was right, of course. They fell into step together and turned down a smaller, shady street, the relentless tap of Martin’s cane marking their pace. Every rap chafed against the rigidity of the schedule that had become Alec’s lifeline these past years. The schedule kept him sane, kept his mind from wandering into the past.
“You’re not getting any younger, Alec,” Martin said, breaking the silence.
Alec glanced toward his friend with some wariness. “I’m well aware of my age.” He’d turned thirty-four this past spring. No great milestone.
“Considering your profession, I’d expect you to have a greater respect for how fleeting life can be. How each day matters.”
