Sleepless in Scotland Read online

  “I need air, Mother.” Phoebe looked in the direction of the library, then back to her mother.

  “Are you unwell?”

  Where they were standing, they were protected from the eyes and ears of their dinner company. Phoebe looked back at the library door again. How long had those two been cloistered away in that room? Her father had a temper, but he had no reason to be critical of Captain Bell. None whatsoever.

  “Mother,” she said, “I think you should go right in there and tell Father he is being rude, ignoring the guests as he is.”

  Millicent put a hand on her hip, one eyebrow raised, looking at Phoebe as if she’d grown a second head.

  “Tell me, young lady. What is it?”

  Phoebe took a deep breath.

  “I’m to be married,” she whispered, although it sounded more like a squeal. “To Captain Bell. That is, if you and Father agree to it. But I’m worried. I don’t understand what is taking them so—”

  The rest of the words were lost as her mother pulled her into her arms.

  “But what if he says no?” Phoebe said in panic, holding tight. “I’m disagreeable, temperamental, independent, impertinent. What if Father tries to talk him out of marrying me?”

  “Good gracious! My Phoebe. A married woman.”

  Millicent was talking as if their marriage were a real possibility. Phoebe wished she could share her mother’s enthusiasm. Still, she held on to the thought that the countess had a great deal of influence over her husband.

  Before they could exchange another word, the door of the library opened, and Ian emerged. She and her mother were standing with their arms around each other’s waist. He gave no sign to her but closed the door behind him. Her father wasn’t with him.

  “No,” she sighed. Leaving her mother, she walked toward Ian, a million arguments coming to mind that she was going to barrage the earl with.

  Compromise. The word came to her like a bolt from heaven. Compromise was the order of the day. She would beg him, promise to change, to be the daughter he wanted her to be, but in return he must agree to this marriage.

  She was too upset to notice the smile on Ian’s face until they met in the middle of the hallway.

  “Well?” she whispered as he took her hands in his.

  “He didn’t refuse. But he’d like to speak to you before he says anything more.”

  Phoebe looked toward the library and braced herself. There was no time like the present. With a glance back at her mother—who nodded to her encouragingly—she walked directly to the library, knocked once, and entered, closing the door behind her.

  The Earl of Aytoun was standing in the center of the room, clutching his walking stick with the carved lion’s head handle. He frowned fiercely at his daughter.

  “Phoebe,” he began brusquely, “what are you doing ruining this young man’s life?”

  “Ruining?” Objections arose in her, but she could not voice them. His words stung her.

  Her father didn’t waste any time, however, and continued on. “I’ve been having you followed. I know what you do. Where you go. I know you’re writing for the Edinburgh Review. I know what you write and under what name. I know you employ a former constable as a bodyguard. He’s a good man, but that’s not enough, apparently. I know you put your life in danger.”

  His sharp tone made it clear that all his information had come from a paid informant, and not from Grace and Hugh.

  “You’ve had me followed?” she asked, fighting through an avalanche of emotions as she tried to fathom his first statement.

  “You showed up at your sister’s wedding last month, battered and bruised. And you would not say a word about how it came about.”

  She recalled the argument with her father the day after she arrived back at Baronsford, following the incident in the Vaults. She’d offered no answers to his questions, not even attempting to fabricate a story, as she had with Ian. It was only because of Jo and her wedding that the two of them had put their quarrel aside.

  “Of course I’ve had you followed. What father wouldn’t?”

  Phoebe recalled the moments while she was sitting in the carriage in the Grassmarket when she thought she was being watched. There was also the day at Bailie Fife’s Close, feeling that someone was following her. And there had to be other times.

  He leaned on the walking stick, suddenly looking tired. “I was worried about you. I still am. Not a day goes by that I don’t imagine some trouble you might be getting into. And I understand your desire for independence. I respect it. This is the way your mother and I raised you. Raised all of our children. But a line exists between pursuing a life for oneself and risking that life unnecessarily.”

  For all that he’d learned about what Phoebe was doing, she realized he wasn’t censuring her for her work but for the dangers she was exposing herself to. She looked up at the tall, imposing man that she’d always adored and yet had made miserable for much of her adult years. Her mother always said the two of them were “cut from the same cloth.” Headstrong. Proud. Passionate. Looking at her father now, she also saw him aging, tired, but stoic in the face of his advancing years. And still loving her in spite of all the trouble she’d given him.

  Her heart ached for what she’d done to him and to her mother; she knew no pain was endured by one without the other feeling it as well.

  “Father, I’ve always viewed you as a great man.” She took a step toward him. “A man of vision, a romantic, a hero, a voice for justice and good. I can name a hundred qualities that I’ve always known exist in you and Mother. And as an adult, I’ve wished I could emulate a portion of who you are and what you’ve done.”

  Phoebe struggled to keep her voice steady as she said words she should have spoken long ago. “I am sorry,” she whispered, meaning it heart and soul. She took another step toward him. “For all the pain. For all the worry. For not thinking through my actions and seeing how they affected those who love me, those whom I love.”

  He stretched a hand out to her, and she closed the distance, moving into his embrace.

  “Captain Bell,” he said gruffly, holding her. “The man is still grieving his sister’s death. When I said ruin—”

  “I know,” she interrupted, remembering her own thoughts when she’d been ready to lose hope in the well. How her death would affect him had tormented her. But her love for him had also strengthened her. “I cannot be reckless, not any longer. He means too much to me. Caution, attentiveness, responsible action. This is your daughter from now on.”

  “And you’re willing to do all of this? For him? For yourself?”

  “I’m more than willing. I’m determined,” she told him, pressing her face to his heart. “I love him, Father.”

  He smiled and hugged her fiercely before letting her go.

  “Do you know,” he told her, holding her hand as he sat back against a writing table, “I tried to warn him about your stubbornness and uncontrollable nature. And he told me there is nothing about you that he doesn’t know. Without blush or stammer, he said that in all you are, and all you do, he loves and cherishes you.”

  “He said that to you?” she asked.

  “Phoebe . . .” Her father smiled. “Ian Bell is the perfect man for you.”

  Chapter 19

  Even with the normal smoky haze that hung over Edinburgh and the gathering mass of clouds, the South Bridge with its fancy shops looked far different from the last time Phoebe had been here. Standing inside the dressmaker’s front shop, she scanned the activity on the street. It was no longer a dark, empty avenue, where the fog and mist cloaked every sound but the wheels of Ian’s carriage taking her away from the Vaults. Today, the street was filled with color and the busy sounds of pedestrians, carters, and conveyances of every size and description.

  As always, she marveled that this bustling and prosperous city thoroughfare and the tall buildings that lined both sides actually sat upon a bridge . . . and that the lowliest of Edinburgh’s poor languished in the V
aults beneath its glittering street.

  Phoebe reluctantly shook off the thought, however, and turned away from the large glass window of the shop. She didn’t want to spoil the excursion for her mother and Millie. Today, she needed to have a dress made to wear when she married Ian.

  The church in Melrose Village was about to host another Pennington wedding. The notice of their engagement was perfectly succinct, as far as Phoebe and Ian were concerned. Captain Ian Bell of Bellhorne, Fife, is to wed Lady Phoebe Pennington by special license. They were both relieved the families deferred so amiably to their wishes. Only immediate family and close friends would be attending the ceremony. A much larger celebration was planned for the days preceding the Christmas Assembly at Baronsford.

  Phoebe had given a letter containing the news to Wynne, asking him to give it to her sister once they arrived in Jamaica. She’d also sent letters to Gregory and Freya in Torrishbrae in the Highlands. They’d just returned to Sutherland with little Ella after Jo’s wedding. Phoebe couldn’t even ask them to come back to Baronsford so soon, considering Freya was now six months into her pregnancy.

  “A week,” Phoebe repeated under her breath as she walked by her mother and Millie, who were busily inspecting bolts of painted satin and cotton and muslin cloth, and well as embroidered silk. She couldn’t get excited about new dresses and sashes and shawls and hats and gloves. It didn’t matter what she wore. But thinking of marriage to Ian . . . she let out a sigh of pleasure.

  Tonight, her family was having dinner with his family at the Bells’ Melville Street house. Phoebe imagined a day very soon when she’d be sharing that house with him. They’d go to Fife together. They’d dine together every day. They’d walk in the gardens and ride in the fields together. They’d sleep in the same bed. Her face warmed as she remembered their last night in his rooms in Bellhorne. The passionate and insatiable love they’d shared still heated her blood.

  She walked to a counter and let her hand trail absently over rows of ribbons.

  “Six days to be exact,” she whispered under her breath. Six days to have a husband and friend and lover for the eternity. Six days before she could climb into bed with him at any hour of the day or night. In six days, she could call Mrs. Bell “Mother” too, and sit with her and read to her and help her find her way through the grief.

  The doctor from the university, the friend of Dr. Thornton, had come to Fiona. Another expert was to see her in two days. But this trip to the city—or perhaps it was the bright activity of nuptial preparations—had already improved her health. Mrs. Bell appeared sturdier in body and far more stable in mind. The confusion was gone.

  Unfortunately, she still did not feel strong enough to join them on this outing today.

  The tinkling sound of the door opening onto the street drew Phoebe’s attention to the young lad who tumbled in. Her heart broke a little at the sight of the filthy face, the tattered clothing, and the large eyes peering from his thin face.

  “Out, rascal. Out, this moment. Do ye hear me?” the shop owner called from behind the piles of material.

  Dropping a stick at Phoebe’s feet, he turned and ran out with the same urgency as he’d come in.

  “Just a street urchin, Lady Phoebe. My apologies. The Old Town has gangs of them overrunning entire neighborhoods. Apparently, there is nothing we can do to stop it. I hope he didn’t distress you, m’lady.”

  Phoebe’s attention had already shifted from the owner’s apologetic complaints to the stick that lay at her feet. A cane with an ivory handle, carved with a partially opened rosebud. She picked it up and stared at it. It was Mrs. Bell’s walking stick. Or one that looked exactly like it.

  She went to the door of the shop, pulled it open, and looked out.

  “Where are you going?” her mother called.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  The sidewalk was filled with crowds of shoppers, and the lad seemed to have evaporated into thin air.

  It was possible, she supposed, that others owned a similarly carved cane. But it seemed so unlikely.

  Phoebe continued to scan the throng for some sign of the lad . . . or Mrs. Bell, for that matter. As she stretched up onto her tiptoes, someone bumped her from behind with such violence that she would have fallen if not for a set of strong hands that caught her by the elbow, steadying her.

  “Oh, my . . . Lady Phoebe!”

  She was astonished to find herself looking into the handsome face of the minister. She hadn’t realized his eyes were hazel. He tipped his hat. “Why, Mr. Garioch.”

  Ian had told her the minister arrived from Bellhorne yesterday and was staying with them. “I heard you’d come to town. What a surprise to run into you here. We’ll be dining together tonight, I understand.”

  “I must apologize, m’lady, for being so abrupt.” The man looked past her down the street. “But I cannot tarry. Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Young are looking at hats in a milliner’s shop only five doors down and some street rat absconded with—”

  “This?” Phoebe asked, holding the cane up.

  “You have it,” the man said excitedly. “You apprehended the thief!”

  “Not exactly,” she explained. “He seemed to take a wrong turn and found me.”

  “Well, we must return the walking stick to Mrs. Bell immediately. She’s quite attached to it, you know.” Garioch looked back over his shoulder. “She’s just up the street.”

  “Where?” she asked, looking in the direction the minister was indicating, but the crowds blocked her view.

  He took Phoebe by the elbow and started leading her that way. “Mrs. Bell will be so delighted to see you. I actually think the milliner’s shop was simply an excuse to join you and your family.”

  * * *

  “I know choosing ribbons and lace is not the way you’d prefer to be spending your afternoon,” Ian’s mother said. “But I’m truly appreciative of you taking me over here.”

  “Absolutely, Mother. Don’t even mention it.”

  He was actually quite happy to be accompanying his mother on this little shopping excursion. Initially, when Fiona decided she didn’t feel well enough to go out with Phoebe and her family, Ian’s cousin Alice had arranged to walk a little in Charlotte Square with Dr. Thornton. But later, feeling more game, his mother changed her mind. Ian didn’t need any better reason. He wanted to see Phoebe, regardless of the occasion.

  His mother absently patted the seat next to her, feeling for her missing cane.

  He took her hand. Her favorite walking stick had been misplaced today, and she was lost without the comfort of it. Before leaving, he’s asked the servants to fetch a different one, but Fiona refused to take it.

  “There once was a day when I imagined I’d be taking Sarah shopping for her wedding dress.” She looked out the window at the crowds of people. They were passing Tron Church and Hunter Square and were approaching the South Bridge. “But it wasn’t meant to be.”

  The heavy hand of responsibility once again clutched Ian’s gut. After three years of searching, he’d never found the answer. The mystery of his sister’s death was still unresolved. From this street, from these same shops, she’d disappeared. He wondered if he ever would be able to let go of the guilt.

  “But now”—she smiled, brightening as she turned to him—“Phoebe is going to be my daughter.”

  And his wife. Phoebe was the key to a future that could one day conquer the tragic past. That was his hope.

  “And you should know that your cousin is planning to accept Dr. Thornton’s offer today,” his mother said, tapping Ian on the knee. “That’s the reason for their walk this afternoon. With you marrying and Phoebe in our lives, Alice feels more secure that she won’t be leaving me without a companion. I told her, however, that she is always welcome at—”

  “What is Mr. Garioch doing on the South Bridge?” he asked as their carriage rolled past. The minister said he was spending the afternoon going through the archives at St. Andrews Church on George Street.
r />   More importantly, why was Phoebe walking alongside him?

  * * *

  The minister nattered on about the crowds and the shops and the beggars on every corner, but Phoebe couldn’t comprehend much of what the man was saying. An invisible hand held her stomach in a tight grip, and she couldn’t understand why. But with every step she took away from her family at the dressmaker’s shop, the tighter that hand squeezed.

  The cane. Mrs. Bell’s cane had been brought into the shop and dropped at her feet. Why?

  Phoebe slowed down. “I think we’ve gone more than five doors, Mr. Garioch.”

  “You’re correct, m’lady. Running after the wee scoundrel, I lost track and misspoke. But here we are.” He motioned to a building ahead. Phoebe could see a display of hats in the window. “Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Young were to wait in that shop.”

  The minister tried to direct her steps toward an alley that ran along the side of the building.

  “I left them right inside the door off this wynd. The side entrance is right down here, m’lady. Quite convenient.”

  Phoebe stopped. “One moment, Mr. Garioch.”

  Fear clawed its way into her throat. Sarah left a shop and disappeared near here. She had to know her assailant. Someone she trusted. Phoebe’s nightmares came rushing back. Faces changing into other faces. Men becoming monsters.

  She glanced into Garioch’s eyes, and she knew she was right.

  “Give my regrets to Mrs. Bell.” Her words were rushed. She needed to get away from him, but he was herding her closer to the alley. “My mother and sister . . . I need to return to them.”

  Phoebe tried to edge around him, but he cut her off. Light glinted off his knife as he pulled the weapon from his coat. She stared, frozen in time, at the blade.

  She saw the attack play out in her mind. Here, in daylight, with throngs of people around them, if anyone paid the least attention to a woman bent over in pain, Garioch would calmly reassure them that they were together, that she would be fine in a moment, and that he needed no help.