Underneath The Mistletoe Collection. Marguerite KayeЧитать онлайн книгу.
as there are ways to prevent, so there are ways to encourage.’
‘Magic?’
‘Helping nature, my mother always called it.’
A gust of longing filled her before she could catch it. It was like a punch in the guts, so strong she all but doubled over from it. Impossible not to wonder what difference such a spell would have made all those years ago. A spell! She gave herself a mental shake. She had the word of medical science, and no spell would counteract that. ‘If nature needs assistance, it is not natural,’ Ainsley said, pleased at how firm she sounded. Magic, white or black, real or imagined, formed no part of her life. She got to her feet and began to stack the tea things on the tray.
* * *
The next day Innes left early with Eoin for Rothesay, and then on to Glasgow where they had various meetings with paddle-steamer companies. Though she started missing him the moment he set out, Ainsley was relieved to have some time to spend alone.
She headed out of the Home Farm in the direction of the castle. Sunshine dappled down through the leaves of rowan and oak that bordered the path here. The bracken was high, almost to her waist and already beginning to turn brown, exuding that distinctive smell, a mixture of damp earth and old leather. Autumn was settling in. The sense of time ticking too fast was making her anxious. Though Innes had said nothing of her returning to Edinburgh, Ainsley had a horrible feeling that very soon she would have no option.
Peering down to the bay from her favourite spot on the castle’s terrace, she could see Robert Alexander standing with a cluster of men, consulting their plans. The new road would be cut into the cliff. Innes was investigating the possibility of using a steam engine to help with the work. Since that night in the bay, they had spent a great deal of time together poring over maps and account books. She now fully understood his despair.
Crofting was still the tradition here, with each farmer producing enough to meet his own small needs, keeping a few cattle and sheep on the common grounds, and fishing to supplement his family’s diet. The crofts were simply too small to grow more, and far too small to meet the huge demands from the growing metropolis of Glasgow, it seemed. The new road, the new pier, the paddle steamers that could berth there, would solve the transport problems, but the crofters of Strone Bridge simply could not produce enough to benefit from these markets. Eoin was encouraging Innes to merge some of the farms, but while many of them had been lying fallow, their former tenants having fled to Canada and America, hardly any of those lands lay together. Innes’s farms were dotted about the landscape like patchwork, each a different size and shape. Innes was determined not to take the route that so many of the Highland landlords had done, which was to oust his tenants by fair means of foul, and to turn the lands over to sheep.
Despite the melancholy subject matter, Ainsley had revelled in these hours spent together. It wasn’t only that she felt useful, that her opinion was valued, that Innes truly listened to what she said. She had felt included. And there was the problem. She was not part of this place, and never could be, but with every day that passed, that was exactly what she wanted. To belong here. To remain here. With Innes. She was close to letting Strone Bridge into her heart, and even closer, frighteningly close, to allowing her husband in, too.
She could love him. She could very easily love him, but it would be disastrous to allow herself to do so. Gazing out over the Kyles of Bute, watching the dark-grey clouds gather over the Isle of Arran, cloaking it from view, Ainsley forced herself to list all the reasons why it was impossible.
For a start, she was not the stuff that a laird’s wife was made of. Not a trace of blue blood. Neither money nor property—quite the contrary. No connections. The Drummonds married for the name and the lands, and Ainsley contributed no good to either. She could not weave or spin or even knit. She knew nothing of animal husbandry, or keeping a house larger than the Home Farm. What she knew of the Drummond traditions Mhairi had taught her. In fact, Mhairi was far better qualified than she was for the role. No one could tell a tale of the castle’s history and ghosts the way Mhairi did.
Then there was the fact that Innes didn’t actually want a wife. It would be easy to persuade herself he’d changed his mind. He’d managed to overcome his precious need to be the one and only person in control of his life in so many ways. He even confided in her without prompting sometimes, and he made her feel that Madame Hera was every bit as important a venture as Strone Bridge. He had changed, and he had changed her. She was more confident. She was more ambitious. She no longer doubted her femininity, and she knew the satisfaction of pleasure and pleasing. She was cured of John for ever, but the role that had cured her was temporary. She was not a wife. A business partner. A lover. But not a wife. Innes did not want a wife, and Innes would never love her as a wife. She did not think that the mystery woman who had stolen his heart kept it still, but she was fairly certain he would not let it go again. But he would take a real wife because he would realise, very soon, that his commitment to Strone Bridge required him to produce an heir.
Which brought her to the biggest stumbling block of all. The one thing she could not give him. Swallowing the lump that rose in her throat, Ainsley decided to follow the path round to the chapel. It was cool here, in the little copse of trees and rhododendrons. She sat on the moss-covered bench in the lee of the chapel, idly watching a small brown bird wrestling with a large brown worm. She smiled to herself, remembering the woman at the Rescinding who had begged forgiveness for having her husband’s dog buried beside him. His grave must be hereabouts. What was the name? Emerson, that was it. But as she crossed the path to start peering at the gravestones, Ainsley was distracted by the Drummond Celtic cross.
She read the old laird’s name thoughtfully, and then his lady’s inscription, too. Marjorie Mary Caldwell had been only twenty-six when she died, and if what Mhairi had said was true, she couldn’t have had a very happy life. Caldwell. She remembered now—that was the name of the family who owned the lands that bordered Strone Bridge, somewhere north of here. Innes’s nearest gentry neighbours. The ones he’d not wanted invited to the Rescinding, though they must be some sort of relation of his.
The atmosphere in the graveyard was only adding to her melancholy. It was very clear that she had no future here, but she did want to leave a legacy. Furrowing her brow, Ainsley made her way back to the castle. The Great Hall still smelled faintly of whisky fumes and ash. Though it was not yet October, Mhairi was already asking if the traditional Hogmanay party would be held here. It was a room made for great occasions. Parties. Banquets. Ceilidhs. Wedding feasts.
Would their marriage be annulled? Would Innes divorce her? She was fairly certain that the law, which was written by men and for men, would perceive her infertility as ample reason for either. Then some other woman with property and the right pedigree would benefit from the changes in Innes that had cost Ainsley so much. He would not love her, his real wife, but he would respect her, and he would confide in her, make love to her, rely on her to play the role of the laird’s lady. And she would give him the son he didn’t yet know he needed.
Ainsley dug her knuckles deep into her eyes. No point in crying. In the long drawing room, she gazed out of the French windows at her view. It was a pity more people could not share it, and fall in love with it. Excursionists from the paddle steamers that would be able to dock here within months. They could take tea here in the drawing room. Smiling, she remembered joking about that very thing the day Innes had decided to build the pier. Excursionists who would pay for Mhairi to show them round the castle and tell her ghost stories. Who would buy the local tweed, or the local heather ale.
She stood stock-still. Would they pay to spend the night here? Pay extra to spend the night in one of the haunted bedchambers? Her heart began to race. Innes had told her that the railway between Glasgow and Greenock was due to open next year. He had shares. The journey would be much easier than it was now, a quicker, cheaper escape from the smoke of the city to the delights of the country. There would be more excursionists able to afford the trip, perhaps wanting to take a holiday rather than merely come for the day. And there would be richer people, too, who would be willing to pay a premium to hire the castle for a family occasion. To marry in the chapel and hold their wedding feast in the Great Hall.
She hesitated, remembering