Jennifer told him recently that she’d kept all of his notes to her, that she considered them precious.
No longer, evidently.
McBain amused himself by reading some of them aloud. The silly poetry Gordon had written for Jennifer seemed even more foolish now.
It was the ultimate act of betrayal.
McBain didn’t say a word as Gordon left the study. Less than an hour later he was in the carriage on the way to Inverness, a letter to the bank in his pocket detailing his bequest. For the first time in his life he had some wealth, but it was balanced by the empty feeling in his chest.
May, 1867
Adaire Hall, Scotland
It had taken nearly three months to get the information Jennifer needed, but now that she had it, she sat at her secretary staring down at the blank piece of stationery.
How could she possibly write this letter?
How could she not?
Ever since Gordon had disappeared, she’d been filled with anger, despair, and disillusionment. For two years there’d been no word. No inkling if Gordon was alive or dead. She didn’t know whether to wish him to perdition or pray for his safety.
Some months ago her brother had let something slip, and she’d had the first hint that Gordon hadn’t left the Hall of his own accord.
All he’d said was, “McBain got rid of the bastard.”
When she’d questioned him further, all he’d said was, “McDonnell isn’t coming back. Ever.”
“What do you mean, he’s never coming back?”
Harrison hadn’t answered her. Nor had Sean been any more forthcoming. All he’d said was, “The boy wanted more from life than Adaire Hall. More fool he.”
Consequently, she’d written Mr. McBain asking him how, exactly, Gordon had chosen to leave Adaire Hall. Mr. McBain hadn’t answered her questions, either, which was all she needed to know. Something had happened. Something had precipitated Gordon’s departure.
What had they told him? What had they said?
She’d finally realized that Gordon’s banishment had been an act of pure spite on Harrison’s and McBain’s part. Harrison had always resented Gordon, because he’d been sent to study with the two of them in the schoolroom on the second floor. Their tutor consistently ignored Gordon, but the truth was that he was better at math and science. Plus, people liked him. He had friends everywhere and was forever being greeted by someone, even when she wanted to be alone with him. Harrison wasn’t thought of with such kindness. If anything, her brother was tolerated, but nothing more.
She picked up her pen. What should she write? Dear Gordon. My dearest Gordon. My love.
No, she couldn’t do that, could she? She had to be more circumspect. After all, there was her pride to consider. He had simply left her without a word. One moment he was there, and the next he wasn’t.
When she’d returned from Edinburgh, the first thing she’d wanted to do was to see Gordon and have him hold her. To feel solid and safe again in his arms. Only to be told that he was no longer at Adaire Hall. That he had simply left one night and no one knew where he was.
She picked up her pen again and wrote: Dear Gordon.
There, she’d actually written something. Her heart was fluttering, and there was a feeling in her stomach as if she’d eaten something slightly off. Now that she knew how to contact him, she couldn’t delay. She had to write him and tell him the news. She had to let him know. It was the kindest thing she could do.
Her mother would have told her that it was a task that she should perform. But her mother would be so much better at this than she was.
She picked up the pen one more time, thought about the words she wanted to say, and wondered if there was a way to soften the news. This was Gordon. He had featured in her earliest memories. He’d been her friend, her companion, her playmate, and then so much more.
She bit her lip and prayed for guidance, before writing:
It is with great sadness that I am writing you. Your mother succumbed to a fever last week and died quickly.
The circumstances were not terribly different from her own mother’s death, but Mary had lingered for nearly a month, the pneumonia finally claiming its victim.
I have received your address from the bank, which was kind enough to supply it to me.
I wish that I could offer you comfort at this time, Gordon, especially since you were such a solace to me when my mother died.
Again, I am sorry to have to convey such sorrowful news to you.
With my best regards,
Jennifer
London, England
Gordon stared at the letter in his hand. Jennifer. He would have recognized her distinctive script anywhere.
He read the letter again and then a third time. Finally, he folded it and placed it in his pocket, knowing that he would read it again.
He was sorry about Betty, but in actuality his mother had spared little attention or affection for him. It was as if one day she’d been presented with a baby and didn’t quite know how to treat it. As a stranger? As an imposition?
She’d done both.
He would say a prayer for her, not because it was anything that Betty had taught him, but because it was something the countess had once said. It serves us ill to be unkind to those who are not kind to us, Gordon. Instead, we should treat them with love, demonstrating what we’ve been taught in the Bible.
He withdrew the letter from his pocket and stared at it again.
Two years. It had been two years since he’d seen Jennifer. Two years of wondering why she’d given McBain his notes to her. Why had she betrayed him like that?
Yet the woman who’d written him didn’t sound like someone who’d believed him beneath her. Or someone who’d wanted him gone or considered him an intrusion in her life.
Perhaps she’d changed in the past two years.
As far as her news, he saw no reason to return to Scotland now.
Or ever.
Chapter One
Autumn, 1870
London, England
“You’ve gotten a letter,” Maggie said, standing in the doorway of his office.
He glanced up at her.
“A letter?”
She entered the office and handed it to him.
“I opened it by mistake,” she said. “I’m sorry, Gordon. It’s bad news.”
She came to stand by his chair, her hand on his shoulder as he read.
“Is there anything I can do?”
Her enunciation was perfect, but then she’d been practicing for the past five years. She’d wanted to eliminate all traces of the east end from her voice. She had already done miracles with her dress and personal hygiene.
Maggie had been his introduction to London. The minute he’d stepped off the train he’d been robbed.
No doubt he’d given off an aura of being naive and gullible. After all, London had been nearly overpowering for someone who’d spent his life in the Highlands. However, he’d never been truly naive, thanks to Betty, and he was becoming less gullible with every moment.
He’d known who robbed him immediately, had caught up with her and grabbed her wrist, spinning her around and staring down into her face.
She wasn’t young. If anything, she was the same age or thereabouts as his mother. He doubted, however, if she had washed in the past fortnight. Or even eaten, for that matter.