Chapter Five
Declan didn’t like church services and only attended when his mother had made him. His mother had passed nearly two years ago, now, and he reckoned her funeral was the last time he’d been to a Sunday service. This morning, though, he arrived at kirk in Thurso on his own accord, it being the perfect excuse to see Caya again. He had washed, plaited his hair in a neat queue, and wore a clean shirt and trousers. Perhaps, with a tidier semblance, he would make a better impression than he had yesterday.
He spotted Margaret on the road and waved. When she met up with him, she pulled a face and batted a hand at the loose ties of his stock. “What’s the occasion, brother? Did someone die?”
“Nae.”
Margaret was seven years older than Declan and had taken on their mother’s role of bossing him around. Jesus, he hoped Margaret wouldn’t embarrass him when he introduced Caya to her.
“Where’s Hamish?”
“He’s visiting with his mam. She’s feeling poorly so I’m bringing her beef broth.” Margaret held up a covered kettle wrapped in a tea towel.
“She all right?”
“She’s healthy as a coo. Probably just wants attention. Want to come?”
“I’m to kirk. Will you give her my best?”
“Oh, aye. Enjoy kirk, you heathen.”
He watched Margaret stroll away and felt somewhat relieved. His sister was the kindest and most generous person he knew. She could also be prickly and unpredictable. As much as he wanted Caya to meet Margaret and Hamish, introductions could wait until things between him and the lass were more settled.
The Sinclair women of Balforss milled about with other families outside the kirk door. He approached them, hoping to sit next to Caya, determined to speak to her. The women, all bonneted for kirk, looked like a pen full of hens with their heads bobbing and turning to and fro. How could he find Caya without her beacon of yellow hair?
Then, he saw her.
She smiled while Lucy introduced her to several women from town. Caya had hidden her hair under a starched bonnet. She wore a blue frock, cornflower blue like the color of her eyes. He watched her for a moment. Then those blue eyes met his and his breath caught with an audible huck.
A small figure stepped in his path—Mrs. Swenson, the Balforss cook. “Och, laddie. Did you never learn to tie your stock properly?” Before he could object, Mrs. Swenson reached up and untied his stock, making a general female fuss over him. He wouldn’t have minded had she not chosen that very moment in front of God, Caya, and all of Episcopal Thurso.
“I didnae have a looking glass,” he said as Mrs. Swenson jerked and pulled at his neck. He darted a look over her shoulder at Caya approaching, her lips pursed and pulled to the side as if trying to keep herself from laughing. He must appear ridiculous.
“There,” Mrs. Swenson said, patting his chest before stepping back to admire her work. “You look a proper gentleman.”
A proper gentleman about to choke to death. He thanked her, and she toddled off toward the church steps.
Caya curtsied. Would she do that every time they met? “Good morning, Declan.”
Again, the sound of her voice speaking his name made the tops of his ears burn. He dipped his head in return. “Morning, Caya. Are you well?”
“Yes, thank you. Is your sister with you?”
“Ah, no. Her husband’s mam is feeling a wee bit peely-wally—erm, ill—and she’s looking after her.”
“I am sorry. I hope she recovers soon.”
“Thanks.”
People were beginning to wander into the church. Caya turned toward the flow, and he followed with the single-minded purpose of occupying the spot directly beside her.
“Are you happy at Balforss?”
“Oh yes.”
“Good. Good. I kenned you’d like the—” A large hand clapped his shoulder. What now?
“Give us a hand, nephew,” Uncle John said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at Granny Murray in her wheely chair. She would need someone to lift her up the steps. Declan could hardly say no.
He dutifully followed his uncle to where Granny sat in the sun, her bonnet shading a face that looked like a dried apple. One gnarled hand fluttered to her cheek, and she grinned a gummy grin.
“Am I not the lucky one to have two strapping lads like yourselves escorting me into kirk?”
In the time it took him to roll her wheely chair to the front of the pews, the remainder of his family members were seated. Caya was wedged so tightly between Auntie Flora and Cousin Lucy he saw no way to muscle into a space by her side. Instead, he slipped into the pew behind. Bloody hell. A man should be able to sit next to his own wife in kirk, should he not? He edged past Uncle Fergus and Aunt Agnes, then kicked Magnus’s foot to get his attention.
“Move.”
Magnus grunted and slid sideways to make room. Once seated, Declan discovered he had a perfect view of the back of Caya’s bonnet. Clearly a strategical miscalculation. He debated the risk of provoking Magnus with another request to shift when Alex arrived at the end of the pew carrying wee Jemma. The four of them were obliged to scoot down to make room for Alex.
He sighed back into his seat. Much better. Though the brim of her bonnet hid her eyes and the freckles on her nose, the lower part of Caya’s left cheek and chin, as well as her lips, were exposed for his reverent contemplation. As soon as he had embarked on this holy endeavor, the processional began, and the assembled rose as one.
The Anglican congregation in this part of Caithness was so small they hardly warranted a church. For as long as he remembered, the old Reverend Makepeace Culpepper had serviced all of Caithness and parts of Sutherland, his visits parsed out to two or three times a year for remote places like Thurso. Last year, however, the once papist chapel in which they now sat had been rebuilt under the leadership of local landed gentry and reconsecrated by the Episcopal Church of Scotland. With the arrival of a vicar, the recently ordained Reverend James Oswald, Thurso finally had its own Episcopal clergyman.
In the absence of an organ, the vicar employed a fiddler for the processional, a Mr. Archibald Donaldson, whose interpretation of church music on his instrument created what Declan thought an unholy racket. Add to that the square tones of wee Jemma’s caterwauling, and it was a wonder everyone didn’t bleed from the ears.
At last, the vicar crossed the transept, and the music mercifully ended. The congregation exhaled a collective sigh of relief, which Mr. Donaldson, no doubt, construed as appreciation. The vicar began the service in a clear and pleasing voice, a Lowlander from his accent, Declan thought. Admittedly, this was only his first time in attendance. He preferred to spend his Sunday mornings working on his house rather than nodding off in kirk. Besides, it wasn’t as if God could hear him any better in kirk.
Halfway through the gospel, Jemma’s attitude toward the Word of God turned decisively negative. No amount of jostling or knee dandling would redirect her determination to free herself from her father’s lap. Most everyone in the church had focused their interest on Alex and Lucy’s obstinate offspring, the child’s discourse having more compelling content than the vicar’s. Alex passed her to Uncle Fergus who, in turn, passed her to Aunt Agnes. Once engulfed in Agnes’s ample bosom, Jemma settled.
The congregation rose, murmured the appropriate responses, then launched into song. “Alas! And Did My Savior Bleed.” At first, the singing produced a jumble of notes as people searched for a beginning chord. Then the vicar’s baritone rang out, and everyone fell in.
One voice, a clear, silvery soprano, floated above all the others. Heads swiveled to and fro, searching for its origin, seeking the creator of the singularly beautiful refrain:
At the cross, at the cross where I first saw the light,
And the burden of my heart rolled away,
It was there by faith I received my sight,
And now I am happy all the day!
What earthly being made such a heavenly sound? Who was this angel among them? This songbird?
Declan knew.
Eventually, everyone else found the source, as well. Even wee Jemma smiled and reached a hand out to touch the divine creature, Caya.
…
After taking communion, Caya returned to her seat, slid down the pew, and settled next to Flora. Lucy slid in after her, and kneeling together, caught between the two female pillars of Balforss, Caya began to pray.
She had always enjoyed being alone with God among a crowd of people. For as long as she remembered, the church had been the center of her world. It was there, in God’s house, where she found contentment, renewed hope, and the answers to life’s difficult questions.
But today everything was off. This wasn’t her church. These weren’t her people. And the vicar—she didn’t even know his name. The comforting accompaniment to communion, Mrs. Dewey’s organ music, was missing, replaced by rustling skirts, shuffling feet, and the vicar’s repeated phrase, “The body of Christ.” She closed her eyes and clasped her hands, experiencing a moment of panic. Would God hear her if she wasn’t in her proper place at home in Penzance? Would he be deaf to her prayers here in Scotland?
She thanked the Lord for watching over her, for shielding her from harm, for delivering her into the kind hands of Laird John and the people of Balforss, and she promised she would find a way to be of service to them.
She prayed, too, for forgiveness for not having the strength and wisdom to save Jack. And, as always, she said a prayer for her mother and her father. She was about to finish when, on impulse, she thanked God for Declan Sinclair. She didn’t know why, but she felt the need to single him out. And with that connection, with Declan as her touchstone, she knew she had found God in this place.
An odd noise distracted her from prayer. What was making that curious wet sound behind her? Like smacking lips. Not the sort of sound one normally heard in church. She said a quick, “Amen,” and turned to see what or who was disturbing her prayer.
Jemma, in a muslin gown trimmed with lavender ribbons, stood in Declan’s lap, his big hands wrapped around her middle, stabilizing her wiggling body. She had tight hold of his nose with one fist. The other outstretched toward Magnus, who entertained her with googly eyes and fish faces. Her head of bright red curls wobbled on her shoulders as she focused first on Declan, then Magnus, then Declan. Huffs of excitement turned to shrieks and giggles, the child’s joy echoing through the church.
Jemma grunted as she pulled and twisted at Declan’s nose while he patiently endured her treatment. Caya had to smile. Magnus and Declan looked like two bears playing with a baby.
Lucy made a noise of disapproval. “Jemma. Let go of Cousin Declan’s nose,” she whispered.
Hearing her mother’s voice, Jemma twisted in Declan’s hands and reached for her mummy.
“No mind.” Declan pretended to mold his nose back into shape.
“She’s a sweet wee thing,” Magnus added.
Declan darted a glance at Caya. She got that same heated sensation of intimacy every time she met his dark eyes, leaving her breathless and guilty. She shouldn’t feel this way in church, for goodness’ sake. His gaze fixed on her, but there was nothing disquieting in it. Was he thinking, as she was thinking, that, if they married, they might have their own children one day?
As she turned away from him, albeit reluctantly, she caught Lucy looking sideways at her, cheeks sucked in, trying not to giggle. She narrowed her eyes at Lucy, who immediately assumed a look of total innocence.
Though she’d known her less than a day, she suspected that Lucy FitzHarris Sinclair was a calculating woman. Not in a devious or duplicitous way. Lucy was far too honorable to practice upon innocents. But there was definitely some kind of mischief bubbling behind Lucy’s beautiful blue eyes.
“What’s so funny?” she whispered.
Lucy shook her head.
“Tell me.”
“Later,” Lucy said. “I promise.”
After the service concluded, Flora and Caya stepped out of the church into the gray daylight. She still hadn’t thought of what she could contribute to Balforss and the people who lived there. It had to be something of value, some assistance only she could provide.
Her thoughts were interrupted when the vicar, a handsome-looking man of about thirty, greeted them. “Lady Sinclair. I’m happy to see you.”
“A lovely service, Vicar James. You’ll be pleased to meet our dear friend, Miss Pendarvis. She’s come all the way from Cornwall to stay with us.”
“How do you do?” She made a curtsy.
“Welcome, Miss Pendarvis.” He stared down on her with an expression she would call…dazed. “Beautiful,” he said absently. The vicar’s eyes flew open. “I mean, your beautiful voice.” He seemed to recover his wit and laughed lightly. “I heard you sing. God has gifted you with the voice of an angel.”
“Thank you.” She curtsied again. The vicar had a warm, genuine demeanor Caya found appealing.
“Cornwall. It’s a long way from here to Cornwall, is it not? What brings you so far north, Miss Pendarvis?”
Her mind went blank. By the change in the vicar’s face, she must look as addled as she felt. What should she say? That her brother gambled her away to strangers and only by the grace of God did she end up with Flora and John Sinclair of Balforss?
“Will you join us for supper this evening, Vicar?” Flora asked, rescuing her from having to answer the difficult question.
“What?” Flora’s invitation seemed to wake the vicar from a trance. “Oh yes. Tonight.” He smiled again. “I accept with joy.”
She and Flora said their goodbyes, then proceeded across the churchyard toward the wagon. The vicar’s question bothered her. No doubt others would ask the same thing, and Flora wouldn’t always be there to deflect the question. How should she answer? Laird John said she need not tell everyone the whole of her story. But what account would do as a substitute? And would that be the same as telling a lie?
“Caya.”
She recognized his voice. No one said her name the way Declan did. He turned the simple word in his mouth like it was something exotic. She spun toward the sound.
His eyes shone bright with…what? Hope? But before he said another word, Laird John loomed behind him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “A word with you, nephew.”
Declan cast a forlorn look at her over his shoulder as Laird John led him toward the horses. That was the second time Laird John had intercepted Declan today. Yesterday, he had insisted he wait before courting her. His reason for imposing the delay seemed to be on her behalf at the time. Perhaps his concern was more for Declan than for her. But why?
The answer to her question came to her suddenly, a painful jolt of realization. Laird John would think it unwise for him to consider marriage to a plain and penniless woman with no title and no family. The laird would be obliged to dissuade his nephew from marrying out of a sense of duty. No doubt a man like Declan could find a far more suitable match among his peers. To ensure his future, the laird had offered to be Caya’s guardian. A small price to pay, she supposed. The motivation for Laird John’s kindness came to her on a wave of disappointment.
Lucy, Flora, Aunt Agnes, Mrs. Swenson, Haddie, and Caya squeezed into the Balforss carriage, a large wooden box on wheels, really. Lucy held Jemma in her arms, the baby’s head resting on her shoulder. Light blue veins showed beneath the delicate translucent skin, and blond lashes fringed the edges of Jemma’s sealed lids. Blissfully asleep. Even the violent jouncing of the wagon didn’t wake her. The other women in the wagon, filled with the Holy Spirit, closed their eyes and enjoyed the contemplative ride.
Until Alex rode up to the window and shouted, “Mind taking a detour? I’d like to see what progress Declan’s made on Taldale.”
“That’s a wonderful idea, Alex,” Flora called back.
Caya felt a sudden frisson of excitement. Taldale was Declan’s house. She was curious to see the home he had built for—I built the house for you—for the woman who would become his wife. Yet, she had to admit, the idea of walking around inside his house felt intimate, almost as if he had invited her to take a stroll inside his mind. I built the house for you. You and me. No one else.
The wagon pulled to a stop, and she gaped out the window. “Oh, it’s lovely,” she breathed, her words lost among the other compliments spoken by the wagon passengers. The two-story house was modest in size, but beautifully made from cut stone the color of wheat and topped with a slate roof. Again, she felt a rush of excitement. What would it be like to be the mistress of this house?
Declan ushered his guests through a heavy wooden front door into a central entry hall with wood-paneled walls and a winding staircase leading to the second floor. She removed her bonnet. The brim impeded her view of the world. She saw much better without it.
Declan explained he had built the two-story home with double chimneys. “To the right is the study, to the left, the drawing room, and behind that, the dining room.” All the rooms had roughhewn wood floors and smooth plaster walls, just as she had always imagined her own house would have. All the rooms were empty of any furnishings, though she didn’t find that fact disappointing. The house’s mistress should have first choice how the rooms would be appointed.
As Declan led his guests through the house, he commented on things he planned to finish. The men remarked on the good workmanship while the women suggested what items of furniture he would need to purchase. She breathed in the smell of fresh wood shavings, plaster, and varnish. This was a good house.
Magnus invited everyone to follow him above stairs. “You’ll want to see Caya’s new bathing tub.”
Her eyes flew open wide, and she darted a look toward Declan. He had turned crimson, whereas she felt the blood drain from her cheeks.
Alex punched Magnus in the arm, and Magnus looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What did you do that for?”
Laird John said, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, aye,” and he escorted Flora and the other women to the second floor.
Caya froze. She didn’t dare go above stairs. Lord only knew what she’d find.
“I’m sorry.” Declan stood behind her very close.
Her voice had taken flight. She nodded.
“I was wondering …” he began hesitantly. “I was wondering if you’d lend me your opinion.”
Taken aback by his request, she whirled around to face him. “You want my opinion about something?”
“Aye.” He motioned for her to follow and walked toward the back of the house. “I’ve yet to finish the kitchen. I dinnae ken where to build the larder or where to put the sideboard. Would you come and have a keek?”
She didn’t move.
“Please?” he asked and smiled sweetly. One of his irresistible smiles. The kind that made her smile back whether she wanted to or not.
…
Declan walked through the dining room toward the kitchen, hoping Caya would follow. She was so skittish. Like a foal that would follow only if one’s back was turned, she trailed behind, leaving plenty of distance between them. He waited in the center of the kitchen until her footsteps echoed within.
They were alone. Together. For the first time. Forever after, this room would hold that significance for him. For an insane moment, he wanted to bar the kitchen doors, sweep her into his arms, and kiss her. Kiss her until—
“Declan?”
He jerked to attention.
“Is something wrong?” she asked. Her delicate blond brows drew together. Oh God, those freckles. Like someone had sprinkled cinnamon on her bitty nose.
“Ah, no. I’m fine. How are you?” Christ, he sounded like a dafty.
She curtsied. Again. “I’m fine, thank you.” She tilted her head and waited. She must have read his blank expression, for she kindly prompted him. “You wanted to ask me something about the kitchen?”
“Oh, aye.” His mouth had gone dry, and he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He propped them on his hips. Not liking them there, he crossed them in front of his chest. Still uncomfortable, he let them drop to his side. “The larder and the sideboard, what do you think?” he asked, glancing around the room.
She circled the kitchen, pausing to inspect the brick oven and the cooking hearth. She opened the shutters on the window overlooking the spot where he planned to plant the kailyard.
“Is there a root cellar?”
“Aye. The hatch is outside the back door.” Footsteps clacked above them. Magnus was showing everyone Caya’s bathing tub. Declan’s ears flamed again.
“I would build the larder against the north wall. It will be cooler,” Caya said. “And I would place the cupboard on the opposite wall, where the dishes will be closer to the dining room.”
“Good. I’ll do that.” He liked that she expressed a definite opinion so freely with him.
“Our first decision as husband and wife,” he said and smiled broadly.
“But, we’re not married, yet.”
“Och, dinnae fash. We’re as good as married,” he reassured her. “The wedding is only a formality,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “I should build a bunker in the center, aye?”
“Bunker?”
“A workbench. But I dinnae ken how high to make it.”
Caya held her hands out, palms down, as if testing the approximate height she would want for working. “About this high, I suppose.”
He stepped closer to her. Close enough that he could gauge on his body the height of her palms. They came to the top of his hip. She had removed her bonnet, the silly wee thing. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Her hair smelled of rose water. Without thinking, he reached to touch her hair and startled her.
“No,” she said, pulling back. “You mustn’t. Laird John says we must wait to court.”
“There’s nae need to court. I already know you’re mine.” He advanced a step forward. If he couldn’t touch her, he needed to be close to her.
“Laird John expects us to court.”
“There’s no use wasting time courting. We’re meant to be married.” Only inches away from her now, well within her orbit. He could bend down and steal a kiss if he had the nerve.
At the sound of footsteps, he jerked his head up.
Laird John entered the kitchen, one awful eyebrow lifted. “Time to go.”
Declan took two guilty steps back from Caya.
“The others are waiting for you in the wagon, lass,” his uncle said.
She curtsied. Damn. She was always curtsying. He wondered at what point she would stop. Then she dashed out of the room as if she’d caught fire.
Once she’d gone, his uncle turned a dark look his way, and he felt like he was fourteen again. “Sorry, Uncle. I was just… I was just…”
“I ken what you were just doing. Dinnae do it again.”
His shoulders drooped, and his head lolled sideways. “I cannae help it,” he said. It was true. Caya had become something like an addiction to him. He couldn’t stay away from her.
His uncle issued an angry warning. “Caya is under my protection. She is my ward, and I demand you respect her like any other member of our family. Do not compromise her by being alone with her, or I’ll give you a thrashing you’ll not soon forget.”
His uncle was right, and though twenty years his senior, he could indeed give Declan a damn good thrashing. But, having experienced the singular pleasure of her sweet company, he would be alone with her again at the next opportunity, no matter the consequences.
…
Caya swept the sides of her hair up and anchored them with a set of tortoiseshell combs, leaving the back down. She hadn’t worn her hair this way since she was a girl, but after her visit to Declan’s house, after talking to him in the kitchen, she felt young again.
He had declared he would defy his uncle’s wishes. His words, You’re mine, fluttered inside her chest like a trapped bird. But what did he mean when he said there was no need to court her? She must have misunderstood him. Of course he should court her. Shouldn’t he?
She checked the small mirror above her washstand again. Her complexion was still clear, her features regular, and she had all her teeth. The face reflected in her glass wasn’t all that changed from when she was eighteen, an age when most women chose their intended. At five and twenty, she was teetering on the brink of spinsterhood. Would she seem ridiculous with her hair down?
Someone knocked on her chamber door. “Come in.”
Lucy entered, taffeta gown rustling, her pretty—and very young—face aglow. “Are you ready to go down for supper?”
Caya plucked at her skirts. “Is this all right?”
“Lovely.”
“You don’t think I look foolish with my hair down?”
“Nonsense. It shines like spun gold.” Lucy flounced down on the bed. “If I had hair like yours I’d show it off all the time.”
“My gown isn’t special.”
“My dear, you could wear a flour sack and Declan wouldn’t care.” Lucy’s words chuckled out of her. “He’s absolutely besotted. I’ve never seen a man so afflicted. Can’t you tell?”
The idea that Declan’s pledge to marry her was borne of feeling rather than honor made Caya deliriously happy. She turned her head, not wanting Lucy to see how pleased she was with her assessment of Declan’s condition, which only seemed to make Lucy laugh harder.
She remembered something Lucy had said earlier. “This morning at church you said you’d tell me what amused you. Was it something about Declan?”
Lucy chewed her thumb as if deciding how much she should tell. “All right.” She patted the bed, inviting Caya to sit. “I overheard Alex and Magnus teasing Declan about…” She covered her giggle with a hand.
“Tell me,” Caya said, nudging Lucy with an elbow.
“They tease him about women.”
She sat back. “What do you mean?”
“He’s shy. Or at least he always has been until now. He seems rather bold with you.”
Caya turned away, feigning interest in the bed curtains. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Lucy laughed again, that elegant laugh one expects from highborn ladies.
“Has Declan arrived yet?” she asked, trying and failing to sound indifferent.
“No, just the vicar.”
“The vicar and his wife?”
Lucy shook her head. “He’s not married. As a matter of fact, mothers have been peddling their unmarried daughters before him ever since he arrived in Thurso, but he’s expressed no interest. He asked after you, now I think of it.” Lucy gave her a curious look Caya could not interpret.
“What?”
Lucy’s face cleared, and she popped to her feet. “Nothing. Come on. Let’s make our grand entrance together.”
Family and guests had gathered in the entry hall for a glass of Mrs. Swenson’s milk punch. She suspected the beverage contained spirits and demurred when offered a glass. She searched the crowded hall for Declan among the mob of tall Sinclair men, but it seemed he hadn’t yet arrived.
Vicar James approached. “Good evening, ladies.” After they made their polite gestures, the vicar asked Lucy, “Did the new foal arrive?”
“Yes, just yesterday. A colt and he’s beautiful,” she said. “Would you like to see?”
“Most definitely.”
“I need a word with Alex, but Caya can show you to the stables.”
Caya stared at a smirking Lucy, who batted innocent eyes, waved, and swished away, leaving her alone to entertain the vicar. Lucy was full of the devil. Whatever could she be up to?
Remembering herself, she said, “I would be delighted. Just this way, Vicar.”
She led Vicar James through the back of the house, passing the kitchen, alive with activity—banging pots, female laughter, and Mrs. Swenson calling out orders. The heady smell of roasted lamb wafted out of the open kitchen door, and she hoped the vicar wouldn’t hear her stomach growling.
Outside, the yard was empty of the usual clamor of farm work, everyone having gone home for supper. She and the vicar rounded the candle shed and the hatchery and continued on toward the stable. He walked at her side, clearing his throat every so often. She was quite at ease with him, even though they’d only met this morning. He was a tall man, but his presence was comforting rather than imposing. Perhaps that was why he’d been called to serve the church.
The vicar said, “I never found out how it is you’ve come to Scotland all the way from Cornwall.”
She slowed to a stop. She had considered telling people that her parents had died and left her in the care of their longtime friend, Laird John. It wasn’t too far from the truth. She opened her mouth, but the lie died on her tongue. Vicar James was a man of the cloth, a man so close to all that was holy it would be like lying to God.
“I’m glad to have this chance to speak to you alone,” she began.
Vicar James faced her, his eyes blinking furiously. “Dear, dear, Miss Pendarvis. I don’t know what to say…”
“I seek your spiritual advice on a personal matter.”
“Oh… Yes, of course. That’s—that’s my purpose. Please continue.”
“I’ll tell you why I’m here, but I beg you not to judge me too harshly.”
As they walked, a little slower now, she told him an abbreviated version of recent events, including Declan’s gallant gestures. The vicar remained silent throughout except for a grunt of disapproval when she spoke of her brother’s wager.
They had reached the stable and were peering over the door to the loose box by the time she finished her story. Vicar James folded his arms and rested them on the top ledge of the chest-high stall door. A gleaming blue-black mare stood, ears forward, alert. Behind the mare, a big-eyed, spindly legged colt found its feet and staggered forward. The vicar smiled at the pair.
“You are blameless in all this, Miss Pendarvis.” His words were kind and his voice soothing.
“Was I wrong to leave my brother?”
“Your brother betrayed your trust. I understand your reasons for leaving him.”
“Still, I’m embarrassed. What should I say when people ask me how I came to be here? It’s a sin to lie, but if I tell my wretched story, it can only reflect poorly on the house of Balforss. These people are good to me. I wouldn’t harm them in any way.”
“I think telling an untruth to protect the ones you love is not a sin.”
A weight lifted from her chest. Both Laird John and Declan had said she was guiltless. Even Flora and Lucy had found no fault when she told them her story. She only half believed them. But now that she had the priest’s absolution, she was finally freed of Jack’s oppressive grip.
“One thing concerns me, though,” Vicar James said.
“What?”
“I would caution you not to be too hasty about affairs of the heart. Especially when it comes to Declan Sinclair. You barely know the man.”
“He’s been nothing but kind and considerate. I’m so thankful—”
“That’s just it. What you are feeling is gratitude. Gratitude and obligation,” he said, his voice firm but warm. “Indebtedness is a poor way to establish a union. You must give yourself time to adjust. I support Laird John’s wish for you to wait and advise you not to become entangled with Declan at this time.”
“But he said it was his honor to marry me.”
“I hesitate calling Declan’s character into question, but gambling for your hand was not an honorable thing to do. In addition, he is a soldier by trade, a man of blood. A good woman like you, a woman of faith and integrity, would not be well-matched with such a man. No. I cannot in good conscience recommend you entertain his attentions.” The vicar took a deep breath. “At least, not at this time.”
His assessment of Declan’s character rang true, and perhaps her attraction to Declan, her desire to be near him, had stemmed from gratitude. Moreover, the vicar confirmed her suspicion that Declan’s desire to marry her was fueled by his promise to her brother, now a matter of honor. As lighthearted as she had been when the vicar absolved her a minute ago, she was doubly downhearted to hear his reproof. She almost regretted having consulted him.
“Thank you for your wise counsel. I will consider your advice carefully.”
Declan sat next to her at supper. It saved her from having to meet his eyes—those eyes that seemed to look inside her, read her, know her—but not from the physical reaction his proximity had on her body. Occasionally, his arm would brush against hers. Wherever they touched, that spot on her body would burn white hot. She hoped the effect wasn’t apparent on her face. The vicar sat directly across the table, his eyes darting up and down from his plate to Declan to her and down again. Her stomach twisted into a knot. The lamb on her plate smelled delicious, but she couldn’t eat a bite.
Declan leaned toward her, his breath warm on her cheek. “Are you all right, lass? You havenae touched your supper.”
Vicar James paused mid-bite, his crystal blue gaze flicking from Declan to Caya.
She gave her head a slight shake. “I’m fine.” She collected her fork and shifted the potatoes around on her plate.
The vicar smiled across the table and began to chew again.
Two people whose opinions she respected—Laird John and Vicar James—opposed Declan’s advances. She should follow the advice of these two wise men. Yet, she couldn’t shake her attachment to the way Declan smiled at her, the way he looked at her, the way he said her name.
“I propose a toast to the newest member of our family,” Laird John said, lifting his glass. “Welcome, Caya. We are, every one of us, pleased you’ve come to stay. We hope you will find happiness here at Balforss.”
The others at the table raised their wineglasses and toasted with a strange word that sounded like slan-jeh. Gaelic, she thought, so like the Kernewek, and she was reminded of her home near the shores of Penzance, a world away from this place.
“Thank you, Laird John. Thank you, everyone. I hope what skills I have might be worthy of your kindness and generosity.” She looked to Flora. “I want to contribute, to be of value to you and Balforss.”
Flora reached out and covered her hand with hers. “Dinnae fash, dear.”
“I have an idea.”
Everyone turned to Vicar James, who had until this moment remained rather quiet since blessing the food. “I have an excellent idea. That is, if Miss Pendarvis is agreeable and you provide your consent, Laird John.”
“Please continue,” Laird John said and tipped his head in her direction as confirmation.
“Miss Pendarvis, I wonder if you might lend your beautiful voice to the church. I think ours would benefit from practiced voices. Many churches are forming choirs these days. You are just the person to help organize one.”
All eyes shifted from James to her.
Lucy added an enthusiastic endorsement. “You have a glorious voice. You’d be perfect.”
Almost simultaneously, Laird John and Flora said, “What a wonderful idea.”
A choir? She loved to sing, but to direct a choir? “I’m not sure…”
“Do say yes,” Lucy insisted. “I’m no songbird, as Alex loves to point out, but I’ll join the choir. And Haddie has a pretty voice. I’m sure she’d like to take part.”
A choice. She was being given another choice. Yes or no.
Declan turned to her and said in his quiet, silky burr, “I ken you can do it, lass, and they’ll love you for it.”
Caya’s chest filled with all the air in the room. “Yes,” she said and exhaled a laugh. “Yes, I’d like that very much.” Her cheeks burned when her acceptance met with applause and cheers. She smiled her thanks to Vicar James. Such a kind man to consider her in this way.
Before the applause died down, Flora patted her hand and said, “There now, you see? You’ve found your place. You do Balforss great honor taking on such an endeavor.”
Her appetite returned with a vengeance. She devoured everything on her plate. When dessert was served—a raisin pudding soaked in treacle and drenched with custard cream—she all but licked her bowl clean.
The wine went to her head, and she forgot she wasn’t supposed to encourage Declan. When he shoveled his last spoonful of pudding into his mouth and made a satisfied mmm sound, she giggled like a girl.
Vicar James cleared his throat convulsively and winked. She sobered and nodded an acknowledgment. He asked, “Shall I come tomorrow afternoon, and we can discuss plans for the choir?”
She looked to Flora.
“Four o’clock,” Flora said.
Shortly after the meal ended, the diners gathered in the entry hall to say goodbye to the vicar. He thanked Flora and John, then turned to her. “I shall see you tomorrow, Miss Pendarvis. Good night.” He spoke low, as if he was telling her something personal, something private, flattering her with his full attention. Then he placed his hat on his head and left.
Once the door closed, Declan draped a cloak on her shoulders. “Alex and Lucy have invited us to walk with them in the garden. Will you come?”
All gaiety drained from her body. What she was obliged to do next might not please Declan Sinclair, but she couldn’t dodge him forever. Some decisions would be easy, like the one she’d made about the choir. Others, like whether to receive Declan’s attentions, would be much, much harder. Yet, that was what it was like to make one’s own life choices, was it not?
…
“I ken you’ll be warm enough. It’s a fine night.” Declan adjusted the cloak around Caya’s narrow shoulders. Without thinking, he slipped a hand under her long tail of yellow hair and freed it from the neck of the cloak. Her hair was soft and sleek like the pelt of a seal.
Caya whirled around. “You mustn’t do that.”
“Sorry.”
She was sensitive again. Every turn of her head, every flick of her eyes, every twitch of her lips cried, “Stay back.” But he couldn’t, because every inch of his skin demanded he be near to her. She’d been changeable all day. Cool at kirk. Warm in the new house. Quiet at dinner. Giddy during dessert. Now, she was troubled again. What made her mood so unpredictable?
Ah, well. At least she wasn’t curtsying. That was an improvement.
They all four stepped out into the night air, damp and threatening rain. Rain would be good, but not until after their walk. Declan hoped the troublemaker in heaven would hold his wheesht one more hour.
One of the grooms, an orphan named Peter whom Alex had rescued some years ago, finished lighting the torches surrounding the garden. Alex mussed the lad’s hair and sent him off to bed. Peter had endeared himself to everyone at Balforss, including Declan. No doubt Caya would come to like him as well.
Moths flitted dangerously close to the flames, and pleasant nighttime sounds floated on the air. Their walk took on a figure-eight pattern around the rectangular kitchen garden bisected into two squares by one center path. Auntie Flora had planted herbs as both a decorative border and a deterrent. Bugs, worms, and flies didn’t care for basil, borate, and calendula. His mother had taught him that. His mother. Fiona Sinclair. He wished she’d lived long enough to meet Caya. She would have liked the lass. Everyone did.
Several yards ahead, Alex and Lucy walked side by side at a lazy pace, their arms wrapped around the other’s waist, linked, synced, and swaying. He yearned for that kind of familiar contact with Caya. To know the slight weight of her relaxed against his side. His hand on her slim back. Her head resting on his shoulder. His face buried in her hair. His lips on her—bloody hell. He had to stop imagining her in that way before he embarrassed himself.
They completed two silent circuits around the garden. Still, Caya remained distant. He clasped his hands behind his back and sighed. “Why do you shy from me? Have I done something wrong?”
“No. It’s not that.”
He stopped walking and tugged on Caya’s cloak to get her to face him. She turned, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“You dinnae want me, then?”
“I can’t.”
Her words practically shattered him. “You…you want someone else? Someone better?”
She stepped closer and turned her face up to his, the torchlight shining in her eyes. “No, it’s not that. Truly.”
“What, then?”
Even though she was breaking his heart, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to gather her into his arms and run away with her, keep her until she understood that they were meant to be together. He was just about to reach for her when she spoke again.
“Aren’t you concerned that my feelings for you might only be ones of gratitude?”
“Gratitude?” He shook his head, puzzled by the word. What did gratitude have to do with marrying the lass?
“I’m grateful to you for bringing me to Balforss. I need to be certain that what I feel is real affection and not obligation.”
“I dinnae want your gratitude. I want your hand.”
“But the vicar says—”
“What? You told the vicar about us? About Jack and what happened?” He felt exposed, as though she’d shared his secret. It was one thing for his family to know the details of his life. But James Oswald was not family. Declan didn’t even know if he liked the man.
“I spoke to the vicar because I needed counsel.”
His heart banged a wild tattoo inside his chest. She seemed perfectly calm, whereas he thought he might fly apart into a million pieces. “And what did he say?” He could guess what the God-botherer said, but he wanted to hear it from her.
“Keep your voice down. Alex and Lucy will hear.”
He answered with something akin to a growl.
“He advised me to wait.” She lowered her eyelids and turned her chin away.
“Did he now?” So angry he could no longer stand still, he paced back and forth on the narrow path.
“Yes. And I think it’s sound advice.”
“Oh, aye? And did he say how long you must wait?” There was a nasty edge in his voice. He couldn’t help it. He was frustrated. Thwarted by a bloody priest. If the bampot weren’t a clergyman, he’d go thump him right now.
A flicker of lightning illuminated Caya in blue light for a second, making her look like a life-size porcelain doll. Thunder made an ominous roar. The storm was near.
“Everything all right, man?” Alex asked.
“Oh, aye,” he said.
Alex and Lucy squeezed past them and continued walking.
Caya huffed. “Your uncle asked us to wait as well. Why are you so angry?”
“I’d like the vicar to keep his nose out of my business.”
“It’s my business, too, is it not?”
“He doesnae know you like I do,” he insisted. Why was she talking this nonsense? “You’re mine.”
“Declan, you can’t bully me into marrying you, and you can’t just disregard formalities like courting.”
“Courting? Why must I court you? You already know we’re to be married.”
“That’s what I mean. How can you be so certain we should—I mean, aren’t you concerned that your reason for marrying me is entirely owing to your sense of honor?”
“You’d reject me for being honorable?” What the bloody hell was she talking about?
“I’m not rejecting you,” she said. “I’m asking you to be patient.”
Her voice sounded bruised. He had done the one thing he promised himself he’d never do—hurt her. He was instantly remorseful. “I’m sorry.” Another flash of lightning. Declan saw the pain in her expression. Oh Jesus. “Forgive me. Please.”
Her head wobbled, a half nod, half shake. Did she mean yes, no, maybe?
Then…she curtsied.
Damn.
He bobbed his head like a numpty. When she took a step toward the house, he blurted, “Will you not forgive me, Caya?”
She paused for a moment as if about to say something, but the heavens opened up and released a punishing rain. Lucy broke away from Alex and linked arms with Caya, and the two ran toward the house, skirts aflutter.
Alex approached him from behind and shouted over another clap of thunder. “I take it things didnae go so well.”
Declan spun around, fists clenched, his belly on fire. He shouted back through the pelting rain. “Did you ken that ferret-faced dog-collar told Caya not to see me?”
“James the Vicar? Why?”
“I dinnae ken for certain,” he said, blinking away the drops collecting in his eyelashes. “But I have a good idea why.”