Heart in the Highlands by Heidi Kimball
Chapter Twenty-One
A soft gravelly noise woke Kate, a vaguely familiar sound. Under the veil of fatigue, however, she couldn’t place it. She sensed light behind her eyelids, but it took great effort to pull them up. She blinked against the brightness of the morning sun and tried to turn and tug up the covers.
Every single one of her joints ached terribly, no doubt a mixture of the long ride and the dreadful cold that had left her legs cramping, her body tense, and her hands and feet numb. It was hard to imagine now, cocooned as she was in a pile of blankets.
The gravelly sound came again, interrupted by a brief snort. She turned her head to find Harriet sitting in a chair by the fire, head resting on her chest, snoring. Kate closed her eyes as relief swept over her. The tight feeling in her chest loosened a bit. It was so very good to have Harriet here. Seeing her tight gray bun and the stubborn tilt of her chin, even in sleep, instantly made Kate feel more at home.
Harriet had been with Kate through her darkest hours. To have someone nearby who knew of her heartaches and loss, who had witnessed her tears, her highs and her lows . . . it brought immense comfort to have someone with her who knew her so intimately. Kate felt a pang at the incongruity of it. It should be Callum who had borne witness to each of those moments, he who knew her in a way no other was allowed.
But, given last night’s revelation, it seemed he wanted to try.
The pitter-patter of little feet sounded in the corridor. Despite the protest of her body, Kate turned toward the door as it opened.
“Shhh, your mother might be sleeping,” Callum said in a low voice.
Charlotte barreled toward her. “Mama, Mama!” she shouted in a whisper. Her pudgy hands patted Kate’s cheeks, and she tossed a glance over her shoulder. “She’s awake,” she announced.
“Well, Harriet is still asleep,” Callum said. “So we should still be quiet.” He stood in the doorway, Cleo in his arms. Even with his jaw covered in several days’ worth of stubble and his eyes drooping from lack of sleep, he was uncommonly handsome. Kate’s thoughts flew back to his admission of the night before: I’m falling in love with ye . . . I am ready, here and now, to make things right between us. For now. Forever.
Kate had lain awake for several hours, hearing the invitation in those words, over and over again. Now the weight of them hung in the air, filling up every corner and crevice of the room.
Callum gave her a half smile. “I trust ye slept well?” he asked. He made no move to enter. He seemed more reserved, as if after last night’s promises, he viewed the doorway as a natural barrier, one he wouldn’t cross without her permission.
“Yes, thank you.” She grimaced. “Though, I’m quite stiff this morning.” It pained her to dabble in such inane conversation when weightier matters begged to be spoken of.
“That is tae be expected. Ye certainly need more rest.” He brushed at something on his jacket. “And your hands and feet? Ye have all your feeling?”
She nodded.
“Mama, I bringed you Cleo to keep you warm! Here, Papa, put Cleo right here.” She pointed to Kate’s chest. Kate turned her attention to Charlotte, her heart brimming with love for her thoughtful three-year-old.
Callum shot Kate a glance. Is it all right if I come in?
Kate answered his silent inquiry with a nod. “How thoughtful of you, Charlotte,” she said as Callum handed her the cat. “To share Cleo with me.” She took Cleo and laid the feline on her sternum.
Charlotte’s face grew serious, her brows knitted together. “She can only stay for seven hours, though, because she wants to be back to the barn.”
“The barn?” Kate questioned.
“Yes, she bes soooo happy in the barn ’cause she finds lots of mice. Papa says she likes to have a job ’cause it makes her feel ’portant.” She looked to him for approval, and he gave her a smile and a nod.
“Ah yes,” Kate agreed. “Everyone likes to feel important.” Cleo had curled up and promptly began to purr, the vibrations reaching through the blankets and providing an unexpected comfort.
Charlotte reached up and brushed her chubby hand down Cleo’s back. “Did Harriet sleep with you, Mama? Papa sleeped with me in the nursery. On the floor right beside me so I didn’t be scared.”
Somehow the thought of Callum asleep on the floor beside their daughter rendered Kate quite speechless. It was not the typical behavior of a man who was a duke in all but name. No. It seemed more in line with one who was a father. And a doting one at that. She cleared her throat, though it did nothing to sweep the tender image away.
“We are fortunate, are we not? To have people who will take such good care of us?” Her gaze drifted toward Callum, who stood at the foot of the bed.
“I’ll do the same tonight,” he said, voice rough. “Charlotte seems content in the nursery.” He brought his hands to rest behind his back.
Kate angled her head. Something about Callum seemed different than before, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “I’m sure it is time for her to make the transition, but it still . . . it felt empty in here last night.”
“If you think she should be with you, we can move her back,” he said quickly. “As her mother, ye’d know best.” He swiped at a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead and then thrust his hands back behind him.
“No, I think she is ready for the nursery.” Was he nervous? The thought of him in such a state was hardly believable. He was always at ease, always in control. But the way he held himself, the restless movement of his hands, gave him away. Could it have been their conversation from last night?
He had laid himself bare. Without a whisper of reciprocation from her. She had to fight to keep a smile from turning up the corners of her mouth. There was something endearing about the thought of him waiting, wondering, perhaps agonizing over her reaction. Or perhaps it was merely that she had waited and wondered and agonized over him for so long and seeing him thus brought her a sort of sinful satisfaction.
It wasn’t until too late that Kate noticed Charlotte had crossed the room and climbed onto Harriet’s lap. “Wake up!” she shouted, clapping her hands.
Harriet awoke with a loud snort and flailing arms. “Heavens, Charlotte. You nearly sent me to my grave.”
Charlotte giggled. “But I missed you! And you were making funny noises.”
“When I should be up and seeing to your mother.” She lifted Charlotte, chair creaking as she rose.
“Nonsense,” Kate replied. “After sleeping in that chair all night, I am quite certain you need rest far more than I need looking after.”
Harriet gave her a disapproving glance. “You tossed and turned until well past midnight, so I am quite certain that you need rest.” She turned to Callum and Charlotte. “Which means the two of you must be off. And the cat as well.”
“But Mama needs Cleo to help her be warm!” Charlotte said, pulling at Harriet’s apron. “And I wanted to show you the ark and all the animals up in the nursery. Papa said they are mine, and you can play with me.”
Charlotte tugged on Harriet’s hand, chattering on about all that had happened in their month-long separation. It might as well have been silent for all the tension in the room. Callum standing there waiting. She, uncertain what to say, though heaven knew she’d spent plenty of time thinking on it.
At the door, Harriet turned back and said over her shoulder, “I’ll be back with a breakfast tray once Charlotte shows me the nursery.”
Kate watched them go, grateful she needn’t feel any guilt for going back to bed. With Harriet here, she could rest easy.
Callum took a step forward, coming to stand beside the bed. From his pocket he pulled several papers, folded together. He hesitated before speaking. “I was thinking last night, while falling asleep, on the years we lost. And I wanted ye to have this. I hoped it might, well, help ye understand me better. I cannot give back the time lost tae us, but I can give ye a little of myself.”
He extended his hand, and she took his offering. On closer examination she realized the pages had been ripped out of a book, the edges uneven.
He stepped back quickly, and there was something vulnerable in the movement, as if in the offering of the pages he was offering up a piece of himself. “I’m glad Harriet is here. I’ve no doubt she’ll take good care of you.”
“Thank you,” Kate said, her voice barely audible, “for coming after me.”
His expression grew more guarded. “Charlotte needs you,” he said as if that were explanation enough. “And I . . .” He faltered. “I hope you feel better. Let me know if there is anything at all ye need.”
And with the click of the door, Kate was left on her own, staring down at the pages Callum had placed in her hands.
Callum caught Harriet as she reached the end of the corridor. “A word with ye, if I may,” Callum said. Harriet’s eyes narrowed.
He flashed a smile at Charlotte. “Cook made raspberry scones this morning, and she was hoping a wee lass such as yourself might be willing to sample them.”
Charlotte’s eyes brightened, and she gave a little squeal before dashing off. Though she’d lived at Castleton Manor less than a month, he was gratified to see how at home she felt here.
But his attention was soon drawn back to Harriet, who set her hands on her hips like she was preparing herself for a skirmish. “I could have a word or two for you myself,” she said.
Callum lifted a brow, amused at the woman’s forthrightness—the opposite of her husband in every way. “I don’t doubt it. Would ye prefer to take the matter down to my study, or will right here suffice?”
She scowled. “Say your piece, and then I’ll say mine,” she said, crossing her arms.
“Very well. First, I’d like to thank ye and Archie for taking such good care of Katie and Charlotte these past years. Ye mean the world to them both. And that you were willing tae leave behind everything you’ve known and loved to come here? I am most grateful.”
“Well, we certainly didn’t do it for you. Kate and Charlotte need looking after.” Her tone insinuated she didn’t consider him equal to the task.
“Aye, they do. Which is why I hope ye will consider taking on the role of Charlotte’s nursemaid. I know we haven’t discussed the particulars of your employment, but I think it would be an excellent arrangement. Charlotte knows and loves ye, and I want her to feel comfortable here. There is no one Katie would trust more, and I think she will settle in more easily knowing Charlotte is in good hands.”
Harriet cast him a wary glance, and he hoped he had disarmed her, at least a little. The woman’s lips spread into a thin line, with no indication of what she was thinking. “I’ve always been more a cook and housekeeper than a nursemaid,” she said at length.
He’d expected such a response. Harriet would have to be coaxed and prodded. And a compliment or two along the way wouldn’t hurt. “We could try to fill the role with someone else, of course, but it would take a good while to find someone Charlotte loves even half as much. And whoever it is, they’d likely not know her penchant for chasing animals or how one of your gingersnaps can cure whatever ails her . . .” He paused for effect. “But if you’re unwilling, I’m sure we can make other arrangements.”
“How am I to make those gingersnaps if I am relegated to the nursery?”
Callum gave her a charming smile. “I’m glad ye asked. I’ve made it clear to Mrs. Hammill that you and Charlotte are tae have full access to the kitchen. If ye agree to being Charlotte’s nursemaid, of course. And ye won’t be relegated anywhere. We wouldn’t want ye cooped up in the nursery all day every day. Charlotte would be miserable.”
“She would,” Harriet agreed with a nod. The thin slash of her mouth softened, which gave Callum a surge of hope.
“I want ye tae feel at home here. And Archie too. I spoke with him this morning and offered him a position in the stables. I thought he might enjoy working with something other than a cantankerous donkey.”
She clucked disapprovingly and muttered under her breath something that sounded suspiciously like, “sell his soul for a mess of pottage.” She scrunched up her mouth in a frown and said, “I’m sure he was only too happy to agree.”
“He was,” Callum replied. “But your answer is equally as important. More so, for it involves Charlotte.” He waited, trying not to show any sign of impatience.
“Full access to the kitchen?” Harriet asked again.
Callum nodded.
“I suppose it would be nice for Charlotte to have me by her side. And if it will put Lady Rowand’s mind at ease . . .”
Callum smiled. He couldn’t help it. He could already see why Katie loved Harriet and Archie so dearly. “Thank ye, Harriet. I know Katie will be delighted.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve one more matter I wish to put to ye.”
Harriet set her feet apart, not unlike a pugilist readying his stance.
Callum rubbed his jaw, for this next topic was of even greater import. “I know what I did tae Katie was unforgiveable. She and I will both have to come to terms with the mistake I made. It is plain to see that ye love Katie, that ye want to protect her. And, to ye, that means protecting her from me.”
Her nostrils flared. She didn’t disagree.
“Your instincts to protect her do ye credit. But ye do not know the depth and breadth of my remorse. I am haunted by regret by day, by night—every moment of every blasted hour. I see what I gave up, and it cleaves my soul in two.” He took a breath. It was odd how easily the confession rolled off his tongue to this near stranger.
“An eye for an eye,” Harriet returned without flinching.
He blew out a breath. “Perhaps ye are right. Perhaps it is fitting after what I did to her. But I am determined to win Katie back.” He looked her square in the eye. “And I know full well that means I will have to win ye over as well.”
She cocked a brow in challenge, and he could almost hear her saying, I’d very much like to see you try.
“I tell you this to give ye fair warning. Because ye do not know how stubborn I can be.” He straightened his shoulders and tipped up one corner of his mouth. “Make no mistake: ye will come to love me. When I set my mind to something, nothing can stop me. Not even that glare ye are giving me just now.” And with that, he winked and turned and walked away.
Seconds after Callum pulled the door closed, Kate pushed Cleo off her chest. The cat gave a meow of protest and then promptly curled up on the foot of the bed. Kate unfolded the mysterious note Callum had left with her. Large, slanted script in his masculine hand filled the pages. It was several entries from a . . . a journal.
The first page was dated four years earlier, two weeks after their wedding. Two weeks after Callum had left.
October 17, 1812
When I arrived in Edinburgh today, I inquired about the first outgoing ship. The Warwick departs tomorrow morning, bound for Barbados. I booked my passage without a second thought. As long as I can be anywhere but Scotland, I will be content.
October 19, 1812
I am so sick I wish for death. If such a thing were to come to pass, would my father then feel remorse?
November 1, 1812
Not two days after I found my sea legs, we hit a storm. I thought, growing up in Scotland as I did, I knew what fierce winds were. But we are in a storm with winds so mighty they make our gaotha look tame. Every moment I expect our ship to be dashed to pieces. She pitches up and down like a braying donkey, yet somehow, someway, we have made it through thus far. Only God knows if our good fortune will continue.
It is moments like these that force a man to search his soul. If I’d done something different, would I be here now? Was there no other way? And yet every time I question, I see the strings my father held, bending me to his will like a puppet on a string.
Words don’t feel adequate to describe the hatred that has anchored itself in my heart for my sire. Father feels too intimate, too cherished a word to use. If I believed it would do any good, I would have the ship’s surgeon bleed me and once and for all rid myself of any of his blood that runs in my veins.
If I’d stayed, I would have forever been that puppet, bending this way and that. So I cut the strings. Cut every attachment to him—my mother, my uncle and his family, Scotland. My wife.
Everything.
That is what I had to give up in order to break free of his control. The cost was high, but I cannot regret it, for I am finally my own man. And yet I know I am not. It is not merely my blood that has been tainted by my sire but my very soul. It has become a twisted, crippled thing, incapable of love, and I doubt there is anyone capable of making it whole.
I care for my mother; I care for my uncle and his family. I worry over Katie’s welfare. But love? No. The only love I have known is a weapon wielded by my father—to control and manipulate. And I’ll never allow it to hold such power over me again.
November 3, 1812
I dreamt of Katie again last night. Sometimes, in moments of weakness, I allow myself to consider what might have been . . . what would have happened had I met her in a London ballroom. I have no doubt I would have wanted an introduction, and once I had it, I’d have asked for her supper set. And the very next day I’d have sent a bouquet of flowers to be delivered, or maybe I’d have taken them myself.
If we’d not been forced to wed under the weightiness of my father’s machinations, might she have been the wife in my hazy imaginings—might we have created that happy family that grows more and more out of reach every day?
Kate set the pages down on the counterpane, her heart in a Gordian knot. Callum’s anguish fairly leapt off the page, the burdens he carried an anchor around her soul. How could she feel such sympathy, a great well of compassion for him, and yet still want to shriek at the inequity of what he’d done to her?
And what had changed? Why did he now believe himself capable of such commitment, capable of love, when he’d sworn he’d never be beholden to such an emotion again?
For the first time in a long while, Kate allowed herself to think of Grand-father. She’d never doubted his love. He had always, truly always, tried to make her happy. Her childhood, her growing-up years, were all tinted with a golden glow—the feeling, the very essence of being loved. A gift. One that had stayed with her long after his death.
It was that love that had made her so ready and willing to try with Callum. So eager to hurtle headfirst into what she’d hoped would be a loving marriage. For, in the world Grandfather had cocooned her in, love came as easily as breathing.
But when Callum had walked away from her, from their marriage . . . it had landed a blow so severe she had been rent in two. Her heart had grown so hard she worried it might never be capable of loving again. Despite a lifetime of being nurtured and cherished.
Callum’s upbringing, the little she knew of it, had been nothing like her own. Where love should have been, there had instead been a deep void. An unhappy marriage in which the husband despised his wife and she, in turn, feared her husband. And Callum was the fulcrum, the hinge on which his father’s expectations rested and his mother’s fears were realized.
It did not excuse what he’d done to her, but it certainly made more sense. Her own heart twisted, yearning for the what-might-have-beens Callum had so beautifully described in his journal. But dwelling on the what-ifs was useless. A painful exercise, really.
Bridges had been crossed. Decisions had been made. It was a waste of time to think on the possible paths that might have been taken. Better by far to take stock of their current status and see what was to be done from here.
Kate carefully folded the pages and laid them on the table beside her bed. Her very bones ached, but she ignored their complaints and climbed out of bed, intent on the contents of the desk by the window. There, in the bottom drawer, lay one of her sketchbooks. The one she hadn’t looked at in almost four years.
She took it out of the drawer, holding it away from her, handling it as one might a weapon. The blood in her veins thinned, rushing and pulsing in a mad race toward her heart. She set it on the bed and stared at it, its bound leather cover giving no hint as to the contents, each page a glass shard, each drawing as capable of wounding her now as when she’d sketched them all those years ago.
For a long minute she couldn’t breathe. It was as if a hand were fisted around her heart, its grip so powerful the organ ceased to function. She stumbled forward, caught herself on the edge of the bed, and pulled open the cover.
And was met with Grandfather’s loving gaze. His bald head, emaciated cheeks lined with wrinkles, and twinkling eyes. She’d forgotten about this sketch—the last one she’d drawn of him before she’d left for Scotland. Her way of taking him with her.
That simple reminder of his love, his constancy—it was precisely what she’d needed, for it gave her the courage to turn the next page. She’d documented so many gut-wrenching moments four and a half years past, and the time had come to face them.