Heart in the Highlands by Heidi Kimball
Chapter Seven
Four and a half years later
Muggy air clung to Callum’s skin, the white sun hot overhead even in the more temperate month of December. A palm tree here and there provided brief intervals of shade, though not enough to make much of a difference. After more than four years in Barbados, Callum still hadn’t grown accustomed to the relentless heat. The balmy breeze off the ocean, pleasant though it was, could never compare to the brisk, refreshing winds that gusted through the hills of Scotland. But he never allowed himself to dwell on that for long.
The constant drone of sugar mills sounded in the distance, but this close to the ocean, the ceaseless lap of waves on the shore made themselves heard as well. Most days Callum took his time on the walk home, allowing himself to enjoy the smell of coucou and fried flying fish that rose from small street vendors. Today, however, he was tired. It had been a busy morning in the shipping office, with dozens of last-minute requests before the Destiny set sail.
He walked up the cobblestone hill in long strides, anxious for a cool glass of lemonade and a short nap. As always, a sense of pride swept through him as he approached the pathway that led to Rowand House.
Built of sand-colored stone and stucco and framed by the vibrant red blooms of flamboyant trees, it represented all he’d accomplished these past years. An excellent business partner, hard work, wise investments, a few risky ventures, and more than his fair share of good luck had earned him a sizable fortune and this impressive home.
If it could be called such. Even the pride he felt in his accomplishments couldn’t fill up the hollowness inside him. He’d always imagined a home with children’s voices, laughter, a . . . wife. Instead, the house was as silent and empty as the chambers of his heart.
The white door swung open as he climbed the front steps. “Hello, suh,” Abisai said with the usual formal bow. His curly silver hair was trimmed close to his head, and when he rose, the largest, whitest smile in all of Barbados lit his face. “The sun is hot, hot, hot today.”
“It certainly is,” Callum greeted with an answering smile as he entered the house. “I saw a new ship in the harbor. Has the post come?” He’d been saving room in the shipment in case a list arrived with any last-minute requests from buyers.
“Not yet, no. But I expec’in’ it onytime now. Lemonade?” He held out a crystal glass.
Callum pushed up his shirtsleeves and took the proffered drink. “I’ll take lunch out on the verandah today, I think.”
“Yes, yes, sir. I tell Carina.”
Callum made his way down the long corridor that led to the verandah. Large palm trees provided ample shade, and he took a seat on one of the cane chairs, resting his elbows on the table. He sipped his lemonade and looked out to the ocean, a palette of sapphire blue and white-crested waves.
Carina appeared, steam rising off the tray she carried. “Yuh hungry, hungry? Puddin’ an’ souse, suh,” she said, setting the tray in front of him. “Yuh favorite.”
“Thank ye, Carina. Ye spoil me.” Callum rubbed his hands together and tried not to wince. He didn’t mind the spiced sweet potatoes, but the pickled pork had far too sharp a tang for his liking. Unfortunately, his soft spot for the old cook forbade him from telling Carina the truth. And he’d been a little too effective in convincing her he enjoyed it.
He unfolded the napkin and set it in his lap and then took a large bite of the pork and smiled. Carina beamed in satisfaction and then made her way back to the kitchen, her long black braid threaded with silver swinging behind her.
Callum swallowed down the pork and then ate several bites of the spiced sweet potatoes, trying to get the taste of the pork out of his mouth. Perhaps it was ridiculous that he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth, but besides his business partner and his wife—William and Lydia Reynolds—Carina and Abisai were the nearest thing to family he had here. The two of them had spoiled him these past few years, made his life as comfortable as it could be. Pretending to relish the pork seemed to be the least he could do.
“Suh, de pos’ here.” Abisai approached with a silver tray.
“Thank you.” Callum took the parcel of letters and scooted back from the table. Some were the usual invitations for upcoming dinner parties, and some were business correspondence. A brief and informal note from William, which Callum opened first, invited him to dine with him and his wife that evening. He’d go, of course. Next, he opened a letter from Gilmour, his man of business in Edinburgh. It was posted two months prior.
Lord Rowand,
I presume you are well and that the Caribbean has not yet succeeded in broiling you. Though I know you wished me to hold all matters regarding your family, I hope you’ll excuse my forwardness in bringing a serious matter to your attention. I received a letter from your mother yesterday informing me that your father has suffered from a severe apoplexy, leaving him utterly incapable of managing the dukedom—
A deep tremor moved through Callum, dark memories barraging him. He gripped the letter tighter, trying to focus on the words.
Wisdom dictates you return home at your earliest convenience. If you are not at hand to manage the many estates and holdings, it is difficult to say what might happen.
The letter crumpled under his firm grip. He’d spent these long years away discovering who he was when not in his father’s shadow. Before he’d left home, he’d always been a reaction to his father. Now he chose his own way; he was his own person. But even still he could muster no sympathy for the man. Indeed, he chafed at the very thought of returning home to give assistance to the man whose entire existence had been devoted to shaping others to his iron will. Thinking of his father dredged up old memories, old emotions that took him by the throat and threatened to choke him.
Whatever he did, he’d not simply react. He’d not make his decision based on painful ruminations on the past. He was not that man anymore.
But his years away hadn’t curbed his longing for home. A sharp pang lanced through his chest—he missed his mother and uncle fiercely and was half-tempted to board the Destiny and set sail for Scotland at once. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t write them, and he hadn’t, afraid any contact with them would weaken his resolve to stay away until his father’s death.
But how could he not respond to the call of duty? He well knew the heavy burden of the dukedom and the many people who depended upon its management. How could he turn away from such need? And, truth be told, the thought of being back on Scottish soil was like air to his oxygen-starved lungs.
He smoothed out the creases in the paper and read on, anxious for any more information that might give him insight and point him in the right direction.
Last time you wrote you asked if your wife had responded to any of your letters. I have received no correspondence from her to forward to you. She continues to have her monthly allowance withdrawn by her solicitor in London, but she has never requested excess funds from the monthly stipend you have allotted.
To my knowledge, she remains at the cottage bequeathed to her upon her grandfather’s death. I have made no further inquiries as to its whereabouts, but I can if you so wish it. I am including her solicitor’s name and place of business below in case you wish to see to the matter yourself.
I anxiously await your instruction.
Callum let the letter fall to his lap, the pages flapping in the slight breeze. Katie. He tugged at his limp cravat. Even now his thoughts of home were inexplicably tied up with her. This sweltering island had done nothing to banish his memories of her and the short time they’d spent together.
But she’d made her feelings abundantly clear. Callum had written her countless letters over the years. Letters of apology. Letters of explanation. Letters of hope for reconciliation. Her only reply had been silence. Much as he wanted to make things right between them, he’d not force something she didn’t want.
The knot that had formed in his stomach tightened. He jerked to his feet and began pacing along the wide verandah, running a hand through his hair. If he did go back, he needed to speak to William immediately. His closest friend and business partner deserved an explanation—and he’d not be satisfied with vague answers.
Just yesterday, Callum’s complicated past had been buried in the furthest recesses of his mind. Now it was an immediate and pressing reality. Callum glanced back at the table, where the Reynoldses’ dinner invitation lay atop the other letters. He’d always planned to eventually tell William the truth of what had brought him here. He’d just never imagined that eventually would come so soon.
It seemed an eternity before the liveried footmen came forward and began clearing away plates. Callum blew out a long breath, grateful the dinner hour was over. Each and every course had been excruciating.
Mrs. Lydia Reynolds laid her napkin on the table. “Shall I leave you gentlemen to your port?”
“How charming of you to stand upon ceremony when it’s just the three of us,” her husband said, “but we aren’t talking business tonight. The Destiny sets sail tomorrow morning. I dearly hope we won’t hear of her again for another three months.”
She settled back in her chair and smiled, her raven-black hair shining in the candlelight. “Good. You know how I hate to be excluded.”
“You exclude yourself, my dear, for you find our talk of business a bore.” An indulgent smile crossed William’s weather-beaten face. He was only forty, but his many years in the navy had taken their toll.
“Perhaps there is some truth in that.” She turned to Callum. “You’ve been unusually quiet this evening, sir. Has William been running you ragged?”
It took unusual effort for Callum to raise his mouth in a smile. “As always.”
“Hardly. I’m always the one trying to tell him to ease off.” William huffed, scooting back his seat a bit. “But I am glad you came tonight. We’ve hardly seen you the last few weeks. You’ve been working like a packhorse.”
Normally, Callum would have made a flippant remark, some joke about how he did all the work and William saw all the returns. Tonight he didn’t have the heart for it.
Lydia’s expression grew serious. “What is it? Something is amiss. You’ve not been yourself at all tonight. And it is more than your extraordinary work habits to blame.”
“Perhaps this is a topic better suited for the drawing room,” Callum said.
“You’re making me uneasy,” she said, rising from her chair. Both gentlemen followed suit.
William gave Callum a sidelong glance as they accompanied Lydia to the drawing room. Lydia and William settled themselves upon the sofa, and Callum chose a stuffed chintz chair beside them. Lydia wasted no time, immediately turning her steely gaze on him.
Callum smoothed a hand along his leg. Much as he dreaded it, he got straight to the point. “I received a letter today from my solicitor in Edinburgh. My father has suffered a stroke.”
“Oh,” Lydia said. “No wonder you’re not yourself. Even though you and your father have never seen eye-to-eye, it’s still . . . dreadful.”
William’s eyes widened a little, his comprehension apparent. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Thank ye.” He dipped his head.
“You’ll need to return home, of course,” William said.
Callum nodded. “I’m afraid so. I can sell ye my shares, if you’d like, or—”
“Nonsense. I can oversee the bulk of things from here. I’m underfoot here at home, aren’t I, Lydia?”
Lydia turned toward her husband, her gaze full of love. She reached for his hand. An entire conversation ensued without either of them saying a word. It was the same thing Callum had witnessed in his aunt and uncle’s home, that attunement that occurred in a loving marriage. It made Callum’s chest tighten with a yearning he’d long ignored.
“There’s something more, isn’t there?” Lydia asked, jolting him from his thoughts.
“More?” he echoed.
“You’ll hardly be sad to leave Barbados behind. You’ve been longing for Scotland ever since you set foot on this island. And though things with your father are far from perfect, it seems as though—”
“I’ve a wife,” Callum said abruptly.
Those three words shocked both of his friends into silence. “A wife?” William said in utter incredulity.
Callum gave a sharp nod. And then he told them, in a voice devoid of emotion, of his arranged marriage, of the agreement he’d made with his father, and of his leaving. “She’s not replied to a single one of my letters,” he said, drawing the story to a close. “She wants nothing to do with me. And who could blame her?”
William rubbed his jaw. “It’s no wonder you’ve always worked like the devil is on your heels,” he said finally.
Callum’s mirthless smile faltered when he saw Lydia’s black brows snap together.
“I’ve never taken you for a fool,” she said harshly.
The way the two of them were looking at him made him feel the full weight of his wrongdoing. “And here I thought you knew me so well,” Callum said.
“Of course she’s never written!” she said as if he hadn’t spoken. “It’s no wonder, abandoning her as you did.”
Though she hadn’t said anything he didn’t already know himself, despair spread through Callum like a Highland fog. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth. He hadn’t known how badly he wanted a true marriage with Katie until he’d realized just how out of reach it was.
“You must go to her. Now. If she wants nothing to do with you, then so be it. But let her tell you that face-to-face before you accept her answer.” Lydia looked at him, her eyes boring straight into his soul. “The hurt you’ve inflicted will be deep. But I believe, if you want it badly enough, anything worth having can be repaired.”
Callum shook his head. “I broke it long before it was something worth having.”
Lydia glanced at her husband, her lips forming into a tight line. “Then, you have your work cut out for you.”
William drew closer to his wife, settling an arm around her shoulders. “Lydia is right. The alternative is what? A life alone? No family of your own? The Destiny leaves at dawn tomorrow. I think you’d best be on her.”