Taming the Heiress (27 page)

Tears stinging, Meg ducked her head to apply her attention to her drawing, though the page blurred before her. "Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. I shall keep it in mind."

Chapter 16

"Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Logan." Seated in a wooden chair beside a wide, polished mahogany desk, Dougal reached into his pocket and pulled out a small linen-wrapped package. He laid it on the desk surface.

Samuel Logan, a heavyset gentleman with gray side-whiskers, a leonine head of dark hair, and a preference for tobacco, for his clothing reeked of it, nodded. "I always have time for a kinsman of Sir Hugh MacBride. Chambers Street Publishers was honored to produce the great poet's work." He gestured toward the bookcases that lined his walls, where Dougal noticed that his uncle's volumes of poetry and other writings were prominently displayed. "And we have published something of yours, as well."

Dougal laughed softly. "Nothing quite as memorable. A series of my articles about lighthouse design appeared in the
Edinburgh Review
a few years ago, and your firm published them in book form.
Principles of Pharological Design with Respect to the Forces of Nature
is hardly exciting reading."

"On the contrary, it must be fascinatin' stuff," Logan said. "We have respectable orders every autumn for
Pharological Design
from engineering classes at several universities in Scotland and England both. That must give you a wee income, eh?" He smiled, folded his hands. "What brings you here, sir? Have you another treatise on lighthouses for us to consider?"

"Actually, I did bring something, though I am not the author," Dougal said, sliding the package forward. "I hoped you might find it interesting. A dear friend who lives on a Hebridean isle wrote this little journal. Although I do not have your talent for judging the best in books, I think it worth a moment of your time."

Logan reached over an untidy pile of papers and a scattering of leather-bound books and picked up Meg's journal. Setting a pair of gold-wire glasses on his nose, he flipped through the book for a minute or so, nodding to himself thoughtfully as he turned the pages.

After a while, he looked up. "Did the author appoint you to be messenger, sir? Or is it authoress? I detect a distinctly feminine sensibility to this anonymous journal." He peered over his spectacles.

"It was my idea to bring it here. Miss MacNeill gave me her journal as a gift, but I believe she would not mind my showing it to you. In her modesty, she does not think her work worthy of publication. As you can see, it is not a personal diary, but rather a chronicle of nature on the Isle of Caransay."

"Aye. Fascinatin'." Logan slowly turned pages, murmuring. "Remarkable. Your friend is quite talented, sir." He continued to read, nodding. "Her drawings are skillful and pleasing, and very precise. Yet her descriptions are poetic. Exquisite thing, this wee book. It's as if we're peeking into a lady's diary while she shares her love for her home." He turned a few more pages. "She brings the island to life, and she seems very much a part of it... yet she remains mysterious throughout, giving no clue to her identity. Marvelous, actually. Unique."

"I agree. I hoped you might like it."

Legan paged through the book for a while, then glanced up. "Is this the completed work?"

"There is another one that she is finishing now. Both treat the flora and fauna, weather, the geological character of the island and its adjacent reef, and so on. She has a particular gift, I think, for capturing the beauty and variety of life on the island, and the moods of the sea and the seasons, all with these elegant, precise drawings. I can assure you that the other journal is equal in merit to this one. She plans a third journal as well."

"Might she allow me to see the other one?" Logan paused to exclaim his admiration for a sensitively rendered drawing of seals sunning themselves on Sgeir Caran.

"I believe so, sir. She has spent years on her journals for the pure joy of the work, but I think she also dreams of sharing them as books for others to enjoy."

"We may be able to arrange that for her. This is remarkable, really." Logan nodded. "There is a great deal of interest in the Highland culture just now. People are mad for Scotland, sir, for its history and its culture. Mad to tour the Highlands and purchase any souvenir that links them to Scotland. Some think we are wrong to perpetuate the romance of plaids and pipes and heather, when our country is so very different from that, but I say all this interest helps our economy and our reputation for romanticism and mystery. The queen herself writes Highland journals, did you know?"

"I had heard something of it."

"A Hebridean journal like this one, written and illustrated by a Scotswoman, would be highly popular. They would be beautiful volumes... aye, more than one." He tapped the desk with his fingers, thinking.

"Of course, we would send the drawings to the best engraver in the city for exact reproduction of the details. We could add hand-colored, tipped-in illustrations. Possibly we could also produce a smaller edition with line engravings at a lower cost."

"Perhaps," Dougal said, "they would look well as a set with green leather covers and a tooled design of flowers on the front. The gold lettering on the spines could read '
A Hebridean Journal,
by M. MacNeill.'" Logan considered him for a moment. "I like that very much. I shall remember it." He nodded. "Aye, people would be mad to own such a lovely set of books. A naturalist's view of the Isles. Brilliant! Do you think your authoress would agree to allow us to publish them for her?" Dougal smiled. "I believe she would, sir."

"Mr. Stewart, thank you for bringing this to me. How may I contact Miss MacNeill?"

"I met her through some of her kinfolk on Caransay. Since I'll be returning there soon, I'd be happy to deliver a letter to her through them."

"Good." Logan handed the journal back to Dougal, then took up a sheet of paper, dipped a pen, and began to write.

While Logan was occupied, Dougal flipped pages in the little book, pausing to glance at careful studies of seashells, their spirals touched lightly with washed color. Along the side of the page were some notes in Meg's small, rounded handwriting.

Periwinkles and large and small whelks found on the western Shore, Innish Bay. The whorls hold the soft, delicate colors of a dawn sky. Within the pink-shadowed spiral of the whelk, the sea sings its ancient song.

A shiver ran through him, deep and secret, as if Meg herself had whispered in his ear.

On other pages, Sgeir Caran emerged in clean lines and hatched shadowings, its shape unaltered by black powder blasts. Images of the rock filled three more pages, combined with studies of birds, including the eagles that nested on the rock.

Eagles mate for life,
she had written beside a sketch of two birds in flight above the majestic rock,
and this pair has been together many years. Their loyalty is transcendent. To see them soar over the great sea rock in perfect unison is to realize the profound poetry of their devotion. Theirs is the pure love of two dedicated souls who, once joined, will never part.

He closed the book quietly.

Logan sealed an envelope and handed it to Dougal. "I have taken the liberty of enclosing a cheque with my letter in the amount of one hundred pounds. I can offer the lady a little more once I have discussed the matter with my partners. Until then, I hope this will secure the privilege of publishing her journals. I assume that a sum of money would be welcome to her."

"Thank you, Mr. Logan. Very welcome, I imagine. And it is a generous gesture of faith."

"You may wish to act as her adviser, Mr. Stewart, since you have some experience in publishing yourself."

"Small experience, but I would be glad to be of assistance."

"If her journals become as popular as I expect, thousands of readers will soon know her name, and her bank account will benefit. Assure her of that." Logan smiled. "Please take the book and the cheque to her. I hope to meet with her soon."

Nodding, Dougal slid the envelope and the little book into his pocket. "I am sure the lady will be pleased."

Logan looked at him keenly. "But you do not know for certain, do you, sir."

"I admit I took something of a risk in coming here."

"You are a loyal friend, sir. Convince the young lady that this is her golden opportunity. I hope her own dreams are the equal of your dreams for her."

Dougal stood. "Believe me, sir. I hope so, too."

* * *

"Certainly, Mrs. Larrimore, if you think we will need extra staff for the soiree, please hire them," Meg said. She stood in the drawing room with Angela Shaw and Mrs. Larrimore, the housekeeper of Number Twelve Charlotte Square.

"You'll find willing maids of service at Matheson House," Angela suggested. "It is newly established, and there are several young women there eager for work."

"Huh," Mrs. Larrimore said dubiously. "
Them
lassies."

"They are well-bred young women caught by unfortunate circumstance," Meg said. "Many of them desire honest work. You can hire a few to act as kitchen maids and upstairs maids for the evening, at least. We will need some ladies' maids, as well."

"Well. I suppose I could inquire," the housekeeper said.

"Excellent. Now, we shall have music and a little dancing for our private assembly," Meg said. "The drawing room will be large enough if some of this furniture is removed to the upstairs rooms. The carpet should be rolled and placed elsewhere, too."

"The musicians can set themselves in that corner, near the garden doors," Mrs. Larrimore said, pointing to a roomy area beside the wide glassed doors leading to a small conservatory. "And we'll set conservatory plants about in pots."

"That will be lovely," Meg said. "Our own roses in the conservatory are still plentiful. We could use some of them. Mrs. Shaw, are the other flowers ordered?"

"Yes, madam. Yellow and ivory roses, mixed with other flowers for variety and color. They will be set about the room, and the buffet table will hold an arrangement of a tower of sugared fruits, very pretty. I personally made some tiny nightingales of silk and paper in the Japanese method to set among the flower arrangements, in honor of Miss Lind, since she is called the Swedish Nightingale."

"Splendid idea, and I'm sure very lovely. You have a delicate hand for craftwork." Meg turned to look around the room. "We'll use this room for music and dancing and the dining room for the supper buffet, with the doors left open for mingling. We'll need to designate two upstairs rooms for dressing rooms, one for the ladies and one for the gentlemen."

"Aye, madam," the housekeeper agreed. "I've told the maids to ready the blue bedroom and the upstairs sitting room. The rooms will be comfortably heated and well lit, and there will be plenty of soap and water, towels, combs, brushes, pins, and so forth set out for the guests."

"Excellent. And it will be a nice touch to provide rose water, lavender water, and some almond-rose cream for the ladies to use. And, of course, add salts and cologne as well."

"Aye, I'll see to all of it. And I'll order the grooms to lessen the fires in the grates toward evening. With so many guests, the fires will make the place too warm. We don't want anyone fainting!"

"A good thought. And we'll need two maids to take the cloaks and hats and store them for the evening in one of the bedrooms."

"Aye. A wee slip of paper pinned to each cloak with the owner's name on it will prevent a kerfuffle later."

"Good. I'll leave the rest of the details to you, Mrs. Larrimore. We'll be coming in that evening from the concert at the Music Hall, and most of the guests will be arriving from there, too. All must be in readiness by eight o'clock, I think. Oh, and I'd like a lady's maid exclusively for Miss Lind, as well, who will arrive later than the rest, of course."

"Katie will do. She's a good lass. What of the menu, madam?"

"I would not change a thing," Meg said, and she looked at Angela. "Mrs. Shaw, what is your opinion?"

"I like Mrs. Larrimore's suggestions to provide fruit ices and lemonade earlier, with a light buffet supper served at midnight," Angela answered.

Meg nodded agreement. "It will be a very late evening, but the concert from seven to nine dictates that it must be so."

"Very good, then," Mrs. Larrimore said. "I'd best get back to work, madam and Mrs. Shaw. Cook will start baking long before dawn on that day, and there will be a great deal to do—meats to roast for chilled slices later, dishes and punches to prepare, extra ice to be ordered and stored. And of course, the whole house cleaned and polished, top to bottom. It will all be done, though. Do not fret a bit about it. Oh, and the dressmaker from Paris will be here this afternoon."