“Of course.” Mrs. Hume put down her cloth and walked off in the direction of the kitchens, while I closed the door and thought fast. If I went up to my bedroom she’d probably move her polishing operation right along with me. There were miles of wainscoting to polish in MacLaren Hall. What I needed was a diversion. I scanned the room, spied a telephone, and a plan clicked into place. Hurriedly, I dialed, and began speaking the moment I heard Willis, Sr.’s voice.
“It’s Lori,” I said in low, urgent tones. “I can’t explain now, but I need you to do a favor for me. A really big favor, right away. Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Yes, Miss Shepherd.”
“Then write this down.” The phone number of MacLaren Hall was printed on a small card affixed to the phone. “Did you get that?” I asked, glancing at the door. He read it back to me and I raced on before he could ask any questions. “I need you to call that number in about twenty minutes and ask for a Mrs. Hume. That’s H-U-M-E. She’s a housekeeper at a big old place way up in northern Scotland. Keep her on the line for as long as you possibly can, and don’t mention my name or Bill’s or anything about Dimity Westwood. Don’t tell her who you are, either. Can you do that?” Every muscle in my body tensed as I waited for him to give the matter his due consideration.
“I suppose I could present myself as an American relation,” suggested Willis, Sr., finally. “I could, perhaps, be in the midst of conducting an investigation into the genealogy of my family.”
“Perfect!” I said. “You’re a genius, Mr. Willis—and thanks. I’ll explain soon and, remember, give me twenty minutes. I have to go now.” I hung up the phone and was back behind the pile of dusty books in plenty of time to assume a suitably studious appearance. When Mrs. Hume arrived with the tea trolley, I closed the book I had opened at random, and yawned languorously.
“Gosh,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hume, but I don’t think I’ll have that tea after all. To tell you the truth, what I really need is a nap. I believe I’ll go up and stretch out until the men come back.”
Mrs. Hume’s lips tightened, but she conducted me up the main staircase without comment, pausing only to pick up her basket of polishing supplies.
“Is there anything else you require, Miss Shepherd?” she asked when we arrived at my room.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hume, but I think I’ve bothered you enough for one day.” I yawned again, and hoped I wasn’t overdoing it. “Thanks again for the tour. This is a marvelous place.”
Mrs. Hume’s head turned at the sound of footsteps on the staircase. A red-haired girl in a maid’s uniform approached, then proceeded to astonish me by dropping a curtsy to the housekeeper.
“Please, ma’am,” said the girl, “there’s a telephone call for you. A trunk call.”
“A trunk call?” Mrs. Hume queried sharply. “For me? You’re certain?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the girl. “And Mr. Sinclair has come about the stove.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Hume’s knuckles went white on the handle of the basket. “Tell Mr. Sinclair to wait in the kitchen. I will attend to him presently.” The girl bobbed a curtsy once again, and left. Mrs. Hume turned back. “I trust that you will have a restful few hours, Miss Shepherd. I shall be up again shortly, to make sure you have everything you need. You will excuse me.”
“Of course, Mrs. Hume. Good luck with the stove.” When both sets of footsteps had faded into the distance, I sprinted up the hall. I placed a trembling hand on the doorknob, sent a quick prayer to the god of locks, and followed it with thanks when the knob turned. Slipping into the room, I closed the door gently behind me, then leaned against it to catch my breath. I felt so much like a little kid playing hide-and-seek that I wanted to giggle, but when I turned to view the room, the laughter died in my throat.
It was a boy’s room, still and silent, washed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun. A stuffed badger peered down from the top of the wardrobe, and the shelves above the bed were crowded with clockwork tanks, lead soldiers, and gleaming trophies. A battered leather binocular case dangled from the gun rack in the corner and schoolbooks were arranged in ranks upon the bookshelves. Above my head a squadron of model airplanes hung at dramatic angles. An unfinished one, made of balsa wood and tissue paper, sat on a table against the wall, still waiting for its wings. I turned a slow circle to take it all in, then crossed the room.
The desk was covered with pencil drawings of gentle hills, a patchwork valley, a rose-covered cottage with a slate roof. The smiling face of Dimity Westwood looked out from a graceful silver frame that had been placed to one side. I looked from the portrait to the softly shaded drawings and knew that this was Bobby’s room, preserved in amber. The center drawer of the desk held pencil stubs, bits of eraser, a broken ruler—and a tattered exercise book that bore the name ROBERT MACLAREN. Burning with a sudden flush of shame, I closed the drawer and turned away.
This was no game. Blinded by my own cleverness, I had forgotten that we were dealing with death and loss and wrenching grief. I had betrayed the trust of my host, and I had invaded what must have been, for him, a shrine. My very presence felt like a desecration. If this was what it took to help Dimity, then I would have to fail her. I got up from the desk and headed for the door.
I was halfway there when it opened.
23
Andrew MacLaren stood erect in the doorway for a moment; then his shoulders drooped. I feared for a moment that he would collapse, but he called upon some inner reserve of strength, pulled himself to attention, and entered. Bill followed, closing the door behind him.
“I see that you have found my brother’s room,” Andrew said in a soft, tired voice. “When I saw Mrs. Hume, I suspected… but no matter. Had you waited, I would have brought you here myself.” He pulled the chair from the desk and sat down, gesturing for us to sit in two others. He raised his eyes to the model airplanes overhead. “I have tried to keep it the way it was during his last visit. The last time before…” Andrew rubbed a hand across his weary eyes. “Perhaps I have tried to keep too much unchanged.”
He reached over to pick up the photograph of Dimity, and the words he spoke were spoken to her. “I have tried to keep my anger unchanged, but it has been hard, so very hard. You cannot warm yourself at the fire of anger without chilling your soul. I am an old man now, and it seems that the fire has died. All that is left is sorrow, and guilt, and the cold and certain knowledge that I was wrong.” He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, gently dusted the frame, then returned it to the desk, taking care to place it in exactly the same position. He twisted the handkerchief absently for a moment; then his hands relaxed and he folded them calmly on top of his cane.
“You wish to hear of Dimity Westwood,” he said. “Dimity, my brother’s bonny Belle. He met her at the Flamborough and, for Bobby, one meeting was enough. He knew at first sight that he had found all that his heart desired. He told me he’d proposed to her on a hill overlooking heaven, that he planned to return there after the war, to the place he had first discovered love. He asked me to look after his beautiful Belle if anything should ever happen to him, and I promised, upon my oath as a MacLaren, that I would do as he wished.
“It was such an easy promise to make. His love for Dimity enveloped him in a—” Andrew passed a hand through the dust motes dancing in the sun, “a golden haze. I had never seen such happiness before, and I have never seen it since. It was exquisite, the kind of love that admits no envy, no jealousy. I was dazzled and warmed by it and felt sure that Dimity would feel as I did, that it would be worth any sacrifice to keep that golden aura glowing.”