He kept his eagle eye on the kids as they played—Andrew running, Cat perched on the edge of a bench writing in the book again. Macaulay had been so silent the entire hour that when he cleared his throat, the sound rumbling up from the depths of his large body, it was as though a volcano had begun to bubble over in the quiet tranquility of the park.
Bertie jumped, but Macaulay only fixed a sharp gaze on her and began to speak.
“I won’t lie to ye, lass,” he said in his blunt way. “I saw Mr. McBride with you upstairs after his fancy supper night before last, a-kissing ye.”
Chapter 11
Bertie’s face went scalding hot. Macaulay only watched her, daring her to deny she’d been in Sinclair’s embrace, which, of course, she couldn’t.
“He weren’t kissing me—” Bertie broke off. Explaining what Sinclair had been doing would be much more delicate and somewhat embarrassing. “What if he was?”
Macaulay kept his eye on her, the man looking out of place in this tame, manicured park. He’d be more at home striding across sweeping hills, his kilt swinging, his hair ruffled by a wild Scottish wind.
“I don’t blame you, miss,” Macaulay said. “Ye have to forgive him for it.”
Bertie blinked, her lips parting at this unexpected turn. She’d been sure Macaulay had been about to blister her with an admonishment. “I have to forgive him?”
“Aye. He’s not been himself since . . . well, in a long time.”
Bertie took a breath, trying to recover from the surprise. “Not since he lost his wife, you mean,” she said. Her voice softened. “It was hard on them all, wasn’t it?”
“Aye, lass. This has been a house of grief for a long time.” Macaulay shook his head. “He’s a good man, is Mr. Sinclair, for all his wild ways.”
“Is he wild?” Bertie asked, perplexed again. “But he goes off to a job every day, like a respectable gent.”
“Now, he does. But I was Mr. Sinclair’s batman in the army. We were sent to parts of Africa that would make you wilt away. His men respected him more than anybody, would do anything for him, would die for him. When he was off duty though, whew.” Macaulay took on a faraway look, one that held fondness. “He loved his whiskey, Mr. McBride did, and his pranks, especially on English officers who were prats. He’d make them look like fools, but he was so good a soldier his superiors wouldn’t punish him. He was a fine officer, though. No one better in a fight, always brought his men home.”
Bertie listened, soaking in the information. Mrs. Hill had told her a few things, but this was the first time she’d gotten an outpouring about Sinclair’s past. “Why’d he leave the army? If he was so good at it?”
“Met his wife, didn’t he?” Macaulay watched Andrew leaping over a series of stones he’d set up. “Miss Margaret was a pretty thing. Miss Caitriona looks much like her.”
“I’ve seen her photo,” Bertie said. One smiled from a frame on top of the dresser in the nursery. The picture was grainy and dark, but she could tell that the woman had been quite comely. “Mr. McBride was much in love with her, wasn’t he?”
“Aye, that he was, lass. He resigned his captaincy and went into chambers in London—his grandfather had been a barrister there, and they took him on easily enough. Miss Margaret encouraged him, and he started to rise. No telling how far he’ll go—all the way to the Queen’s Bench, I wouldn’t wonder. He grew famous as a junior, and was offered silk pretty quickly. He and Mrs. McBride were a fine couple, loved by everyone they knew.”
Bertie’s heart squeezed, fully aware Mrs. McBride had been a paragon. “But she died, poor lady.”
“That she did.” Macaulay’s voice went quiet. “It was a long illness, and the two wee ones nearly went with her. Thought Mr. McBride would go himself, of grieving. The problem was, Miss Margaret had tamed him, but I think she tamed him too well. When she was gone, there wasn’t much left of him.”
“Hardly anything.” Bertie’s heart ached as she thought of the sadness in Sinclair’s gray eyes, as though he waited for some reason to come alive again. “He’s all emptied out.”
“We look after him,” Macaulay said. “Mrs. Hill and me, and the others. We make sure he’s all right and doesn’t grow too morose. We need you to help us with that.”
Bertie nodded. “I will.” Of course she would. That’s why she’d come, wasn’t it?
Macaulay gave her an approving look. “Mr. McBride, he carries on—does his cases and all, and he don’t say no to the ladies—but his heart’s in the grave.” His look turned sharp again. “Remember that.”
“Yeah,” Bertie said, her own heart seeming to shrink. “I will.”
When Bertie returned to the house, she gave the children their regular lessons—the history of Britain, sums from a book of maths, and French. Bertie enjoyed the history, was good at the maths, but let Cat take the lead in French.
She thought about what Macaulay had told her as the children read and wrote, a little lump forming in her throat. The sensations of Sinclair holding her hand yesterday evening when they sat in his study, so chummy, and his mouth on her fingers the night before lingered. Bertie had felt special, singled out, the woman with whom he’d chosen to share his troubles.
Everything’s dark for me, Bertie. But there’s a little flicker of light, the tiniest one. It’s above me every night, in the nursery and you next to it.