True. The standards to which middle- and upper-class girls were held were stringent, unmercifully so, which had always made Bertie glad not to be one.
“One of the letters implied that maybe Cat wasn’t your daughter,” Bertie said. “But I wager she is.”
“Cat was born one year and two months after I married Daisy,” Sinclair said. “And James had been sent to prison after his arrest in Rome. Apparently he was wanted for many crimes. There is no doubt about Cat.” He smiled fondly. “Plus, she is very much a McBride. She reminds me of Steven when he was her age. Steven could be very quiet, even obedient, right before the devil came out. I was more like Andrew, shouting at everyone and running ragged over them.”
Bertie liked imagining a wild, blustering, shouting Sinclair. “But people might believe the letters. And the ones about me. Cat having a working-class pickpocket as a governess might look bad for her too.”
“I hadn’t planned to announce the fact,” Sinclair said. “My household staff is so grateful to you for taking care of Andrew and Cat that they wouldn’t mind if you were the devil himself. Anything to keep my unruly children tamed.”
“I wouldn’t say I’ve tamed them, exactly.”
“No, but they like you. They listen to you, and even respect you. I have never been good with children, and when I lost Daisy . . .” Sinclair stopped, swallowed. “Perhaps she was a confidence trickster to the end, because I couldn’t, for the longest time, let her out of my life.”
Bertie drew her hand down the silk of his waistcoat. “We never let go of the ones we most love. They’re always there with us, never really gone. As it should be.”
Sinclair gave a self-deprecating laugh. “So many say I’m morbid about it.”
Bertie shook her head. “You aren’t. You get on with your life, work hard, look after your children. You’re not like the queen—I hear she sleeps with a plaster cast of Prince Albert’s hand. I know she misses him, but that’s going a bit far, don’t you think?”
Sinclair’s sad look faded. “That’s what I love about you, Bertie. You have the ability to see things clearly. No fog. You look at a thing, and know it for what it is. I wish you could teach me to do that.”
“You know how.” Bertie laid her head on his shoulder, and Sinclair kissed her hair. “I’ve seen you do it in the courtroom, sizing up every person around you.”
“Easy when it’s someone else’s life. Not my own.” Sinclair kissed her again. “I’m glad you’re here to help me, sweetheart.”
Bertie was glad too. “We’ll get him,” she said. “This letter writer. We’ll find him, and then he won’t hurt you anymore.”
“And I love your optimism.” Another amused laugh. “Nothing in Bertie’s world is too difficult.”
Well, he was wrong about that, but Bertie didn’t have the words to explain. She was like Ian, she thought, only knowing how to talk about what was straightforward.
Also, she couldn’t think much when her heart was reveling in a warm little glow. One word had started the warmth. When Sinclair had praised her ability to see situations in a clear light, he’d said, That’s what I love about you, Bertie. Not like.
Love.
Blustery, snowy weather returned for a few days, before giving way again to sunshine. The children, tired of being confined, even to a huge house like Kilmorgan, clamored to go out once the clouds parted. Bertie, also wanting to be free of the crowd—though the English guests had started drifting to the train station after Christmas Day—suggested a walk to the ruins of the old castle.
Daniel had told the children about it with the animation of a born storyteller, including the chill tales of its ghosts. “Great-great-great-grandfather Malcolm and his beloved wife, Mary, are said to walk hand in hand on the battlements, looking down at the country they fought so hard for.”
“Rot,” Mac Mackenzie said when he overheard. “The old castle was pulled down after Culloden, and Malcolm and Mary started building this house. If they haunt anywhere, it’s inside here, where it’s cozy.”
Andrew wouldn’t be deterred from exploring the ruins, and Cat, in her quiet way, expressed interest. The entire Mackenzie clan started talking about an expedition, but couldn’t agree on arranging a time. They enjoyed arguing endlessly about it, though.
In the end, Sinclair put aside the piles of papers he was reading in preparation for returning to chambers, and took Bertie, Cat, and Andrew to the ruins alone.
The scramble to the top of the hill, over dark boulders and clumps of snow-covered heather, took time and much energy. They were rewarded at the top, however, with a magnificent view.
Bertie spread her arms, gazing across the open valley—Kilmorgan house looking small from here—to the hills beyond. The formal garden behind the manor house flowed out in a pattern of curlicues, like a large flower itself.
“You’d never know it looked like that,” Bertie said, pointing it out. “Unless you stood up here. Clever.”
“Garden designers in the eighteenth century enjoyed such things,” Sinclair said next to her. “Loved secret designs and things that mimicked nature. Meanwhile, nature is everywhere, if you only lift your eyes.”
“Don’t be a wet blanket. It’s beautiful.” Bertie swept her gaze across the wonder of the Highlands. “Funny, to be able to see so far, and see so much. Even from a rooftop in London, what you mostly see is other rooftops. And smoke. So much smoke.” Bertie inhaled the clean air, not a smokestack in sight.