A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(74)

“You are verra persistent, aren’t you?” she finally remarked.

I shrugged one shoulder. “I have to be.”

She studied me for a moment, a transformation coming over her face. “Aye, I suppose you do.” Dust swirled upward as she slid the books from the shelf and passed them to me. “Your mother was much the same.”

She looked up to meet my gaze, as if challenging me to turn away.

I swallowed, forcing my feet to remain planted where they were rather than flee. Gage needed more time with Miss Margaret.

“I wouldn’t know,” I replied softly. “I was just eight when she passed.”

She nodded. “And children dinna often see their parents as full people—wi’ flaws and triumphs, hopes and dreams—until they’re older.”

I supposed this was true, and I’d barely had that chance, as my father had died when I was just two and twenty.

“My aunt . . . I asked her about what you told me,” I explained. “She . . . she said that Mother was happy here at Poltalloch. With you. But . . .” I broke off, uncertain how or if I should continue.

“But she wasna happy wi’ Edmund,” she finished for me.

I nodded.

She turned away for a moment, and when she looked back, her expression was troubled. “It’s true. I held no illusions where my nephew was concerned. Edmund was a scoundrel and a rotten husband. But her husband he was.”

I took this to mean, and so he held all the power over her, for it was true.

“And she loved him. Despite it all, she loved him.” She shook her head, as if at the futility of it all. “If he’d allowed her to remain wi’ us at Poltalloch, it might have made matters bearable. For a time, we even thought he might do it.” Her mouth flattened. “But no one would have ever described Edmund as considerate. So off he took her.” Her gaze slid toward the door. “I think Meg took it hardest.”

“Your sister was close to my mother?” I replied, not entirely surprised to hear this.

“Greer was kind.” Her eyes glistened with a sad wistfulness, one that brought a lump to my throat. “That’s what I remember most aboot her. Her kindness. Even in spite o’ the fact that life was no’ always so kind to her.”

All I could manage was a nod, remembering her kindness, too. Even as a child, I had seen it in the way she treated others—whether a maid or a countess. I’d recognized its extraordinariness because so many others were not.

“When Edmund died, we invited her to live wi’ us here at Poltalloch, but neither o’ us was surprised when she decided to return to her family.” Her mouth curled in an attempt at a smile. “Years later, when she met your father, we were relieved to hear what a steady, honorable gentleman he was. Reports were they were verra happy together.” She seemed anxious for reassurance that this was true, and I was relieved to be able to give it to her.

“They were,” I said with a gentle smile as I conjured up an image of my parents together—the glint in their eyes, the way they leaned into each other.

“I often hear that your sister, Lady Cromarty, is thought to be verra like your mother. But I must say, you remind me o’ her. Rather startingly, in fact. At least, the way I remember her.”

She was right. Alana was often compared to our mother. Once upon a time, my sister might have been annoyed by this, but now she viewed it as a high compliment and badge of honor. While I, on the other hand, had never been favorably linked to her. Yes, I had her lapis-lazuli eyes, but on me the color and shape had become too garish, too big, too witch bright. I knew I possessed some of her other features, for I saw them in Alana’s lovely face, but in me these were ignored.

To hear Miss Campbell say that I reminded her of my mother made me want to weep, even as I wanted to ply her for more details. Except I suspected I already knew what she meant. When she had known my mother, Greer’s life had been in turmoil—filled with sorrow and pain. She had likely been more subdued, more contained—something that had marked me all my life. Even now, when I was happier than I’d ever been, could ever imagine being, my past marked me. The trials I had been through and the anguish I had experienced had transformed me, perhaps permanently. It was those scars Miss Campbell saw in me as much as the physical traits my mother had passed along to me.

My voice quavered when next I spoke. “Did you ever see my mother again?”

She smiled sadly. “Once. When she came to visit her sister at Barbreck. Oh, we were invited time and again, even to her wedding to your father, but travel is hard for Meg. She had a bad spell and was even almost too sickly to see Greer when she visited, but your mother insisted on seein’ her in her room anyway.” Her eyes crinkled with amusement. “Even in spite o’ your father’s mild protests. She was expectin’ your sister, so he was verra protective o’ her in her condition.”

This brought a smile to my own face, able to empathize with my mother, for Gage had been much the same way.

However, I could not dwell on that thought long. Not seeing how Miss Campbell’s gaze strayed toward the door again, perhaps realizing how long she’d been away from her sister. I had no way of knowing how much time Gage needed, and I had one more question, so I launched into it before my hostess could begin inching her way toward the door.

“It’s come to our attention that Lord Alisdair Mallery often received visits from a Signor Pellegrini, an Italian muralist,” I told her, hoping she would view the clumsy change of topic as my having been persuaded to confide in her. “Did you ever suspect he might be the forger of the Titian?”