“I still cannot understand why your Mr. Stacy would want to marry an Indian woman,” Mrs. Terrell said. “How positively awful. Imagine living in intimate quarters with a heathen.”
Juliana thought of Priti, the daughter of the woman they discussed, and felt her temper stir. “One must have lived with Indian people all throughout the house, in India.”
“Well, yes, the servants,” Mrs. Dalrymple said. “One didn’t marry them.”
“Was she a servant, then?” Juliana asked, her heart beating faster. “This lady?”
“Good heavens, I have no idea. One didn’t like to ask. I suppose she could have been from a good Indian family, but I doubt it, you know. They never let their women leave the purdah, and certainly not to marry into Scottish families.”
“I see.” Juliana clicked her cup to her saucer. “What happened to Mr. Stacy?”
Mrs. Dalrymple stilled. Her husband came alert on the other side of the room, ceasing his droning to Mr. McGregor.
Into the ensuing silence, Mrs. Dalrymple said, “Mr. Stacy was killed. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. McBride, but we very much believe that your husband was his murderer.”
Chapter 12
Juliana couldn’t move. Her wrist hurt from the angle at which she held her teacup, but she could not unbend it to set her cup down.
“Killed?” she repeated, her lips stiff. “Yes, I heard that Mr. Stacy died in India, but in an earthquake.”
“That is what Mr. McBride told you,” Mrs. Dalrymple said. “We are taking steps even now to present the proof that your husband killed Mr. Stacy.” She lifted her cup again. “There. I have warned you.”
Mrs. Terrell looked faintly embarrassed, and Mr. McGregor slammed his whiskey glass to the table. “Bloody nonsense! McBride’s a good lad, wouldn’t hurt a flea. You’re talking out your ass.”
Mrs. Terrell gasped. “Really, Mr. McGregor, your language.”
“Why mind my language when you are bandying about the name of a good Highland lad? Ought to be ashamed.”
“To be honest, my dear,” Mr. Dalrymple, more soft-spoken than his wife, said, “we don’t know that he hurt our Mr. Stacy. We have only the rumor.”
McGregor picked up his whiskey. “Well said. I like you, Dollimple.”
“Dalrymple,” Mr. Dalrymple corrected.
“Dull Pimple.” McGregor drank down the rest of his whiskey.
Mrs. Dalrymple looked distressed. Juliana rose. “I believe we shall leave now. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Terrell.”
McGregor got himself to his feet, his kilt swinging. “Excellent, lass. All this liquid makes me have to relieve myself. Nice to have met you, Dall Blimple.”
Juliana somehow got herself out of the room. She stalked out of the house, kindly thanking the Scottish maid who brought her things, resisting the urge to tell the girl to find other employment.
But, Juliana thought viciously, when Castle McGregor was ready, she’d offer positions to everyone in the village, and the Terrells and their friends would have to either scuttle back to England or fetch and carry for themselves.
Behind her she heard Mrs. Terrell admonish Mrs. Dalrymple in a low voice, and Mrs. Dalrymple’s shrill reply, “He killed our Mr. Stacy. There’s no doubt in my mind. And he should swing for it.”
“Not to worry, lass,” McGregor said cheerfully to Juliana as they climbed into the dogcart behind Hamish. “I got our revenge on them. I spit in the whiskey decanter.”
Elliot walked. He hadn’t brought the shotgun this time, to Mahindar’s relief, though he’d never loaded it the last time he’d taken it out. Priti had been with him, and he hadn’t wanted to risk the little girl getting hurt.
Today he tramped through bracken and mud, skirting small fields thick with summer grain. To the east, the land rolled down to the sea, which stretched wide and blue to be swallowed by the gray horizon.
He walked to forget the look on Juliana’s face when they’d climbed up out of the cellars, her cheeks streaked with dirt and tears, her pretty gown ruined. She’d gazed at Elliot in anxiousness, fear even, a look he never wanted to see again.
She’d discovered today what Elliot truly was. If she’d known when they’d sat together in the dim chapel what she knew today, she’d never have made the smiling suggestion that Elliot marry her.
While in the cellars this morning, Elliot had truly believed himself back in that prison. All his senses had told him so—he’d heard the men speaking the dialect of the tribe, smelled the filth that accumulated in the holes, tasted the dust in the air. He had been there.
And yet, Elliot couldn’t remember for the life of him why he’d gone into the tunnels beneath the boiler room or how he’d even found them. Exploring the house? Searching for something? He had no idea.
Being outdoors was safer. No danger of him confusing this country with the wilds in the northern Punjab and Afghanistan, where a knifelike wall of mountains marched across the horizon, and the sea was only a distant dream.
Here, conifers and leafy trees soared to the sky, covering the folds of mountain. Meadows full of wildflowers and wandering sheep stretched along the hills.
Elliot found himself emerging from the wood to a whitewashed cottage with a slate roof, a vegetable garden filling the side yard. A young red-haired woman tended the garden, crouching to pull weeds with her gloved hands. She heard Elliot’s step and rose, smiling with delight.