In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams by Karen Ranney

Author:Karen Ranney [Ranney, Karen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-01-26T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

Before her mother left with Lennox, she sent Lily to draw her a bath and Mabel to make a dinner tray. The bath sounded wonderful; Glynis hadn’t stopped shivering since leaving the yard. But she didn’t know if she would be able to eat.

She made it upstairs to her bedroom, walking carefully and with deliberation. If she paid attention to her steps, she wouldn’t be thinking of anything else. Not Lennox’s errand to tell Lucy Whitaker her husband was dead. Not the sight of Gavin stretched out on the deck of the Raven. Certainly not the memory of all that blood.

She removed her dress, sure the fabric was ruined from the rain. Lily worked miracles, however, so perhaps she could coax it back to life and keep it from acquiring the rusty looking stain of some black fabrics.

At the knock, she grabbed her wrapper, donned it, and opened the door.

“Your bath is ready, Miss Glynis.”

Before she could thank her, Mabel appeared at the top of the steps, breathing heavily as she carried the tray into the room and placed it on the bench at the end of the bed.

Had she emptied the larder? The tray boasted a teapot with cup and saucer, along with a bowl of stew, four slices of buttered bread, some greens, and enough desserts to feed everyone in the house.

“I always thought a little bit of sweetness helps on a sour day,” the cook said.

Today most definitely qualified as sour.

“You ring now if there’s anything you want. Either me or Lily will fetch it for you straight away.”

Glynis blinked away her tears. “Thank you, both of you.”

The older woman nodded and whispered something to Lily. The two servants left her, and she closed the door, leaning against it.

She pressed her fingers over her eyes, trying to ease the burning from unshed tears.

Gavin Whittaker was dead and his death reminded her of all the other men on her conscience.

In the beginning she’d been like everyone else in Washington, caught up in the excitement of words and emotion. She’d known some handsome men in uniform, wished them well, and kissed one on the cheek for good luck as he marched off to battle.

None of the five men she knew returned.

Over the months, she’d begun to think of the war as a gaping maw, trapping young and not so young men. The gaiety, the frenetic energy, the excitement gripping Washington in the beginning had changed to a dread beginning at dawn and lasting until the end of daylight.

What other battles would be published in the papers? How many more men would die for a cause each side felt right and just?

The British Legation had been required, officially, to be neutral, but their neutrality had made them the repository of secrets. Or as Baumann once said, the legation was a treasure trove of intelligence. They learned of conditions in the Confederacy through English subjects living in the southern states. They received dispatches from attachés throughout the South, each one of them revealing something that could be used in the war.

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