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Had she borne the child? Mr. Bartholomew had asked.
William didn’t know. He had encountered her around the Yuletide, and now it was summer. It was entirely possible she had given birth. It was also entirely possible she hadn’t.
Then Mr. Bartholomew began to rehearse. For his performance he’d selected the moment he would enter the village’s largest public house to inquire after his lost love. He took the small step to the head of the train car and then pretended, by walking between the seats, to enter the common room of the public house, look around him and then ask if anyone could direct him to the home of the woman he would marry,Miss Althea Simpson!
William thought that was a rather theatrical entrance. But it was nothing compared to what followed.
Mr. Bartholomew played all the parts.
“Who’s asking?” he asked in a surprisingly good Scottish brogue, playing the part of the proprietor.
“It is I, the father of her child, the love of her life. How could I have known that our love bore fruit? How could I have understood that she needed me? She did not send word. She simply...disappeared!” He paused here and looked at the rest of them. “I’ll work on the exact wording, of course.”
Lord Aleksander took an interest and sat up. “Who are you, man?” he asked, playing the part of a patron.
“Robert Barstow, at your service.” With a flourish of his hand, Mr. Bartholomew bowed.
“Who is that, then?” William asked.
“A fictional character, obviously. I shan’t have a mob of angry country folk searching for me when this is all said and done.” He cleared his throat and lifted his chin. “Robert Barstow, at your service. Where is she? Where is my love?‘Who could refrain that had a heart to love and in that heart courage to make love known?’”
Lord Aleksander smiled. “Shakespeare, eh? A nice touch, Mr. Bartholomew.”
“Thank you.”
Lady Aleksander took part, too. “We won’t tell you, sir. How can we know if what you say is true? How can we know if you mean harm to the poor girl?”
Mr. Bartholomew considered this. “What harm could I possibly cause her, other than to provide for her, care for her and my child and cherish her all my days? If you won’t tell me, I shall remain at this table until Althea Simpson is brought to me. With her golden hair, her gentle laugh, her large feet and manlike hands...” He paused here and glanced around at them. “They will need to understand that I indeed know who she is, you see.” He resumed his character again. “I will not rest until I have her. How could this secret be kept from me? How could she have kept my child from me?” He clapped his hand to his heart and grimaced. “Does she not understand my love for her? How could she have slayed me in this way?”
Lady Aleksander looked at her husband. “That ought to get tongues wagging, don’t you think?”
“It ought to get him killed,” Ewan muttered.
William had to agree. This was looking more and more ridiculous with each passing mile, and he despaired of anything working.
“How do we find the true father?” he asked of no one in particular, his desperation spilling out of him.
“Molly McGuire,” Ewan said.
“Pardon?”
“Kitchen lass. Goes to market every day. She could pass a message to the kitchen lass at the Simpson house, aye?”
Now everyone looked at Ewan, startling him.
“That’s really rather perfect,” Lady Aleksander said. “My lord, you must write a letter to Miss Simpson and tell her what we’re about.”
“Is it really perfect?” William groused. He gestured at Mr. Bartholomew. “All of this seems absurd.”
“I said I’d work on the wording,” Mr. Bartholomew said, clearly wounded.
“You must have faith, my lord,” Lady Aleksander said. “Nothing ever happens without faith.”
Well, that was a problem, then, because William was leaking faith all over the car.
ITSEEMEDAweek instead of one very long and interminable day by the time they arrived in Glasgow. William hired two carriages, one for the short ride to the village of Hamilton, where tomorrow Mr. Bartholomew would launch his performance—hopefully an improved one. The second carriage was for the longer ride to Hamilton Palace, where the Aleksanders would be the guests of the duke and William for a night or two.
On the way William toyed with the idea of warning the couple about his family, but in the end decided there was nothing he could say that would prepare them for a palace in a perpetual state of construction, an overabundance of antiques and a father with some very wild ideas.
