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On our last day in Scotland, I’ve escaped to the 2500-square-foot rectangular brick and glass early nineteenth-century conservatory. My condo would fit inside two and a half times. I’m not here to write. I gave that up on the first day. After I check up on Max, who is recovering well, I curl up on one of the white wicker couches with a book to read, but I haven’t even tried to open it. My phone and earbuds are untouched on the glass-topped table next to me. I’m here to be alone. To hide out.
We’ve jettisoned our plans for visiting clan castles and whisky tasting at Aberlour. It’s raining, so no impromptu cricket or croquet for the kids.
No dolls’ tea parties with Liz’s girls. No neighborly cocktail parties with too many neighbors and too few drinks. If I took baths, I’d immerse myself in bubbles, knowing I’d have a modicum of privacy. Taking a shower of comparable length would have someone banging on the door. Probably Max.
I’m hit with a pang in my chest. Max is lying down in the library. I’m sure Viktoria checks up on him every few minutes. Fortunately, his injuries were slight since tomorrow we leave for Paris.
I was expecting the entire week to remind me of British golden age mysteries set in English country houses between the wars. The reality has been quite different. I want to make sense of everything—the threats to Max, what being part of his family means, whether we will spend most of our time in Chicago, or we will chunk if life up among different geographic points. I’m not used to taking other people’s priorities into consideration and the learning curve is endless.
Curled up, a Grant tartan throw loosely over my legs, I luxuriate in the humid heat and the peace of my refuge. Incessant pings from large raindrops sound from the glass roof soaring thirty feet above the slate tile floor rather than a gentle plop. I wonder if the noise is from hailstones.
No little white ice pellets are visible. Water sluices down the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that nestle between brick piers. A huge eucalyptus I didn’t notice before scents the air with a refreshing medicinal perfume. The fragrance is welcome in relieving my perpetually stuffy nose. They dotted a few wicker pieces around. No flowers, thank God. I rub my nose as I imagine a massed display of histamine-inducing predators lurking in corners.
At the snick of a door latch, I assume one of kids is calling me for some meal or event. Ian’s gone, but everyone else is still here. We all decamp tomorrow. Max, JL, and I are flying from Edinburgh. Everyone else is going back to London, leaving Brian and Viktoria empty nesters once more.
“How are you, la mia stellina?” Max’s rich baritone holds a note of anxiety
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “But you…” I pause, looking at his pinched expression. “Are you in pain?”
He echoes me. “I’m fine. It’s only a minor concussion.”
I stretch and unwrap myself from the throw, preparing to move. “Is it time for another meal?”
“No. You can sit back down. I want to talk, nothing else.”
I scooch myself up to give him some space. He sits down awkwardly. When I focus on his face, instead of eyes frosty with pain, his are the gray of soft clouds.
“Marry me,” he blurts.
My heart stutters, focusing on the silver strands that streak his blue-black hair. He’s my own Lord Peter Wimsey, wooing Harriet Vane in a Scottish mansion rather than an Oxford college. My slightly wounded knight, clad not in shining armor but in a heavy gray cable-knit sweater and black jeans.
My stomach fizzes and my ears buzz. I press my fingers against the tragus in each ear, hoping to relieve the sense of blockage. With a rising sense of panic, I see his lips moving, but I can’t hear anything he’s saying. I lift a shaking hand and cover his mouth with my palm.
Time stretches and compresses over and over. Icy chills run through me.
The rough pads of Max’s fingers stroke my cheek. Slowly, sound penetrates; soft murmuring infiltrates my returning consciousness.
“Cress?” The urgency in his voice sounds like a combination of concern and anxiety with a raw, sandpaper edge.
“I’m not sure I heard what you said after you asked me to marry you.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, and his lips bow in a small smile. “That was the important bit. The rest was persuasion and justification.”
A hot flush works its way up from my chest to my ears. I try ineffectually to fan myself with one hand as I push the throw off with the other.
“Well? Are you game? I can’t imagine life without you.”
“Can’t we have that life without getting married?”
“Maybe? I don’t know. I know I’m greedy and I want it all. Official. Recognized. I want everyone to know we belong to each other.” His voice catches. “Witnessed by our family and friends.” Deep coughs erupt, as if they are tearing his chest open. He still has some residual effects from the car fire.
I reach out and touch his arm. The sound goes on and on. I struggle out of the couch. “I’ll bring you some water.”
He holds up a hand. The coughing subsides slowly and he grabs my wrist, pulling me back down. “Please, Cress. Think about it. Please.” He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a worn dark blue ring box with a gold crest. Inside is nestled what must be another family heirloom.
What! How long has he had this? When did he prepare? How did he know this was for keeps?
“Per sempre, la mia stellina.”
