“There’s one more thing I have to show you, Miss Hart,” he said after the foreman left. “The cellar.”
He took her to the back of the building, where a flight of steps descended into the darkness. He reached for a lamp which hung from a nail in the wall, struck a flint, and lit it.
“Follow me.”
At the bottom of the steps, he raised the lamp.
“Look.”
A row of barrels was stacked neatly against the far wall. Letters had been stamped on the end of each barrel, and as she moved closer, Lilah could discern the writing.
MacGregor 1823
Underneath were other, fainter letters.
H. Pelham & Co.
“These are Mr. Pelham’s barrels!” she exclaimed.
“I purchased his sherry casks,” he said. “But don’t worry, I gave him a good price.”
He approached a barrel and traced the line of the letters with his finger. “I hope it’s worth it,” he said. “The waiting will be the worst part.”
“When will you distribute them?” she asked. “Your foreman said you’d already received an order.”
“Not for three years, at least,” he said. “The whisky needs to mature properly. Ideally, I’d lay them down for at least five years, but I’ve sunk more than I can afford into the business and must generate a return as soon as possible. Not every buyer is willing to pay three years in advance.”
“Three years! Won’t it go bad?”
His laugh echoed around the cellar.
“No, lass,” he said. “It could go untouched for twenty years and taste all the better for it. We only need to worry about the angels.”
“The angels?”
“For each year of maturation, some of the spirit is lost, and legend says it’s the angels taking their due. But we can forgive them, for over the years, the taste deepens and mellows. The longer the maturation, the better the taste. And, of course, the higher the price we can command.”
“And how would you know,” she said, “if the production of whisky has been illegal until now?”
“Whisky has been produced hereabouts under the light of the moon for centuries,” he replied.
“Then, the Excise Act must be an unnecessary burden for you.”
“On the contrary,” he said, “I’ve always been an advocate for the Act, for it has legitimized production, which will ensure that whisky can, at last, enter the drawing rooms of London.”
“And you believe society’s taste will run to whisky?” she asked.
“I’ve staked everything I have on it.”
“Then I applaud your bravery,” she said.
He pulled out a pocket watch and opened it. “We must be leaving,” he said. “Ma will wonder whether I’ve abducted you.”
Lilah smiled. “Does your mother take her duties as chaperone seriously?”
“She’s taken a liking to you, lass. She sees the same qualities in you that I do.”
“You’re too generous.”
“I think not,” he replied. “You’re the most honest person I know.”
His eyes shone with faith in her, and his smile warmed her bones.
What would it be like to be loved by him?
Chapter Fifteen
By the time they returned, night had fallen, and Lilah was unable to see the mountain. After Sarah finished pinning her hair, she made her way to the drawing room.
Fraser stood by the fireplace, a glass in his hand. Sitting by the window was his mother, and beside her, a young woman.
Mrs. MacGregor rose to her feet. “Miss Hart, I trust you enjoyed your excursion?”
“Very much,” Lilah replied.
“May I introduce you to Miss MacKenzie, a close family friend?”
The young woman stood and dipped into a curtsey. She was exquisite. Flame-red hair had been arranged in a cascade of curls to frame a heart-shaped face. She had perfectly-proportioned features—a small nose, high cheekbones, and a rosebud mouth. Her eyes, a clear green, narrowed as she looked at Lilah, as if sizing her up to determine whether she posed a threat.
“Charmed, I’m sure, Miss Hart,” she said.
Lilah mirrored the curtsey. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss MacKenzie.”
Despite the fire, a frost had descended in the room.
Mrs. MacGregor gestured toward the dining room. “Shall we go in?”
“Of course,” Miss MacKenzie said. “We’ve been kept waiting, and dinner will be getting cold.”
“It’s just an informal family supper,” Fraser said.
“Nevertheless, traditions should be respected,” she replied. “Come, Fraser, take my arm. You’ve been away from home too long. London has claimed far too much of you already.”
She glided across the room to Fraser, who held his arm out, and she curled her hand around it and leaned close. “We’ve missed you,” she said in a loud whisper. “I trust we’ll see plenty of you now you’re back, where you belong.”
He displayed no emotion, but Miss MacKenzie’s face glowed with satisfaction.
“Miss Delilah,” Mrs. MacGregor said. “Would you accompany me?”
Lilah took the proffered arm and walked with her hostess into the dining room. She had never seen a room so Scottish. Dark oak panels lined the walls, decorated with candle sconces. On one wall hung a woolen plaid with a red background, decorated with blue and green stripes, the contrasting colors shimmering in the candlelight. Beside it, hung a tapestry depicting a hunting scene—a stag in the forefront being speared by a band of men who looked like savages with shaggy red hair, heavy swords, wearing plaids in a pattern to match the wall hanging. A huge mountain dominated the background, above which a pair of eagles circled.
In the forefront, where the deer had been speared, blood ran from the wound, staining the rocks red.
Unlike the delicately embroidered screens of the parlors in Mayfair, the tapestry depicted life without embellishments. Nature in its raw fashion, together with the brutality and savagery of Highland life.
“Do you like what you see, Miss Hart?” her host asked.
“It’s like nothing I’ve seen in my life.”
“Look behind you,” he said.
She turned toward the opposite wall. A stag’s head mounted on a large, polished block of wood greeted her.
“Perhaps our guest finds our country a little too much for her,” a female voice said. Miss MacKenzie watched Lilah with a slight smile on her lips, though her gaze was hard and cold.
“Not at all,” Lilah said, “but I’ll admit you wouldn’t find quite such an honest depiction of a hunt in London’s drawing rooms.”
“Is that because the English are unwilling to face the truth?” Miss MacKenzie asked.
Lilah gestured toward the tapestry. “Were you to display such a raw picture of brutality in a Mayfair dining room, I doubt the diners would enjoy their venison as much.”
Miss MacKenzie gave a snort and reached for her wine.
“Do you find our honesty unsettling, Miss Hart?” Mrs. Macgregor asked.
“On the contrary, I admire it,” Lilah said. “I take it your ancestors are in the picture?”