Attired in Highland Gold (Colors of

Scandal Book 15) Sandra Sookoo

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 Attired in Highland Gold

Colors of Scandal
Book Fifteen

Sandra Sookoo

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Kindle edition
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All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the author. Likenesses of
characters to anyone living or dead is strictly a coincidence.

ATTIRED IN HIGHLAND GOLD © 2022 by Sandra Sookoo

Published by New Independence Books

ISBN- 9798201182717
Contact Information:
sandrasookoo@yahoo.com
newindependencebooks@gmail.com
Visit me at www.sandrasookoo.com

Book Cover Design by The Midnight Muse

https://midnightmusedesigns.com/site2/

Font placement and back cover by: David Sookoo

Publishing History:
First Digital Edition, 2022

*****

Dear Readers,
I have always wanted to do another romance set at Halloween, and so I have in this book. Except, that
holiday is called Samhain as the book is set in the Scottish Highlands. It was so much fun researching
games and legends.

Also, the heroine in this piece is a mom with two young kids. Combine the twins with ghostly
mischief, and you have a recipe for fun… or disaster.

If you’re interested in the lyrics to the lullaby that Caelan sings in this book, I’ve included them at the
back of the book. And if you really want to delve into what Caelan’s voice sounds like, I modelled
him on Josh Grobin.

I hope you enjoy this romance! I still had much to say once the previous book, Disguised in Tartan,
ended. ��

Sandra

*****

Dedication

Marilyn Parry, words can’t express how much your support and
encouragement have meant to me over this past year. Thank you.
*****
 Table of Contents
Blurb
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Lyrics to All Through the Night
Regency-era romances by Sandra Sookoo
Author Bio
Stay in Touch

*****
 Blurb
There’s no such thing as perfection but being stuck in the Scottish Highlands with a shot at a dream comes close.

Caelan Stewart—Lord Everly—only son to the Earl of Breckenridge, is in Scotland on a hunting holiday, but when an accidental tumble
on a hike gives him a badly sprained ankle and injures his wrist, the remainder of his holiday looks dull… until two red-haired scamps play
Halloween tricks on him while he’s preoccupied by their attractive mother.

Widowed two years and still battling grief, American Clara Snyder needs a distraction. Spending several weeks on an estate in the
Highlands that will end with a lavish ball on All Hallows Eve might be just the thing. She barely settles into life there with her two small
children when an intriguing Scotsman literally falls at her feet… and feelings she thought long dead come alive again.

As Caelan fills his time by bedeviling the intriguing widow and planning a few Samhain tricks, she falls under his spell. Desire grows, as
does the bond between him and her children. But he’s not keen on offering up his heart again after the violent death of his first betrothed
while Clara is leery of loving someone else for fear they’ll leave. The only way to a happily ever after is to jump in with eyes wide
open… and a bit of innocent, ghostly manipulation won’t hurt either.

*****
 Chapter One

October 21, 1818

Scottish Highlands
Twenty miles southeast of Aviemore

T he first time Caelan Stewart—Lord Everly—stepped onto

the terrace of the Buchannan hunting box, he breathed in the
crisp clean air of the Highlands and grinned.
This was the country of his grandmother’s people and some of that blood flowed in his veins
—a small part but he was glad to claim that. Here in the rolling hills with Castle Buchannan ten miles
to the northwest and a loch glimmering blue in the late October sunshine, he felt more connected to his
history than ever.
At the age of five and thirty, he’d probably only visited the area twice before, and both times
had been as a child or youth. Once he’d attained his majority, other things had kept his focus, and
being the Earl of Breckenridge’s only child was a daunting prospect at best. Responsibility rested
heavily on his shoulders, especially since his father’s health had slowly declined over the years.
It wouldn’t be long before the man would leave this mortal coil to join Caelan’s mother in the
great beyond, thus passing the title of earl to him. Though he’d prepared the bulk of his life for that
very thing, he didn’t wish it to come any time soon. At the moment, he enjoyed his freedom all too
much.
Which was why he’d arrived in Scotland instead of spending the upcoming holiday season at
his father’s estate in Hampfordshire.
Everywhere he looked, breathtaking vistas met his gaze, and though it was a tad chillier than
he would have liked, in many ways the air was quite invigorating. The hunting box would be his home
for the next several days, at least, then on the thirtieth of the month, everyone would relocate to Castle
Buchannan to partake of Samhain festivities as well as a ball. Since two weddings in the family
connection had recently concluded—his second cousin Duncan wed Rebecca a couple of weeks ago,
and that was quickly followed by one of Duncan’s other cousins—Mathias, who married the daughter
of an earl—the sitting laird had decreed the celebrations would continue well through Twelfth Night.
Quite frankly, Caelan looked forward to the change of pace from London. Town had become
dull and haunted by unsavory memories he’d rather forget. And since his best friend Donovan had
recently wed too, he desperately needed a new distraction.
Why the devil does every single man of my connection want to go and get leg shackled?
Having a wife meant a new weakness and heavier responsibilities. Being married meant a great
chance for hurt and devastation. Truth be known, Caelan wished for absolutely no part of that in his
life again.
Once was quite enough, and he’d barely survived that.
“Will you be woolgathering the rest of the day, mate, or will you come hunting with us?”
 His cousin—a few times removed, not that it mattered—Benedict joined him on the terrace.
He was Duncan’s older brother, married for years and the father of three children, all under the age of
ten. In fact, those hooligans were even now chasing each other about the grass below, playing an
intense game of tag if the hoots and calls were any indication.
Caelan snorted as Benedict handed him a rifle. “Of course I choose hunting, but can not a man
enjoy the land of his ancestors first?” He tugged at the hem of his brown tweed jacket. “After all, I
only just arrived two hours past.” The chill in the air seeped through his woolen breeches, but not
enough to make him shiver. Had they gone out at dawn’s first light, it might have been a different story
entirely.
“Aye, but do it on your own time. Red stag won’t wait for you to stop mooning about or
waxing poetic about the Highlands.”
The four other men of the hunting party laughed alongside Caelan. They were a good lot and
ready with jokes or ribbing. No one was immune to their teasing. It was one of the things Caelan
enjoyed about being here.
“No mooning allowed, man.” Brody, one of his other cousins, said with a smirk. “It’s bad
enough Benedict gave permission for women to join us here.”
The man in question rolled his eyes and made an obscene gesture with his free hand. “Where
is the harm if a man wishes to have his wife join him? It’s not as if she’ll be joining the hunt.”
Brody shook his shaggy head. “Cannae live one night apart, eh, even after all those years of
marriage?”
A trace of a flush rose up Benedict’s neck. “I can but why should I chance it?” He shrugged
and shot Caelan an exasperated look. “Besides, Susan enjoys the chance to be away from the village
or even life at the castle. And it gives the bairns an opportunity to wear themselves out.”
One of the other men laughed. “More like you want someone to warm your bed while you’re
here. Cannae fault you for that, man.”
The flush deepened. “Perhaps,” he said to more ribald laughter.
A grin tugged at the corners of Caelan’s lips, but he refrained from comment. While it was
nice to have a woman at one’s side, once that love was ripped away for whatever reason, a man
became leery to invite it in again. Instead, he changed the subject. “I imagine until Duncan and
Rebecca return from their wedding trip, you boys have a bit more free time.”
“Ha!” Benedict scoffed. He led the way down a set of stone stairs, away from the terrace to
the grass below. Since part of the hunting box was built directly into the hillside, the stairs essentially
wound around one side of the edifice. “You’d like to think so, but the old laird has taken it into his
noggin to have the castle fitted out for guests the next two months or so. And that means we all have to
pitch in. It’s another reason I’ve brought the family to Castle Buchannan.”
Brody snorted. “What the laird says, goes.” He spat upon the ground, for he was a bit uncouth,
at least out here in the rugged wilderness. “The old sinner found he likes having people underfoot,
ever since the damned weddings took place. Frankly, I think he enjoys ogling the women while
they’re dressed in their finery, but since his word is still law in these parts, what can we do?”
The teasing and complaining between his cousins were amusing, and as Caelan made his way
down the steps, he grinned. This was he needed in his life—a group of fellows unconcerned about
doing the pretty in London or of chasing skirts—and if that bonding occurred while out hunting, even
better. Not that he’d ever brought down so much as a duck let alone a red stag. The sentiment was the
same, and the outing was something he’d looked forward to for a long time. Of course, he hoped to
make a decent showing while out in the field, but that was beyond his control.
 “I’ll have to meet the laird when we retreat to the castle for Samhain. He sounds like a
character with many stories to tell.” That was another gem of coming to know his Scottish relatives.
And the laird was a cousin twice removed.
“Then be prepared for a dressing down as greeting and then a cutting assessment as to your
character and future,” Benedict said with another laugh. “He doesn’t enjoy wasting time and won’t
tolerate fools.”
Caelan laughed. “Have you fellows ever known me for a fool?”
One of the other men howled as if that were the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “We don’t
know you well at all. You live a posh life in London, far from the ancestral home. Being Scottish is
beyond your ken.”
“True, but blood is blood, right?”
Chuckles went around the group.
Brody shook his head. His unkempt black hair waved in the breeze. “There’s a difference in
living it and visiting it, mate.” He shot an assessing look at Caelan. “Prove to us that you’re man
enough to bag a red stag, then we’ll talk.”
“True enough,” Benedict added with a smirk. “Every good Scottish lad brings home a stag as
a coming-of-age gift.” He snorted. “Of course, they’re usually sixteen instead of your advanced
years…”
“Get off it.” Caelan gave his cousin a good-natured shove, much to the hilarity of the others.
“I’m as much a man as any of you. It makes no difference that I was raised in London. Some of us had
other responsibilities.”
Another round of laughter went through the group as they headed into the hills.
Brody poked him in the back with the nose of his rifle. “Ah, then to your elevated way of
thinking, we Scots are a simple lot. We operate on the principles of food, sleep, and sex with nothing
in between?”
“Why can’t a man have all of those plus a bit of refinement and goals for the future?” For that
matter, what were his goals? That sobered him quickly. If he thought to examine his life, he might not
like where he was headed. Being alone by the end of his existence was a terrifying thing to
contemplate, as was never being remembered.
If he didn’t let himself court a woman or even set up a nursery, would those things come to
pass eventually?
“Aye, he can, and we’re not the uncouth bunch you assume.” Brody pulled abreast of Caelan.
When he turned his head and met his gaze, compassion lurked in those brown depths. “We all have a
path to take. Neither is correct; neither is wrong. We are all trying to live in the best way we see fit.”
“And hoping to stave off loneliness,” Benedict added in a quieter voice. “Thus the reason I
brought my family with me for this trip.” He clapped a hand to Caelan’s shoulder. “You might think
about settling down while you’re in the Highlands, my friend. Lots of people will be in and out of the
castle. Perhaps you’ll find an eligible lady to court.”
It was his turn to scoff. “I’m not looking for love.”
Brody nudged him in the ribs with an elbow. “Then have a bit of fun with an ineligible one.”
Heat crept up the back of Caelan’s neck from the second round of ribald teasing and randy
suggestions of how to pass the time.
“For now, I plan to concentrate on learning the history of the Highlands as it pertains to my
family line. Perhaps indulge in a few Samhain traditions.” He pulled the brim of his slouch-style cap
lower over his forehead, for the higher they went in elevation, the colder it became. Next time would
require a muffler and a better coat.
“Aye.” Benedict nodded. “The children are looking forward to that as well. Neep lanterns and
apple dookin’ especially.”
“And don’t forget the ghost stories,” one of the other men added. “Or the guising.”
“Of course!” His cousin grinned. “Samhain is a grand celebration, and the folks at the castle
will do it up right.”
Caelan nodded. “I’ll wager you’re right. Women don’t factor into any of that.”
“Scotsmen never make good monks, friend,” Brody said into the silence. “Got too much
personality for a solitary life. Some of the tavern girls in Aviemore aren’t particular about bedmates.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Though trysting with a stranger wasn’t high on his priority list either.
Over the years he hadn’t been celibate, but he didn’t fancy intercourse with a doxy. There were too
many diseases that could kill a man, and he had too much of a future to look forward to.
“Leave him alone, mates. Caelan needs to concentrate on shooting a stag,” Benedict said with
a cheeky grin. “If he manages to do that, then we’ll see about how he should celebrate.”
As they climbed higher into the hills with the mountains ahead of them, Caelan was again
struck by the beauty of his surroundings. There was something to be said for the Highlands; there was
nowhere else on Earth that could compare, and he intended to heartily enjoy his time here while he
could. Bushes of purple heather clung to the hills. A few evergreen trees cropped up randomly about
the area. Tall grasses rippled in the breeze.
“If you come out in the early mornings, at times there is a mist or fog that hangs low to the
ground,” Benedict said as they crested yet another hill. “The clouds pool in the valleys and gives the
area a mystical quality. There is truly nothing like it.”
“I look forward to seeing it for myself.” In fact, he planned to spend much of his days hiking
and exploring, perhaps ask some of the local tenants for familial stories regarding Samhain. As a
jokester and a storyteller, Caelan adored entertaining in that way. Many a night he’d held a crowded
drawing room captive with a ghost story or two. When he wasn’t singing, that was.
That particular skill was something he hoped his rough and tumble cousins would never
discover about him. Imagine the ribbing he’d receive if they did.
“Hold!” The command, issued in a hiss by Brody, came with his raised hand. “Look.” In the
valley ahead, nestled between the hills and the larger, more craggy beginnings of the mountains, a
small herd of stag lingered as they munched upon the grass. Two of the deer sported large arrays of
antlers while the others—does—didn’t. A few babies were in the group, just past the fawn stage.
“Do we shoot from here?” Caelan had no idea how one went about hunting anything, but it
seemed they had a fantastic vantage point.
“No.” Benedict shook his head. “We’ll go higher. The rocks will hide us.” He pointed. “See
how one of the bucks is looking our way?” His voice lowered further. “They can hear us as well as
see us from this vantage point. Once we go higher, they’ll relax as we’ll appear out of view.”
Brody led the way through the scrubby brush and over rocky terrain. The rest of them
followed in a single-file manner. And when the other men kneeled behind bushes or boulders, Caelan
did the same.
The herd hadn’t moved from their spot, and from this new height, a tiny pond was visible. No
wonder they’d stopped there. Plenty of food and water to be found as well as a stand of trees beyond
that would provide cover.
“When do we shoot?”
“When you have a shot properly lined up.” Brody gestured with the nose of his rifle. “And
pray you are lucky enough to bag one. Poaching in these parts—as well as all over England—is
becoming a huge problem. Damned war with Boney depressed farms and whatnot.”
Caelan’s eyebrows elevated. “I had no idea.”
“No, you wouldn’t, living so high on the instep.” There was no censure in his voice, only a
matter-of-fact tone. “Tenant farmers are having a bad time of it just now, so have a care when you
return to England.”
Benedict nodded. “Indeed, and do better for the people in your care once you take the title.”
So noted, Caelan nodded. “Thank you for the reminder.” He moved closer to the edge of the
path, but as he kneeled to assume a comfortable position, his left ankle rolled. As he pitched forward,
he uttered a startled cry. No amount of scrabbling for purchase could halt the eventual fall, and in
front of God and his fellows, he tumbled tip over tail down the hillside, apparently hitting every rock,
bump, stick and hillock on the way. At some point he lost his rifle, for his left hand banged against
something hard. Pain shot through his ankle and wrist. Hell, everywhere on his person hurt like the
devil. During the uncontrolled slide, a distant shot echoed in his ears followed by a curse and a shout
of annoyance.
When he finally came to a stop in an ignoble heap in the valley and his heart ceased to beat
out a frantic rhythm, Caelan attempted to lever himself into a sitting position. “Well, damn.” As the
remainder of his hunting party streamed down the hill, he craned his neck in the direction where the
herd of deer had previously been. No longer were they there; no doubt his fall had alerted them to the
danger.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Brody advanced upon him as soon as the party
arrived. He held a gloved hand to his cheek. A think trickle of blood leaked past the garment. “You
bloody shot me!”
“How is that possible?” Hot annoyance rose in his chest. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I was
falling down the dashed hillside at the time.”
Benedict struggled to hide his amusement while the other men laughed openly. “It would seem
when you dropped your rifle, it went off. The errant ball grazed Brody’s cheek.”
With budding horror, Caelan stared at the other man who showed him the blood on his glove.
“My apologies. It was an accident.”
“Aye, it was.” Remarkably, Brody grinned. “It’ll scab over soon enough and be a tale I can
regale the company with. Ladies adore a wounded hero.”
“Obviously, our friend Caelan here is not suited for hunting.” Benedict offered a hand. “Ran
off the deer, sure enough. Announced yourself to every other animal in a five-mile radius too.” When
Caelan gripped the man’s hand and his cousin hauled him upright, as soon as he put his weight on the
left ankle, he nearly collapsed back to the ground.
“Shit.” The pain through the ankle was enough he could cast up his accounts imminently. As an
experiment, he attempted to wriggle his left hand, but answering pain in that wrist had the power to
make black spots swim through his vision. “It would appear I’m in a bad state, mates.”
Benedict and Brody exchanged speaking glances. “No, that’s not good.”
The shaggier man snorted. “I assumed we’d haul home a carcass this afternoon. Just didn’t
count on it being your sorry arse, Everly.”
Laughter went through the company.
Heat flooded Caelan’s being. “I suppose there’s no way for me to live this down?” It was
deuced awkward balancing on one leg like some sort of demented bird.
“Not a chance.” Benedict handed his rifle to one of the other men and then shored up Caelan’s
stance with a shoulder beneath his right arm. “Brody, get the other arm. It’ll be slow going, but once
we arrive, I’m sure we’ll all have a decent enough story to tell of how Caelan injured himself.”
“You aren’t going to tell everyone I fell down the hill?” he asked as Brody offered the use of
his shoulder.
“Oh, no,” the big man said with a cheeky grin. “We intend to tell everyone you were chasing
after rabbit, tripped in a hole, and then we saved your arse from pitching down the mountain.”
“What?” That was even worse than what truly happened.
“Or we’ll just say that you were frightened at the sound of the shotgun going off and bolted but
momentum took you down the rest of the way,” Benedict rejoined, much to the amusement of the
company.
“Buggars, all of you,” Caelan groused. “Just tell them what really happened. I’m rubbish at
hunting, but at least with the injury, I won’t need to go out again.”
“That’s true. You can stay behind with the women and children.” Brody howled with
amusement. “Nothing to do except make the best of it.”
“Take heart, cousin.” Benedict chuckled. “At least you didn’t shoot yourself in the arse. That
happened a few years ago to someone.”
“Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel better.” He shook his head. His pulse thrummed in time
to the aches in his wrist and ankles, which he hoped weren’t broken. In the span of an hour, his time in
the Highlands had gone from a much-needed holiday to a dreaded period of recuperation with nothing
but boredom ahead.
Damn and blast.
 Chapter Two

October 23, 1818

C lara Snyder once more clenched her hands in her lap to

quell their shaking as the traveling coach moved
ponderously up the hill that would lead to their final
destination for the next several days. Another one followed with their luggage and maids.
And this stop would be the last time she’d have together with her children for the foreseeable
future.
That fact sent a wad of unshed tears sticking into her throat. Leaving her children in another’s
care was the last thing she’d ever wished to do, but now that her husband’s pension had run out—for
whatever reason, the explanations in the official letter she’d received weren’t all that clear—there
was no coin incoming to pay the rent of their modest townhouse in one of the cheaper neighborhoods
near Mayfair, and there certainly wasn’t enough left over from that to provide the proper upkeep for
her six-year-old twins.
Pressing her lips together to keep crying at bay, Clara turned her attention to the window. The
Scottish Highlands were more incredible and completely different than anything she’d ever seen
during her life in New York City. She’d been born and bred in America, but when she’d married her
husband, she’d been introduced to the wonders of traveling due to his career in the English Navy.
Their initial meeting had been a bit of an accident. It had been a few years before the conflict
with the British of 1812. She’d been taking tea in a tea salon at one of the fancy hotels near the
waterfront when a group of sailors well into their cups had accosted her and a friend in the dining
room, all hoping they would agree to attend a society function later that evening. After numerous
declines, the sailors had kept on, and when Clara and her friend had attempted to leave, the men’s
insistence had grown more personal.
That’s when the man who would become her husband appeared. Oh, he’d been so dashing in
his naval uniform with fire in his eyes! The men referred to him as captain, and in short order, he’d
had the overly enthusiastic sailors in hand, but only after he’d taken an errant punch to the jaw that
had landed him directly at her feet.
But he’d smiled up at her from the floor while offering an apology in a to-die-for British
accent as patrons of the tea salon had clustered around, and she’d fallen beneath his spell of charm.
Six months later they were married, and she’d been whisked away, living wherever his orders took
him.
The twins had been conceived almost immediately. Unfortunately, Johnathan’s good fortune
had run out shortly after they’d turned four. He’d been away on what was supposed to have been a
routine mission, but an accident with one of the ship’s cannons had taken not only his life, but the
lives of two other crewman.
He’d never have the chance to watch his children grow into adults, nor would he ever know
how endearing they’d become. Jacob Johnathan—he’d been named after his father—and Susan were
the only things she had to remember him by, for since they had always traveled after marrying, Clara
didn’t have much in the way of physical mementos.
“I can practically hear you thinking, or rather stewing.”
The sound of her best friend’s voice yanked Clara from her remembrances. She glanced
across the narrow aisle and offered a forced smile. “I apologize. Perhaps I’m fatigued by traveling. I
didn’t realize how long it would take to arrive in Scotland from London.”
Mary snorted. “You are a terrible liar, my friend.” She kept her voice low, for the children
had fallen asleep an hour past. “I can practically see it on your face. You are fretting over your
future.”
“How can I not?” She and Mary had been friends for a few years and had met during a society
event within the naval community. At the time, Mary had been engaged to a dashing young officer, but
the man had proved untrue and had run off with a tavern maid. “What is there for me to be cheerful
about once this house party concludes?” Though she’d consented to remain with Mary’s family
through Twelfth Night, she’d already had a response back from Johnathan’s only living relative, an
aunt who’d consented to take the children while Clara found a paying position. She dropped her voice
even though the twins couldn’t hear. “I’ll have to leave them behind.”
“You can leave them with me.” Her friend shrugged as she glanced down at Susan who slept
on the bench beside her with her head on Mary’s shoulder. “I have no plans to remove from Castle
Buchannan after the holidays. Sometimes, a person needs family—however distant—around them
after life has battered them.”
“I can well understand the sentiment.” Shortly after she lost her husband, Clara’s parents died
in a carriage accident on the streets of New York. By the time she’d been notified by letter, months
had passed. They had been buried in the churchyard of the church they sometimes attended, and since
traveling back to America with two small children in two hadn’t seemed ideal, she’d directed the
rector there to sell the contents of their row house as well as the property. There was no reason for
her to go back; her parents had been the last of her living relatives.
“I know you do, but please consider—again—what such an action might do to your children,”
Mary said quietly. “If something were to happen to you while they’re in Surrey with Johnathan’s
aunt…” She shuddered. “It’s a mess.”
“Agreed, but what other choice do I have? We have nowhere to live, no coin to improve our
circumstances.” Clara peered at Jacob. His mop of red curls was in disarray, but in sleep, one would
never know how mischievous he was. “I refuse to make a living on my back, and it’s my hope to find
a position as a governess or tutor. In that way, I can rent rooms and send for the children. If I earn
enough, I can hire a woman to look after them while I’m away.”
“And what? See them every Sunday when you have a day off?” Mary scoffed. “That’s no life
for any of you.”
“No, it’s not.” Tears filled Clara’s eyes. “It’s so much different than I’d imagined. I had no
idea that losing a husband would have tossed my circumstances into such chaos.” If her parents hadn’t
died, she wouldn’t be at this crossroads, for she would have gone home to America, but here she was,
in the midst of struggle.
For long moments, silence reigned inside the coach. Then Mary spoke again. Her hazel eyes
danced with mischief. “You could marry again.”
Knots of worry formed in Clara’s belly. “It’s so soon, though. Only two years have passed.”
“Yes, and you’re out of mourning, and a widow with more freedom than unwed women are
allowed. Perhaps a romance will come from this trip to the Highlands.” She chuckled. “I’m certain
my cousins have many friends.”
“Oh, Mary, stop. I’m not ready for all of that again.” Her chest hurt from both missing
Johnathan and for the uncertain future ahead. “I loved Johnathan fiercely, but I refuse to marry again
merely for security. There would have to be feelings equal to what I had before… and honestly, I
don’t know if that’s possible.”
“Of course it is. You’re hardly a relic. Why, eight and twenty is perfect for finding a second
husband. And your looks haven’t yet faded. No doubt the men will fall all over themselves to win
your notice.”
“Such gammon.” She lifted a hand to pat a wayward lock of red hair back into its chignon.
“These looks didn’t find favor in London, so if I hadn’t met Johnathan, I’d still have become an old
maid.” Flame red hair and freckles all over her body didn’t exactly endear her to the men of the
English ton. Why so many of them found the tiny brown flecks objectionable, she couldn’t say.
“Men, quite frankly, are nodcocks.” Mary shrugged. “However, you know exactly what sort of
man you want. So that gives you an advantage.”
“Some days I wonder if that is true.” Clara turned her gaze back out the window.
“You can’t shut yourself away for the rest of your life.”
That might be true, but she needed time to grieve Johnathan’s loss properly. She hadn’t been
afforded the opportunity due to remaining strong for the twins. “I have my children.” And with losing
her parents so close to her husband, her mind was still left numb. Time to herself sounded heavenly
and she would have looked forward to it if the worries about their future hadn’t lurked in the
background.
“Except from your own admission, you’re about to shuttle them off to an unknown relative.”
One of Mary’s eyebrows rose. “Cutting off your nose to spite your face?”
“I want them taken care of.”
“Understandable, but you know nothing of this woman. She could be a terrible person.
Perhaps she hates children. What then?”
Clara shook her head. “I don’t know.” When her friend nudged her with a foot, she sighed.
“What?”
“Well, one of the reasons you came with me on this trip was to honor Johnathan’s Scottish
side, correct?”
“Yes.” Her husband might have been British, but his grandmother on his father’s side had been
Scottish. Though he’d rarely talked about those bloodlines, they had always fascinated him. They’d
often dreamed about what it might be like to visit the Highlands, perhaps connect to his people if they
could be found. Johnathan had always teased her, said with her red hair and freckles, she could easily
blend in with the Scots. “What of it?”
“Perhaps you should pursue that avenue. If your husband truly has relatives still living, there’s
a good chance one of my cousins—or even the laird of Castle Buchannan—can track them down for
you.”
“And then what?” She frowned. “Leave my children with them? It’s six of one, half dozen of
another in the same problem.” A sigh escaped. “The fact of the matter is, I don’t know anyone, have
no one I can lean on during this time, and no, I refuse to burden you with my children. You are my
same age and should be out dancing, flirting, letting eligible men chase you, not tied down with
motherhood.”
That is my responsibility and I’m failing.
 “Oh, la.” Her friend waved a hand. “You and I will prowl together or not at all.” All joking
left her expression. She tucked a tress of chestnut hair behind her ear. “In truth, Mama and Papa have
enough to worry about without having me underfoot. I’m rather looking forward to beginning a new
life here in the Highlands. Away from… everything.”
Mary was the fifth daughter to Baron Pershing, and as his health was beginning to fail, the
family—who’d been blessed with daughters for two generations—were struggling to locate an heir to
hold the title once he passed. To say nothing of the fact that Mary’s two oldest sisters were both
increasing and would deliver in a few months. Perhaps one of them would have that long-coveted
male. Add to that the fact she still reeled from her fiancé’s defection, and yes, Mary did deserve to
find peace.
“Life will certainly prove different here than in London.” If she were honest with herself,
Clara needed an opportunity for quiet and a new perspective. Perhaps here in this wild but beautiful
land, she would discover answers to all the questions she currently struggled with. “Already, I’m
fascinated by the views and vistas I’ve already seen merely from the coach.”
“Oh, you’ll be sucked into the magic of the Highlands before too long. Everyone is.” Mary
chuckled. “If you’re not careful, you’ll never wish to leave.”
“Only time will tell.” She sighed. “You’re certain your family won’t mind our intrusion?”
“Absolutely certain. Many of my cousins use the box during this time of year, and some of
them have families of their own. There will be children for the twins to play with. Hospitality is
sacred in the Highlands.”
An odd sort of building had come into view that looked rather like a fat forgotten battlement of
a castle. It was round, made from gray stones and built into the side of a hill, but it contained three
stories and was as wide as a large English manor might be.
“Is that the Buchannan hunting box?” Which was a rather strange name, for the building was as
far from box shaped as could be.
Mary peered out her window. “Yes. It might not look like much, but inside, it’s amazing.
Though round, it hosts ten bedrooms on the third floor, and there’s a circular reception hall in the
center on the ground floor. The second floor has a library, drawing room, morning room, parlor,
billiards. And the ground floor has a study, dining room, pantry, a formal parlor, a gentleman’s lounge,
a smoking room, as well as a ballroom.”
A giggle escaped Clara before she could recall it. “A ballroom? Do men who come up to hunt
often entertain?”
“Oh, yes. Here in the Highlands, everything is thought of as a celebration.”
“Yes, much different from life in England.”
“Isn’t that grand?” Mary grinned. “From all I’ve managed to glean about this place, it was
built the same time as Castle Buchannan. And the dearest part to me is that all the rooms are curved.
It’s amazing.”
The excitement in her voice transferred to Clara. “I look forward to exploring. Perhaps this
will usher in a most wonderful time in all our lives.”
Or else she could fool herself enough so worry wouldn’t eat her alive.
“And don’t forget, Samhain is upon us. There is always so much fun to be had, and the All
Hallow’s Eve ball at the castle will be the pinnacle. I can hardly wait.”
There was no time to answer, for the coach had rocked to a halt at the top of a circular drive.
As soon as the doors were opened, both Jacob and Susan woke. When they discovered travel was
finally finished, they sprang out of the vehicle to inspect their new, temporary home. Clara exchanged
a look with Mary, who shrugged, then they, too, left the coach.
The errant breeze ruffled through her hair and clawed at her serviceable navy skirts, but the
air was fresh and crisp, and there was a hint of woodfires in it that beckoned. It would feel wonderful
to stretch her legs with a walk after being confined to the traveling coach for the last five days.
“Jacob! Susan! Let us go inside and find our rooms. Then you can play.” As Mary led the way
into the building, Clara trailed after her. The twins bounced in around her, and then she was struck
dumb by the circular reception hall that was just as her friend had described it. “How lovely and
quaint.” The black-and-white checkered marble floor lent the area an air of whimsy, and all around
there were doors that led to different rooms, curved just as Mary had said. “This is wonderful.”
Various people milled about. Some eyed them with curiosity, and a few of the men had
expressions of admiration.
“I told you.”
The twins took up an impromptu game of tag, twisting in and out of the people filling the hall.
From the corner of her eye, a flash of color tugged at her attention. When Clara glanced in that
direction, a tall man with a wrist and ankle heavily wrapped with bandages tried to hobble across the
hall. As he grew closer, it was inevitable that one of her children would collide with the slower
moving adult. His good foot caught against one of Jacob, and despite the fact the poor man hopped
about in the attempt to remain upright, he eventually lost the battle.
He tumbled to the floor, coming to a halt at Clara’s feet. “Well, damn.”
As snickers issued from a few of the men who had gathered, she stared down at him. Chestnut
hair a tad longer than fashion dictated curled about his ears. Hazel eyes reflected pain. Aristocratic
features spoke to English traditions and bloodlines. A trace of a flush rose above his cravat while he
lay sprawled inelegantly on the floor.
“My apologies,” he uttered, and the baritone of his voice sent a few shivers up Clara’s spine.
“Still trying to learn how to navigate with the bum ankle.” The bottle green jacket he wore fit the
breadth of his shoulders and chest like a dream. A brown velvet waistcoat drew her gaze to his flat
abdomen. Buff-colored breeches clung to his legs and highlighted how fit he was, while scuffed
Hessians spoke to his penchant for spending time outside.
“Cousin Caelan?” The surprise in Mary’s voice was all too evident as she peered at the
unfortunate man. “I’ve heard of men throwing themselves at women before, but never have I seen it
happen.”
Belatedly, Clara could see hints of her friend in this man’s face that no doubt spoke to their
relationship.
Laughter followed her statement as if the men there had never heard anything quite so funny in
their lives.
But her children were apparently not done causing havoc. The instant she went to kneel by the
fallen man’s side, Jacob crashed into her side as he ran away from his sister. His momentum knocked
her off her feet, and with a squeal, Clara pitched forward, landing squarely into the man’s lap just as
he’d struggled into a sitting position.
“Oh, dear heavens.” The heat of embarrassment invaded her cheeks while even more hearty
laughter went through the hall. “Now it’s my turn to offer apologies.”
“Think nothing of it.” His arms went around her as if to steady her. A shiver went down her
spine, for it had been a long time indeed since she’d been in such a position. “I’ve passed worse days
than this.”
“Yes, like falling down the hillside two days ago,” one of the men said to the renewed
laughter of the company. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were in your cups, Everly.”
The man who currently held her sighed. He met her gaze. “I apologize for them. I’m not drunk,
but I am apparently unlucky, for ever since I arrived here two days ago, I’ve met with misfortune.”
“Ah.” That voice, coupled with the tiny grin that barely curved his sensuous mouth and the
strength in the arms he still had around her all worked to send awareness crashing over her. His scent
of sandalwood and citrus teased her nose. “I, uh, should let you up. This isn’t exactly proper.” With a
nod of gratitude, she accepted the hand Mary gave her and quickly regained her feet. Then she glared
at Jacob. “You know better than to act the hooligan. Much more of this behavior, and you’ll be kept in
your room for the duration.”
Grins and chuckles went through the assembled company while Jacob hung his head and eked
out a barely audible apology.
Then the man who spoke before assisted the fallen man to his feet—or rather his good foot—
and remained there for support. “Since it seems we’ve found our long-lost cousin Mary, this is a day
for celebration.” He winked at Clara. “I’m Benedict Buchannan, and this unfortunate bit of manhood,”
he hooked a thumb at his hobbled friend, “is Lord Everly. He’s yet another cousin from a separate
branch. Give us a chance to organize ourselves into some semblance of proper gentleman.”
One of the other men—this one with shaggy black hair and days’ worth of stubble clinging to a
strong jaw—ambled over. He leveled a look of blatant interest on Mary before saying, “I’ll summon
the butler and housekeeper. Meanwhile, Benedict can take you to the parlor until we can sort things
out.”
“Thank you.” With one last parting glance at the man in whose lap she’d briefly sat, Clara
followed the man who’d introduced himself as Benedict.
At all costs, she had to ignore that initial reaction, for she wasn’t of a mind to involve herself
with a man at this time when she hadn’t properly said goodbye to her husband.
Everything else was folly.
 Chapter Three

accident to fuel their amusement.

W ell, damn but this is awkward.
Only recently had Caelan’s cousins stopped making jest of
him for falling down the hill, but now, there was this new

Beyond that, what the devil ailed him that he couldn’t keep his feet beneath him? In London,
he’d been the picture of gentlemanly charm and elegance, but as soon as he’d arrived in the
Highlands, it was as if some unknown force wished to show him for a fool.
Then he yanked himself from his musings as he dropped into the chair Benedict guided him to.
He shot a glance about the parlor to the woman who’d sat briefly in his lap and had inadvertently
turned his life upside down in an instant. The shades of green in the room’s décor complimented her
pale, freckled skin and red hair, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
“Again, I apologize for my clumsiness and inattention.” That moment when he’d sprawled at
her feet and had met her cornflower blue gaze would forever be imprinted into his brain. Bloody hell
but he’d never seen a more beautiful woman before.
She settled on a low sofa across an oval-shaped table from him. When she removed her
bonnet, the afternoon sun streaming in from the windows glimmered within those red tresses, made it
dance like a fire’s flames. “I rather think it wasn’t so much you as it was my son, Jacob.” After she set
the bonnet on the cushion beside her, she looked at said boy and raised a finely feathered red
eyebrow. “What should you say to Lord Everly?”
The way she uttered his title lodged in his chest, made him feel more important than he was.
And her American accent sounded both foreign and mysterious to his ears. A tad distracted, he
glanced at the little girl who hovered off to one side. Her red hair had been dressed in a braid that
hung down her back, and when she happened to look at him, he grinned and gave her a wink. She
giggled and quickly went to her mother, burrowed into her side on the sofa.
The boy with equally red hair—his was in disarray as if he’d slept long and hard in the
traveling coach—dug the toe of one scuffed boot into the Oriental carpet. “I didn’t mean to, Lord
Everly.” Though a smidgeon of apology rang in those childish tones, there was also a petulant note
there that would spell trouble before long.
If his life had been different, if circumstances hadn’t happened to rip the course of his life
asunder, Caelan might have had children by now, and that dream of wishing for a large family hadn’t
faded, but he had shoved it to the dark recesses of his mind. Those hopes had faltered when he’d lost
his fiancée.
“It’s quite all right.” When he attempted to make eye contact with the lad, he was thwarted, but
his sister giggled again. “Perhaps slow down the next time you’re in a crowded room.” When he
propped his ankle on a footstool, the pain pulled a groan from him, and various places on his person
hurt from the newest fall.
“Again, we both apologize, Lord Everly.” The woman’s dulcet tones were both soothing and
engaging. “It was hardly the introduction either of us would have wanted.”
“Put it from your mind. Please.” How could he find fault with the incident when he’d been
able to have her on his lap and in his arms, however briefly? Even now, he swore he could still feel
the warmth of her, and the faint apricot scent she wore lingered in his nose. “Let us hope I’m not as
accident-prone for the remainder of my stay.”
“I wish the same.” She sent a frantic glance at the woman she’d arrived with, the one who’d
called him her cousin.
“Right.” The woman with the chestnut hair rested her gaze on him. “I suppose I should
perform a proper introduction so we can move past potential scandal.” His cousin—just how many
would he discover while he was here?—sat next to the red-haired angel. “Caelan, this is my best
friend Mrs. Johnathan Snyder. Clara, this is one of my Buchannan cousins, Lord Everly.” Then she
pointed to Benedict. “That’s Benedict, Brody, and over there is Adam.” Amusement danced in her
eyes. “No doubt there are more cousins about, but they’re not here just now.”
“Thank you. I’m pleased to meet you all.” When Mrs. Snyder smiled, Caelan stared. Dear
God, she was a vision!
Then his cousin’s words sank into his addlepated brain. “You are married, then?” What a
nodcock thing to say. She probably thought him an idiot, especially after his first showing.
“I was.” Her smile quickly faded. Sadness pooled in her eyes. “My husband died two years
ago.” For a few seconds she remained quiet with her hands properly clasped in her lap. “When Mary
invited me to come to the Highlands, I agreed. It seemed a good way to honor him as well as his
Scottish blood.”
“I see.” As she worked to retain her composure in the face of grief obviously not sorted, he
glanced at Benedict, who shrugged. “I am sorry for your loss though.”
“Thank you. It’s been… difficult in many ways.” There was something she held back, some
startling secret or horrible truth she didn’t wish to share but shadowed everything she did, and it drew
him to her like a moth to a flame.
“I understand. Perhaps all too well.”
Pregnant silence brewed within the room.
Finally, Benedict cleared his throat. “I will order tea. I’m sure the ladies are fatigued after the
journey. Meanwhile, Mrs. Snyder, if your children wish to work out their jitters, my three bairns are
currently playing games in the upstairs parlor. I’m sure they would enjoy company as well as a nosh,
and it might pass the time while rooms are readied, and luggage is unpacked.”
Relief lined the redhead’s face. “I would appreciate that, Mr. Buchannan. The children would
too,” she added as the twins looked at her with matching expressions of expectation. “Travel makes
them restless.”
His cousin grinned. “There is plenty to occupy them here.” Benedict wandered toward the
door. “Brody knows where all the best places on the property are for playing.”
Caelan’s shaggy cousin dragged his gaze away from Mary long enough to nod. “I know where
all the animals hide too if your children wish to see some of the wilderness.”
The little girl—who was the exact image of her mother with the exception of her chin and
nose—brightened. “Will we celebrate Halloween?”
“Yes, but in Scotland, we call it Samhain.” Benedict smiled at girl. “Soon there will be games
and activities and bonfires.”
“And food?” The boy wished to know as he bounded across the room toward Benedict.
“Loads of it. Your belly will be full for days.”
 “Will there be sweets?” the girl wished to know as she, too, approached his cousin.
“More than you can imagine.” With a backward glance at Mrs. Snyder, who waved them off,
Benedict left the room with the children in tow. Brody exited as well, which left Mary with a
crestfallen expression.
Loath to leave the widow’s company so soon, Caelan wracked his brain for another subject of
discussion. Without one close at hand, he glanced at Mary. “What made you decide to come visit the
hunting box? I would have assumed you’d go on to the castle instead.” It was still odd to have so
many relatives, especially since back in London, he only had his father.
His cousin heaved out a sigh. “I’ve suffered a loss of sorts myself, and London has rapidly
lost its appeal. I need time to refresh my spirit.” She met his gaze. “I’ve long heard stories about
Scotland and its ability to change a person’s perspective. And the hunting party sounded fun.” She
shrugged. “Once we remove to the castle, though, I’ll stay over past Twelfth Night if the laird agrees.
I’m hoping to discover something new here that I didn’t know I needed.”
Caelan nodded. A footman entered the room with a tea service. “There is said to be magic in
the Highlands one cannot find anywhere else in the world. I wish you luck in your endeavors.”
“Thank you.” Mary smiled. “I assume you came to partake of the hunting? I remember from my
childhood that my cousins are quite enthusiastic about this time of year.”
He snorted. “That was the original plan, but now I’m hobbled, I’ll need to find something else
to keep myself occupied. There is only so much reading a man can do before the call of adventure
beckons.” Though where he’d go was beyond him at the moment. It hurt to move, quite frankly. When
he looked at the widow, his heartbeat accelerated as she stared back with curiosity in her gaze.
“I’m certain there is something to snare your interest.” Mary glanced between them and
suddenly stood in a flurry of skirting. “As I’m a bit fatigued, I’m going to check the status of our room
assignments, and perhaps find something more substantial to eat besides tea snacks.”
Panic flitted across Mrs. Snyder’s face. “But I thought we’d—”
“Pish posh, dearest.” Mary waved away the interrupted comment. “All will be well, and Lord
Everly certainly isn’t going to bite. Why, the man has already shown he cannot stand upright. You’re
in no danger from him, and you’re a widow besides. Relax and enjoy the start of your holiday.” With
a laugh, she left the room.
As much as his cousin’s statement was true to a certain extent, that immediate attraction he’d
felt when Mrs. Snyder had tumbled into his lap hadn’t faded. Each time he looked at her, met her eyes,
saw the grief and the secret sorrow she hinted at, the more fascinated he became. Not a threat perhaps
just yet, but it would take very little encouragement on her part for him to pursue that connection,
however tenuous it might be in the moment.
A tight little sigh escaped the widow, and with an air of resignation, she took a delicate china
teacup in hand. “Would you like for me to pour out, Lord Everly?”
“Yes, please. No cream or sugar.”
One of her eyebrows rose. “You are brave. I’ve found English tea to be quite strong upon
occasion and requires softening.”
“Strong tea doesn’t bother me. In fact, it makes me more focused on a task.”
When she left the sofa and offered him the cup, their fingers brushed at the hand off. Heat
emanated from the point of contact up to his elbow. “Thank you.” There was an undeniable quality
about her that left him inquisitive.
Surprise sprang into her expressive eyes before an unreadable mask settled over her face. The
widow returned to her sofa, and when she settled, she poured out another cup for herself. To this one,
she added a dash of cream and a tiny lump of sugar. The tinkle of her spoon against the sides of the
china filled the air. Though she kept her focus on the tea tray in front of her, every now and again, her
gaze strayed to him.
“May I ask you a question, Lord Everly?”
“Caelan.”
“I beg your pardon?” The hand holding her teacup paused midway to her lips.
How much did he adore that accent? “My name is Caelan. Please make use of it. There is
something about the Highlands that excuses formality.” In fact, if given enough time, he could imagine
more than a few stories of fierce warriors who fought to defend the property and women they held
dear.
For long moments she assessed him before finally nodding. “Very well. You may call me
Clara.” She took a dainty sip of tea.
“Clara. It’s as charming as you.” The words slipped out before he could recall them.
A blush stained her cheeks. “I certainly haven’t felt charming for a long time indeed.” She
dropped her gaze to the small plate resting on her knee. “Most of my time is spent as the children’s
mother. And I…” To his mortification, tears welled in her eyes when she looked at him again. “And
this holiday will be the last time I’m, that we’re together before…”
As her obvious distress continued, Caelan’s chest tightened. Damn his ankle that prevented
him from moving with ease. “Please. There is no need for explanation. At least not at this time.” But
the mystery of her story deepened. Perhaps during the course of their time at the hunting box, he would
have unraveled some of it.
“Thank you.” Another sip of tea restored part of her composure. Would that he could have
given her comfort with a touch or a shoulder to cry on.
He nodded. “Did you still wish to ask a question of me?”
“Yes.” After another sip, she lowered the cup to its saucer on the table. “Earlier, before tea,
you said you understood what I was going through. I assume you meant grief.”
“I did.” His heart squeezed, and the reaction had nothing to do with being in the same room as
the delectable widow.
“Were you married?”
“No.” The word felt yanked from a suddenly tight throat. “I wasn’t given that opportunity,” he
said in a whisper as he gripped his teacup with more force than necessary. “That is a time I’d rather
not revisit just now.”
“No one ever wishes to go back when there are horrid or sad memories blocking the way.”
When he remained silent, doing his best to keep a lid on those particular memories, Clara went on.
“And there are times when all we want to do is go back and relive the moments that happened before
those terrible memories occurred.” Her voice broke on the last ones. “I never knew how profound a
difference one person could make on another until I married Johnathan.”
“It is surprising when you figure that out.” That’s how it had been with him and Abigail. The
muscles in his throat constricted. “And once you reach the point in the relationship where you don’t
think you can ever go on without them, that’s when everything changes.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “For good or for ill, but there’s no going back from there.” Her words
were a whisper. “It’s almost like tempting fate to grasp that happiness.”
“That’s exactly what it feels like.” Perhaps he’d flaunted his success when he’d won
Abigail’s heart, for the way she’d died certainly hinted at rage or perhaps jealousy. It wasn’t
something he wanted to relive and neither did he want to run that risk again. “But the aftermath, when
we’re left alone and everyone else has gone home, when we’re forced to face the reality of a life
without the one who has died…”
Clara nodded. Her eyes again welled with tears. “And we’re left with that infinite silence
knowing we’ll never again hear our loved one’s voice.”
“It goes beyond anything I’ve ever felt before.” He shook his head. A wad of emotions lodged
in his throat, but he swallowed around them. “That’s when the real fear begins. The doubts come to
call and won’t leave. Second guessing sneaks in to bedevil us. We start asking if there was something
we could have done differently, perhaps if we hadn’t made decision that might have led up to the
death…” He broke off with a choked sort of sound.
“Sleep is elusive, but in my case, I didn’t have the luxury of hiding in grief.” She dabbed at
her cheeks with her linen napkin. “I was left with two four-year-old children who didn’t understand
why their father wasn’t going to walk through the door or scoop them up any longer.”
Well, damn. This wasn’t how he’d hoped his first conversation with the red-haired angel
would have gone. “Again, I apologize for your loss. Anyone can see you were deeply in love with
your husband.”
The bigger question is: was she still?
“You have my condolences as well.” Again, she dabbed at her eyes and then sniffled.
“Believe it or not, this is the first time I’ve talked about it with anyone.”
“I’m glad I could give you an outlet.” Though, if he were a wagering man, he’d say she hadn’t
purged all those feelings from her soul. She held onto secrets, and they hurt her terribly. Even now she
struggled with them. Caelan quickly drained his teacup. “Could I trouble you for a refresh?” It would
give her something to focus on and additionally bring her close to him once more.
“Of course. How silly of me to neglect you.” Immediately, she stood up from the sofa and
approached him.
“It’s not your responsibility to look after me. I’m not an invalid. Merely feeling sorry for
myself. But I will have bruises on the morrow from my fall today.”
The blush had returned to her cheeks. “I hope I didn’t injure you badly when I fell on you.”
“I rather doubt it.” When she reached for his cup, he caught her fingers in his and squeezed.
She gasped as her gaze snapped to his. Again, heat twined up his arm. “I appreciate the trust you’ve
extended to me, let me hear part of your story. It made me feel less alone in my own grief.”
Confusion shadowed her eyes, but she nodded. “The days when those feelings sneak up on you
when you’re doing something else are the most difficult.” Her kissable rose-hued lips trembled.
Almost imperceptibly, she squeezed his fingers back before pulling her hand away.
When he would have said more, shouts and laughter drifted to their location from the
reception hall. A few giggles soon followed.
A heavy sighed escaped the widow. “That would be my children, and from the sounds of it,
they’ve caused mischief for someone.”
He offered a grin. “It’s been nice talking with you, Clara. Perhaps we can do so again while
we’re both here.”
“If I’m afforded free time, then yes.” She lingered, her hand drifting toward his shoulder, but
when another shout accompanied by a string of curses in what sounded like Brody’s voice echoed
beyond the door, she backed away. “I must go. Enjoy the remainder of your afternoon.”
Then she was gone, and he stared at the space where she’d stood just seconds before. Oh, she
represented a riddle to be solved, but there had been a trace of vulnerability about her that practically
begged him to wrap her in his arms and simply hold her until the shattered pieces of herself came
back together.
If nothing else, their time at the hunting box wouldn’t be as dull as he’d assumed after his
injuries.
 Chapter Four

October 24, 1818

C lara stood on the terrace at the top of the hunting box the
next afternoon with a heavy wool shawl clutched tight about
her shoulders. The children were down below on the lawn
laughing and calling out to Mr. Buchannan’s children they had met the day before. Various adults
milled about the area, some tossing a ball while others stood in small groups, presumably talking.
She lifted her face to the crisp breeze that smelled of wood fires and a change of weather.
Rain was in the offing, and soon even if the skies didn’t show it, but she hoped it would hold off for a
few days. It was all too beautiful outside with the purple-brown mountains to one side, the rolling
hills still a verdant green, trees whose leaves had turned the colors of fire, and the cheerful blue of a
lake glimmering in the distance.
The Highlands surely contain a special sort of magic to put off such wonder.
It would be so easy to find oneself lost here, let the natural beauty of the land wrap around
them, give over all their troubles…
With a sigh, she brushed the fanciful musings away. The one thing—or man—marring her
descent into relaxation was Lord Everly… Caelan. They shared a bit of a connection yesterday when
they both danced around the issue of grief without disclosing any personal facts. She’d been drawn to
him in a comforting sort of way, but the attraction and carnal tension that had leapt between them both
frightened and excited her.
Especially so soon after the death of her husband.
Though she didn’t know what to do about the confusing emotions, she could hardly ignore
them, and it was partially her fault he’d been additionally hurt. Perhaps she’d try and spend time with
him again while they were both here.
Or she was being a foolish ninny trying to recreate something she’d lost two years ago with a
man she hardly knew.
If that’s what any of it meant. She wasn’t entirely certain. Wishful thinking, perhaps, or a weak
moment, of course.
“Clara, there you are!”
She turned at Mary approached. “I desired some time to myself while the children are
occupied.” Not that it mattered. Such things meant the luxury of thinking, and that apparently led to
paths she clearly shouldn’t tread. Regardless of how she couldn’t forget the comforting, solid feel of
his arms around her in the entry hall.
“Of course, you’re entitled. The twins are a handful.” Mary joined her at the low wall. “It’s
beautiful here. I can’t believe I waited this long to come home to Scotland.” A wistful note had
entered her friend’s voice. “I was welcomed as soon as we left the traveling coach. Deep down in my
soul.”
 “It certainly feels that way.” Her husband would have enjoyed the trip. “Johnathan should
have made the journey.” She returned her attention the lawn below. “Jacob and Susan seem to like it
as well. They already have fast friends with Benedict’s children.”
“As they should. My cousins who are married, though rough and tumble, have managed to
produce darling offspring.”
There was no denying that. Benedict’s children were adorable. All featured dark brown hair
and blue eyes. Two boys and a girl, and they’d accepted her young ones into their fold without
incident. “Finding there were other young ones here was a pleasant surprise. The twins need that
interaction.” Especially now when their futures would change all too soon. A lump of emotion lodged
in Clara’s throat. That letter she had from Johnathan’s aunt lay hidden at the bottom of her reticule. It
was always near as a reminder—of imminent change.
Of her imminent failure as a mother and a wife.
“It’s one of the things I adore about the Highlands,” Mary said with a twinkle in her eye.
“There’s an inherent magic here. You can feel it in the air, in everything you touch, in the history, in
the people. I’ve found myself going about expecting things I probably wouldn’t if we were still in
London.”
“There is much truth in that statement.” She sighed. “It’s so different here than London, or even
New York City. I’m constantly amazed at that.” But it was good that her children were already well
traveled. “Johnathan would have loved the Highlands.” Clara returned her attention to the lawn
below. “The children have come to accept this latest change with aplomb.”
Mary nodded. “They’re resilient.” She peered downward. “Poor Cousin Caelan. He’s having
a terrible time hobbling about.”
“Agreed.” Clara spotted him almost immediately on the lawn. As the children kicked a ball
back and forth, he tried to join the game but made a farce of it. “I feel bad for him. If my son hadn’t
knocked me into him upon our arrival, his healing might not have been set back.”
“Who can say that with any certainty?” Mary shrugged. “He is a bit pathetic just now, but in
that, he’s also endearing.”
“Perhaps.” There had certainly been charm in the grins he’d flashed her. When he happened to
glance up and saw them, he waved. Stupidly, her heart did an odd little flutter. Mary exuberantly
waved back. “He seems friendly enough.”
“Oh, indeed. You should encourage him.”
“Why?” But she lifted a hand in acknowledgement. “And to what? Learn how to hop on one
leg?”
Mary snickered. “Encourage him in romance. I could have sworn the two of you had a moment
at tea yesterday before I left.”
“Ha!” Those stolen glances had meant nothing except mutual curiosity. “Then you
misinterpreted the room.” Slowly, she shook her head as slight panic rose in her chest. “Besides, a
romance between me and anyone is unwise at this time.”
“Only because you’re afraid.” Mary frowned as Clara sputtered a protest. “Everyone is afraid
of something, though, so that’s not a true stumbling block to love.”
“I wonder if that’s true.” She followed her best friend’s gaze. “You seem fearless enough
while encouraging Brody’s notice.”
Mary scoffed. “I can’t decide if it’s encouraging him or going along with what’s already there.
After the last man broke my heart, embarrassed me, tarnished my reputation, I’m not keen to put
myself in that position again.” She bit her bottom lip. “But he is quite intriguing in a tattered, rustic
sort of way.”
“Once our hearts have been engaged, either high or low, everything changes, and we guard
them more fiercely than ever.” Again, she glanced at the lawn. No longer was Caelan there. She
stifled the urge to sigh. “I’m not certain how to fix that.”
Did she want to?
“Perhaps we both need to find the courage we’ve lost along the way.” Mary caught her eye.
“I’ll try if you will.”
On the surface, it was such a tiny thing, but convincing her heart to come out from behind the
wall she’d erected around it was another matter entirely. “Oh, Mary, I have other worries occupying
my mind right now. I don’t need a man on top of them.”
“Then put him beneath them—of you.” When Clara gasped, Mary winked. “Caelan is quite
handsome. Surely you can admit that.”
“Of course I can, but what has that to do with any of the rest?” The remembered heat from the
brush of their fingers during tea sent a tinge of the same into her cheeks. And those hazel eyes that
held sorrow would forever remain lodged in her memory.
“Well, if there is an initial interest, that’s a good start.” Her friend smiled. “Caelan is also
titled or will be when his father dies. He’ll be the Earl of Breckenridge someday.”
The English aristocracy still managed to confuse and astound her, and since her husband
hadn’t been part of that, there’d been no reason for her to study it with any sort of depth. “I care not
for that.” In fact, the new knowledge worried her. If he was looking for a countess, she was far from
suitable. Wouldn’t know the first thing in filling that role.
But then, Caelan hadn’t acted in such a way toward her, so those worries were unfounded.
Mary sighed. “At least talk to him, Clara. You might enjoy his company and talking doesn’t
mean a lifetime. A friend can keep loneliness at bay.” She smiled, and with another glance to the
lawn, turned. “In any event, I’m off to enjoy a hike with Brody and some of the others.”
“After you just said you weren’t encouraging him?”
A blush stained her friend’s cheeks. “It will be within a larger walking party, and we won’t be
afforded time alone. You’re welcome to come.”
“Thank you, but no. I’m content enough here.”
“Very well.” When Mary impulsively hugged her, Clara laughed.
“What’s that for?”
“Promise me you’ll consider my cousin. In whatever capacity. He’s cheerful and amusing, and
if he makes you laugh, how bad would that be?” With a wave, she left the terrace.
A few minutes later, Caelan joined her. “I’m glad I was able to catch you before you left.” He
was a bit breathless but dressed as impeccably as she’d seen him yesterday. His chestnut hair was
windblown, which gave him a devil may care attitude. The cane made him all the more interesting. “I
apologize that it took me a while to arrive. I don’t move as quickly as I used to.”
Clara bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a grin lest he think she made jest of him. “I imagine
your ankle sprain has become an annoyance.” When she drew her gaze down the length of his body to
his feet, she quirked an eyebrow. “You’re only wearing one boot.”
He shrugged. “The ankle is swollen enough that donning the boot is next to impossible just
now.” With a disarming grin, he joined her at the wall. “However, the wrist is beginning to feel
better.” Before she could ask, he held out his left hand. His cuff barely covered the wrap of bandages
about his wrist. “Perhaps I’ll be able to use it in a week or so.”
“It would certainly make your life easier.” She took a step backward, for his presence was
overwhelming. The terrace felt crowded with only the two of them on it. “I assumed you were being
sufficiently entertained on the lawn with the children.” The stone wall at her back halted any further
retreat.
“I was, but a good portion of the adults are heading out for a walking party, and some of the
children are stingy with the ball—that I can’t kick anyway due to not being able to walk.” He joined
her at the wall and rested an elbow atop it.
“Not mine, surely?” Though Jacob could be rather a handful. As his gaze shifted to something
beyond her shoulder, she sighed. “Once more, I suppose I should apologize.” She’d need to have a
talk with the boy and his penchant to act out.
“Think nothing of it. Before long I’ll befriend the lad… once I can catch him.”
Despite the situation, she giggled. “Yes, well, he probably feels he has the advantage right
now.
“You sound like Susan when you giggle.” His grin was beguiling enough that flutters erupted
in her lower belly.
She hadn’t felt that since before Johnathan died, and it brought confusion with it. “I’ll take that
as a compliment. My daughter has fared better after their father’s death than Jacob has. She still has
her sense of whimsy where my son has become slightly withdrawn. Surly, even, at times. I don’t know
how to make it better.”
“Perhaps they need to acclimate in their own way.” Caelan shrugged. “Grief doesn’t follow an
exact schedule.”
“You’re right, of course.” She turned about, leaned a shoulder against the wall, and focused on
the empty lawn. “I fear they’ll need a father sooner rather than later, but…”
“…but you aren’t so certain you want a new husband,” he finished for her in a soft voice. “It’s
understandable. Everyone’s heart heals differently.”
“How can you know that?” Were her emotions so obvious, then? As she peered at him, he
looked back with nothing but honesty in his expression.
“It’s in the way you hold yourself. It’s almost as if you’re aloof. When you remember you
should be grieving, you pull back from whatever almost made you smile, from whatever almost made
you forget.” Caelan shrugged. “If you are still in love with your husband, it’s not a crime, but don’t cut
yourself off from other good things merely because you cling to something that has become a
memory.”
“Perhaps,” she finally managed to whisper and returned her attention to the empty lawn
below. “It’s not something I’ve had a chance to think about.” Something about this man invited secrets
and confessions. She remembered the brief feel of his arms around her and wished, suddenly, she had
the luxury of borrowing herself into that embrace again, simply to borrow from his strength and
perhaps counsel. “But how does someone who has previously found the love of one’s life, move
forward without that? Or possibly find that again? Is it even possible?”
“Only each person holds the answers to those questions.” He turned to fully rest his forearms
on the wall with his hands clasped. The cane rested against it between them. “I’ve asked myself the
same over the past several years. There is never any clear answer.” Silence brewed between them for
a long time as the October breeze ruffled her skirts and tried to tear her hair from the pins holding hit
back. “Needless to say, my father is always after me to marry.”
“To make certain you’re ready when you take the title.” It wasn’t a question.
“Ah, Cousin Mary has been giving you my history.” Threads of disappointment rang through
his voice. “Yes, my future includes taking up the title of earl someday. Perhaps that day is closer than
I anticipate, for my father has suffered a few small health-related issues as of late.” When she turned
her head to glance at him, she caught a fleeting frown. “Succeeding him is something I have been
brought up with, prepared for, but I’m not ready.”
“Who could ever be when it means losing a parent?”
“Indeed. Life, it seems, is full of meetings and partings, beginnings and endings.” The man
beside her heaved a sigh. “Everything is fraught with emotion, so when we are afforded time to
ourselves, it’s good to take a breath and enjoy the quiet.”
Clearly, that part of the conversation was at an end. Clara nodded. “I lost my parents shortly
after my husband died. Johnathan doesn’t have any family in England except for an elderly aunt. There
was no point in lingering after his death, but I enjoy life in London. It much reminds me of my early
years in New York City before I married.”
Why the devil had she told him that? Not even Mary knew that about her.
Caelan lifted an eyebrow. “London has a vibrancy that isn’t matched readily in the world.
Yes, it’s a horrid example of the divide between the rich and the poor, but if a man has enough
charitable works and does enough good deeds, the divide begins to fade and not bother him so much.”
It was good he hadn’t neglected those in need. The fact he realized not everyone was as
fortunate as he spoke to an honorable character. “I imagine even that sets men like you apart from your
fellows.” America wasn’t all that different. The class differences in the citizens of New York City
were horrendous. Poverty was rampant in the city; orphans were a forgotten segment of society, as
were the people who labored in factories that were just becoming a necessity to keep that society
running.
“Perhaps. I don’t readily advertise when I help the needy; that is between myself and God. No
one else needs to know, and I don’t judge a man on whether he gives or not. Perhaps he serves in a
different way.”
Every time she peeled back a layer to this man, she encountered yet another. He was
mysterious, and that tugged at her curiosity. “Do you have siblings?”
“Unfortunately, I do not. My mother wasn’t successful in bringing additional life into the
world, though she tried on many attempts.” A wistful note clung to the admission. “That’s what
eventually took her life—trying to give birth to my brother. According to my father, she’d carried the
babe the full term of the pregnancy, but the birth was difficult, and the infant was stillborn. She
hemorrhaged. I rather think she died of a broken heart.” A muscle in his cheek ticced. “Father and I
weren’t enough to keep her in this world.”
“Oh, don’t think for one minute that is true.” In her fervor to reassure him, Clara laid a hand
on his. “Death in childbirth happens more often than one wishes to think. If it was in her power, she
would have survived.”
He clutched at her fingers. “Perhaps.” When he found her gaze, the sorrow in his caught at her
breath. “Have you siblings?”
“No. For whatever reason, my parents never had any other children, and I didn’t ask them
why. Perhaps I should have, but since I met Johnathan when I’d barely turned one and twenty, married
soon after, and the next year birthed the twins, there wasn’t much time for such things. And since he
was a navy man, we left America shortly after the wedding.”
“Ah, to travel.” He didn’t release her fingers. “I’m glad you had that opportunity. It’s
something I’d like to do more of. Especially after being here in the Highlands.”
“Indeed.” Something buzzed at the base of her spine, and she wasn’t certain if it was the
tenuous connection they shared in a touch or if it was a different emotion entirely, but it wasn’t
unpleasant. “I often think the best education is found in seeing the world and the people therein for
oneself.”
“Absolutely.” Eventually, he released her fingers, and she missed the warmth of him. “I
assume you were madly in love with your husband? From the way you talk about him, it sounds like
it.”
The change in topic startled her, yet remarkably, she didn’t mind telling this man what should
have been guarded secrets. “Oh, yes. Desperately. The time I had with him went by too quickly.” A
tiny waver had entered her voice. “I think he loved the navy more that he loved me, at times.”
Caelan grunted. “I rather doubt that. He sounds as if he was a man committed to making a
decent life for you and your little family. Mr. Snyder probably wished he could have spent more of his
leave with you as well.”
“He was a captain,” she said with a fair amount of pride in her voice.
“Ah, then, yes. His time was well and truly spoken for, but if he married you, there is no doubt
he loved you with the same intensity you did him.”
The words brought a modicum of comfort, and for that she would always appreciate the man
standing next to her. “His death was sudden. The letter notifying me came two months later. A cannon
explosion.”
“But that didn’t make it hurt any less,” he finished in a soft voice.
“No.” She trembled, from the chilly breeze or the emotions the subject dredged up, she wasn’t
certain.
“Violent deaths are rather a shock.” His eyes took on a faraway light. No longer was he with
her on that terrace. “It requires much time to recover from that. Such events color everything in life.”
“Yes.” Clara moved a smidgeon closer to him. Whatever had happened in his life to give him
such insight must have been horrific. “Do you want to tell me about her?” It was a risk, of course, to
assume he spoke of a woman, but she took the chance. He’d pulled secrets from her. Now she wanted
to help him with some of his.
“Who?” A frown tugged at the corners of his sensual lips.
“The woman you lost.”
“No.” The word was propelled on a rush of emotion. “Not yet.” When he looked at her, regret
and grief shadowed his handsome face. “I don’t wish to show myself as a weakened mess again in
front of you.”
The fact he worried about such things sent a host of tingles down her spine. “It’s
understandable, but I’m a decent listener when you are ready.” She dared to lay a hand on his arm as
people spilled onto the lawn below, including the children. No doubt the walking party would depart
imminently. “Showing emotions isn’t weak, Caelan. In this, the British most certainly have it wrong.”
On impulse, she rose onto her toes and when she went to buss his cheek, he turned his head at the last
second.
Their lips brushed. Shock ricocheted through Clara’s chest, for she’d never kissed a man
since she’d married Johnathan, but it had felt ever so lovely. The same thing lay mirrored in his eyes.
He froze, his body taut and her heartbeat frantically marked the time, and daring even more, she put a
palm to the hard wall of his chest and repeated the gesture.
As soon as he reached for her, perhaps wanting to pull her into an embrace, the remainder of
her courage deserted her. No matter how she craved the feeling of belonging, of wanting a man’s arms
around her, guilt at betraying Johnathan’s memory assailed her. With a murmured apology and burning
cheeks, she fled.
 Oh, that cannot happen again. Especially not while her future was fraught with uncertainty and
her thoughts so scattered.
 Chapter Five

October 25, 1819

A s soon as Caelan put a foot into the boot his valet held,
something didn’t feel quite right. In fact, it felt cold and
squishy, and it moved.
“Argh!” He withdrew his foot, and when Greyson looked quizzically at him, he quickly
explained. “There is something not quite right inside that boot.”
“I can’t imagine what. I buffed them out just before I retired last night.” But when Greyson
upended the boot, a brown toad fell to the carpet. With a look of contempt, it hopped about as it
searched for a place to hide.
Who the devil would have put a toad in the boot? A shiver of revulsion went down Caelan’s
spine. “I detest toads.” He eyed the other boot, and even though he hadn’t plans to wear it due to his
still-swollen ankle, he had misgivings. “Check the other one.”
With a frown, the valet reached for the left boot, and when it was upended, a brown field
mouse tipped out. The mouse’s whiskers twitched.
“Gah!” If there was one thing Caelan hated more than toads, it was mice. He launched from
the chair and half-walked half-hopped to the other side of the room. “A damned mouse! In my boot!”
And who knew how long it would have been there since he wasn’t actively donning said boot.
“Bloody hell.”
“Settle, my lord.” With a snort of laughter, Greyson moved to the side of the room and yanked
on the bellpull. “We’ll have a footman up here to catch the things.” He scratched a finger to the side of
his face. A few years older that Caelan, silver strands in his blond hair glimmered in the midday sun
that came into the dressing room. “I have to wonder who could have snuck in and perpetrated such a
trick.”
“Take your pick of culprits, Greyson. The hunting box is thick with them.” He eyed the mouse.
As of yet, it hadn’t run for cover though it gave the toad a wide berth. “It could have been one of
Benedict’s children. Hell, it could have been one of my cousins. They have absolutely no scruples.”
“You have the right of it there.” When there came a soft knock on the curved door, the valet
opened it and spoke quietly to the butler. “We’re in need of a footman. He’ll need a net or a sheet of
some sort to catch vermin.”
“Right away, Mr. Greyson.”
The valet turned and there was a smirk upon his face. A wicked scar ran like a crescent moon
down the left side of his face—the only testament that he hadn’t come out of the war unscathed. “Of
course, this hunting box is old. It’s entirely possible the unwanted visitors made their way inside of
their own accord.”
“And came up to the third floor, and just happened to find the pair of boots you’d already set
out for today?” Caelan shook his head. “That’s an unlikely scenario, even if it is growing colder.”
Toads and mice weren’t the best of friends, and they didn’t pal about. “No, the most likely reason I
can see is if a small pair of hands—perhaps two pairs—brought them up while we were at dinner last
night.”
Benedict’s family was a rather jovial lot, and Caelan had played his fair share of tricks on all
of them over the years. Perhaps they’d decided to retaliate knowing he couldn’t easily run after them.
“Regardless, my lord, shall I fetch you a new pair of boots?”
The sound of Greyson’s voice brought him out of his musings. “Not necessary since I’m only
wearing the one, but I will require a new pair of socks.” He pointed to his right foot with the tip of his
borrowed cane. “This one is rather… slimy.”
“Of course.”
While the valet busied himself in the clothespress on the hunt for a pair of socks, Caelan
slumped into a chair, for his mind was still clouded with memories of that impromptu kiss with Clara
yesterday. The fact she’d initiated it still held him captive with awe. Granted, had he not turned his
head at that exact time, she would have bussed his cheek instead.
Yet he had, and she’d kissed him. Not only that, but she’d done it again, and that second time
hadn’t been by accident.
Why had she done it?
The shock that had swept through her eyes had mirrored his own, but the innocent gesture had
been so sweet, so unexpected, it had lit tiny fires within his blood. For all her talk of having loved her
husband fiercely, it had been her to kiss him first. The messages she sent were confusing at best, so
how the devil was he supposed to act upon them?
If at all?
“Here we are, my lord.” Greyson kneeled before Caelan with the new socks in hand. “We’ll
have you ready to make an appearance at luncheon in no time.”
He frowned. “Luncheon?” Since when had his Scottish cousins cared about fancy events such
as that, especially while at the hunting box?
“Indeed. It seems having women underfoot has put a requirement of gentility into the holiday
here.” Amusement threaded through the valet’s voice as he removed the soiled footwear and held up
the new ones for Caelan to slip into. “In any event, luncheon is set up on the lawn for the remainder of
the guests who haven’t gone out this morning for hunting.”
His stomach rumbled. “I suppose I could do with a meal.” He’d dreamed of Clara last night,
and those had been so delicious that he’d risen late this morning with an erection requiring release.
There was something about the woman he couldn’t shake, and the more he came to know her, the more
he liked her. Hell, he might already be mildly infatuated with her after only a handful of meetings.
That isn’t like me at all.
“And the boot, my lord.” Greyson held the right boot up for him.
“Thank you.” Caelan slid his foot into it without a second thought. “Do you suppose the
swelling on the left ankle will go down enough that I can wear the other boot soon?”
The valet eyed the wrapped ankle in question. “Shall we try to fit it now?”
“Might as well. My toes get deuced cold wandering around this drafty old pile.” And if he
was to spend any length of time outside, he needed the added protection.
Greyson brought the second boot toward him. “Don’t force it. If your foot won’t fit, we’ll wait
a few days. Truth be told, the added structure of the boot might do worlds of good if you promise not
to bear your full weight upon that ankle.”
“I promise. I don’t fancy another tumble.” Slowly, he put his injured foot and ankle into the
boot. Fitting his foot into the proper angle was a bit of a challenge. A twinge of pain went through the
ankle, but once the boot was on, the pain was manageable. “Not bad.” With the bandages and sock,
the boot’s fit was extremely tight.
“If it grows uncomfortable, ring for me and I’ll remove it. Best not rush the healing process.
And don’t get it into your head to go hiking the Highlands.” One of the valet’s eyebrows rose. “Not
even for a pretty face.”
Heat rose up the back of Caelan’s neck. “What the devil does that mean?”
“You’ve found a friendship with the redhaired widow. I’ve been with you a long time and I
know your history. When Abigail was murdered, your heart died that same day.” For long moments,
the valet remained silent as he regarded him. “Be mindful around Mrs. Snyder. From what I’ve
managed to discern from talk in the servants’ hall, she’s under undisclosed duress and is aloof at
times. I’d rather not see you broken again.”
“I appreciate that, my friend.” Caelan heaved himself to his feet with the help of the cane. The
fit of the boot wasn’t excessively snug—for the moment. “I’ll keep my heart safe.” He couldn’t
escape the memories of losing his fiancée, but neither did he wish to pass a lonely existence, and
since Clara had kissed him… “However, a little flirting never hurt anyone, and what else have I to do
since I’m excluded from hunting, which was my original purpose?”
The valet shook his head. “Go.” He waved him off as a footman came into the dressing room.
“I have my own hunting endeavors to oversee here.”
With a snort of laughter, Caelan ambled from the room, aided by the cane.
By the time he arrived on the lawn, he more than welcomed the opportunity to spend more
time in the widow’s company. The long table from the dining room had been brought outside, along
with the chairs, which must have been quite the feat, for that table must have been quite heavy.
Somehow, he couldn’t see that Benedict had ordered the change, so then upon whose authority had?
Of course, if Benedict’s wife had asked, he wouldn’t have denied her. That’s how in love with
the woman his cousin was.
Caelan’s chest tightened as a tiny thread of jealousy went through him. Would he ever know
that sort of relationship again? Would he allow himself that fall even if it meant offering up his heart
for potential hurt? He didn’t know, but for now, he remained cautiously optimistic.
When he spotted Clara and her children—and even better, an empty chair at her side—he
grinned. “Are you expecting someone else to join you?”
She started while her children regarded him with dual narrow-eyed looks across the table.
“Uh, no.” As she waved a hand to the chair, he shot the twins a grin he hoped would eventually
disarm them. “It’s a lovely day. I’m glad luncheon is outside.”
“It certainly makes up for not being able to accompany the hunting party.” When he took the
chair beside Clara, her faint apricot scent wafted to his nose. She was gorgeous today in rust-colored
skirts with the heavy black shawl about her shoulders. Then he nodded to Benedict’s wife, who sat
further down the table with her excited brood of children. Mary occupied a chair in the other
direction, along with a few other ladies who he didn’t remember their names, but the surprise of the
day was finding his cousin Brody with her. “What is this, then? Brody, you didn’t go out with the
others?”
Both Mary and the other man glanced at him with equally guilty expressions.
“Uh, the stag have proved elusive since your fall down the hillside the other day, so I opted to
remain here. Might teach the bairns how to shoot arrows this afternoon instead.”
Mary nodded. “He has already assembled straw targets.”
 “That sounds fun.” When Caelan bounced his gaze between his cousins, a blush jumped into
Mary’s cheeks. Ah, so that was how the wind blew, eh? No doubt that was the real reason Brody
stayed behind. Well, he hoped they were happy enough, and they were both well-suited to Scotland.
As he focused his attention back on the Snyder children, he caught them in mid-laugh—at him.
How interesting. When they exchanged glances and laughed again, he knew. Ah, so he’d
discovered the culprits who’d played the trick on him with the boots. But he wouldn’t let on that he
puzzled it out.
Not yet.
Instead, he intended to be nothing but charming to them. “Susan, what has been your favorite
part of being here in the Highlands thus far?”
“I like sliding down the staircase.” She giggled. “Jacob taught me how.” When she glanced at
her mother and Clara frowned, the girl sobered. “I want to go hiking but Mama says I’m too young.”
“Me too,” Jacob chimed in. “The other boys are allowed to go wherever they want. Why can’t
we as well?” He sent a look down the table where Benedict’s children were talking at the same time
to their mother.
Clara huffed. “The other boys are slightly older, and they’ve grown up around this property.
They are more familiar with the dangers found therein.”
“Ha!” The boy released an annoyed breath. “I’m old enough. Haven’t I done enough protecting
of you and Susan?”
Caelan’s eyebrows rose. He glanced at Clara, whose expression appeared crestfallen. Is that
why the tricks were perpetuated last night? Had the kiss been observed and now Jacob was taking the
situation in hand in the attempt to warn him away?
That made sense.
“Oh, Jacob, don’t put such pressure on yourself. You are but six, yet.” Clara nodded her
thanks when footmen put plates in front of each of them. Roasted pheasant—shot by one of his cousins
—in a cream sauce, charred root vegetables no doubt from area farmers, as well as a warm, savory
bread pudding complete with brown gravy and chestnuts. “There is time enough to assume
responsibility.”
“Without Papa here, someone has to keep you and Susan safe.” The boy tucked into his food
with gusto.
“I think it’s very brave of you to wish to protect your family,” Caelan said, and hoped it would
be the connection he needed to bond with the lad. “Especially here in Scotland, where sometimes
threats come in the way of not people but of ghosts.”
Both children gawked at him with expectation in their eyes.
“Don’t lead them astray with naught but stories, Lord Everly,” Clara said with a clear warning
in her voice.
“Very well. I wouldn’t wish to make you cross.” He spread his linen napkin over his lap
while he caught Mary’s eye from the down the table. She gave him a grin and a nod of encouragement
while Brody openly chuckled. As he took up his fork, he said, “The only reason I mentioned ghosts
was because I found a toad and a mouse in my boots this morning, but don’t recall having a visitor in
my room last night.”
“Oh, how surprising that must have been.” Clara’s gaze narrowed. “But surely it wasn’t the
work of ghosts.”
“Who can say?” He shrugged, took a mouthful of pheasant, and then chewed. “Perhaps I’ll
feed them to a few snakes I saw in the bushes.”
 Outcries came from both children.
He sent a wink Clara’s way. “Honestly, I’m not certain who would wish to play a trick on me
if it wasn’t ghosts.”
“Ah.” She gave him a surreptitious nod. “It’s Samhain, Lord Everly. These things happen.”
Susan nodded. Her curls bounced. “Tricks can be fun.”
“Perhaps.” Caelan continued to eat his food. All the while, the children fairly vibrated off
their chairs. “Shall I tell you about some of the more famous ghosts here in Scotland?”
“Oh, yes!” Susan nodded vigorously.
Jacob’ eyes rounded. “You know stories?”
“Many. I spent years here as a youth.” He glanced at Clara, who nodded.
“Go ahead. They’ll pester you if you don’t.”
“All right, but don’t blame me if you’re haunted by ghouls and ghosts in your beds.” He
waved at Benedict’s wife. “Have your bairns come down here. I’m going to tell a couple of ghost
stories.”
Susan frowned. “Lord Everly, what is a bairn?”
He chuckled, for she was adorable in her confusion, and very reminiscent of her mother. “It is
Scottish for child.”
Once the other three young ones came close, Caelan began. “This first story is about Falkland
Palace, where Scotland’s first duke, David Stewart, rapidly rose to power. That power is what
ultimately proved to be his downfall.” He took another bite of his pheasant. “The duke’s rival, Robert
Stewart, was the Duke of Albany. The men hated each other. Both wished to take ownership of
Falkland Palace. Well, one day Robert concocted some sort of story that put David Stewart in a bad
light in front of his peers and other men high on the instep. This led to an arrest.”
Jacob’ eyes widened. “Was he killed?”
“Oh, eventually.” Caelan lifted his wine glass to his lips and took a sip. “David Stewart was
subsequently arrested and taken to his home at Falkland, hooded and riding backward on a mule.” He
made his voice sound spooky. “This was the ultimate indignity, you see.”
Susan rolled her eyes. “I can’t even ride a horse to begin with.”
“Well, upon arrival, David Stewart was thrown into a cell deep beneath the palace. He either
starved to death or died of dysentery. Starvation would have taken mere days if he wasn’t given any
food, perhaps longer if he was given crusts.” Caelan shrugged. “But the story says that he died
eighteen days later at the age of three and twenty.”
One of the other children gasped. “He was old.” The emphasis on the last word immediately
made Caelan and Clara chuckle.
“Well, such was the fate of many a man in Scotland, but David Stewart is believed to be one
of the ghosts who haunt Falkland Palace. No doubt he wishes to have his revenge on everyone who
had a hand in his unrightful demise.” Caelan waggled his eyebrows. “There has also been reports that
sinister faces were spied at the windows of the Queen’s Room inside.”
“I don’t ever want to go there, Lord Everly,” Susan said in a hushed voice.
“Don’t be a baby,” her brother cautioned with a good deal more bravado, possibly because
the other boys stood behind him. He looked Caelan in the eye. “Tell us another one.”
“Very well.” After a few more bites, he did as bid. Perhaps this would be what endeared him
to the boy. “Alloa Tower, the oldest keep in Scotland, has stood for 700 years. It has survived fires,
curses, and a handful of attacks.”
“Attacks?” Susan’s eyes were as round as her brother’s. “Why?”
 Caelan chuckled, as did Brody from down the table. “Scottish history has been forged with
violence. This bloody history has seen a number of spirits take up residence in the Clackmannanshire
abode.”
“Such as?” Jacob frowned and crossed his arms at his chest.
“Well, for example, the tower has a ghost of a man in chains in the dungeon accompanied by a
serving girl.”
“Can you hear the chains?” Susan wanted to know.
“Oh, certainly, especially if the night is quiet,” Caelan said in what he hoped was a thrilling
voice. “I have it on good authority that there is another ghost, this one of a young girl who can
allegedly be seen in the Great Hall. One of my friends saw the specter of a woman dressed in black
who watched over a cradle in one of the rooms.”
From beside him, Clara shivered, whether from the autumnal breeze or his tale, he couldn’t
say. “How awful.”
“Indeed, which is why it’s not a good idea to walk castles or other old buildings in Scotland
after dark.” He hoped this lesson was pressed upon the children and would stop any further tricks.
“Beyond that, in the Charter Room, a young boy has been seen crying, as has an armed man with
strange eyes, as well as a gaunt clergyman dressed in black.”
Jacob snorted. “That’s not frightening.”
“I agree. The most terrifying of all the ghosts in the Tower resides in the Solar Room, where a
man has been seen hanging. One of my cousins went there. He told me he experienced the sensation of
being strangled while he stood in the room.” Slowly, Caelan put his hands to his own neck and then
imitated choking noises.
Much to the horror of Susan, who immediately implored him to stop.
“That’s enough, Lord Everly,” Clara said in a soft voice with a hand to his leg where the
children couldn’t see.
Heat immediately swept up his thigh to burrow into his stones, but he cut the antics.
“That is a bully story, Lord Everly.” Jacob sprang from his chair. “When I’m grown, I’m going
to visit that tower.”
Clara shook her head. “Why don’t you children go play? These stories have rather worn me
out.”
Calmly, Caelan finished eating his luncheon.
“You have a gift for storytelling, Cousin.” Mary waved to him. “Brody promised to take me
riding around the property before the rain comes.”
“Enjoy.” He watched them go, and then sighed. “I wish I could show you around the area as
well. Walking the grounds is something I quite enjoy, but that’s impossible enough while hobbled. I
can’t imagine how my ankle would throb from being jolted on horseback.”
“Everything will come in time.” She withdrew her hand, and he missed that fleeting touch.
“Can you walk without pain? I see you’ve managed to put on your boot today.”
“A bit, though it’s still tender and I shouldn’t put my full weight on it lest I damage it further.”
Once he pushed back his plate, an idea took hold. “We could possibly stroll to the loch, though. It’s
only a baby one with no name and just a half mile away.”
Those tempting rose-colored lips pulled into a frown. “A what?”
“Loch.” He shot her a grin. “A lake is called a loch here.”
Interest lit her blue eyes. “Do you think you could manage it? I would adore seeing something
of this country before I leave.”
 For you, I would manage anything. Perhaps he could tease and cajole her into a smile, and
perhaps steal a kiss of his own. Aloud, he said, “Yes. Tomorrow, I’ll wrap the ankle more securely.
We’ll head out after luncheon if the weather holds.”
“Will we bring the children?”
“Of course.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’m fairly certain your children put those
vermin in my boots.”
“It’s entirely possible. I caught them giggling over something last night.” When she smiled, his
world nearly upended. “They are children, after all, and it is Samhain.”
“Yes, but they don’t like me because I talk to you.”
“Nonsense.” But her gaze dropped to her plate.
“Perhaps they witnessed the kiss from yesterday,” he continued in a barely audible voice so
the remainder of the people at the table couldn’t hear. “Jacob is quite protective.”
A blush stained her cheeks. “We should have been more careful, but I hadn’t planned to do
that…”
“Mmm, so I gathered from your flight.” He took a sip of his wine. “Would you, ah, want a
repeat of that if we were afforded the opportunity?”
“No.” The word sounded forced from a tight throat. Her blush intensified. “Once was
enough.”
“I see.” He gave into a frown, for he truly didn’t. Before his eyes, Clara withdrew into
herself, locked herself away into that aloof tower of her own, but why? Curiosity made him reckless.
“You didn’t enjoy the kiss.” It wasn’t a question.
“I didn’t say that.” She shot a glance down the table, but no one paid them the slightest bit of
attention. The echo of childish laughter wafted to their location. “My life is complicated just now, and
you aren’t free of your past either.”
For long moments they sat in silence.
“I could be for the right person,” he finally said. More than anything, Caelan wanted to win
her. He fell for her a bit more each time they met and talked. It was as natural as breathing, but why
couldn’t she feel that attraction, that connection too?
“I am not her, Lord Everly,” she said in a firm whisper.
Only because you’re not letting yourself live. He stirred but didn’t press the issue. “So, a
stroll tomorrow?”
“I suppose. The exercise will be most welcome.”
“Indeed.” But he would work harder to draw her out, and perhaps himself in the process.
“Thank you for entertaining the children with stories. You do have a gift, just as Mary said.”
Clara rose to her feet with all the grace of a queen. “I appreciate that.”
Caelan scrambled into a standing position. “You’re welcome.” Then there was no reason to
linger. “Well, enjoy your afternoon.”
 Chapter Six

October 26, 1819

C lara couldn’t escape the rain in the odd, round-shaped

hunting box. The gray gloom and chill pervaded the
atmosphere, and with the rain came the knowledge that the
planned outing to the loch with Caelan was delayed.
That was perhaps the most annoying thing about the rain, for she’d looked forward to that
outing more than she’d anticipated.
Since formal tea was a couple of hours off, and since the twins had fallen asleep for an
afternoon nap, she had some unexpected leisure time. An anemic search for Mary didn’t result in
anything, and neither could she find some of Caelan’s other cousins, but from the snatches of
masculine laughter and jovial teasing that came from the lower level, she assumed they were all
clustered in the gentleman’s lounge or the smoking room.
She stopped off at the library thinking she might indulge in some light reading, but when
nothing captured her attention, she blew out a breath and trailed along the curved corridor. Outside
the drawing room doors, the sound of a man singing brought her to a halt. The double doors were
nearly closed all the way, but when she peeked through the crack, she caught her breath. Caelan was
within, and from the looks of it, he was alone.
It was his voice that swooped and soared as he sang an aria from a popular opera she’d
actually seen performed shortly before her husband died. The notes were powerful, sometimes
graceful, and sometimes intense, but it put her in mind of a bird, going wherever the wind took it.
What was a man with the voice of an angel doing here in a hunting box so far from London where he
could have the world at his feet?
As she unashamedly stood there lurking at the door, Caelan switched from the aria to a song in
French. She couldn’t understand most of it, but the emotions he invoked inside that song had tears
pooling in her eyes. Oh, this man was beyond talented, yet he was here, cooling his heels as the only
son of an earl. The hand she’d rested on the iron ring that served as a door latch shook. The longer
she lingered, the more the sound of his voice sank deep into her soul to find all of the cracks there.
And what was more, that voice, the words felt as if it were a balm, an epoxy of some sort,
which began to fill in the first of those cracks, made them not hurt as acutely.
A few moments of silence reigned before he sang again, only this time it was a raunchy little
tavern song she’d heard one of the grooms at a posting inn sing in passing while she’d been in
Scotland. Despite wishing to remain hidden, a giggle escaped her throat, for the song was vastly
entertaining as much as it was scandalous.
Immediately, the singing stopped. Before she could move away, the sound of uneven footsteps
and the thud of a cane echoed. Seconds later, one of the doors was wrenched open, and since her
fingers were still curled around, Clara tumbled into the room and right into Caelan’s arms.
 “Pardon me.” Quickly enough, she pushed away from him while her cheeks burned with both
embarrassment and awareness. “I was—”
“—listening at keyholes?” he asked with an arched eyebrow and a grin that was this side of
mischievous.
“Yes.” How could she deny it when he’d caught her?
“Come in. You best keep me company before I go out of my mind with boredom.” He waved
her into the room and left one of the doors partially open. “I’d visited the library, but the collections
found here are as boring as the entertainment when one is hobbled. Obviously, the laird has kept all
the best literature for himself at the castle.”
She gawked at him. “You enjoy reading as well as singing?”
“You appear shocked.” He put a hand over his heart and gave her an expression of mock
outrage. “And here I thought I appeared erudite and intelligent.”
The heat in her cheeks intensified. Clara collapsed onto a chair near the fireplace where
cheerful flames danced behind a decorative metal grate. The warmth was appreciated. “You do, of
course, especially now that I know you sing like you’ve fallen from heaven.”
Caelan snorted. “I don’t know how I feel to be likened to a fallen angel.” He sat himself on a
sofa near her location and eased his left foot onto a padded stool. “But I understand what you’re
trying to say. Thank you for the compliment.”
“It’s true, though. I’ve long adored music of all kinds, but there is something special and soul-
changing hearing a man sing from the depths of his being.”
He eyed her with speculation and then pleasure. “You truly believe my singing that
wonderful?”
“I absolutely do because I’m complete rubbish at it.” At least that’s how she’d heard the
British turn of phrase.
“Somehow, I don’t believe that. You’re having me on for sympathy.”
The teasing in his voice made her smile. “Oh, it’s true. That isn’t a skill I acquired. In fact,
each time I tried to sing my babies lullabies, they cried within moments of the first notes. As soon as I
stopped, they settled.” With nothing to do with her hands, Clara clasped them in her lap. “No amount
of voice lessons as a young woman had an effect. In fact, it only made me detest singing in front of an
audience.” A bit of self-conscious laughter escaped her. “I don’t mind doing it for myself if I’m alone,
for no one is there to listen.” Having his attention all to herself was quite daunting, and once more, his
presence seemed to fill the room until she had no choice but to notice him. “Was singing something
your parents cultivated in you during your formative years?”
“Ah, not really. My mother adored it, so I made it a point to give her private concerts. It
seemed to cheer her exponentially, for she suffered depression more often than not due to health
concerns.” He shot her a grin that brimmed with confidence and a touch of wickedness before sadness
overtook those emotions. “I merely have always had an affinity for singing. It proved helpful when
stuck in various drawing rooms full of guests who needed entertained. All the better if there were
young ladies of skill at the harp or pianoforte who’d memorized a large battery of pieces.”
She could certainly see him charming every woman he’d come into contact with. “You never
thought to make a career with that talent on a stage?” Such a voice shouldn’t be kept to oneself, surely.
How often had he used that to his advantage when courting?
“Over the years, I suppose the thought had occurred, but I had other things to attend, and
knowing I’m all my father has encouraged me to stay close to London.” He shrugged. “I’m only here
in Scotland because he encouraged it. Said I should make an effort to know my cousin’s people.
Swore to me he’d manage not to expire while I’m on holiday, and since Parliament won’t reopen until
late January, he should have nothing except relaxation ahead of him.”
“It’s sweet of you to worry about him.” She was often anxious regarding her children, but ever
since her husband and parents died, she often wondered since her concern had nowhere else to go, if
the twins would resent such fretting.
“He has a tendency to overextend himself, for he wishes to continue working. Always tells me
there’s not enough hours in the day, that too many people are depending on him.”
She frowned. “But you said your family wasn’t extended, that it was just the two of you.”
“Indeed, I did. He worries over the fate of the people in England, which is why he works
tirelessly in the House of Lords. His greatest driving force is making life better for those who have no
voice, who have to fight for every crumb. My father has a great heart for the people.”
“You share his views, I’d imagine.” Clara hadn’t spent much time around people of the ton,
but she’d seen enough during her time in London to know there was a huge divide between classes.
Wealth and excess lay on one side while poverty and struggle rested on the other. She and Johnathan
had done what they could when they could, but raising twins was an expensive endeavor as well,
especially on his pension.
“I do, and I hope to follow in his footsteps once it’s my turn.” All levity had faded from his
expression. “It’s the least I can do with the position—what we all can do if we have the means. What
is the point of having coin in coffers if it means watching others suffer?”
His giving spirit made him even more attractive. “How do you spend your time if not using
singing as a livelihood?” He was so different from Johnathan it was laughable. Where her husband
had been in the navy and led a very structured, ordered life, this man seemed to go where the wind
took him, enjoying arts and entertainment, flitting here and there to lend a hand.
“I am part owner of a book shop on Brooks Street.”
“Ah!” Excitement tripped down her spine. “That’s why you were disappointed with the
offerings in the library.” And it explained why he’d ghost stories so readily available.
“Indeed.” That grin had the power to turn her bones to mush. “Once we move over to Castle
Buchannan, the laird’s library is the first place I’ll go.” He shrugged again and this time his
expression turned wry. “I’ve always had a fascination for books. The ability to read allows us to
escape the ordinary for a bit.”
“How well I know that,” she replied in a soft voice. “I often wish I was afforded more time to
read. Gothic tales are my current favorite, but the twins take up much of my attention. I don’t begrudge
them that. They will only be this age once, and I feel compelled to spend every second with them,
especially facing the future we do.”
Mercy. Why did talking with this man loosen her tongue so that she told him secrets, some of
which no one person knew?
“How so?” A frown marred the handsome lines of his face. “Surely they aren’t sick.”
Was that a trace of panic in his voice? Why? He’d only just met them.
“No, no. Nothing like that.” Clara forced a smile to try and reassure him.
“Where are they now?”
“Napping. One thing about the Highlands is this place wears them out. They play all too hard
which means they sleep hard too.” She allowed a tiny smile. Conversing with this man was so easy,
and if she would allow herself, she could slip into a decent nap merely by listening to the sound of his
voice. Perhaps she’d even dream of further kisses with him even though that was a bad idea. “No
matter how much I love them, I’m glad for the respite each day.”
Another random document with
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Western physics exhibits the “how” and the “how long” as distinct in
essence. As soon as the question is pressed home, causality
restricts its answer rigidly to the statement that something happens
—and not when it happens. The “effect” must of necessity be put
with the “cause.” The distance between them belongs to a different
order, it lies within the act of understanding itself (which is an
element of life) and not within the thing or things understood. It is of
the essence of the extended that it overcomes directedness, and of
Space that it contradicts Time, and yet the latter, as the more
fundamental, precedes and underlies the former. Destiny claims the
same precedence; we begin with the idea of Destiny, and only later,
when our waking-consciousness looks fearfully for a spell that will
bind in the sense-world and overcome the death that cannot be
evaded, do we conceive causality as an anti-Fate, and make it
create another world to protect us from and console us for this. And
as the web of cause and effect gradually spreads over the visible
surfaces there is formed a convincing picture of timeless duration—
essentially, Being, but Being endowed with attributes by the sheer
force of pure thought. This tendency underlies the feeling, well
known in all mature Cultures, that “Knowledge is Power,” the power
that is meant being power over Destiny. The abstract savant, the
natural-science researcher, the thinker in systems, whose whole
intellectual existence bases itself on the causality principle, are “late”
manifestations of an unconscious hatred of the powers of
incomprehensible Destiny. “Pure Reason” denies all possibilities that
are outside itself. Here strict thought and great art are eternally in
conflict. The one keeps its feet, and the other lets itself go. A man
like Kant must always feel himself as superior to a Beethoven as the
adult is to the child, but this will not prevent a Beethoven from
regarding the “Critique of Pure Reason” as a pitiable sort of
philosophy. Teleology, that nonsense of all nonsenses within
science, is a misdirected attempt to deal mechanically with the living
content of scientific knowledge (for knowledge implies someone to
know, and though the substance of thought may be “Nature” the act
of thought is history), and so with life itself as an inverted causality.
Teleology is a caricature of the Destiny-idea which transforms the
vocation of Dante into the aim of the savant. It is the deepest and
most characteristic tendency both of Darwinism—the megalopolitan-
intellectual product of the most abstract of all Civilizations—and of
the materialist conception of history which springs from the same
root as Darwinism and, like it, kills all that is organic and fateful. Thus
the morphological element of the Causal is a Principle, and the
morphological element of Destiny is an Idea, an idea that is
incapable of being “cognized,” described or defined, and can only be
felt and inwardly lived. This idea is something of which one is either
entirely ignorant or else—like the man of the spring and every truly
significant man of the late seasons, believer, lover, artist, poet—
entirely certain.
Thus Destiny is seen to be the true existence-mode of the prime
phenomenon, that in which the living idea of becoming unfolds itself
immediately to the intuitive vision. And therefore the Destiny-idea
dominates the whole world-picture of history, while causality, which is
the existence-mode of objects and stamps out of the world of
sensations a set of well-distinguished and well-defined things,
properties and relations, dominates and penetrates, as the form of
the understanding, the Nature-world that is the understanding’s “alter
ego.”
But inquiry into the degree of validity of causal connexions within a
presentation of nature, or (what is henceforth the same thing for us)
into the destinies involved in that presentation, becomes far more
difficult still when we come to realize that for primitive man or for the
child no comprehensive causally-ordered world exists at all as yet
and that we ourselves, though “late” men with a consciousness
disciplined by powerful speech-sharpened thought, can do no more,
even in moments of the most strained attention (the only ones, really,
in which we are exactly in the physical focus), than assert that the
causal order which we see in such a moment is continuously present
in the actuality around us. Even waking, we take in the actual, “the
living garment of the Deity,” physiognomically, and we do so
involuntarily and by virtue of a power of experience that is rooted in
the deep sources of life.
A systematic delineation, on the contrary, is the expression of an
understanding emancipated from perception, and by means of it we
bring the mental picture of all times and all men into conformity with
the moment’s picture of Nature as ordered by ourselves. But the
mode of this ordering, which has a history that we cannot interfere
with in the smallest degree, is not the working of a cause, but a
destiny.

II

The way to the problem of Time, then, begins in the primitive

wistfulness and passes through its clearer issue the Destiny-idea.
We have now to try to outline, briefly, the content of that problem, so
far as it affects the subject of this book.
The word Time is a sort of charm to summon up that intensely
personal something designated earlier as the “proper,” which with an
inner certainty we oppose to the “alien” something that is borne in
upon each of us amongst and within the crowding impressions of the
sense-life. “The Proper,” “Destiny” and “Time” are interchangeable
words.
The problem of Time, like that of Destiny, has been completely
misunderstood by all thinkers who have confined themselves to the
systematic of the Become. In Kant’s celebrated theory there is not
one word about its character of directedness. Not only so, but the
omission has never even been noticed. But what is time as a length,
time without direction? Everything living, we can only repeat, has
“life,” direction, impulse, will, a movement-quality (Bewegtheit) that is
most intimately allied to yearning and has not the smallest element in
common with the “motion” (Bewegung) of the physicists. The living is
indivisible and irreversible, once and uniquely occurring, and its
course is entirely indeterminable by mechanics. For all such qualities
belong to the essence of Destiny, and “Time”—that which we actually
feel at the sound of the word, which is clearer in music than in
language, and in poetry than in prose—has this organic essence,
while Space has not. Hence, Kant and the rest notwithstanding, it is
impossible to bring Time with Space under one general Critique.
Space is a conception, but time is a word to indicate something
inconceivable, a sound-symbol, and to use it as a notion,
scientifically, is utterly to misconceive its nature. Even the word
direction—which unfortunately cannot be replaced by another—is
liable to mislead owing to its visual content. The vector-notion in
physics is a case in point.
For primitive man the word “time” can have no meaning. He simply
lives, without any necessity of specifying an opposition to something
else. He has time, but he knows nothing of it. All of us are conscious,
as being aware, of space only, and not of time. Space “is,” (i.e.
exists, in and with our sense-world)—as a self-extension while we
are living the ordinary life of dream, impulse, intuition and conduct,
and as space in the strict sense in the moments of strained attention.
“Time,” on the contrary, is a discovery, which is only made by
thinking. We create it as an idea or notion and do not begin till much
later to suspect that we ourselves are Time, inasmuch as we live.[102]
And only the higher Cultures, whose world-conceptions have
reached the mechanical-Nature stage, are capable of deriving from
their consciousness of a well-ordered measurable and
comprehensible Spatial, the projected image of time, the phantom
time,[103] which satisfies their need of comprehending, measuring and
causally ordering all. And this impulse—a sign of the sophistication
of existence that makes its appearance quite early in every Culture—
fashions, outside and beyond the real life-feeling, that which is called
time in all higher languages and has become for the town-intellect a
completely inorganic magnitude, as deceptive as it is current. But, if
the characteristics, or rather the characteristic, of extension—limit
and causality—is really wizard’s gear wherewith our proper soul
attempts to conjure and bind alien powers—Goethe speaks
somewhere of the “principle of reasonable order that we bear within
ourselves and could impress as the seal of our power upon
everything that we touch”—if all law is a fetter which our world-dread
hurries to fix upon the incrowding sensuous, a deep necessity of
self-preservation, so also the invention of a time that is knowable
and spatially representable within causality is a later act of this same
self-preservation, an attempt to bind by the force of notion the
tormenting inward riddle that is doubly tormenting to the intellect that
has attained power only to find itself defied. Always a subtle hatred
underlies the intellectual process by which anything is forced into the
domain and form-world of measure and law. The living is killed by
being introduced into space, for space is dead and makes dead.
With birth is given death, with the fulfilment the end. Something dies
within the woman when she conceives—hence comes that eternal
hatred of the sexes, child of world-fear. The man destroys, in a very
deep sense, when he begets—by bodily act in the sensuous world,
by “knowing” in the intellectual. Even in Luther[104] the word “know”
has the secondary genital sense. And with the “knowledge” of life—
which remains alien to the lower animals—the knowledge of death
has gained that power which dominates man’s whole waking
consciousness. By a picture of time the actual is changed into the
transitory.[105]
The mere creation of the name Time was an unparalleled
deliverance. To name anything by a name is to win power over it.
This is the essence of primitive man’s art of magic—the evil powers
are constrained by naming them, and the enemy is weakened or
killed by coupling certain magic procedures with his name.[106]
And there is something of this primitive expression of world-fear in
the way in which all systematic philosophies use mere names as a
last resort for getting rid of the Incomprehensible, the Almighty that is
all too mighty for the intellect. We name something or other the
“Absolute,” and we feel ourselves at once its superior. Philosophy,
the love of Wisdom, is at the very bottom defence against the
incomprehensible. What is named, comprehended, measured is ipso
facto overpowered, made inert and taboo.[107] Once more,
“knowledge is power.” Herein lies one root of the difference between
the idealist’s and the realist’s attitude towards the Unapproachable; it
is expressed by the two meanings of the German word Scheu—
respect and abhorrence.[108] The idealist contemplates, the realist
would subject, mechanize, render innocuous. Plato and Goethe
accept the secret in humility, Aristotle and Kant would open it up and
destroy it. The most deeply significant example of this realism is in
its treatment of the Time problem. The dread mystery of Time, life
itself, must be spellbound and, by the magic of comprehensibility,
neutralized.
All that has been said about time in “scientific” philosophy,
psychology and physics—the supposed answer to a question that
had better never have been asked, namely what is time?—touches,
not at any point the secret itself, but only a spatially-formed
representative phantom. The livingness and directedness and fated
course of real Time is replaced by a figure which, be it never so
intimately absorbed, is only a line, measurable, divisible, reversible,
and not a portrait of that which is incapable of being portrayed; by a
“time” that can be mathematically expressed in such forms as √t, t², -
t, from which the assumption of a time of zero magnitude or of
negative times is, to say the least, not excluded.[109] Obviously this is
something quite outside the domain of Life, Destiny, and living
historical Time; it is a purely conceptual time-system that is remote
even from the sensuous life. One has only to substitute, in any
philosophical or physical treatise that one pleases, this word
“Destiny” for the word “time” and one will instantly see how
understanding loses its way when language has emancipated it from
sensation, and how impossible the group “time and space” is. What
is not experienced and felt, what is merely thought, necessarily takes
a spatial form, and this explains why no systematic philosopher has
been able to make anything out of the mystery-clouded, far-echoing
sound symbols “Past” and “Future.” In Kant’s utterances concerning
time they do not even occur, and in fact one cannot see any relation
which could connect them with what is said there. But only this
spatial form enables time and space to be brought into functional
interdependence as magnitudes of the same order, as four-
dimensional vector analysis[110] conspicuously shows. As early as
1813 Lagrange frankly described mechanics as a four-dimensional
geometry, and even Newton’s cautious conception of “tempus
absolutum sive duratio” is not exempt from this intellectually
inevitable transformation of the living into mere extension. In the
older philosophy I have found one, and only one, profound and
reverent presentation of Time; it is in Augustine—“If no one
questions me, I know: if I would explain to a questioner, I know
not.”[111]
When philosophers of the present-day West “hedge”—as they all
do—by saying that things are in time as in space and that “outside”
them nothing is “conceivable,” they are merely putting another kind
of space (Räumlichkeit) beside the ordinary one, just as one might, if
one chose, call hope and electricity the two forces of the universe. It
ought not, surely, to have escaped Kant when he spoke of the “two
forms” of perception, that whereas it is easy enough to come to a
scientific understanding about space (though not to “explain” it, in the
ordinary sense of the word, for that is beyond human powers),
treatment of time on the same lines breaks down utterly. The reader
of the “Critique of Pure Reason” and the “Prolegomena” will observe
that Kant gives a well-considered proof for the connexion of space
and geometry but carefully avoids doing the same for time and
arithmetic. There he did not go beyond enunciation, and constant
reassertion of analogy between the two conceptions lured him over a
gap that would have been fatal to his system. Vis-à-vis the Where
and the How, the When forms a world of its own as distinct as is
metaphysics from physics. Space, object, number, notion, causality
are so intimately akin that it is impossible—as countless mistaken
systems prove—to treat the one independently of the other.
Mechanics is a copy of the logic of its day and vice versa. The
picture of thought as psychology builds it up and the picture of the
space-world as contemporary physics describes it are reflections of
one another. Conceptions and things, reasons and causes,
conclusions and processes coincide so nicely, as received by the
consciousness, that the abstract thinker himself has again and again
succumbed to the temptation of setting forth the thought-“process”
graphically and schematically—witness Aristotle’s and Kant’s
tabulated categories. “Where there is no scheme, there is no
philosophy” is the objection of principle—unacknowledged though it
may be—that all professional philosophers have against the
“intuitives,” to whom inwardly they feel themselves far superior. That
is why Kant crossly describes the Platonic style of thinking “as the art
of spending good words in babble” (die Kunst, wortreich zu
schwatzen), and why even to-day the lecture-room philosopher has
not a word to say about Goethe’s philosophy. Every logical operation
is capable of being drawn, every system a geometrical method of
handling thoughts. And therefore Time either finds no place in the
system at all, or is made its victim.
This is the refutation of that widely-spread misunderstanding which
connects time with arithmetic and space with geometry by superficial
analogies, an error to which Kant ought never to have succumbed—
though it is hardly surprising that Schopenhauer, with his incapacity
for understanding mathematics, did so. Because the living act of
numbering is somehow or other related to time, number and time are
constantly confused. But numbering is not number, any more than
drawing is a drawing. Numbering and drawing are a becoming,
numbers and figures are things become. Kant and the rest have in
mind now the living act (numbering) and now the result thereof (the
relations of the finished figure); but the one belongs to the domain of
Life and Time, the other to that of Extension and Causality. That I
calculate is the business of organic, what I calculate the business of
inorganic, logic. Mathematics as a whole—in common language,
arithmetic and geometry—answers the How? and the What?—that
is, the problem of the Natural order of things. In opposition to this
problem stands that of the When? of things, the specifically historical
problem of destiny, future and past; and all these things are
comprised in the word Chronology, which simple mankind
understands fully and unequivocally.
Between arithmetic and geometry there is no opposition.[112] Every
kind of number, as has been sufficiently shown in an earlier chapter,
belongs entirely to the realm of the extended and the become,
whether as a Euclidean magnitude or as an analytical function; and
to which heading should we have to assign the cyclometric[113]
functions, the Binomial Theorem, the Riemann surfaces, the Theory
of Groups? Kant’s scheme was refuted by Euler and d’Alembert
before he even set it up, and only the unfamiliarity of his successors
with the mathematics of their time—what a contrast to Descartes,
Pascal and Leibniz, who evolved the mathematics of their time from
the depths of their own philosophy!—made it possible for
mathematical notions of a relation between time and arithmetic to be
passed on like an heirloom, almost uncriticized.
But between Becoming and any part whatsoever of mathematics
there is not the slightest contact. Newton indeed was profoundly
convinced (and he was no mean philosopher) that in the principles of
his Calculus of Fluxions[114] he had grasped the problem of
Becoming, and therefore of Time—in a far subtler form, by the way,
than Kant’s. But even Newton’s view could not be upheld, even
though it may find advocates to this day. Since Weierstrass proved
that continuous functions exist which either cannot be differentiated
at all or are capable only of partial differentiation, this most deep-
searching of all efforts to close with the Time-problem
mathematically has been abandoned.
 III
Time is a counter-conception (Gegenbegriff) to Space, arising out
of Space, just as the notion (as distinct from the fact) of Life arises
only in opposition to thought, and the notion (as distinct from the
fact) of birth and generation only in opposition to death.[115] This is
implicit in the very essence of all awareness. Just as any sense-
impression is only remarked when it detaches itself from another, so
any kind of understanding that is genuine critical activity[116] is only
made possible through the setting-up of a new concept as anti-pole
to one already present, or through the divorce (if we may call it so) of
a pair of inwardly-polar concepts which as long as they are mere
constituents, possess no actuality.[117] It has long been presumed—
and rightly, beyond a doubt—that all root-words, whether they
express things or properties, have come into being by pairs; but
even later, even to-day, the connotation that every new word
receives is a reflection of some other. And so, guided by language,
the understanding, incapable of fitting a sure inward subjective
certainty of Destiny into its form-world, created “time” out of space as
its opposite. But for this we should possess neither the word nor its
connotation. And so far is this process of word-formation carried that
the particular style of extension possessed by the Classical world led
to a specifically Classical notion of time, differing from the time-
notions of India, China and the West exactly as Classical space
differs from the space of these Cultures.[118]
For this reason, the notion of an art-form—which again is a
“counter-concept”—has only arisen when men became aware that
their art-creations had a connotation (Gehalt) at all, that is, when the
expression-language of the art, along with its effects, had ceased to
be something perfectly natural and taken-for-granted, as it still was in
the time of the Pyramid-Builders, in that of the Mycenæan
strongholds and in that of the early Gothic cathedrals. Men become
suddenly aware of the existence of “works,” and then for the first
time the understanding eye is able to distinguish a causal side and a
destiny side in every living art.
In every work that displays the whole man and the whole meaning
of the existence, fear and longing lie close together, but they are and
they remain different. To the fear, to the Causal, belongs the whole
“taboo” side of art—its stock of motives, developed in strict schools
and long craft-training, carefully protected and piously transmitted; all
of it that is comprehensible, learnable, numerical; all the logic of
colour, line, structure, order, which constitutes the mother-tongue of
every worthy artist and every great epoch. But the other side,
opposed to the “taboo” as the directed is to the extended and as the
development-destiny within a form-language to its syllogisms, comes
out in genius (namely, in that which is wholly personal to the
individual artists, their imaginative powers, creative passion, depth
and richness, as against all mere mastery of form) and, beyond even
genius, in that superabundance of creativeness in the race which
conditions the rise and fall of whole arts. This is the “totem” side, and
owing to it—notwithstanding all the æsthetics ever penned—there is
no timeless and solely-true way of art, but only a history of art,
marked like everything that lives with the sign of irreversibility.[119]
And this is why architecture of the grand style—which is the only
one of the arts that handles the alien and fear-instilling itself, the
immediate Extended, the stone—is naturally the early art in all
Cultures, and only step by step yields its primacy to the special arts
of the city with their more mundane forms—the statue, the picture,
the musical composition. Of all the great artists of the West, it was
probably Michelangelo who suffered most acutely under the constant
nightmare of world-fear, and it was he also who, alone among the
Renaissance masters, never freed himself from the architectural. He
even painted as though his surfaces were stone, become, stiff,
hateful. His work was a bitter wrestle with the powers of the cosmos
which faced him and challenged him in the form of material, whereas
in the yearning Leonardo’s colour we see, as it were, a glad
materialization of the spiritual. But in every large architectural
problem an implacable causal logic, not to say mathematic, comes to
expression—in the Classical orders of columns a Euclidean relation
of beam and load, in the “analytically” disposed thrust-system of
Gothic vaulting the dynamic relation of force and mass. Cottage-
building traditions—which are to be traced in the one and in the
other, which are the necessary background even of Egyptian
architecture, which in fact develop in every early period and are
regularly lost in every later—contain the whole sum of this logic of
the extended. But the symbolism of direction and destiny is beyond
all the “technique” of the great arts and hardly approachable by way
of æsthetics. It lies—to take some instances—in the contrast that is
always felt (but never, either by Lessing or by Hebbel, elucidated)
between Classical and Western tragedy; in the succession of scenes
of old Egyptian relief and generally in the serial arrangement of
Egyptian statues, sphinxes, temple-halls; in the choice, as distinct
from the treatment, of materials (hardest diorite to affirm, and softest
wood to deny, the future); in the occurrence, and not in the grammar,
of the individual arts, e.g., the victory of arabesque over the Early
Christian picture, the retreat of oil-painting before chamber music in
the Baroque; in the utter diversity of intention in Egyptian, Chinese
and Classical statuary. All these are not matters of “can” but of
“must,” and therefore it is not mathematics and abstract thought, but
the great arts in their kinship with the contemporary religions, that
give the key to the problem of Time, a problem that can hardly be
solved within the domain of history[120] alone.
 IV
It follows from the meaning that we have attached to the Culture
as a prime phenomenon and to destiny as the organic logic of
existence, that each Culture must necessarily possess its own
destiny-idea. Indeed, this conclusion is implicit from the first in the
feeling that every great Culture is nothing but the actualizing and
form of a single, singularly-constituted (einzigartig) soul. And what
cannot be felt by one sort of men exactly as it is felt by another
(since the life of each is the expression of the idea proper to himself)
and still less transcribed, what is named by us “conjuncture,”
“accident,” “Providence” or “Fate,” by Classical man “Nemesis,”
“Ananke,” “Tyche” or “Fatum,” by the Arab “Kismet,” by everyone in
some way of his own, is just that of which each unique and
unreproduceable soul-constitution, quite clear to those who share in
it, is a rendering.
The Classical form of the Destiny-idea I shall venture to call
Euclidean. Thus it is the sense-actual person of Œdipus, his
“empirical ego,” nay, his σῶμα that is hunted and thrown by Destiny.
Œdipus complains that Creon has misused his “body”[121] and that
the oracle applied to his “body.”[122] Æschylus, again, speaks of
Agamemnon as the “royal body, leader of fleets.”[123] It is this same
word σῶμα that the mathematicians employ more than once for the
“bodies” with which they deal. But the destiny of King Lear is of the
“analytical” type—to use here also the term suggested by the
corresponding number-world—and consists in dark inner
relationships. The idea of fatherhood emerges; spiritual threads
weave themselves into the action, incorporeal and transcendental,
and are weirdly illuminated by the counterpoint of the secondary
tragedy of Gloster’s house. Lear is at the last a mere name, the axis
of something unbounded. This conception of destiny is the
“infinitesimal” conception. It stretches out into infinite time and infinite
space. It touches the bodily, Euclidean existence not at all, but
affects only the Soul. Consider the mad King between the fool and
the outcast in the storm on the heath, and then look at the Laocoön
group; the first is the Faustian, the other the Apollinian way of
suffering. Sophocles, too, wrote a Laocoön drama; and we may be
certain that there was nothing of pure soul-agony in it. Antigone goes
below ground in the body, because she has buried her brother’s
body. Think of Ajax and Philoctetes, and then of the Prince of
Homburg and Goethe’s Tasso—is not the difference between
magnitude and relation traceable right into the depths of artistic
creation?
This brings us to another connexion of high symbolic significance.
The drama of the West is ordinarily designated Character-Drama.
That of the Greeks, on the other hand, is best described as
Situation-Drama, and in the antithesis we can perceive what it is that
Western, and what it is that Classical, man respectively feel as the
basic life-form that is imperilled by the onsets of tragedy and fate. If
in lieu of “direction” we say “irreversibility,” if we let ourselves sink
into the terrible meaning of those words “too late” wherewith we
resign a fleeting bit of the present to the eternal past, we find the
deep foundation of every tragic crisis. It is Time that is the tragic, and
it is by the meaning that it intuitively attaches to Time that one
Culture is differentiated from another; and consequently “tragedy” of
the grand order has only developed in the Culture which has most
passionately affirmed, and in that which has most passionately
denied, Time. The sentiment of the ahistoric soul gives us a
Classical tragedy of the moment, and that of the ultrahistorical soul
puts before us Western tragedy that deals with the development of a
whole life. Our tragedy arises from the feeling of an inexorable Logic
of becoming, while the Greek feels the illogical, blind Casual of the
moment—the life of Lear matures inwardly towards a catastrophe,
and that of Œdipus stumbles without warning upon a situation. And
now one may perceive how it is that synchronously with Western
drama there rose and fell a mighty portrait-art (culminating in
Rembrandt), a kind of historical and biographical art which (because
it was so) was sternly discountenanced in Classical Greece at the
apogee of Attic drama. Consider the veto on likeness-statuary in
votive offerings[124] and note how—from Demetrius of Alopeke (about
400)[125]—a timid art of “ideal” portraiture began to venture forth
when, and only when, grand tragedy had been thrown into the
background by the light society-pieces of the “Middle Comedy.”[126]
Fundamentally all Greek statues were standard masks, like the
actors in the theatre of Dionysus; all bring to expression, in
significantly strict form, somatic attitudes and positions.
Physiognomically they are dumb, corporeal and of necessity nude—
character-heads of definite individuals came only with the Hellenistic
age. Once more we are reminded of the contrast between the Greek
number-world, with its computations of tangible results, and the
other, our own, in which the relations between groups of functions or
equations or, generally, formula-elements of the same order are
investigated morphologically, and the character of these relations
fixed as such in express laws.
 V
In the capacity of experientially living history and the way in which
history, particularly the history of personal becoming, is lived, one
man differs very greatly from another.
Every Culture possesses a wholly individual way of looking at and
comprehending the world-as-Nature; or (what comes to the same
thing) it has its own peculiar “Nature” which no other sort of man can
possess in exactly the same form. But in a far greater degree still,
every Culture—including the individuals comprising it (who are
separated only by minor distinctions)—possesses a specific and
peculiar sort of history—and it is in the picture of this and the style of
this that the general and the personal, the inner and the outer, the
world-historical and the biographical becoming, are immediately
perceived, felt and lived. Thus the autobiographical tendency of
Western man—revealed even in Gothic times in the symbol of
auricular confession[127]—is utterly alien to Classical man; while his
intense historical awareness is in complete contrast to the almost
dreamy unconsciousness of the Indian. And when Magian man—
primitive Christian or ripe scholar of Islam—uses the words “world-
history,” what is it that he sees before him?
But it is difficult enough to form an exact idea even of the “Nature”
proper to another kind of man, although in this domain things
specifically cognizable are causally ordered and unified in a
communicable system. And it is quite impossible for us to penetrate
completely a historical world-aspect of “becoming” formed by a soul
that is quite differently constituted from our own. Here there must
always be an intractable residue, greater or smaller in proportion to
our historical instinct, physiognomic tact and knowledge of men. All
the same, the solution of this very problem is the condition-precedent
of all really deep understanding of the world. The historical
environment of another is a part of his essence, and no such other
can be understood without the knowledge of his time-sense, his
destiny-idea and the style and degree of acuity of his inner life. In so
far therefore as these things are not directly confessed, we have to
extract them from the symbolism of the alien Culture. And as it is
thus and only thus that we can approach the incomprehensible, the
style of an alien Culture, and the great time-symbols belonging
thereto acquire an immeasurable importance.
As an example of these hitherto almost uncomprehended signs we
may take the clock, a creation of highly developed Cultures that
becomes more and more mysterious as one examines it. Classical
man managed to do without the clock, and his abstention was more
or less deliberate. To the Augustan period, and far beyond it, the
time of day was estimated by the length of one’s shadow,[128]
although sun-dials and water-clocks, designed in conformity with a
strict time-reckoning and imposed by a deep sense of past and
future, had been in regular use in both the older Cultures of Egypt
and Babylonia.[129] Classical man’s existence—Euclidean,
relationless, point-formed—was wholly contained in the instant.
Nothing must remind him of past or future. For the true Classical,
archæology did not exist, nor did its spiritual inversion, astrology.
The Oracle and the Sibyl, like the Etruscan-Roman “haruspices” and
“augurs,” did not foretell any distant future but merely gave
indications on particular questions of immediate bearing. No time-
reckoning entered intimately into everyday life (for the Olympiad
sequence was a mere literary expedient) and what really matters is
not the goodness or badness of a calendar but the questions: “who
uses it?” and “does the life of the nation run by it?” In Classical cities
nothing suggested duration, or old times or times to come—there
was no pious preservation of ruins, no work conceived for the benefit
of future generations; in them we do not find that durable[130] material
was deliberately chosen. The Dorian Greek ignored the Mycenæan
stone-technique and built in wood or clay, though Mycenæan and
Egyptian work was before him and the country produced first-class
building-stone. The Doric style is a timber style—even in
Pausanias’s day some wooden columns still lingered in the Heræum
of Olympia. The real organ of history is “memory” in the sense which
is always postulated in this book, viz., that which preserves as a
constant present the image of one’s personal past and of a national
and a world-historical past[131] as well, and is conscious of the course
both of personal and of super-personal becoming. That organ was
not present in the make-up of a Classical soul. There was no “Time”
in it. Immediately behind his proper present, the Classical historian
sees a background that is already destitute of temporal and therefore
of inward order. For Thucydides the Persian Wars, for Tacitus the
agitation of the Gracchi, were already in this vague background;[132]
and the great families of Rome had traditions that were pure
romance—witness Cæsar’s slayer, Brutus, with his firm belief in his
reputed tyrannicide ancestor. Cæsar’s reform of the calendar may
almost be regarded as a deed of emancipation from the Classical
life-feeling. But it must not be forgotten that Cæsar also imagined a
renunciation of Rome and a transformation of the City-State into an
empire which was to be dynastic—marked with the badge of duration
—and to have its centre of gravity in Alexandria, which in fact is the
birthplace of his calendar. His assassination seems to us a last
outburst of the antiduration feeling that was incarnate in the Polis
and the Urbs Roma.
Even then Classical mankind was still living every hour and every
day for itself; and this is equally true whether we take the individual
Greek or Roman, or the city, or the nation, or the whole Culture. The
hot-blooded pageantry, palace-orgies, circus-battles of Nero or
Caligula—Tacitus is a true Roman in describing only these and
ignoring the smooth progress of life in the distant provinces—are
final and flamboyant expressions of the Euclidean world-feeling that
deified the body and the present.
The Indians also have no sort of time-reckoning (the absence of it
in their case expressing their Nirvana) and no clocks, and therefore
no history, no life memories, no care. What the conspicuously
historical West calls “Indian history” achieved itself without the
smallest consciousness of what it was doing.[133] The millennium of
the Indian Culture between the Vedas and Buddha seems like the
stirrings of a sleeper; here life was actually a dream. From all this our
Western Culture is unimaginably remote. And, indeed, man has
never—not even in the “contemporary” China of the Chóu period
with its highly-developed sense of eras and epochs[134]—been so
awake and aware, so deeply sensible of time and conscious of
direction and fate and movement as he has been in the West.
Western history was willed and Indian history happened. In Classical
existence years, in Indian centuries scarcely counted, but here the
hour, the minute, yea the second, is of importance. Of the tragic
tension of a historical crisis like that of August, 1914, when even
moments seem overpowering, neither a Greek nor an Indian could
have had any idea.[135] Such crises, too, a deep-feeling man of the
West can experience within himself, as a true Greek could never do.
Over our country-side, day and night from thousands of belfries, ring
the bells[136] that join future to past and fuse the point-moments of the
Classical present into a grand relation. The epoch which marks the
birth of our Culture—the time of the Saxon Emperors—marks also
the discovery of the wheel-clock.[137] Without exact time-
measurement, without a chronology of becoming to correspond with
his imperative need of archæology (the preservation, excavation and
collection of things-become), Western man is unthinkable. The
Baroque age intensified the Gothic symbol of the belfry to the point
of grotesqueness, and produced the pocket watch that constantly
accompanies the individual.[138]
Another symbol, as deeply significant and as little understood as
the symbol of the clock, is that of the funeral customs which all great
Cultures have consecrated by ritual and by art. The grand style in
India begins with tomb-temples, in the Classical world with funerary
urns, in Egypt with pyramids, in early Christianity with catacombs
and sarcophagi. In the dawn, innumerable equally-possible forms
still cross one another chaotically and obscurely, dependent on clan-
custom and external necessities and conveniences. But every
Culture promptly elevates one or another of them to the highest
degree of symbolism. Classical man, obedient to his deep
unconscious life-feeling, picked upon burning, an act of annihilation
in which the Euclidean, the here-and-now, type of existence was
powerfully expressed. He willed to have no history, no duration,
neither past nor future, neither preservation nor dissolution, and
therefore he destroyed that which no longer possessed a present,
the body of a Pericles, a Cæsar, a Sophocles, a Phidias. And the
soul passed to join the vague crowd to which the living members of
the clan paid (but soon ceased to pay) the homage of ancestor-
worship and soul-feast, and which in its formlessness presents an
utter contrast to the ancestor-series, the genealogical tree, that is
eternalized with all the marks of historical order in the family-vault of
the West. In this (with one striking exception, the Vedic dawn in
India) no other Culture parallels the Classical.[139] And be it noted that
the Doric-Homeric spring, and above all the “Iliad,” invested this act
of burning with all the vivid feeling of a new-born symbol; for those
very warriors whose deeds probably formed the nucleus of the epic
were in fact buried almost in the Egyptian manner in the graves of
Mycenæ, Tiryns, Orchomenos and other places. And when in
Imperial times the sarcophagus or “flesh-consumer”[140] began to
supersede the vase of ashes, it was again, as in the time when the
Homeric urn superseded the shaft-grave of Mycenæ, a changed
sense of Time that underlay the change of rite.
The Egyptians, who preserved their past in memorials of stone
and hieroglyph so purposefully that we, four thousand years after
them, can determine the order of their kings’ reigns, so thoroughly
eternalized their bodies that today the great Pharaohs lie in our
museums, recognizable in every lineament, a symbol of grim triumph
—while of Dorian kings not even the names have survived. For our
own part, we know the exact birthdays and deathdays of almost
every great man since Dante, and, moreover, we see nothing
strange in the fact. Yet in the time of Aristotle, the very zenith of
Classical education, it was no longer known with certainty if
Leucippus, the founder of Atomism and a contemporary of Pericles
—i.e., hardly a century before—had ever existed at all; much as
though for us the existence of Giordano Bruno was a matter of
doubt[141] and the Renaissance had become pure saga.
And these museums themselves, in which we assemble
everything that is left of the corporeally-sensible past! Are not they a
symbol of the highest rank? Are they not intended to conserve in
mummy the entire “body” of cultural development?
As we collect countless data in milliards of printed books, do we
not also collect all the works of all the dead Cultures in these myriad
halls of West-European cities, in the mass of the collection depriving
each individual piece of that instant of actualized purpose that is its
own—the one property that the Classical soul would have respected
—and ipso facto dissolving it into our unending and unresting Time?