The Healing Power of Hatred
Montrose sat at his desk, his usual morning temper, as always, present. His breakfast sat untouched on the silver platter before him. Truthfully, he didn't know why they bothered feeding him in the mornings when they knew he wasn't going to eat it anyway. It was a waste of good British tea. This, one might add, was not cheap. Especially when it had to be carried all the way from blessed England to the middle of bloody Scotland.
With a long-suffering sigh, Lord Montrose slipped one white finger around the delicate handle of the teacup and lifted it from its saucer, placing it against his thin lips and allowing the bitter mixture to fill his mouth. He didn't even like tea, but fashion decreed that he enjoy it every meal.
The young dark-skinned servant boy who had been a gift to him from Argyll, all those years ago back when the two still got along, entered the room, bowing deeply and clearing his throat. With a small wave, Montrose granted him leave to speak.
"Speak up, boy," he snapped, setting the teacup back down on its saucer.
"Forgive me, my lord," the boy stooped low in another bow. "but there is someone who demands to see you."
"Demands?" Montrose lifted one finely arched brow and scowled. "Who has the gall to demand that he see me at such an unholy hour?"
"It is a woman, sir," the boy whispered, taking half a step back in the face of his master's annoyance. Montrose straightened in his seat, instantly alert. There was only one woman in this entire world who would wish to have dealings with him.
"Send her in," he said, reaching up and running his hands over the golden embroidery on his black velvet lapels. The servant boy scurried out of the room, and Montrose waited patiently, his heart hammering against his chest.
The last time he had seen Anna, she was sobbing against his chest, begging him not to leave her as he stared past her dispassionately at the ship that would take him away. He had left her out of necessity, not necessarily choice. Yet, unbeknownst to him, he had also left her with something that would keep them in contact for as long as the source of that bond still existed.
Archibald Cunningham, Montrose's one and only son, whom his dear Anna had sent to live with him when she confessed that she could no longer support a child on her own. Montrose had taken the child in, no longer a child, really, but a young man of twenty. And since Archibald's death, Montrose had written Anna about it, and had not heard from her since. Nor had he expected to. Much less to have her arrive at his doorstep for God knew what reasons!
The servant boy stepped in once more, followed closely behind by Anna. Montrose had to look twice to reassure himself that it was indeed her. When he had left her she was a young thing, her white breasts held up by a dress of wine red velvet, tears streaking down her rosy plump cheeks, falling from dove gray eyes. Her chestnut brown hair gathered up in a net of silver and baring her slender, Botticelli neck. She had been beautiful, once. He could not recognize her now, for time and life had taken its toll. Brown hair now had streaks of iron gray running throughout its length, she was dressed all in black, with a veil obscuring her features, but he could see the sadness in her dove gray eyes. That was one thing that hadn't changed.
"Lady Cunningham," he replied, placing the tips of his fingers together. Anna eyed him coldly.
"Don't speak to me in that manner, my lord Montrose!" she snapped. "You know me better than that, it's one of the reasons that I'm here."
"My letter," Montrose assessed calmly. "You never sent a reply."
"That's because as soon as I received it, I boarded a boat to this dreadful place."
"It would have been nice, to have some warning," Montrose gestured languidly with his hand. "Would you care to sit down?"
"No!" she exclaimed, placing her hands palms down on his desk. Montrose didn't move, but his icy tone suggested that she should tread lightly.
"Anna," he warned. "Calm down."
"James…." The tears were coming; he could hear them in her voice. "I'm sorry, I just …" she reached up with one white gloved hand and dashed the tears away from behind her veil. "I only came to pay my respects to our child…"
"Your child," Montrose corrected.
"Ours," she replied, more forcefully. "And I will get out of your hair forever, no more letters, no more visits. I swear."
"Be my guest," he said. "I don't see the need for this visit in the first place, if that is all you were going to do."
"I had to see you again," she admitted.
"Why?"
"You know why," her voice dropped, and she lowered her head. "James, I'm still madly in love with you."
Montrose let out a caustic laugh, and stood, turning to face the window and to gaze out at the courtyard. The rolling green hills of Scotland, and the bright golden dawn. "I would express my sympathies, Anna, except I have none to give." He knew she was crying, the woman never did anything save cry. He would have liked to see her smile, once in his life, but those days had long gone by. The opportunity vanished. "If you are going to pay your respects to Archibald, you best do so now. It's a long ride to the cemetery."
The dismissal in his voice was obvious. Biting her lip, Anna nodded, and brushed a hand over her face. "Thank you, James." She whispered. "And … goodbye…"
Montrose didn't reply. He waited until the grieving mother fled from the room and shut the door softly behind her. Her choking sobs could be heard from the hallway, but they, too, gradually died away.
When he turned again to face the door, he saw his servant boy standing there, waiting expectantly, his hands folded in front of him.
Montrose sat gingerly back down in his chair, and lifted the teacup again to his lips. "What's next, Jacob?"