Lucy by M.C. Beaton Read Free Book Online Page B

end of the pier for the last steamer to Glasgow. If anyone saw her, she had her story ready. She was merely delivering some old clothes to the next port of call down the loch.
    But as the boat chugged away from the pier, she was the only passenger to get on board. She stood in the stern at the rail and watched the lights of Marysburgh fade into the twilight. She felt very young, vulnerable, and alone. She thought of her mother and father reading the letter in the kitchen and a tear rolled slowly down her cheek.
    The peace of the loch was slowly left behind in the soft Highland twilight.
    A seagull dived past her ear with a raucous cry—a noisy harbinger of the tumultuous days to follow.

CHAPTER FOUR
    A dusty fiacre crawled up the hill above Monte Carlo bearing its ill-assorted burden.
    A pale dawn was creeping over the expanse of the Mediterranean as Mr. and Miss Balfour-MacGregor went home to their villa high up in the pines.
    Mr. Balfour-MacGregor, resplendent in a tall silk hat, evening clothes, and gold embroidered waistcoat, with his aristocratic features highlighted by a small imperial beard, seemed too distinguished a figure to have such a dowdy daughter. Miss Balfour-MacGregor was lumpy and fat with a pasty face and dull brown hair falling in lank, greasy strands from under a tired headdress of osprey feathers.
    “I thought you would be delighted, Lucy,” said Mr. Balfour-MacGregor. “Five thousand pounds in francs at one sitting.”
    “I am tired to death,” said Lucy. “How would you like to sit in the stifling heat of the casino with pillows stuffed down your dress and cotton wool wadding your cheeks?”
    “It’s all to the good,” said the ex-butler. “I don’t want anyone to recognize you in London. And I don’t want any mashers hanging around my beautiful daughter. You’ll marry an English lord by the time I’m through with you.”
    “Don’t you think we have enough money now, Mr. MacGregor?” pleaded Lucy,
    “Call me Papa,” said the ex-butler, “and remember our name is Balfour-MacGregor. No, we have not made nearly enough. We must move on tomorrow. You caused quite a sensation tonight. We must move to another casino fast before these casino owners begin to pool their gossip.”
    The fiacre came to a stop before a small villa and the couple alighted and trailed wearily indoors. MacGregor had not hired any servants so that there would be no witnesses to wonder why the beautiful Miss Balfour-MacGregor became transformed into a fat, frumpy woman as soon as night fell.
    “Make us a snack, Lucy,” called MacGregor over his shoulder. “I’ll nip down to the cellar and get us a bottle of bubbly.”
    Lucy shut the kitchen door behind him and then walked over and closed the heavy shutters. She then removed the heavy, lank wig and headdress and threw them in a corner. She stopped and listened and heard the faint sounds of MacGregor in the cellar underneath the house. She lifted her skirts and drew out one large pillow from the front and another from the back and threw them in the same corner. She dug her fingers into her mouth and removed the wads of cotton wool and, crossing to the sink, poured a basin of water from a wooden bucket on the floor and scrubbed the white paint and gray powder from her face.
    She unbraided her own hair and, taking a brush from her handbag, began to brush it out with long, even strokes until it crackled and shone in the dim candlelight. She put a long loaf of bread and a box of Camembert together with some of the local cheeses on the table and, tying an apron around her waist, she lit the stove.
    MacGregor came up the stairs from the cellar and into the kitchen as she was beating eggs for an omelet. “Sit down and I’ll do that,” he said, taking the wire beater from her. He cast a furtive, guilty look at her tired, drawn face and the shadows under her eyes and came to a decision. “I’ve been thinking, Lucy,” he said with his back to her. “We might stay on