Macfie flashed him a wry smile. “Rose would never tell me that, but if she were tae, I would tell her we are different souls. I am not the man I was when she knew me, and neither is she the lassie.”
“And if you had a Mrs. Macfie at home, and you received a letter from your Rose, what would you do then?” Decker asked.
Macfie eyed him for a moment, before breaking his silence at last. “If I had a Mrs. Macfie that I loved the way ye love Mrs. Decker, I would tell Rose tae go and have a swim in the loch, and I would hope the leeches would find her cu—”
“That is quite sufficient,” Decker interrupted. “I am sure I can gather the rest. Thank you, Macfie. However, as much as I admire Mrs. Decker, I would not say I am hopelessly besotted just yet.”
Did Macfie truly think Decker loved Jo? He had hinted as much before, but still, Macfie ought to know him better. Surely he understood Decker was incapable of such an emotion? Was he not?
Decker looked inside himself, and all he saw was murk.
“I was going tae say her curmudgeonly arse,” Macfie said, his tone as innocent as his expression. “And I would also argue ye are hopelessly besotted, but ye can lie tae yerself all ye like. Now, would ye care tae tell me the whole story, or are ye wanting tae keep feeding me bits, like a fish ye are attempting tae catch on yer hook?”
Decker sighed, and then he confided in Macfie—an abbreviated version of his past with Nora and the letter he had received. When he had finished, Macfie whistled.
“Does Mrs. Decker know of this Lady Tingly?” Macfie queried.
“Tinley,” Decker corrected, not that it mattered. Indeed, he was reasonably certain his man was getting the name wrong intentionally. “And no, to answer your question, she does not. I have never shared this part of my past with her as I did not consider it imperative.”
The shame he had felt at keeping the letter a secret from Jo returned, burning as hotly as Nora’s words had.
“If she learns of it on her own and ye havenae told her, it will go badly for ye,” Macfie advised, quite sagely. “Ye love her. This Lady Stringy of yers, she is part of yer past, aye? She broke yer puir heart, but she likely paid ye a favor. Ye wouldnae want to shackle yerself to a lady who wasnae certain ye were the one for her, a lady who wasnae willing tae fight and do whatever she must tae claim yer heart forever.”
This time, Decker did not bother to correct Macfie’s confusion of Nora’s title. “As always, you are right, Macfie. I should tell Mrs. Decker everything. And you know? When I read that letter today, I was furious with Nora—all the pain and resentment of the past returned, but I did not, for a second, feel as if I wanted her to be mine. Or that I regretted what happened, the way my life has turned out. I am content with Mrs. Decker and pleased to have her as my wife.”
As he spoke the words aloud, he realized just how true they were. The murk cleared, and suddenly there it was: clarity. Astonishing in its brilliance. The talons of the past no longer clawed at him. He felt, for the first time in years, free.
Was it Nora’s letter which had opened him to such profundity, was it Macfie’s cheeky wisdom, or was it his fierce, passionate wife?
“Of course ye ought tae be content with a fine lady such as Mrs. Decker as yer wife,” Macfie said then. “If ye werenae, I would think ye an arsehole.”
Decker snorted. “In truth, I am an arsehole. I am merely a discerning one.”
He thought again of Jo’s embrace yesterday in his study, of her soft declaration of love. Of his inability to return it. He had to do better, to be a better man. For her.
“Och, ye arenae an arsehole, sir,” Macfie told him quietly, his ordinarily mischievous mien serious. “Ye are a good man. Didnae think I failed tae notice all yer time spent sending coin and pianos and books tae the orphanages. Tae say nothing of the hospitals ye fund.”
Decker had arranged for all those acts of charity himself. The notion of carrying on with the Earl of Graham’s wealth had seemed anathema to him, but he