A Scot to Remember

by Angeline Fortin

  “Who are you?”

  She blinked up at him, her smile fading and hand falling as she bit her lip. “Just your friendly, neighborhood passerby.”

  “What my friend means to say is thank you.” Henry climbed to his feet and took her hand between his. Lifting it to his lips, he kissed it and smiled down at her. “I don’t know how I can ever express my gratitude adequately, dear lass. You’ve saved my life.”

  “It only needed saving because you were heroic enough to save your daughter’s,” she told him, her broad smile renewed.

  “For hell’s sake,” Tris burst out. “Henry, don’t you recognize her?”

  “Yes, I believe we’ve a passing acquaintance, haven’t we?”

  His friend merely grinned like a fool. Perhaps he’d knocked his head a tad hard on the cobbles. Tris could reiterate how they’d first come to know the curious woman, expound on her criminal past and question her incredible timing in diverting catastrophe not once, but twice.

  He doubted Henry would care. His friend had taken to the lass for some inexplicable reason. Feck it. Tris prayed it wasn’t the same reason he was reluctantly drawn to her. Hazel would be beyond put out.

  He was put out himself for entertaining any measure of attraction for a woman who merited nothing more than distrust and caution from him. From them both. Who she was and what she knew were a problem, a mystery...a conundrum.

  “Won’t you come inside?” Henry was saying. “Let me offer some hospitality in thanks for your timely intervention? Perhaps a chance to tidy up? I’m certain my wife will want to extend her appreciation as well.”

  The woman looked from Henry to Tris to the door of the Burnham townhouse where several ladies crowded around the open door and overflowed to the stoop. “I really shouldn’t. That is, it looks as though you have company and I’d hate to intrude.”

  “I insist,” Henry said firmly. “I must know the name of my savior and how she came to be here at such a timely moment.”

  Aye, Tris bloody well wanted to know, too.

  ADRENALINE PUMPED THROUGH Brontë as she was led upstairs by a considerably more solicitous butler to a private room where she might collect herself.

  She needed collecting.

  In planning and theory, knocking Henry out of the path of the car had seemed simple enough. In reality, rushing in front of a moving vehicle screamed madness. Granted the “speeding” car couldn’t have been going more than fifteen to twenty miles per hour, probably its top speed. When it had originally hit him, it must have struck a susceptible body part or he’d hit his head when falling to the ground for the impact to have been fatal. Most likely she would have suffered nothing more than a broken bone or two if she’d failed to time the rescue correctly.

  It hadn’t felt that way at the time.

  Her heart had been in her throat, nerves on edge when she’d raced into the street. She’d landed on Henry with her body hailing a reminder that she wasn’t an NFL linebacker. The actuality of what she’d done combined with the collision had left her stupefied.

  Then the sweet euphoria of success amplified the heady rush.

  She’d done it. She’d saved the day. She mentally provided the high five Tris hadn’t.

  Hair once again tucked up and hat in place...nerves still sizzling but at a manageable level, she rejoined her ancestors in the parlor where the other ladies lingered. Once again Tris MacKintosh was present. Did he have nowhere else to be?

  To make matters worse, she hadn’t minded her language with him outside. She’d spoken her mind, vented her irritation when his position on sparing a lady’s delicate sensibilities was nothing more than a sign of the times. It had rubbed her the wrong way and she’d reacted as if she were the injured party. In doing so, she roused his suspicions. Now he watched eagle-eyed as she repeated the same song and dance she’d been through earlier with more conviction the second time around.

  She introduced herself as Hazel’s distant cousin — the relationship having already proven itself plausible — and told them that she’d been coming to call when she’d come upon the incident outside. She hadn’t been required to produce her calling card this time, so she mentioned nothing about the Mrs. she was supposed to be. It had never occurred to her to claim relationship with Hazel. To be fair, she’d never considered they might assume it. In light of the connection, summoning a fictional husband and personal history would be overkill.

  The couple insisted she address them by their given names since they were family, which suited her fine. She was unaccustomed to formal addresses and so far stumbled over the proper, unfamiliar titles.

  Tris wasn’t included in the invitation, nor did he extend one. He simply watched and waited. He’d have a long one. She had no intention of commenting upon the events surrounding her previous visit. Henry seemed content to let the past go and that was good enough for her. Perhaps he experienced that same amity that flooded her each time she looked at him and didn’t care about the circumstances.

  Tris MacKintosh, on the other hand...Well, he looked ready to burst at the seams with repressed questions. Best all around if she skipped out of here as soon as possible to avoid an uncomfortable confrontation with him. However, as the fuss abated, “the aunts” left and she found herself seated in the family parlor with a grateful couple sitting across from her, she couldn’t come up with the words to form an excuse.

  She’d never get another chance like this. Truth was, she wanted to talk to her great-great grandparents. Get to know them. To learn more about them than old family stories or romanticized prose from Hazel’s point of view could provide. She wanted to know them as people. Real people.

  A tea tray was called for and produced. Hazel poured Brontë a cup and asked how she liked it. Before she could answer, Henry added a splash of whisky to the cup and poured himself a few fingers as well.

  “It may well be before noon, but I could use a dram or two,” he explained. “I’d wager you feel the same.”

  Brontë took a sip and the fiery brew burned away the remnants of her frayed nerves. She nodded with a sigh. “Yes, thank you.”

  “I’m so incredibly thankful you were there to prevent what might have been a fatal accident,” Hazel said for at least the twentieth time in ten minutes. Henry took his wife’s tea cup and added a substantially larger dose of whisky than he’d provided Brontë. Smart. Most likely she needed it more than anyone else. The truth of what may have been — what would have been — had registered with her more fully than Henry.

  “Please, think nothing of it,” Brontë demurred, channeling her best version of Hazel’s cultured tone. “While it was nothing more than fortuitous timing, I am happy to have helped. You may want to have a word with the driver of the car about speeding through your neighborhood, however. With children present, there should be a speed limit.”

  Henry frowned and looked to his friend. “I can’t say I recognized the driver. Tris?”

  Tris shook his head. “I’ll admit, I didn’t get a good look at him, but I don’t recall seeing the motorcar before.”

  “Hopefully it was an isolated incident, then,” Brontë said brightly. “I should hate to have to come back around again just to save you.”

  Henry chuckled at that. Hazel tittered, then gulped her tea. Yup, she was shaken up. Tris continued to watch Brontë with a narrowed gaze that threatened to drill its way through her skull.

  He cleared his throat. “Miss Hughes, before the accident, you were —”

  “Hazel,” she interrupted before he could finish the sentence. Rude, yes. Nonetheless she figured it would be better to not let him get the question out than to be expected to answer it. Thankfully, he was more polite than she and didn’t argue the change of subject. “That is a beautiful necklace. Simply lovely.”

  It was, thankfully, and worthy of notice. An exquisite radiant-cut amethyst as big as her thumbnail set into a gold filigree oval on a gold chain dotted with smaller amethysts along its length.

  Hazel b
eamed and touched the pendant as if it were the Hope diamond before lifting it and opening it. A locket. “Isn’t it darling? Henry gave it to me when our first daughter was born. See? There’s a sprig of hyacinth inside.”

  “That’s so sweet and thoughtful!”

  It was. If she hadn’t liked Henry already, the thoughtfulness of the gift would’ve dialed it in for her. What she wouldn’t give for a guy who put more thought into a present beyond a cashier asking for his credit card.

  “Miss Hughes —”

  Tris was ready to press his questions again. She needed to keep on her toes with him. “Tell me, Henry,” she interjected. “What do you do for a living?”

  “Why I’m an earl of the realm.” The benign smile he cast upon his wife persisted.

  Brontë nodded. “Yes, I know. But what do you do, you know, for work?”

  He turned to her, his soft smile becoming an indulgent grin. “Americans. You have a way of making a nobleman feel quite useless. Hazy’s mother has the same effect on me. Good thing we don’t visit often.”

  Hazel swatted at his shoulder with wifely exasperation. Henry caught her hand and pressed a kiss to it. Watching their spousal interaction warmed Brontë’s heart.

  He looked back to her. “I guess you could say I keep my fortunes healthy through wise investments.”

  “Really?” she asked with interest. “Like what?”

  He laughed. “Whatever Tris tells me to.”

  “Really,” she repeated, her tone a notch lower as they all looked to Tris.

  Already disgruntled by not getting the answer to his question...or getting to fully vocalize the question at all, Tris pressed his lips together appearing as prepared as she to stubbornly refuse to answer. Henry shot him a pointed look and he relented with a sigh. “If occupations are in question, I suppose you might refer to me as an investor of sorts. Of late, I’ve directed my energies to the advancement of radio systems to assist in the war effort.”

  “War effort?” Brontë frowned and mentally picked her way back through her high school world history classes. Then it struck her. “Oh God, has that started already?”

  The slip cost her. She should have kept her thoughts to herself. In a heartbeat, that inquisitive look in Tris’s eyes redoubled. She cast around for yet another distraction coming up empty. Setting her tea cup to the side, she stood before he could lay out his accusations. “Thank you so much for the tea, but I really should be leaving.”

  “Leaving?” Her ancestors protested in unison.

  Tris lifted a discerning brow.

  “Oh, no, I must object,” Hazel said, also rising to her feet. The gentlemen stood as well. “I was hoping you might stay a few days or more so we might get to know you better.”

  “I merely came to town for the day,” was her evasive reply. “I don’t even have a change of clothes with me.”

  The excuse might have worked but for the obvious solution.

  “You can wear something of mine,” Hazel insisted. “I have a voluminous wardrobe and we’re nearly the same size. Please say you’ll stay.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “One night,” Hazel put on the pressure. “We’re going to the theater tonight. It promises to be a delightful evening. Please stay and join us.”

  “Theater?” Brontë softened at the word, her determination slipping away. “What’s playing?”

  “Cyrano de Bergerac.”

  Of course, it was. The coincidence was too absurd to deny.

  Brontë looked at her ancestors and their friendly, eager smiles. It was so tempting. It might be fun to see the play and make comparisons to a twenty-first century production of the same.

  The true lure however was in getting to know her great-great grandparents a little better. They were so much younger than she’d expected, yet oddly mature. Reserved in manners yet outwardly friendly. She imagined they had a hundred stories never mentioned in Hazels diary. A hundred stories she could share with Granny. Spending time with them, even a short time, would be a joy.

  Was there truly any harm in indulging herself?

  “One night.”

  Chapter 9

  THIS WAS WHERE FEMINISM had been born. Not by the suppression of the right to vote or even in silencing a woman’s voice in the control over her life or person. It had been squeezed out of them with every tug of the strings that tightened the corset, constricted their ribs and sucked away their breath.

  Covering her from breast nearly to the top of her thighs, the contraption forced an S-bend posture, chest forward and bum thrust back. The maid who helped Brontë dress for the evening insisted the new style corset was healthier — yes, healthier — than the old hourglass model. She longed to compound on all the reasons such archaic beliefs were wrong.

  Then the maid had produced the dress, silencing Brontë’s protest.

  She hadn’t had reason to don a formal gown since being a bridesmaid at Jane’s second wedding. There was a world of difference between then and now. To begin with, she didn’t hate the dress. It wasn’t a tacky ice pink brocaded satin that made her sallow and was far too hot for a July wedding.

  The costume Hazel lent her was stunning. She couldn’t dreaming of designing something so elegant. A sheath underdress of apricot silk skimmed her curves as smoothly as the corset and thin silk slip would allow. Over it, she wore a filmy black silk tulle dress with fluttery capelet sleeves and beaded trim along the edges. From the wide silk band below her breasts down, the tulle was completely covered by a swirling trail of black beads accented by black bugle beads forming leafy patterns all the way to the floor. In the back, the flowing tulle descended from each shoulder, leaving her back bare almost to the waist but for the thin silk underdress. A large beaded rosette held the two sides together at the small of her back.

  As light and delicate as the ensemble looked in the mirror, the plethora of crystal beads made for a hefty weight that kept the narrow skirt clinging to the curves of her hips and thighs when she walked.

  The maid sat her at a vanity and loosened the Gibson Girl knot Aila labored over. Stifled curiosity compressed her lips as she brushed out Brontë’s wavy light brown locks exposing the rose gold ombre on the ends. Her hair was teased in all directions, curled with terrifying tongs heated over a fire — mercifully none of it was burned off despite the distinctive smell of burning hair — and arranged into intricate rolls and tucks to frame her face and weigh at the back of her head. As a headband of jet beads was wrapped across the top of her head, her resemblance to her grandmother became more pronounced. A choker of matching beads went around her neck with longer beads dangling from the edge. Matching earrings, a bead encrusted purse, and elbow length black gloves completed the outfit.

  For all that the corset and squared neckline of the dress flattened her bosom rather than the boost and flaunt she was used to, as she stood and rotated before a full-length mirror, Brontë knew she’d rarely looked prettier and more to the point, felt prettier.

  No matter the era, this was what women dressed up for. What they suffered the pain of high heels and restrictive undergarments for. It wasn’t for men. It was for their own pleasure and satisfaction.

  Nevertheless, when a tap sounded at the door and the maid admitted Tris into the room, Brontë acknowledged that there was some satisfaction to be found in stopping a man dead in his tracks. The flash of appreciation and heat in Tris’s eyes when he saw her left her feeling like a downright goddess.

  If she had godlike powers at all, the first would be to banish the relationship between them. It was so wrong that the first flush of attraction she should experience in over a year be for a man who — however distantly — was related to her.

  And openly suspicious of her to boot. In her defense, staying hadn’t been part of her orchestrated rescue plan. After a swift intervention with minimal interaction, she’d imagined any toe that slipped over the line would have become nothing more than a curious memory for them. Now she had to face the ramifications o
f her loose tongue.

  She’d managed to avoid him since the morning’s reunion in the parlor. He’d gone his way with Henry while Hazel had shown Brontë to her bedroom then taken her up to the nursery to meet the children. Unlike Tris, the young couple accepted her into their home without a hint of misgiving. They didn’t ask where she’d come visiting from “for the day” or who she’d traveled from America with. A tenuous blood relationship combined with saving Henry’s life and... boom! She was welcomed into the family fold without question.

  Either they were naïve or their gratitude for her intervention outweighed all else. In any case, she reveled in the opportunity to spend a little extra time with them. Hours spent playing with her great-grandmother and great-aunt as babies while getting to know her great-great-grandmother as a young woman had been surreal, yet so much more rewarding than she’d anticipated. A measure of Hazel’s public formality slipped away to reveal more of the whimsical emotion that was the hallmark of her journals, as well as a more pragmatic side of her displayed as the mother of two small children.

  Holding the toddler who would grow to become her great-grandmother, Brontë found herself volunteering distant memories of Hyacinth and stories about Violet. As if she could subliminally assure Hazel her children would become lovely, caring women. That was surreal.

  They also talked about Hazel’s mother, Primrose MacKintosh; her involvement in the woman’s suffrage movement in America and their attempts to gain the vote. Brontë revealed some of her feminist beliefs, though she refrained from volunteering the opinion that having the right to vote was only the beginning of measures women would be forced to fight for.

  She shared a quiet dinner with her grandparents, listening to their stories and absorbing the world around her. She’d cultivated so many precious memories to take home. Staying had been the right choice.

  Or at least she’d thought so until the warmth in Tris’s gaze faded only to be replaced by the same old skepticism she was growing used to. Henry had so many wonderful things to say about his friend. It was difficult reconciling the picture he painted of a jovial, adventurous man with the cynical one she’d seen thus far.