A Scot to Remember

by Angeline Fortin

  Tris, too, groaned with misery, as if believing that had been her game plan all along.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” she told him through clenched teeth. “I can assure you. I didn’t stay for you.”

  “Then why...?” Tris broke off with a curse when he caught her unintentional glance in Henry’s direction. “Will you excuse us? I’ll show Miss Hughes to her room.”

  “You don’t know which room she’s been assigned to,” his mother pointed out.

  “Then I’ll show her the bloody gallery.”

  Grabbing Brontë firmly around the upper arm without an ounce of gentlemanly finesse, he dragged her out of the room despite their protests and down the hall to a room triple the size of the reception area. Almost forgetting what had brought her here, she gaped up at the vaulted stained-glass ceiling.

  “Magnifi —”

  A rough shake of her shoulders drew her gaze away from the glory of the room and back to Tris. His eyes were dark with worry, his brogue thicker than normal when he spoke. “What happened? That is to say, what will happen? Is it Henry?”

  She sighed, prying his fingers off her biceps. “Isn’t it always?”

  “How?” He ran his fingers through his hair until it stood on end. “Ye said this morning that there was nothing more to fret over.”

  “What I said was is that there was no reason for me to stop you from boarding the train,” she reminded him coolly. “Listen, there’s no point in worrying your handsome head over all this. I’ll take care of it.”

  He glowered at her, the sight rousing a quirk to her lips. “Annoying, isn’t it? Having someone respond as if you’re too vapid to process a coherent answer?”

  He lifted his hands, fingers curled as if he meant to grab her again for another good shake. “Point taken. Nevertheless, I dislike being kept in the dark regarding matters concerning my best mate. Ye maun tell me or I’ll be jumping at shadows all week.”

  She nodded. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. It’s days away, so I was somewhat serious in telling you not to stress it right now.”

  “Tell me what is to come,” he demanded. “I’ll take care of it. Nay, no’ because I dinnae think ye can. I cannae bear to sit idly by waiting for it to come.”

  “I’ll give you a heads up,” she assured him. “But I’ll be the one to fix it. Again. And everything will be fine. Again.”

  “Until it isnae,” he added darkly. “I dinnae understand. How could such ill luck keep befalling him?”

  Brontë didn’t need him to go there. She’d already dwelled upon the unlikelihood of so many accidents befalling Henry one after another too many times.

  “That’s the question of the hour.”

  Unable to look him in the eye any longer, knowing perpetuating the conversation would lead to more questions, she cast her gaze around the gallery once more. With multi-colored beams of light radiating down through the glass ceiling and on to the paneled walls and tiled floor, it was a magical place. Heavily framed landscapes and portraits covered the walls almost from floor to ceiling. Their march around the room interrupted by periodic sconces and the occasional door.

  “Miss Hughes...?”

  His deep brogue was echoed by a feminine one at the door. “Miss Hughes?”

  “Aye, Ma?” Tris asked.

  “Did I ask for you?” His mother chided then turned to Brontë with a welcoming smile. “I thought I might take Miss Hughes on a tour of the house and show her to her rooms so she might rest and change before luncheon.”

  “I said I’d show her around,” he argued.

  His mother shook her head. “Miss Hamilton and her parents have arrived. I’ve assured them you’ll keep her in good company until luncheon.”

  “I would love a tour,” Brontë said with a smile, crossing the room toward her. “Thank you, Lady MacKintosh.”

  “Please, call me Abby.” She linked her arm through hers. “And you’re Brontë? What an unusual name.”

  Throwing one last look over her shoulder at Tris, Brontë left the room at his mother’s side grateful for the escape.

  “It is, isn’t it?

  Chapter 16

  THE REST ABBY SUGGESTED for Brontë after their walk around the mansion seemed silly to her. She wasn’t given to naps and didn’t feel she’d done anything strenuous enough to demand one now. There was a good chance she’d put in a solid ten thousand steps on the day, however.

  Beyond the gallery, she’d been shown the drawing room, morning room, library, dining room, billiards room and gentleman’s room (whatever that was) on the ground floor alone. Farther along a long hall they hadn’t ventured down was the butler’s pantry, gun room, servant’s hall, pantry, larder, kitchen courtyard and a dozen or so rooms of which she couldn’t recall the names. The one that stuck in her head was brushing room. She hadn’t the slightest idea what its purpose was.

  There were staircases for the ladies, another for the gentlemen and yet another for the servants as well as the principle stairway near the front hall. She was tempted to ask what penalty would befall her if she took the wrong one but bit her tongue. Most of the questions she had — and there were many — would only serve to make her sound gauche.

  More than she was, that is.

  Why hadn’t important details like these been covered in school? This was information far more valuable than dates, wars and political policies.

  Abby filled their tour with plenty of details of her own without Brontë having to ask, explaining the history of the house as well as adding amusing anecdotes about the enormity of the MacKintosh family and the interplay between them. There were also a few tales from Tris’s childhood. The sort of embarrassing things any mother enjoys passing along to a prospective daughter-in-law, which was how she viewed Brontë apparently. Especially after the brief spat between them in the hall. They all seemed to view it as some sort of sign.

  She ignored the not-so subtle hints on that subject, evaded others about her past and asked to see his baby photos for no other reason than to amuse herself and humiliate him should he find out. Abby promised to show her their album and was truly pleasant company, forthright and frank in her opinions. Not at all meek or soft-spoken as she would have expected a woman crushed by her son’s sexism on a daily basis might be. Perhaps the sins of the son were not those of the father.

  Or she pushed back when pushed too far. Brontë liked to think that was the case. Tris was in need of a good, hard shove now and again.

  They moved on to the first floor where the family’s bedchambers, and suites with private drawing rooms and dressing rooms for the earl and countess were located. The school room, work room, day and night nurseries and rooms for ladies’ maids and other staff stretched into the west wing. The second floor housed more than a dozen bedrooms. There was a bachelor’s bedroom for all the single men arriving for the house party and another for unmarried young ladies to share.

  She was to have her own room. The young ladies tended toward late-night gossip and an excess of giggles, Abby explained as she led the way. Given her maturity, she’d no doubt prefer some solitude from time to time. She took this to mean she was too old to hang out with the teenagers, which was fine by Brontë. There were other single ladies, like Hannah Merrill, who’d have their own rooms so she wasn’t the sole exception.

  She refrained from asking which group Miss Hamilton belonged to. No need to legitimize any hopes Tris’s mother might harbor regarding a match between them.

  “My son has a room of his own as well a floor above,” Abby added.

  Perhaps it would be better to explain her position on the matter, rather than ignore it. “I appreciate the tour, ma’am, however you should know straightaway, I have no interest in knowing where your son’s rooms are. Or marrying him, to be more clear.”

  “Of course not.” His mother patted her hand with an indulgent smile. “You should know, I for one appreciated you giving my son a good dressing down. I assure you, he knows better than to belittle the r
ationality of the female mind. To hear him say those things...well, I would think he does it a purpose.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Why does any man aggravate a woman?”

  With a low chuckle, Abby left her at her bedchamber door and departed with the mention that the meal would be served in two hours. Brontë watched her until she descended the stairs, then followed behind, counting from her door to the main stairs so she’d be able to find her way without asking. Stopping at the corridor that edged the perimeter of the open court within, she looked out one of the windows and down upon the angular, stained-glass roof of the gallery below. From this perspective, the colors were muted, giving no hint of the glory that might be seen from another viewpoint.

  It really was all about how one looked at things.

  Opportunity or misfortune.

  Which would this third trip back in time bring for her?

  With a sigh, she turned back down the hall. Maddie waited for her in her room. Like all the rooms she’d seen, the space was richly furnished, screaming class and wealth. From the blue flocked brocade wallpaper that had her fighting the urge to pet it to the delicately carved walnut four-poster bed that begged her to cuddle deep under the velveteen counterpane and take the nap she claimed she didn’t need. Denying the need if not the urge, she had the maid help her change — yet again. Her third dress of the day. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t wear the linen dress to lunch. After pointing out the bell pull so Brontë could summon her when needed, Maddie left her to her thoughts.

  Had she known what chaos awaited her below, she might have savored those minutes of peace and quiet far more.

  By the time lunch ended, the idea of a nap was beginning to sound more and more appealing. For starters, her idea of lunch and the luncheon of this time were two vastly different things. The meal itself took hours. Four courses beginning with foie gras in a lentil velouté (one of the four mother sauces) and seared Scottish langoustines in a champagne butter sauce followed by a creamy leek soup.

  At that point, she realized the courses were going to keep coming and paced herself. For the main course there was grilled salmon in a honey glaze, a venison and apricot terrine and herb-crusted game hens. Uncertain how to approach the game hen in a delicate manner, she opted for the salmon. After all that, a variety of cheeses, candied fruit and puddings were brought out to tempt her into stuffing herself further.

  More than a few pounds would make their way to her hips and thighs if each meal presented itself this way. She couldn’t imagine eating like this every day.

  Or keeping up such a steady stream of conversation. Listening to the polite chatter it was almost as if they spoke a different language, lived in a different country or culture far removed from the Scotland she knew.

  Socializing wasn’t the greatest of her skills in the best of times. Being submersed into conversation that included people she didn’t know or social functions she was unfamiliar with left her with the sensation that she was slowly drowning. Thankfully the friendly and effervescent Hannah, seated across from her, noticed her dilemma and earned a permanent place in her heart by coming to the rescue. Hannah guided a steady stream of conversation that engaged not only Brontë but the men who flanked them both. Hannah’s beau from the theater, Heath Wyndom, sat on one side of her while her uncle Sandy Merrill sat on the other. Brontë sat between Tris’s youngest uncle Dorian MacKintosh, the guest of honor at the house party, and Laurence Ashley-Cooper, Earl of Shaftesbury who she quickly discovered was the Laurie so often mentioned in Hazel’s journals as Tris and Henry’s boon companion. Once she’d thought the name referred to a woman. Now she realized it was a nickname, like Lawrence/Laurie in Little Women.

  Both of her dinner companions proved themselves to be charming and interesting men. With Hannah handily redirecting stray observations back to broader topics Brontë could participate in, she was able to genuinely enjoy their company.

  Brontë was impressed by the woman’s remarkable social skills. Despite the assist, the limited backstory she’d created for herself was inadequate to sufficiently answer their questions. She’d need to fill in more detail if she hoped to better mesh into the time period without raising eyebrows.

  As she had again and again with Tris.

  Tris MacKintosh.

  Oh, how he’d infuriated her earlier! Part and parcel of the era it might be, nevertheless such offhand comments had her pulling at her hair. Just when she thought he was beginning to understand her, they’d stumble across a moment like that. And he couldn’t even see where it had gone awry! Contrary to Abby’s comment, she couldn’t imagine why he’d rouse her ire intentionally.

  Jake had tried her patience as well. Right from the beginning, confrontations with him left her upset and annoyed for days on end. Soon enough, every aspect of him she’d found lacking had become intolerable.

  Tris drove her to the peak of madness with a roller coaster descent on the other side. She couldn’t stay mad at him in the space of time it took to move from one room to the next. Lord, he wasn’t that charming, was he? The depth of emotion he roused in her so potent it compensated for the aggravation? He incensed and irritated, yet she felt no compunction to run away from him.

  Only to him.

  She sensed his eyes upon her from the other end of the table throughout the meal. That is, when his attention wasn’t focused on the young woman seated next to him. Miss Janice Hamilton, one of her dinner partners confirmed. Pretty enough with dark brown hair with big, brown doe eyes, she peered up at Tris as if he were a living, breathing resident of Mount Olympus walking among them. Except when he spoke to her, then her eyes would be downcast demurely, her softly spoken responses likely traveling no farther than his ears.

  She even let him cut her hen for her.

  Precisely the sort of woman he no doubt preferred. A piercing heat settled in her gut. There was no chance she was going to acknowledge the green monster.

  “Does the pudding not suit you, Miss Hughes?” Laurie asked when she dropped her fork and nudged her plate back.

  “Oh, no, it’s delicious.” She was a sucker for a good steamed jam sponge. “Nothing more than regrets for overindulging, I’m afraid.”

  He chuckled under his breath. “I believe my mother means to compensate for all the lavish meals Dorian will miss while he’s gone. Isn’t that so, Uncle?”

  Dorian wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it aside. “Eve worries overmuch. Germany will be put back in its place soon enough. The fighting won’t last long.”

  He couldn’t know the war would go on for years and at the cost of millions of lives. That it wouldn’t be a war over in moments, but become the Great War, lasting years. Brontë hated to think about him among the fallen in the battles ahead.

  “Then why volunteer to go?” She wondered at the motivations that drove him to risk his life. Perhaps she could steer him to safety.

  “How can I not? My country is in need of able-bodied men and experienced officers. I am both,” he told her. “After leaving Cambridge, I served for a number of years. Besides, I’ve no family to leave behind as so many do.”

  “I would argue your definition of family,” Laurie said. “Nearly all of us at this table fall into that category.”

  Dorian merely rolled his eyes, familiar with this argument, Brontë assumed.

  “I would be interested in hearing more on your viewpoint regarding the war,” she told him. Perhaps she could find a way to subtly warn him of the true ordeals Britain would face in the years to come. Henry needn’t be the only change she could affect on this journey.

  He inclined his head. “I’d fancy a walk after such a filling meal. Would ye care to join me?”

  Casting on final look at Tris, she nodded. “If it’s a brisk one.”

  A hint of a smile deepened the dimple on his cheek. “Brisk it shall be.”

  Chapter 17

  Two days later

  “ARE YOU HIDING, MISS Hughes?”
>
  Brontë jumped as Tris leaned close behind her to whisper in her ear. She reached up to adjust her hat that her flinch knocked askew and scowled up at him.

  Familiar thanks for seeking her company.

  “Hiding? Of course not. Why would you think such a thing?”

  “Could be because the entirety of the house guests are gathered on the rear terrace and lawns, partaking of all sorts of activities while you’re here,” he suggested. “Skulking in doorways instead of enjoying a beautiful day.”

  “The day remains beautiful whether I’m in or out, doesn’t it?” she asked. “One can appreciate it from many vantage points. And, hello? I could point out you’re not outside either.”

  Tris rocked his head noncommittally, unwilling to admit he’d come looking for her. He’d spent the past day and a half telling himself his interest in her was based solely on her confounded foreknowledge of Henry’s travails, and his burgeoning need for answers.

  As the female members of his family took it upon themselves to make sure Brontë never lacked the company of an unmarried gentleman, he’d come to accept that another far less weighty, yet incontestable reason drove him. He wanted a chance to be alone with her. To enjoy the entertaining and unusual topics that always seemed to arise in conversation with her. To bask in the steady warmth of her beguiling smile. All the things that sidetracked him from getting to the bottom of her bizarre behavior. With nearly fifty people gathered for the house party, finding a solitary moment with anyone was no mean feat.

  “There are so many people here, I can’t blame you for seeking a moment of solitude.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” she told him candidly. “I thought my family gatherings were a nightmare.”

  Tris’s jaw sagged a fraction before he recovered himself with a grin.

  It was his opinion that those from large families were of two vastly different camps when it came to having families of their own. They either plotted out-procreating their kinsmen as if family size were some sort of rivalry, or they wanted nothing to do with it.