by Eloisa James
Elsie kept talking while Annabel’s hair dried, and while she brushed it until it shone. Then Annabel put on her chemise and her corset, the French one. Her gown was a long sweep of plum-colored, figured sarcenet that hugged her curves and then widened into a small train. A lace fall emphasized her bodice.
Elsie tied Annabel’s hair into a knot of curls and finally Annabel looked at herself in the glass. She thought she looked fit for a castle. For an earl. Even…perhaps…for a man such as Ewan. But she caught herself up trying to coax her face into a pious expression: the kind of look that Ewan’s wife ought to wear. Marriage was one thing, and playacting quite another.
Twenty-nine
The dining room was cavernous, and dubiously heated by enormous fireplaces at either end.
“Once we’re married, I suppose you’ll have to sit down there,” Ewan said, gesturing toward the far end of the huge table. “I remember my parents dining so, as if they were marooned on separate islands. But for tonight, I’ve asked Warsop to put us all at one end.”
Beautiful old china was set for the family and the three monks, but even those ten places took only a fourth of the span. “But this table is surely meant for a whole clan,” Annabel said. “Why on earth haven’t you replaced it with a smaller one?”
“An excellent suggestion,” Ewan said.
“Things should stay as they are,” Lady Ardmore said, sweeping into a seat to Ewan’s right. She had changed into a gown that had apparently been designed, if not made, in the days of Queen Elizabeth. Her petticoats alone must have weighed two stone, and a large, stiff ruff jutted from behind her neck. “There’s no reason to turn everything topsy-turvy on account of a new bride in the castle. This castle’s seen many a bride come and go, and maintaining the behavior contingent to an earl’s dignity is more important than comfort.”
Uncle Tobin sat to Lady Ardmore’s right. “You’re going to have to hand over the reins,” he told her, clearly enjoying himself. “Everything will change when you’re the dowager countess.”
Lady Ardmore eyed Annabel. “If Miss Essex thinks she can run a household distinguished by such a large staff, I will be most content to relinquish control.” She directed a smile at Annabel that would have felled a pirate.
But Annabel hadn’t spend her youth skirmishing with unpaid tradesmen for nothing. She returned with a tolerant smile that indicated no wish to be unkind, while signaling its opposite. “You must be exhausted after all these years,” she cooed. “It will be my pleasure to take some of the burden from your shoulders.”
“You sound like a demmed missionary,” Lady Ardmore said with revulsion. “You didn’t find yourself a hymn singer to marry, did you?” she demanded of Ewan. “The castle’s already overrun by them.”
Father Armailhac smiled, unperturbed, and Gregory kept eating peacefully. “Absolutely not,” Ewan told his grandmother. “I knew a bride with a churchgoing disposition would be upsetting for your digestion, Nana.”
Lady Ardmore readjusted her wig and took a bite of her supper. “This house has gone to wrack and ruin since we moved the demmed Catholics in,” she said loudly.
“Lady Ardmore, I promise you that I was merely experiencing a streak of luck last evening,” Father Armailhac said. “I shall give you a chance to recoup your losses tonight.”
She glared at Annabel, but there was a whiff of camaraderie in her glare. “Took all my money, he did. A gambling monk! I never thought I’d see the day. Perfectly disgraceful.”
“You’re giving Miss Essex an erroneous impression of us,” Father Armailhac said, smiling. “We play for bawbees, Miss Essex.”
“This family didn’t gain its wealth by wasting its coins, no matter if they are only worth a few pence,” the countess announced.
Annabel sipped her consommé. “This is delicious,” she said to Ewan. “Did you have trouble finding a cook so far up in the Highlands?”
“We’re lucky enough to have a French chef,” Ewan replied. “Mac found him and lured him here for quite a large salary—”
“Disgraceful!” his grandmother interjected.
“Monsieur Flambeau likely would have left us during his first winter, except he fell in love with Mac’s sister.”
“Disgraceful!” from Lady Ardmore.
“Now they have two children and no plans to move from Scotland, although I do have to raise his salary every time the snow goes over five feet.”
Ewan’s grandmother opened her mouth, but Annabel anticipated her. “Disgraceful?” she said, cocking an eyebrow.
“French!” the countess snapped. “Of course, it remains to be seen what you think of winter in the Highlands, Miss Essex.”
Annabel wasn’t sure whether the cook showed his Frenchness by falling in love, or by disliking high snow.
Gregory was sitting quietly next to Uncle Tobin and hadn’t yet said a word. “Do you have a tutor, Gregory?” Annabel asked him.
He looked up from his soup, seeming rather startled to be addressed. “Not at the moment, Miss Essex. Last February my tutor decided to return to Cambridge, and since then Father Armailhac has been tutoring me in Latin and French.”
“Do you enjoy the study of languages?” Annabel asked. Gregory seemed quite different from children whom she had known. He was remarkably self-possessed, with manners so exquisite as to be positively antique.
“Most certainly. But I do miss studying mathematics,” he said, pushing back his hair from his forehead. “And archaeology.”
“I thought it would do Gregory good to take a break from his studies,” Ewan said. “I’ve asked him to join me in the fields this summer.”
Lady Ardmore snorted. “The fields! Utterly unsuitable!”
Annabel raised an eyebrow. “The fields?”
“We raise all sorts of crops on my lands,” Ewan explained. “I generally spend the greater part of the summer moving from one field to another.” A look at Gregory’s rather peaked, white face made Annabel think that Ewan’s plan for sunshine and fresh air was a good one.
“Manual labor,” Nana grumbled. “It’s not befitting an earl. Your father would never have dirtied his hands in such a fashion.”
“I’ll be planting a number of experimental crops this year,” Ewan said, ignoring his grandmother altogether.
When the meal was over Gregory and Father Armailhac left, talking of Socrates. Lady Ardmore walked out on Uncle Tobin’s arm, swearing that she would take all of Father Armailhac’s bawbees or die in the attempt. Ewan and Annabel were following until he waved the butler ahead of them and shut the door.
“By my count, I haven’t kissed you in three days,” he said, his voice casual.
Annabel’s bones melted at the look in his eyes, but: “It’s not proper,” she said. “We should never—”
“Blame it on your corset,” he said, snatching her into his arms.
It was some time before Annabel was free to finish her sentence, if she’d even remembered what it was. “I have to warn you of something,” Ewan said. He was leaning against the wall and looking down at her, and the only thing she could think about was pulling his head down to hers again. “The news is spreading among the clans that we’re about to marry.”
“Will they come here?” Annabel asked, trying to focus on what he was saying.
“Certainly. I’m the earl, and we’re a sociable lot of Scotsmen.”
“How many people do you think will come to congratulate you?”
“Us,” he said. “They’ll come to congratulate us.”
“Us, then,” she said.
He had that lazy smile that seemed to come to him so easily—at least when he was adequately clothed and fed. “The last time I went to a Highland wedding, ’twas for the clan of McKiernie, and there were at least a hundred. But you’re as Scots as I am. Haven’t you been to a proper wedding before?”
Annabel’s father didn’t like to leave his stables, not for something as frivolous as a wedding. And they wouldn’t have had proper clothes
. “Not lately,” she said. “Not since my mother died.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t your mother die when you were six?”
“Yes. So I’ve no idea what to expect,” Annabel confessed.
“It means Clan Poley, but all the others as well. I should think we’ll be seeing hundreds of Scots. Drunk, most of them, or they will be. Dancing, all of them. They’ll be some fights, some crying, a lot of laughing, a few babies made, a few wives shrieking…” He reached out to open the door, and then hesitated. “We don’t seem to be speaking to each other, Annabel.”
She bit her lip and forced a smile. “Wedding nerves, I expect,” she said lightly.
“But you’re worried about something.”
If he touched her, she would burst into the absurd tears that kept stealing up on her at odd moments. Of course, she couldn’t admit that all of a sudden she’d developed an alarmingly romantic nature.
“Answer or I shall be forced to kiss you into speech,” Ewan said with mock severity.
The words came so quickly she didn’t realize she was going to speak before she did so. “Well, I do think that I shouldn’t marry you,” Annabel said. “At the heart I’m a terribly greedy person. I truly wished to marry a rich man. And I don’t think I shall ever feel the way you do about the church. I’m just—I’m afraid that we shan’t suit each other, in the long run.”
He smiled at her and she felt a prickle of annoyance. She was starting to think that Ewan didn’t listen to half the things she told him.
“I really did consider that adultery was a certain part of my future,” she told him fiercely.
“If you had married someone else, God forbid,” Ewan said, “and I met you after the fact, I expect I would be thinking about adultery as well.”
“You are not listening to me,” she told him. “I do not fear for my soul. I would have shot those robbers in London without blinking, if I’d had an appropriate weapon!”
“Man and wife do not have to be in agreement on all things,” Ewan observed. He turned over her hand and brought her palm to his mouth. “Would you wish me to marry someone else?” he asked. “With honesty.”
“No,” she said, after a moment. “I’d kill the woman who tried to marry you, Ewan. With the first pistol that came to hand.”
“I’ve married a bloodthirsty wench, that’s for certain.” But he wasn’t laughing, and there was something burning in his eyes that made her heart thump in her chest. He held out his hand. “Would you like to retire, or may I tempt you into losing a bawbee or two?”
“You’ve already tempted me into losing something of greater value,” Annabel said, before she thought. “What’s a few bawbees?”
“Some things are priceless,” Ewan said, his eyes utterly serious. “If I could take back my rash actions on our journey, Annabel, I would.”
She forced another smile.
In the parlor, Uncle Pearce was fussily laying out the cards for speculation. Gregory was watching him like a hawk and the countess was complaining. Apparently no one other than Pearce ever won speculation.
“You put two on your own pile!” Gregory said, and then his face fell a little when Pearce counted out his cards, showing that he had the same number as everyone else.
“We’re all fascinated by Pearce’s cheating,” Ewan whispered in Annabel’s ear. “Gregory is particularly baffled by it, and yet he can’t seem to catch Pearce at the practice.”
Sure enough, by an hour later, not a one of them had any bawbees except Uncle Pearce. Gregory looked extremely disgusted and Lady Ardmore was positively gibbering with rage.
Annabel sat out the last two games, just watching the flow of cards. As they were preparing to retire, she put a hand on Gregory’s arm. “Will you have tea with me tomorrow morning?” she asked.
“I would be most honored,” he said with a quaint little bow. Annabel was touched to see that he had turned a bit pink.
“Perhaps you can teach me more about speculation,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m woefully inept.”
“No one ever wins at that game,” he whispered to her. “Didn’t you notice?”
Annabel grinned at him. “I have three sisters,” she whispered back. “And the youngest likes to cheat.”
Gregory’s answering smile was huge.
She turned to find Father Armailhac offering her an arm. “I wonder if I might talk to you a moment about your marriage,” he said.
Annabel felt herself blushing. Ewan was already halfway up the stairs, his grandmother leaning heavily on his arm. Gregory melted away, and Father Armailhac held out his arm, for all the world as if he were a French courtier. So she allowed herself to be drawn into the library.
“Do you wish to marry our Ewan?” he asked, when Annabel was seated in a velvet chair before the fire, sipping a tiny glass of something fiery that tasted like burnt oranges.
“I do,” she said.
“And may I call you Annabel?”
“Please do.” It was the first time she’d been on any sort of intimate terms with a clergy member. Annabel had a pulse of anxiety. She hoped he wouldn’t ask her to say a prayer. She was sure to say it wrong.
“The most important thing,” Father Armailhac said, turning his peaceful llama face toward her, “is whether you truly wish to marry Ewan. In your heart of hearts.” And suddenly the monk looked almost as stern as any parish priest. “Because to make the sacrament of marriage without true feeling in your heart is wrongful.”
“This is not a marriage for love,” she said, her voice catching a little. “We are marrying because of scandal.”
“Of course, I have no personal knowledge of the love between a man and a woman,” the Father said, taking her hand in his large one. “But it seems to me very difficult to know precisely where love begins and ends.”
“Oh, I—” Annabel said, and snatched back the rest of the sentence. She wasn’t ready to tell near-strangers that she herself was in love, even if Ewan wasn’t. “I understand,” she said. She felt suddenly exhausted.
But there was one thing she did want to say. “Ewan has told me how very helpful you were in overcoming his grief over the death of his parents.”
Father Armailhac was a great one for grinning. “He told you that, did he? And here I thought he never spoke of the flood at all. Nor of his parents either.”
“It seems to me,” Annabel said, “that he cannot remember his father well because you have become that father to him.”
“When I came to Scotland, Ewan was already a man grown,” the Father said. “In the beginning he was most reluctant to allow us to care about him; ’tis often so, I’ve found, with those who have no family. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, my dear, he guards his heart fiercely, though he’s generous with his possessions. I am quite hopeful that you will change his life, as he, no doubt, will change yours.”
Annabel smiled politely. If the Father thought she was going to traipse out onto the battlements in the rain singing prayers with Gregory, he was going to be disappointed. She didn’t want to become a psalm-singing righteous type of woman. Father Armailhac said nothing more, merely took her arm and led her back to the stairs.
“Neither you nor Ewan are Catholic, so I shall perform a simple ritual of handfasting. Yet I would like to add what ceremony I may, and in France, marriages are generally performed on the Lord’s day,” he said tranquilly. “Since the two of you have waited almost a fortnight, I’m sure neither of you will mind waiting a few days. After all, as you said, it isn’t a love match.”
She glanced at him, but his face was bland and smiling.
“Just so,” she said.
Thirty
It was the following evening, and they were playing speculation. The game was being played by Lady Ardmore, Uncle Pearce, Ewan, Gregory and Annabel. But things were not going as usual.
Wonder of wonders, Gregory was winning hand after hand, and Annabel was holding her own as well. By another hand, Ewan and his grandmother dropped out, le
aving a three-way battle.
“You play surprisingly well,” the countess said as Annabel scooped up two of Uncle Pearce’s bawbees. She managed to shade her compliment with enough doubt to turn it to an insult.
“I’d be happy to give you lessons, if you wish,” Annabel said, giving her a consolatory smile.
To her surprise, Lady Ardmore gave a crack of laughter. “It looks to me as if you might already have given young Gregory lessons.”
Gregory’s eyes were shining and he was scoring trick after trick. Pearce’s black eyes were darting around the table. His cheeks had turned a port wine color as the pile of bawbees before him dwindled.
“How are you doing it?” Ewan breathed in Annabel’s ear.
“It must be luck,” she told him. “You know I can’t play this game very well.”
“I’m aware of that,” he said to her severely. Then he leaned next to her ear and said, “But you cheat very well.”
“Only when challenged by an expert,” she told him, and put down her cards, handily winning the round.
“Times are changing!” Nana cackled. “I think you can’t expect to win so effortlessly in the future, Pearce. I—” But she cocked her head and then they all heard the peal of trumpets from Ewan’s sentries. “Visitors,” she said. “I hope some of those reprobates in the clan haven’t decided to anticipate your wedding. I don’t approve of all those heathenish practices like blackening.”
“What’s blackening?” Annabel asked.
“A particularly repellent practice, traditional in Aberdeenshire,” Nana told her. “I don’t believe in it!” She thumped her stick.
“Were you blackened, Nana?” Gregory asked in some awe.
“It’s so long ago I can’t remember,” she snapped. Then she said, “But there’s naught to worry about. These are more civilized times, and no one would dare touch the earl’s bride.”
“I expect it’s the Crogan boys,” Ewan said resignedly. And, to Annabel, “They live down the road and once they’ve had something to drink, they grow rather excitable.”
