To Scotland, With Love

by Karen Hawkins

What was going on? Why were MacLean’s brothers in search of him? And why had they seemed surprised to learn of his wards? Surely, if they were his brothers, they would know of his wards?

  The squire glanced at the inn, wishing Mrs. Bloom had been there. She had spoken with Miss West quite a bit, as had Elizabeth—Ah! His daughter might know something about the now-mysterious Miss West. They had shared a bedchamber, and women tended to tell one another things.

  He hurried to the carriage and opened the door. His daughter was still deep asleep, her breathing quiet—

  The squire’s own breath caught in his throat. No sound? Elizabeth had snored since she was a small child. Even sitting upright, she snored and gasped as if fighting for breath.

  He reached for her cloak. If he didn’t know better, he would think—

  Mrs. Bloom heard the bellow from where she sat before the fireplace in the inn, lifting her first cup to her waiting lips. Regretfully setting down her tea, she gathered her pelisse and hurried to the innyard.

  Standing by the carriage, his hands clenched in fury, face almost purple with rage, was the squire.

  And before him, swathed in a familiar blue cloak, was not Miss Elizabeth Higganbotham but her brown-haired maid.

  “You—you—you—” The squire couldn’t seem to find the words.

  Mrs. Bloom hurried to his side. “Really!” she said to the wretched girl. “How could you? Where is Miss Higganbotham! Tell us this instant!”

  Though terrified, Jane was also sincerely attached to her mistress and wholeheartedly agreed with the dramatic Miss Higganbotham that her father was cruel and a beast to try to separate her from her beloved Henry.

  Jane thought it a cold crime indeed that anyone should cause the lovely and amazing Miss Higganbotham to cry.

  No one could cry as prettily as Miss Higganbotham. Her skin remained unblotched, her eyes clear, her nose lacking the pink tone of those of other weeping misses.

  Jane was abjectly and completely under her mistress’s spell, especially once Elizabeth had tearfully revealed that the squire intended on hiring an older, more staid individual to wait on his daughter in London. Jane’s days with her beloved mistress were numbered.

  With nothing to lose, Jane had agreed to take Elizabeth’s place in the carriage. It was the one way she could prove her love for her beautiful mistress before being banished back to the country, and she was prepared for the squire’s red-faced threats and blustering yells.

  Mrs. Bloom, however, interrupted the squire in midtirade with an abrupt “This is getting us nowhere.”

  The squire, rendered speechless, stood glowering.

  “Squire Higganbotham, with your permission, I should like to speak to Miss Jane”—she fixed a steely eye on the now-quaking maid—“alone.” She reached over, grabbed Jane by the ear, and led her forthwith into the inn.

  What happened after that the squire was not to know. From the innyard, all he heard was a loud squall and the babbling of a weeping girl.

  Finally, Mrs. Bloom came marching out, the inn keeper and his wife watching her with newfound respect. “Squire Higganbotham, please instruct the coachman to take us to Stirling.”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Ride with me, and I will tell you what that silly daughter of yours has done. But hurry, for there’s not a moment to be lost.” A martial light in her eye, Mrs. Bloom added, “We will rescue both your daughter and Miss Platt, for I fear that she, too, has fallen in with a band of common adventurers!”

  Chapter 18

  Livin’ well is the best revenge. Those as wish ye harm will find nothin’ more bitter t’ swallow.

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND

  TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  M rs. Oglivie was going to die. Oh, not in a corporeal sense, but rather on an emotional level—which was much, much worse than a mere bodily death.

  They would find her here, in her bed, dressed in her best pink silk, alone, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, her expression empty of emotion…

  She frowned thoughtfully. Her expression might have some emotion. An indescribable aura of suffering, perhaps. Yes! That was what they’d see. Endless suffering.

  If Viola closed her eyes, she could almost see it—the weeping servants, the perplexed look on the doctor’s face, the penitence in her mother-in-law’s eyes. That one made Viola smile, for the dowager was going to be the cause of her demise. Viola was sure of it.

  She’d come to Stirling to assist her mother-in-law, who had succumbed to an especially horrid case of the ague. The dowager had regarded Viola as an angel, a reaction Viola knew would last only as long as the dowager needed her.

  And indeed, the second the dowager was out of bed, the not-so-subtle criticisms began. Unfortunately, the snow started at the same time, and Viola was stuck. Stuck in a house with a woman who believed Viola wasn’t “good enough for my Geoffrey.”

  With growing resentment, Viola watched the snow pile up outside the damp old house. She missed the comfort and elegance of her own home, the presence of her beloved Geoffrey and her beautiful daughter, Venetia.

  Actually, Venetia had been the subject of Viola’s last argument with the dowager. The old bat had commented one time too many that Venetia was “wasting away” without a husband, implying that it was somehow Viola’s fault.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth. Viola simmered even now thinking about the unfair comments, the hints that she’d somehow raised Venetia incorrectly or (worse) had selfishly kept Venetia at home to run the household instead of making a respectable match.

  Viola clenched the sheets, wishing her hands were around the dowager’s scrawny neck instead. If the old bat only knew of the countless efforts Viola had made to interest Venetia in the veritable swath of eligible men she had invited to Oglivie House, of the numerous entertainments she had sponsored, the endless events she’d escorted Venetia to, all in the hope that Venetia might show interest in at least one young man.

  And all for naught.

  It wasn’t that Venetia wasn’t cooperative. She wasn’t ungrateful, nor did she refuse to participate in events, but neither was she excited about them or about the men she met. She was simply impervious.

  Viola had her own opinion about why her daughter was so difficult to please. His name was Gregor MacLean, and he’d been a blasted inconvenience from the beginning. It was difficult to expect Venetia to pay attention to an ordinary mortal man when Gregor MacLean was about. Even Viola found herself staring at Gregor. It was ludicrous, but the man was simply too handsome to be stood.

  So now Venetia was far past the marriageable age, and Viola wished more than life itself to dandle at least one grandchild on her knee before she died.

  Thus, the accusations from her mother-in-law were especially painful, and were directly responsible for the fact that Viola was now lying upon her bed, a bottle of smelling salts within easy grasp.

  She lifted her head from her pillow and regarded the clock on the mantel. It was five minutes after four. She’d been in her room for more than three hours, and still no one had come to see why she hadn’t appeared for tea. Viola threw herself back on the pillow, her stomach rumbling uncomfortably. Surely the dowager would soon send someone to see if she was well. Unless that had been part of the evil woman’s plan, to encourage Viola to starve herself and then—

  A soft knock sounded at the door.

  Finally! Viola smoothed the covers, then pressed herself back into the pillow and crossed her hands over her chest.

  Another knock sounded, this one a bit louder.

  Viola waited, holding her breath. She closed her eyes, cracking one open the slightest bit so she could see the door.

  The knob turned, and the door opened. From the crack between her eyelids, Viola saw Liza, the dowager’s maid, tiptoeing across the room.

  Viola closed her eyes tightly and waited.

  There was a hesitant step, then another.

  Viola ima
gined how she must look, her long blond hair (light enough to hide most of the gray that threaded through it, thank goodness!) tucked neatly beneath her white lace cap. Her pink silk gown draped to the floor in a graceful slant. Her face in repose, elegant yet proud…oh, yes. It would be a sight to behold.

  Hope swelled in Viola’s breast. Perhaps the dowager regretted her hasty words. The old woman must have been horridly worried when Viola had not come to tea, had finally realized that she should treat her daughter-in-law with some respect, and had sent her maid with regrets for her boorish behavior.

  Seeing Viola’s still form, the maid would grow concerned, perhaps even frightened. She would gasp and run from the room, yelling for help. Others would come, and the dowager would be notified of Viola’s possible death. The old biddy would be so sorry she’d probably burst into tears, frightening the servants with the unexpected display of emotion. Then everyone would realize how wrongly the dowager had treated Viola.

  The maid’s footsteps disappeared. There was a thick rug near the bed, so she must be approaching. Viola forced her face to remain perfectly expressionless, her body relaxed, her breathing deep and slow.

  “Mrs. Oglivie?” The voice was directly beside the bed now.

  Viola allowed her eyes to flutter, but she did not open them.

  “Mrs. Oglivie?” Liza placed a tentative hand over Viola’s on top of the coverlet. “The dowager sent me to fetch ye.”

  Viola fluttered her eyes again but did not move.

  “Ye ain’t havin’ yer woman time, are ye?”

  Viola almost gasped. How dare the maid suggest such a thing!

  “If ye are, I can fetch ye some bitterroot, which will kill off the ill humors.”

  Viola did not deign a reply. Really! How unfeeling of the woman to say such a thing. She wondered if the dowager had suggested it.

  “The dowager said ye might be feeling a bit out of sorts because o’ yer woman time. She said that if ye were, I was to toss the water from yer washbasin on ye. I don’t like to do such a thing, meself, but if it’ll rouse ye…”

  Despite her best intentions, Viola’s eyes flew open. “That woman told you to throw water on me?”

  “Aye. Actually, she wished me to throw water on ye and then tell ye to get up, but I didn’t think that a sportin’ thing to do.”

  Viola’s temper exploded. She sat upright and glared. “Please inform the dowager that I am not in the mood for tea.”

  “I daresay ye aren’t,” Liza said, unperturbed by Viola’s icy voice. “But ye needs to come anyway. There’s guests, and the dowager isn’t too pleased, as she only had four scones readied for tea.”

  Viola’s gaze went to the window. The snow was finally melted, but the roads were a river of mud. “Who would come on a day like this?”

  “Yer daughter is one o’ the guests. Some of her acquaintances seem a bit ragtag to me, though one o’ them is as beautiful as Lucifer!” Liza shivered deliciously. “He even has the devil’s own scar across his face!”

  “Sweet roses!” Viola hopped off the bed so suddenly the maid jumped back. “Get my blue morning gown! And don’t waste another moment, you foolish girl! We must hurry!”

  Viola was dressed in a remarkably short time. She heard the dowager’s quavering voice as she flew down the steps, along with several other voices. What had occurred to send Venetia here? And who was with her?

  Viola stepped into the sitting room, her gaze immediately finding her daughter. Venetia, who was elegant even under the most strenuous circumstances, was sadly crumpled and tired-looking. The entire group appeared to be out of sorts, muddied, mussed, and wrinkled.

  “Mama!” Venetia rushed forward and threw her arms around Viola.

  Venetia had always been an affectionate child, but there was something almost desperate in the way she hugged Viola. “Venetia! What are you doing here? Not that you’re not welcome, but goodness, what has happened?”

  Over Venetia’s shoulder, Viola caught Gregor’s gaze. He returned her look evenly, but she had the fleeting thought that something was different.

  Something significant.

  A flicker of hope lifted in Viola’s breast. She patted Venetia’s shoulder. “There, there. You must tell me everything.”

  “I will. It’s a long story. Meanwhile, allow me to introduce my traveling companions. This is Miss Platt.”

  A thin woman with mousy brown hair bobbed her head nervously.

  “And this is Miss Higganbotham, and Sir Henry Loundan.” An exceptionally beautiful girl, who was unfortunately covered in mud, blushed and nodded a greeting. The distinguished gentleman beside her, who had risen to his feet on Viola’s entrance, bowed.

  “And you know Ravenscroft.”

  He bowed from where he stood by the window, away from the main group.

  Viola eyed him with interest. Lord Ravenscroft seemed somewhat sullen, his usually carefully disheveled locks now not so carefully disheveled. He appeared to have slept in his clothes, for his cravat was oddly knotted, his coat rumpled, his hair standing on end, and mud streaking one leg.

  The thin, angular woman cleared her throat and said in a painfully arch voice, “This is an interesting house. The exterior is so morbid and the interior quite dark. I cannot help but think we’ve all stumbled into a Gothic novel of some sort. One of us might wake up dead before morning!”

  The dowager was not pleased. Dressed in her habitual black and lavender, her hair covered with a huge, improbably red wig that was stuck with a mass of glittering jeweled pins, she sniffed loudly. “Miss Flat—”

  “It’s Miss Platt.” The woman tittered again.

  The dowager’s thin brows snapped down. “Miss Flat, I do not like the implications of your words. If you find my house offensive, feel free to leave. The door is over there.” The dowager pointed to the wall to one side.

  The entire group looked at the wall. There was no door there, only a large window that opened an entire story above the garden.

  Viola stifled a tired grin even while she admitted that Miss Platt was right about the house; she wouldn’t be a bit surprised to discover a dead body in one of the lesser-used rooms, along with a set of clues pointing directly to the owner of the house.

  “My lady,” Miss Platt said, looking nervously at the window. “There is no door there. It’s—”

  “Venetia!” The dowager glared at her granddaughter. “Did I invite you?”

  “No. However, you have told me many times that I don’t visit you often enough.”

  “I didn’t mean for you to arrive like this, unannounced and with a group of scoundrels!”

  “Grandmama!” Venetia said, her eyes flashing. “Please don’t be rude.”

  “It’s not rude to speak plainly.” Her grandmother squinted at Gregor. “You there! You’ve the look of the MacLeans about you.”

  He bowed. “I am Gregor MacLean.”

  “Humph. Are you the scalawag who keeps flirting with my Venetia but won’t come up to snuff and marry her like a godly man?”

  Venetia covered her eyes with both hands.

  To Viola’s surprise, Gregor smiled faintly. He crossed to the dowager’s side and took her gnarled hand from the arm of her chair and kissed it with a gallant air. “I am that same MacLean; both a scoundrel and rogue. But not because I won’t marry your granddaughter. I have asked her to marry me, and she has refused.”

  Viola gasped.

  “What?” Ravenscroft cried.

  Miss Platt crossed her hands over her heart. “Miss West! You never said a word!”

  Miss Higganbotham and her beau appeared confused.

  Viola wondered who Miss West could be while Venetia dropped her head, her eyes still covered by her hands, a moan escaping her.

  The dowager stomped a foot. “Why won’t she have you?”

  “Because I botched my proposal in the most ham-handed way possible. I am hoping to persuade her to give me another chance, for I feel we are eminently suited.”

 
Viola’s heart leapt. She never had seen MacLean give her daughter such a heated look before. Something had definitely changed. But why wasn’t Venetia responding?

  The dowager eyed Gregor. “I’m surprised you’re letting a mere gal tell you no.”

  “Grandmama!” Venetia said, dropping her hands. “Please stop this. And do not call Gregor names.”

  “Huh!” The dowager hunched her shoulders. “Any family that’s been given a weather curse is scoundrelly in my book.”

  Gregor grinned. “In my book, any woman who was able to torment my great-grandfather to the point of madness is a sad romp.”

  “Ha!” she said gleefully, her wrinkled cheeks pink. “Told you about that before he kicked off, did he?”

  “You are a legend in my family. Your portrait is still hanging in the grand hall, facing his—much to the fury of my long-deceased great-grandmother. They say she still walks the halls, gnashing her teeth and wailing, almost fifty years since she died.”

  “That was Pauline for you. Cried at this. Wept at that. Reminds me of other people I know.” The dowager looked directly at Viola.

  Viola opened her mouth to protest, but the dowager was off again. “I may lose my temper now and again, but I never waste my time weeping. If something is wrong, then you fix it. This namby-pamby generation won’t address their problems. They just dance around them and wring their hands.” She eyed Gregor a moment, her gaze lingering on his legs. “You may sit beside me.”

  Gregor bowed. “I shall do just that, once all of the ladies have taken their seats.”

  Venetia visibly gathered herself. “Grandmama, everyone has had a long and difficult journey. I believe it would be best if we all retired to have baths and to rest awhile.”

  The dowager shrugged. “Do as you wish. I don’t nap. Never have, never will.” She looked sharply at Viola. “See to the guest rooms. I don’t give a damn where these others stay, but put MacLean in the Pink Room, where Bonnie Prince Charlie once stayed. Then put Venetia in the Blue Room.”

  Viola met the dowager’s gaze, a smile quivering on her lips. The Blue Room and the Pink Room were adjoining. In that moment, Viola could have hugged her prickly mother-in-law. “Of course. I shall take them there now, and—”