by Regan Walker
“Aye, thank you. I prefer not to wear my hair on top of my head in the winter if I can, unless I’m in Aberdeen where Mother insists I appear the lady.”
Once Ailie had donned the gown, she sat at her dressing table, watching her maid in the mirror deftly arranging her hair. Catching Rhona’s eye, she said, “I saw Mrs. Banks as I was coming up. She says our English guests have settled in well. What do you think of them?”
“They seem easy to please and kind, like the mistress. And, except for the one American, they’re all verra English.”
“How are the new servants managing?”
“The ones yer brother hired for the holidays are mostly young ones from Arbroath. The maids above stairs are near useless for anything but gawking at those twin brothers.”
Ailie could well understand the girls’ fascination with the two men. “Aye, they’re handsome enough. And the countess? How is she?”
Rhona paused, a faint smile on her face. “The young maids are terrified of her, I think. Lady Claremont shooed them out of her chamber when they asked to set out her gowns.”
“I hate to ask, Rhona, but perhaps you’d best be the one to serve her. Would you mind terribly?”
“Nay, I wouldna mind. I am fond of older women of character.”
Ailie thought about Will’s description of the countess. “I haven’t yet had the opportunity to speak with her. Will likes her very much. And she is Emily’s good friend. I wonder how she will get on with Grandfather Ramsay.”
Rhona, put the finishing touches on Ailie’s hair. “They’d be a pair, ’tis certain.”
“Aye. I just hope Grandfather doesn’t tease her unmercifully.”
“Dinna worry. Ye’ll be there and can charm him.” Ailie handed Rhona the pearl necklace with the sapphire pendant and Rhona fastened it around Ailie’s neck.
Ailie centered the sapphire on her chest. “I did meet Mrs. Platt, the countess’ English cook. She handled Martha rather well.”
“That’s a blessing.”
Ailie nodded her agreement. “All we need is Martha in high doh.”
Their eyes met in the mirror and they burst out laughing at the shared thought of the cook all riled up. It would not be a pretty sight.
Ailie took a last look at herself in the mirror. “Won’t Will be surprised to see me dressed as if I were dining with Father in Aberdeen?”
“Aye, and ’twill make Lady Emily happy,” said Rhona, smiling.
Ailie justified her extraordinary measures by reminding herself she was to dine with a marquess, his marchioness, a dowager countess and the daughters of two earls, one of which was her sister-in-law. “Perhaps I should do it more often.”
Lifting her small blue tartan shawl from the bed where Rhona had laid it, she draped it over her shoulders. With a wave to her maid, she left her chamber, more excited than she had been in months.
Nash counted nine men and women gathered in the spacious parlor when he and Robbie entered. Sadly missing was the redheaded sister of their host.
Two footmen glided among the guests offering them drinks, as the conversations became lively. In one corner, Lady Claremont held court with their hostess and Martin’s wife, Kit.
A footman approached with a tray of drinks. The choice of brandy was an easy one for both he and Robbie.
Nash sipped the fine cognac and glanced about the room. The walls were papered in gold above cream-colored wainscoting. Persian carpets in deep shades of red and blue were strewn about the dark wooden plank floors. Two wing chairs upholstered in gold velvet flanked a huge stone fireplace in which burned a well-tended fire. In addition to other chairs and occasional tables set around the perimeter of the room, there were two sofas and a low oval table between them.
Above the fireplace hung a tall gold-framed mirror lighted by candle sconces on each side.
The elegantly appointed parlor was as fine as any in London, but with a touch of the Scots’ preference for a more comfortable room, where a man could bring his hunting dogs and his guns as well as his guests.
Still, it wasn’t the Scottish drawing room he had expected.
There were no mounted elk heads, no crossed swords and no family crests. Instead, the walls held an array of what appeared to be family portraits. Nash made a mental note to ask Ailie who they were.
In one corner, there was a polished mahogany pianoforte. He wondered if Emily played. William Stephen had attended Cambridge and then married the widow of a knight, who was also the daughter of an earl. Perhaps the room had been decorated with Emily in mind.
“As subtly as I can,” said Robbie, glancing at their host, who was speaking with Ormond, “I’m going to ask William what he knows of the town and the political views of its citizens.”
“All right. And, while you’re at it, I’ll greet our hostess. I want to ask Emily about her orangery.”
Robbie returned him an incredulous look. “Don’t tell me you’re still fascinated by her pineapples?”
“And why not? ’Tis an achievement to grow them in Scotland, particularly in winter. Really, Robbie, you should read more.” Determined to learn what he could, Nash left his brother and strode off to speak with their hostess.
“You must visit the orangery,” Emily encouraged him when Nash told her of his interest in horticulture. “After breakfast would be a good time; if there is sun, the light then is most favorable.”
Nash thanked her and meandered among his brothers and their wives, who seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Despite William’s words they need not change for dinner, their host had declined to follow his own advice, donning a black velvet coat with gold buttons and trousers in a red, blue and black plaid.
When Nash remarked on them, William looked down at his trousers. “We Scots call them trews. And this,” he said, pointing to the woolen cloth of his trews, “is the MacTavish tartan, the Stephens’ clan.”
Sensing someone had entered the parlor, Nash shifted his gaze to glimpse the woman he’d been waiting for. Ailie stood just inside the doorway, the light from the candles dancing in the shimmering waves of her copper-colored hair.
She glanced from one end of the room to the other and accepted a glass of sherry from a footman before saying to no one in particular, “I trust I’m not late.”
Nash walked the short distance to meet her. “Not at all,” he said, thinking she had made a splendid entrance in her blue gown and tartan wrap. “Now everyone is here and we are an even dozen.”
She sipped her sherry, looking up at him from beneath long dark lashes. Her eyes were the same golden color as the liquid in her glass. “Which Powell twin might you be?”
He smiled. “Nash.” Trying not to drown in her stunning eyes, he said, “Just remember I’m the one with the green tailcoat. Robbie is wearing brown.”
“Well, that will help, at least for tonight, but whatever shall I do after that?”
“You have only to ask and I will tell you.” Her sweet scent wafted to his nostrils, making him want to draw her close, to imprint upon her lips a memory that would endure forever, to give her something to distinguish him from his twin apart from tiresome explanations. Instead, he let out a remorseful sigh and resorted to small talk. “Have you always lived in Arbroath?”
“Nay. William and I are from Aberdeen where our father Alexander Stephen and our two younger brothers rule over a shipbuilding enterprise larger than William’s. I came here five years ago to join William when he returned from France.”
“Your brother fought in France?”
“Aye, and was taken prisoner. We were relieved to get him back in one piece with only a few minor wounds.” She took a sip of her sherry. He stared at her lips and her upturned nose sprinkled with freckles. He had never seen a more winsome creature.
“How about you?” she asked, bringing his gaze back to her eyes.
“Me?” He blinked, trying to think what she could mean.
She laughed. “You are from London, aye? Did you fight B
oney in France?”
Nash had to handle the question carefully so as to say nothing of their spying. “Ah, yes. I am from London. My family owns Powell and Sons Shipping. We’re all involved in the business in one way or another. And our business supported the war.” Before she could ask in what manner they had served, he said, “My two older brothers, Nick and Martin, are masters of their own ships. On occasion, Robbie and I sail but, recently, we have been on the land side of the business. I do a bit of design work now and then.”
“You design ships?”
Detecting an interest on her part and, thinking to impress her, he said, “I do. Brigs, schooners, sloops. Should you come to London, it would be my pleasure to show them to you.”
“I see you are monopolizing our host’s delightful sister,” said Robbie, suddenly appearing at Nash’s elbow.
“The man in the brown tailcoat,” quipped Ailie. “You must be Robbie.”
Robbie gave Nash a look of feigned dismay. “You divulged our evening code?”
Nash had no intention of apologizing. “I did. The fair damsel required assistance and I was only too happy to provide it.”
On the far side of the room, the butler, a tall man with thinning brown hair, impeccably dressed in formal attire, appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served,” he droned.
“That’s Lamont,” Ailie explained. “Our new butler from Aberdeen. Before he came, Mrs. Banks would just throw open the front door and welcome our guests. But William thought more help was needed what with Mrs. Banks being occupied with the new servants. I’ll be interested to see if William decides to keep Lamont once all of you return to London.”
Nash detected wry amusement in her eyes. “How does Mrs. Banks feel about it?”
“She’s not certain but, for the now, he is useful.”
Still conversing, the others ambled toward the open double doors.
Nash offered his arm to Ailie. So did Robbie. She accepted both with a smile. Arms linked together, the three of them set off for the dining room.
Ailie decided that Robbie’s charm could rival that of any Scot she knew. Nash was by no means less appealing than his twin, just more reserved. Robbie’s easy laughter appealed to her, but his flirtatious ways suggested he might not be constant. She had called him a rake and, upon reflection, she rather thought that had been a correct assessment. Still, he was a very charming rake.
Both dressed like gentlemen, fastidious in their attire and seemingly as at home in a drawing room as on the deck of a ship. And, since their arrival, both had flirted with her, which was not too surprising since she was the only unattached younger female.
Were they to change coats, she doubted she could tell them apart. In appearance at least, they were very alike and very British, their speech quite proper. Most of the men she knew spoke with a brogue, occasionally adding in a Doric expression of the Lowland Scots. Well, except for her father and brothers, gentry who had long engaged in business with London merchants. She had become used to Emily’s aristocratic speech, but having a house full of upper class English would be a new experience.
As the three of them entered the dining room, Ailie saw that Emily was seated at one end of the table with Lord Ormond and Captain Nick Powell on either side of her, and Will was at the other end between the dowager countess and Lady Ormond.
“A beautiful room,” Nash remarked.
“My brother had it refurbished when he added onto the house. The blue walls beneath a ceiling of white were Emily’s idea. I quite like them.”
When Ailie realized the twelve of them would require every chair, she thought perhaps Will had envisioned just such a dinner when he ordered the long mahogany table, now covered with white linen, Emily’s fine porcelain dishes and silver candlesticks.
The crystal chandelier hanging above the table, its candles causing the crystals to flicker as if lit from within, was a thing of beauty. “Will acquired the chandelier in Edinburgh.”
“It’s magnificent,” said Robbie. “French?”
“Aye.” Under the chandelier in the center of the table, Ailie recognized the arrangement of deep pink camellias as being from the orangery.
At Will’s insistence, Ailie took her place between the Powell twins, Muriel on their left and Nick Powell on their right. ’Twas no surprise her brother had placed her where she would be hemmed in by the only unmarried men at the table. Ailie was not opposed to marriage, but he would have to be an unusual man. One who loved her, yes, but one who would also allow her to pursue the work that was her passion.
Across from her, Martin Powell sat between his redheaded wife and Nick’s American wife, the honey-blonde Tara, the only other woman who wore her hair like Ailie, most of it left long.
Because of where Will had placed Ailie, a husband would dine next to his wife, not exactly the thing in aristocratic circles, but this was Arbroath. No one seemed to mind, certainly not the husband and wife, who were casting sheep’s eyes at each other.
To help her remember who was who, Ailie noted Martin was the only blue-eyed Powell brother. The eldest brother Nick, whose face had the rugged appearance of a man who’d spent years at sea, had amber eyes. But, to her mind, the most glorious of the brothers’ eyes were those of the two handsome twins, gold disks etched in brown and ringed in dark green, the color of Scotland’s moors on a sun-filled day.
Unfortunately, their eyes, like their faces, were identical. Bother that.
As the footmen served the carrot and orange soup, Kit must have become aware of Ailie’s watchful gaze. “’Tis our first holiday without our daughter since she was born a year and a half ago,” explained Kit. “We are enjoying the time together.”
“You have a daughter,” Ailie remarked. “How lovely. What’s her name?”
“Anne Claire.”
Ailie inclined her head, wanting to hear more.
Kit obliged. “Anne was my sister’s name and Claire is Martin’s mother’s name.”
Not wishing to inquire as to what happened to Kit’s sister, Ailie said, “Anne Claire is a bonnie name.”
“Annie is the light of our lives,” said Martin, his smile wide as the proud papa.
“Given our family’s propensity to have sons,” interjected Nick, “she may be the only female grandchild our parents will see, so Martin did well to add Claire to her name after our mother.”
The footmen poured the wine and took up the empty soup bowls.
Declaring they should proceed as they meant to go on, Will announced, “Since Emily tells me the ladies insist, and we cannot very well call every man ‘Powell’, given names will be used for all save Ormond, who has been the Marquess of Ormond since birth.”
Will smiled broadly, apparently satisfied with himself, and added, “Even Lady Claremont has expressed a desire for us to address her as ‘Muriel’ during her stay. ’Tis the name Emily calls her.”
The countess’ mouth formed a faint smile. “Indeed.”
Ailie thought the dignified woman might be enjoying her respite from London’s more formal life.
“I don’t see why I should be left out of all this happy bonhomie,” complained Ormond. “After all, Hugh is a perfectly acceptable given name.”
“Hear, hear,” said his wife Mary. “Away with ‘lord’ and ‘lady’ for our sojourn in Scotland.”
“Oh, very well,” chimed in Will. “If you can adjust to losing your lordly title for the weeks you are here, I see no reason why we cannot oblige you, though you will have to excuse me should I slip now and then.”
Martin raised his wine glass in toast. “To Hugh, formerly known as Lord Ormond!”
Ailie and the rest of the happy company lifted their glasses. “To Hugh!”
“And I don’t want to hear a single ‘Sir Martin’ the entire time I am here,” threw in Martin.
Everyone laughed, even the very proper countess.
The footmen served the fish course, fresh trout baked with butter and herbs from Emily’s garden.
&nbs
p; “Salmon and trout are often on the menu,” said Emily in response to their guests’ first bites. “I hope you like the seasoning. The herbs are fresh from the orangery.”
“’Tis very good,” said Tara, “as was the soup.”
Hugh, formerly Ormond, returned to their prior conversation, saying to Will, “For the benefit of those who don’t know, you might as well hear of all our children, or as you would say in Scotland, our ‘bairns’. Mary and I have two sons, Henry and Philip, both still in leading-strings.”
“Tara and I have two boys as well,” put in Nick. “Both babes. Sean is the eldest, born a few months after Martin and Kit’s daughter. He’s named for my wife’s father, who owns Stag Shipping in Baltimore. Since he was not keen on our marriage, we thought to make him a happy grandfather. Our youngest, Simon, was born this last summer. We named him for my father.”
“A prolific group,” offered the countess.
“They are,” agreed Will, “and Emily and I will soon be joining them.” Emily blushed and dropped her gaze but a half-smile played about her mouth. They had shared many a conversation in which her sister-in-law had confided how much she looked forward to her first child.
“A cause for champagne,” said Hugh.
“I had planned to have it for our Christmas feast,” returned Will.
“Are the children spending Christmas with their grandparents?” inquired Muriel.
“Mine are,” replied Hugh. “And most happily if you ask my parents. Mary’s mother will be joining them for the holiday.”
Martin exchanged a look with his older brother. “Ours, too, are spending Christmas with our parents in London.”
Ailie began to squirm in her seat as everyone turned their eyes on her and the twin Powell brothers. She read, “What about you?” on their faces and tried to find an interest in her fish. Married people, she had learned, expected those still unwed to join their shackled state like a disease they hoped everyone caught.
