by Karen Ranney
Chapter 4
Dinner that night was a tray in Arabella’s sitting room, a concession to Arabella’s stated exhaustion. Gillian wasn’t tired from the journey but she was exceedingly tired of being in Arabella’s presence. An Arabella who was pointedly ignoring her.
“You should not hold your cup in such a manner,” Gillian said gently. “Hold it by the handle, like this.” She demonstrated, hoping that Arabella would cease planting both elbows on the table and glaring at her.
Had the girl always been so sullen? Or was her attitude somehow emphasized by the strangeness of their surroundings? Either way, Gillian was growing increasingly impatient with Arabella.
“Do not lecture me, Gillian. I do not care one whit about the manners of the gentry at the moment.”
“They are not simply the manners of the gentry, Arabella,” Gillian said. “Holding your cup with both hands is not polite. Which you would know if you ever bothered to look around you.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should,” Gillian said, annoyance slipping into her voice. Let Dr. Fenton lecture her on patience if he must. “You’re to be the Countess of Straithern in less than a month.”
“Not because I wish it.” Arabella stood and walked to the window.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Gillian said. “You wish to save yourself for your studies. Medicine calls to you. Life beckons to you as a healer. You are meant for better things. God save us if you have to be a wife or mother when there’s a boil to be lanced or a bedsore to be treated.”
She stood and circled the table, intent for her own room.
For a moment, Arabella didn’t speak. Finally, she said, “Why are you so irritated, Gillian?”
“Because you are irritating,” Gillian answered. “You may not wish to be married, but such is the way of the world. You should thank God you’re to be married to an earl, a man who can give you anything you desire.”
“Money does not influence me.”
“Because you’ve never been without it. Or protection,” Gillian said bitingly. “You’ve never known what it was to have to choose between dignity and survival, Arabella.”
Arabella turned and stared out at the night. “Dignity and survival. You’re talking about what happened to you in Edinburgh, aren’t you?”
“I don’t discuss my past with anyone, Arabella, even you.”
The other woman smiled, an oddly sad expression. “Nor I. But sometimes it intrudes, even so.” She placed both hands flat on the window, and leaned closer until her nose almost touched the pane. “You do not know how much I hate this place, Gillian. I hate Rosemoor with a deep and abiding loathing. I never wished to live here.”
Startled, Gillian watched her. “How do you know you hate it? You’ve been here a matter of hours only.”
Arabella turned and looked at her. “Do you realize, Gillian, that I’m only here to act as a broodmare for the Earl of Straithern?”
A broodmare? She could look at the man and think that?
“Would you be alone all of your life, Arabella?”
“I would be the arbiter of my own fate.”
Gillian sighed, pity winning out over annoyance. Arabella had not yet been tested by life. She wanted something that could never happen, even in a perfect world.
“No one is the arbiter of his own fate. You are subject to the dictates of society just as we all are. You must do what is expected of you, Arabella. But you can find pleasure in that, if you will. The earl seems like a good man, an interesting man.” A fascinating man, but that comment she didn’t make.
“You are determined that I should marry and be happy, aren’t you? Even though I am certain that I will be miserable?” Arabella turned to look at her.
“You will be what you wish, Arabella. If you are set on being miserable, you will be miserable.”
Arabella turned away from her, staring out at the night.
Gillian bit back any further comments at the entrance of a maid who began unpacking Arabella’s trunks. She filled the armoire and the dresser with the trousseau Dr. Fenton had ordered from three overworked seamstresses.
“Do not unpack that one,” Arabella ordered, gesturing to the trunk nearest the door. The maid stepped back, curtsied, and left the room, making Gillian grateful that she didn’t have to explain about Arabella’s prized skeleton. She could just imagine the talk below stairs about that.
When Arabella retreated into a book, Gillian left for her own room, an adjoining chamber easily as beautiful as Arabella’s.
A beige flower-patterned wallpaper softened the room, and seemed to add warmth to the chill. Spring might have come to the Highlands, but winter had not yet vanished completely. A taste of it was there in the wind, and the clear, crisp night.
Her room held an armoire as large as the one in Arabella’s chamber, along with a bureau, and a curtained bed on a raised dais. The biggest surprise, however, was a door leading to a private washing area.
Rosemoor was a startling combination of history and new advances.
Gillian finished unpacking her trunk in only minutes.
She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Beyond time to retire, considering that she’d begun her day at dawn. But she was in a very strange, almost demented, mood. What she wanted to do was wander through this magnificent place, study the portraits in the hall and the landscapes in the stairwell. There was a bronze urn in an alcove in the hallway that she’d wanted to examine, but Arabella had been too impatient to reach her room for her to do so.
However, she was not exactly a guest here. She was only at Rosemoor because of Arabella, her only duty to ensure Arabella’s…Her thoughts ground to a halt. She was not here to make certain Arabella was happy. She doubted if Arabella could really be happy. Instead, she was here to guarantee that Arabella fit into the new world that circumstance and tragedy had acquired for her.
Envy was a foolish emotion.
“Your Lordship,” Dr. Fenton said. “Ever since the time of the Medicis, and possibly even before, man has created poison to kill his enemies. However, a man with murder on his mind can dispose of a rival quick enough. He needn’t have poison to do it.”
“Are you being deliberately obtuse, Dr. Fenton?” Grant asked. “Or is it simply because you don’t know the answer to my question? Is it possible to give a man poison and have him evince the same symptoms as either James or Andrew? A simple answer will suffice. Yes or no?”
Dr. Fenton took too long to answer for Grant’s peace of mind. Just as he was on the brink of ordering the older man from his study, the doctor finally spoke again.
“I suppose it is. But I am not versed in poisons, Your Lordship. Although I have a few books on the subject, I have not taken the time to study them.”
“Do you know of anyone with such an expertise?”
“I suppose it would be possible to inquire among my former students. Perhaps someone has a keen interest in poisons. Although I do not see merit in such studies. We are trained, as physicians, to heal, Your Lordship, not kill.”
“Pursue your inquiries, Doctor, but only on the condition that you do not mention Rosemoor. I want no hint of rumor or innuendo.”
Dr. Fenton bowed slightly. “Of course, Your Lordship. I shall send letters to only those who can hold their tongue. But I had thought you resigned yourself to the illness of your brothers. Has something changed in that regard?”
“Are you speaking of your daughter, Dr. Fenton?”
The older man nodded.
“I didn’t choose to wed because of a blood disease. I decided to marry because I was concerned someone might achieve their aim to kill me. Hopefully, before they do so, I’ve created an heir for Rosemoor.”
Dr. Fenton looked shocked. “If such a person should succeed in killing you, Your Lordship, what would stop them from killing your heir as well?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Grant said. “Which is why I need to discover the identity of the person doing this.”
Dr. Fen
ton nodded. “Then I shall correspond with some of my colleagues in Edinburgh, Your Lordship. I will ask them, as well, if they have any knowledge of any new treatments of blood diseases.”
“New treatments?”
“Purges, Your Lordship. Perhaps you should drink more wine.”
“By all means, seek out any new treatments. In the meantime,” Grant said, “I’ve taken a few precautions of my own.” He only smiled, having absolutely no intention of telling the physician what he’d done.
He didn’t care if Fenton was a healer or not. Grant couldn’t trust anyone.
After the doctor’s departure, Grant stared at the list of relatives he’d made a month ago. His solicitor had recently sent word of another death in the family, this one from old age and not a blood disease. He scratched off Derrick Roberson’s name, and made a notation of the man’s age of eighty-four. Of the remaining names, three lived in Scotland, one in England, and two had immigrated either to Australia or to America.
His father’s will had been surprisingly generous. Ranald Roberson had awarded a distant cousin a stipend for his lifetime. In addition, there were various other bequests, each one of which Grant had his solicitor investigate. He wanted to know the whereabouts of every relative. Common sense, however, told him to look elsewhere. He couldn’t see how the males remaining on the list could be perceived as a threat. One was an octogenarian; a third cousin was seven, and the remaining relative had been stricken by apoplexy. Nevertheless, he wanted to know their current circumstances. Had penury made them desperate?
“You’ve made a mistake, Grant.”
He glanced up to find his mother standing in the doorway to his study.
“In what regard?”
“You should have chosen the plainer one. If you must marry so far beneath you, choose the companion.”
“You used the peephole, didn’t you?” he asked. Should he be amused, or irritated? It was often difficult to decide with his mother. “You should have joined us, Mother.”
“Tomorrow is soon enough, Grant.”
She turned to leave the room.
“Why do you think I should have chosen Miss Cameron?” he asked.
“Because she would have run you a pretty race, and that’s exactly what you need. A little passion is what makes life worth living.” She hesitated. “The right kind of passion, Grant. The kind between a man and woman. You need that, and I think Miss Cameron would have given it to you.”
Since this comment was so unexpected, he could only stare at her.
“I do not like Miss Fenton,” she said, further surprising him. “I cannot rid myself of the notion that I should know her.”
“Is that entirely fair?”
“Perhaps not,” she answered, and shrugged. She didn’t say another word as she left him, leaving him staring after her and wondering if she was right.
Had he made a mistake? The worst kind of mistake?
Miss Cameron’s smile had captured his attention, it was true, and he’d been fascinated by the way she had of looking at him as if she were mocking him.
She’d studied his hands.
She wasn’t as beautiful as Miss Fenton. Her eyes were a soft blue, commonplace certainly. She had brown hair, not blond. Simply brown. An unremarkable shade, really. She had a peculiar smile, one that did not quite meet her eyes.
She’d deliberately separated herself from the rest of the group, almost as if she were physically acknowledging the gap between them. But Miss Cameron’s apartness had an aura of sadness to it. Or mystery. Perhaps that’s why he had gravitated toward her—she’d simply sparked his curiosity.
No, his mother was wrong. His own instincts were momentarily skewed. He was going to marry Miss Fenton. But it wouldn’t hurt if he avoided the temptation of Gillian Cameron in the meantime.
Chapter 5
Gillian awoke the next morning feeling pampered and blessed. For a short matter of minutes, she allowed herself to believe that she would always wake in such a chamber, with the sight of a young maid bustling about with a smile on her face, and the smell of morning tea being brought to her bedside.
“I’ve brought you hot water for washing, miss,” the maid said, bobbing a curtsy, “and tea and toast. If there’s anything else you’d like, you’ve only to ring.”
“This is wonderful,” Gillian said, rising up on one elbow to survey the bedside tray.
“I’m to give you a message,” the maid said, bobbing another curtsy. “You and Miss Fenton are to meet with the countess in the Italian Room, miss. This morning.” She turned away, and then turned back, bobbing yet another curtsy. “Nine o’clock, miss. The countess holds great store for everyone being on time.”
The feeling of being steeped in luxury abruptly disappeared, leaving only dread. A feeling that was, unfortunately, more precognitive than she wished.
Arabella was late, but then Arabella was often late. She’d forget the hour, being immersed in one of her books. Even after being reminded of the time, she often didn’t appear either to care about being late or to be conscious that her behavior altered other people’s schedules.
Today, of all days, she was more slow-moving than usual, to the extent that Gillian almost shouted at her to hurry. But losing her temper with Arabella would have been an exercise in futility—it wouldn’t have made the girl faster in her dressing and could well have made her more mulishly slow.
The consequence was that they were fifteen minutes late for the audience in the Italian Room. Gillian pulled Arabella through the door, startled to find that they were not the only ones in attendance, but evidently the last to arrive. As the entered the room, the earl stood along with Dr. Fenton, both men looking displeased.
This drawing room was a blur of gilded and upholstered furniture that filled the space and yet appeared almost too delicate to use. The deep blue curtains on the tall windows looked to be silk, matching the color of the sofas, while the walls were covered in a dark wood. Landscapes occupied the middle of every panel, each vista one of sun-splashed hills and deeply green groves.
The greatest feature of the room, however, was the countess herself.
The Countess of Straithern stood beside the fireplace, her right hand resting on the mantel, a pose no doubt designed to be imposing.
Despite her short stature, she was a formidable-looking woman. Her face was round, and she looked to have at least two chins. Perhaps the rest of her was as plump, although it was difficult to tell in the voluminous dress she was wearing. Of black silk, with long puffy sleeves and an overskirt divided in the front to show a panel of lace, it also bore something that looked like a train. Attached at the shoulders, the swath of material fell behind the countess and puddled on the floor.
Her eyes, an arresting blue, were fixed on Arabella with narrowed intensity. Her mouth was unsmiling, the corners hidden beneath doughy cheeks.
When Dr. Fenton brought his daughter forward, the countess simply inclined her head very slightly, just as if she were a queen being introduced to one of her subjects.
Arabella appeared oblivious to the stare from her soon-to-be mother-in-law. Gillian knew the younger girl would much rather be in a small, secluded chamber, perusing one of her books. Give her an elderly manservant to treat, a set of rheumy eyes to examine, or a pus-filled sore, and she would soon be smiling.
The countess, however stern her appearance or advanced her age, did not look as if she were suffering from ill health. However, Arabella was taking the occasion to examine her visually. Her gaze encompassed the other woman from the top of the countess’s hair to the tips of the shoes that peeped beneath her skirts.
Nor was that the only spot to which her attention was directed. Arabella appeared fixed on the older woman’s chest, as if she were counting the rising and falling of that not inconsiderable bosom. She even stared at the countess’s ears, and Gillian knew she was not intrigued with the glittering diamond earrings. Arabella was no doubt wondering if there was a way to test the older woman�
�s hearing.
In the meantime, the expression on the older woman’s face had not softened. She continued to stare fixedly at Arabella, who seemed blissfully unaware of the tense atmosphere in the room or the fact that the countess was growing more and more irritated.
Dr. Fenton looked at Gillian, who knew that she would soon be at the receiving end of a rather long and involved lecture about Arabella’s shocking lack of manners.
After all, her only duty was to render Arabella presentable.
Her defense was already prepared, although it sounded weak even to her ears. She wasn’t actually doing anything wrong. She was simply looking at the countess.
She could only imagine Dr. Fenton’s reply.
For five minutes?
Arabella did look as if she would like to take out her journal and begin writing about the countess’s color. Or, heaven forbid, ask the countess to open her mouth so that she might examine her teeth.
She swerved her gaze from Arabella to Dr. Fenton and back again, and somehow she accidentally looked at him. The earl wasn’t finding the situation humorous in the least. In fact, he looked as if he never smiled, or as if the idea of amusement had never once occurred to him in his entire life.
She found it rather disconcerting to return a man’s stare while attempting to hide any hint of her thoughts. But she managed to do so nonetheless, even tilting her head just a little so as to appear as haughty as he.
How odd that while Arabella was being rude, staring at the countess without a word, the earl was doing the very same thing to her. Who would call him to task for his behavior?
Dr. Fenton cleared his throat.
Gillian took a step, positioning herself directly behind Arabella and poking her gently in the back with one finger. Normally such a physical manifestation of her impatience was enough to capture Arabella’s attention. Not today, evidently.
She glanced at Dr. Fenton, whose complexion was becoming more and more florid as the seconds passed.
Did Arabella not have the sense God gave a goat?
