by Julia London
By the time he caught up to Catriona, the butler had already met her. The man wore a freshly powdered wig and his shoes had been polished to a very high sheen. Perhaps he thought the king meant to call today.
“Welcome,” the butler said, and showed them into the salon just beyond the entry. It smelled rather dank, Rabbie thought, even though the windows were open. Dry rot, he presumed, and supposed that would be his burden once he took the wee bird to wife.
“Have you a calling card I might present to her ladyship?” the butler asked.
Rabbie glared at him. A calling card? The lass was fortunate he’d come at all.
“I beg your pardon, but we donna make use of calling cards here,” Catriona said. “If you would be so kind, then, to tell her that Mr. Rabbie Mackenzie and Miss Catriona Mackenzie have come?”
“He knows who we are,” Rabbie said gruffly.
“Yes, of course,” the man said, ignoring Rabbie entirely as he hurried off in little staccato steps.
“A calling card,” Rabbie muttered.
“They’re English, then,” Catriona said. “They have their ways, and we have ours, aye? Donna be so sour, Rabbie.”
He might have argued with her, but they were both startled by a lot of clomping overhead and looked to the ceiling. It sounded as if a herd of cattle had been aroused. One of them—the calf, he presumed—ran from one end of the room to the other, and back again.
Moments later, they arrived in a threesome—Lady Kent and her lookalike daughter, and the maid, who barely spared him a glance as she entered, but then smiled prettily at Catriona before moving briskly to stand on the other side of the room apart from the rest.
Rabbie watched her, frowning. What made this woman so arrogant? She should have curtsied to him, as he was her superior in every way. He was so distracted by her conceit that he failed to introduce his sister or greet his fiancée.
“My brother has forgotten his manners, aye?” Catriona said. “I am his sister, Catriona Mackenzie. I was away when you arrived, tending to our aunt. She’s rather ill.”
“Oh. I am very sorry to hear it,” Miss Kent said. “Umm...” She glanced across the room at the maid, who gave her a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. “May I introduce my mother, Lady Kent?”
Lady Kent curtsied and mumbled something unintelligible to Rabbie. Catriona returned the greeting quite loudly, as if she thought the woman was deaf. Then Miss Kent slid her palms down her side and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Mackenzie” without looking directly at him.
“Aye, good afternoon.”
“Will you please sit?” she asked.
“Thank you,” Catriona said, and plunked herself down on a settee. Rabbie didn’t move from his position near the hearth.
“Might I offer you something to drink?” Miss Kent asked in a manner that suggested she’d been rehearsing the question, and looked nervously to Rabbie.
“No. Thank you.”
“Have you any ale?” Catriona asked. “I’m a wee bit dry after our ride.”
Miss Kent looked startled by Catriona’s request. “Ah...” She glanced to the butler, who nodded and walked out in that same eager manner as before.
The maid was now leaning against a sill at the open window, gazing out, as if there was no one else in the room but her. “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” Miss Kent said, having noticed the direction of Rabbie’s gaze. “M-may I introduce Miss Bernadette Holly? She is my lady’s maid.”
Miss Bernadette Holly pushed herself away from the sill and sank into what could only be termed a very lazy curtsy.
“Aye, we’ve met,” he said dismissively.
“You have?” Miss Kent exclaimed.
“In the Balhaire kitchen,” he said, at the very same moment the maid said, “No.”
Miss Kent looked at her lady’s maid, her brows rising higher.
“What I mean to say is that we were not formally introduced,” Miss Holly said. “Our paths crossed in the kitchen, that’s all.”
One of Rabbie’s brows rose above the other. Was she openly contradicting him, this lady’s maid?
“Oh, dear, of course, the kitchen,” Miss Kent said. “That was...well, it was an unfortunate oversight.”
He didn’t know what Miss Kent thought was an oversight and he didn’t care. He kept staring at the maid, this Miss Holly, wondering how she kept her employ with her supercilious ways. She leaned against the sill once more and folded her arms across her body, returning his gaze with one that seemed almost impatient.
“Do you ride, Miss Kent?” Catriona suddenly interjected, heading off anything Rabbie might have said about the maid.
“Oh, I, ah... I am a poor rider,” the bird said, and glanced uncertainly at Miss Bernadette Holly, who once again gave her an almost imperceptible nod, as if giving her permission to continue. Rabbie glared at her.
“There is much to see in these hills, views you’d no’ see in England, aye? Perhaps you would join Rabbie and I one afternoon?” Catriona suggested.
Again, Miss Kent looked to Miss Holly. This time, she raised her dark brows, and Miss Kent spoke instantly. “Yes, thank you.”
What was this, was the bird the maid’s bloody puppet? Even the girl’s utterly useless mother kept glancing nervously and fretfully at Miss Holly.
Miss Holly smiled a little at Miss Kent, and Miss Kent suddenly smiled, too, as if she’d just remembered an amusing jest. And then she blushed, as if she were embarrassed by the jest. Diah, she was more a child than a woman grown. Rabbie shifted restlessly and caught Catriona’s eye. She gave him a very meaningful and slightly heated look.
He suppressed a sigh of tedium and looked at the bird again. The color in her cheeks was very high.
The butler returned with Catriona’s ale, at which point Miss Kent took a seat beside Catriona.
“How do you find Killeaven?” Rabbie asked, making some effort, he thought, although his voice was flat and emotionless, no doubt because he didn’t care what she thought of Killeaven.
“It’s...well, it’s bigger than I anticipated,” Miss Kent said, and again looked to Miss Holly. “I suppose...that is to say, perhaps we might make improvements to it?”
Was she asking him? “Pardon?”
Miss Kent looked in his direction—but at his feet. “Perhaps we might make some improvements to the house and the grounds.”
He didn’t care what she did to Killeaven. Burn it down for all he cared. “I donna really care.”
That earned him another heated look from his sister. “What my brother means is that it is up to you, Miss Kent. This is your house to do as you please, aye?”
He hadn’t meant that at all.
“Would you like to see it?” Miss Kent asked suddenly. She was not speaking to Rabbie, but to Catriona.
Catriona gulped down a bit of ale and said, “I should like it verra much, I would.” She stood.
Miss Kent and her mother rose almost as one. The three of them walked out of the room, Miss Kent suddenly jabbering. At the door, Catriona glanced back and motioned with her head for Rabbie to come along. He ignored her. He didn’t care about this house. What he cared about was Catriona’s unfinished ale. He walked to the settee and the small table where she’d set it down, picked it up and drained it. He put the empty glass down, folded his arms and turned to Miss Holly.
She was glaring at him.
“Aye, what, then?” he asked impatiently. She shook her head, as if the burden of explaining what, exactly, was too great. “You are a peculiar one,” Rabbie said irritably.
She watched him in silence.
“Tell me, then, is your charge capable of rational thought? Or must you do all of it for her?”
“I beg your pardon,” she said indignantly. “I don’t do any thinking for her.”
“No? Why, then, does she look to you before she answers any question put to her?”
“She is anxious,” Miss Holly said instantly. “And eager to impress you.”
He snorted. “Well, that’s no’ possible.”
“Is it likewise not possible for you to make her feel the least bit welcome?”
He jerked his head up at that bit of insolence. “You dare to instruct me, lass?” he asked incredulously.
“Someone ought to,” she said pertly.
In that moment, Rabbie felt something besides anger or despair—he felt stunned. He’d never in his life been addressed by a servant in such a manner. He didn’t know what game she was playing with him, but it was an unwinnable one. He casually moved to where she stood, standing close, towering over her. She was pretty in an exotic way, he decided. Her skin was flawless. Her lips were full and the color of new plums. And her brows, dark and full, were dipped into an annoying vee shape above those pretty hazel eyes sparkling with ire. “A wee bit of advice, lass,” he said, voice low as he took in the slight upturn of her nose and the strand of hair that had come undone and now draped across her smooth, creamy décolletage. “Donna think to shame me. It will no’ work. For one, I donna care what that wee mouse thinks of me, aye? For another, there is little anyone can do to me that’s no’ already been done, and been done worse.”
One her dark brows lifted in a manner that reminded him of a woman hearing a tale she did not believe.
“You donna care for me, then,” he allowed. “I donna care for you, either. But I will marry that lass, and if you continue on as you have in my presence, I will put you out on your lovely arse and pack you back to bloody old England. Do you understand me?” He was confident that would do it—that would make her quake in her festive little slippers.
But the maid surprised him with a smirk; she seemed almost amused by his threat. “Neither should you think to threaten me, sir. For there is little you can do to me that has not already been done, and been done worse.” She gave him a bit of a triumphant look and stepped around him, walking out of the room and leaving the faint scent of her perfume in her wake.
What did that mean? What might have possibly been done to that privileged little butterfly? She was naive—she had no notion of the cruelty of life, not like he did.
But her lack of fear and her conceit would not leave him. He was still brooding about it when the women returned, at which point he picked up his gloves and held out his arm to Catriona. “We’ll take our leave, aye? Lady Kent, Miss Kent, you and your family are invited to dine at Balhaire this Friday evening if it suits,” he said formally.
The mouse smiled with surprise.
“Your lady’s maid as well,” he added awkwardly and, at least to him, surprisingly.
The mouse smiled as if she hadn’t a brain in her head.
“We might discuss the details of the wedding, aye?” Catriona added. “Our customs are a wee bit different.”
“Oh. Yes, we should...we would like that very much, wouldn’t we, Mamma?” the mouse asked uncertainly.
“Yes, thank you,” the mother said, and returned her daughter’s anxious smile.
“Aye, verra well.” Rabbie was suddenly eager to be gone. “Cat?” He began striding for the door.
They walked out of the house, Miss Kent and Lady Kent trailing behind, calling their goodbyes and thank-yous. Rabbie mounted his horse and looked back at the house, and imagined those hazel eyes shooting daggers at him from behind one of the new windows.
CHAPTER FIVE
AVALINE’S FORCED SMILE faded away the moment the door was closed to the departing Mackenzies. “He scarcely spoke to me at all,” she said to Bernadette.
“You scarcely spoke to him, either, dearest,” Bernadette said.
“I know, I know, but I don’t know what to say to him,” she said plaintively as they returned to the salon. “What am I to say to someone who is so aloof? It’s desperately difficult to even smile at him. He’s so...unappealing,” she said, shuddering.
Bernadette didn’t think his appearance was unappealing on closer inspection. He had good looks behind that unpleasant mien—a strong jaw, thick lashes that framed his stormy blue eyes, a regal, straight nose. He was quite obviously brimming with vitality, given his size and apparent strength. It was the blaze in his eyes that she found so disquieting, and the dark circles beneath them.
“Now you are invited to dine with him, so you must be prepared to converse with him,” Bernadette advised.
Avaline snorted at that statement as she walked to the windows and gazed out at the vast landscape of nothing but meadow and hill. “It’s useless,” she said. “He won’t respond.”
“If he doesn’t have the courtesy to make proper conversation with you, then perhaps you might draw it out of him by engaging him as we discussed.”
Avaline glanced over her shoulder. “What questions?”
“I can’t give you specific ones,” Bernadette said. “You must allow the conversation to guide you.”
Avaline turned from the window, looking confused. “Meaning?”
“Just...questions, Avaline,” Bernadette said impatiently. “Any entry that will give him leave to talk about himself. You might ask where he attended school. Did he have tutors, what is the name of his dog, does he enjoy hunting or riding.”
“What if he doesn’t enjoy riding or hunting?”
Bernadette’s patience was hanging by a tiny thread. She realized this was a difficult situation for Avaline, but could the girl not construct a few logical thoughts in her head? Did she truly have no sense of how to make conversation with a gentleman? “The point, darling, is to simply ask questions to promote conversation. Ask if he had a favorite governess, if takes his meals at Balhaire or his home, what is his favorite activity—questions.”
“Yes, I see,” Avaline said quickly, always eager to please, whether she knew how or not.
Bernadette sighed. She sat on the arm of the settee, her hands braced against her knees. “Like this,” she said, softening her voice and, hopefully, any outward sign of her growing frustration. “You might ask him ‘Do you often sail with your brother?’ And he might answer you completely, or say something quite curt, as he is wont to do, such as no. Then what do you say?”
Avaline shook her head.
“You say something like ‘I had my first voyage here, and I found it quite pleasing, although I took a bit seasick when we were in open waters. Have you ever experienced it?’”
Avaline blinked. “No, I was quite all right during the voyage, but Mamma took ill.”
“Avaline!” Bernadette cried.
“I mean, yes, yes, I understand.”
She understood nothing. Bernadette stood up and crossed the room to her charge. She put her hands on Avaline’s shoulders. “Avaline—you really must be prepared. I can’t always be there to help you.”
“What?” Avaline exclaimed, her eyes widening. “Of course you will! You’ll be beside me Friday evening to help me—”
“I don’t think I should go,” Bernadette said. “You rely on me far too much, and in this, you really must make your own way—”
“Bernadette!” Avaline grabbed Bernadette’s hands from her shoulder and held them tightly in hers. “I can’t possibly bear an entire meal without you! I need you!” She leaned forward and whispered, “You are my only hope. You know my mother is no help, my father doesn’t care—”
“But I can’t—”
Avaline suddenly let go of Bernadette’s hands. “You must attend! I insist!”
“Avaline—”
“I insist,” she said again, quite sternly, and much to Bernadette’s great surprise.
“Well then,” Bernadette said. It was high time Avaline stood up for something she wanted, even if that something was no
t what Bernadette desired in the least. “Naturally, I will do as you bid me.”
Avaline looked slightly stunned by her victory. She sniffed. She twirled a curl at her nape. “I only insist because I need you.”
“I understand.”
“Otherwise I would not insist.”
“As you said,” Bernadette agreed.
“It’s just that—”
“Not another word of apology,” Bernadette said, smiling. “You are allowed to speak your mind.”
Avaline released a long breath. “I feel as if my mind is always wrong,” she said morosely. “Thank you. I mean that truly, Bernadette.”
She didn’t have to say it. Bernadette knew that Avaline loved her, and more than what was reasonable to love a servant of her household.
* * *
BERNADETTE, AVALINE AND Lady Kent spent the better part of Friday afternoon preparing Avaline for the evening, and Bernadette thought their efforts were rewarded—Avaline looked like a princess in her butter-yellow gown and stomacher. Bernadette had put up Avaline’s golden hair in a tower that made her look taller than she was and had adorned it with tiny gold leaves. She couldn’t fathom how Mackenzie might look at his fiancée and not be at least a bit smitten with her.
Avaline’s preparations left precious little time for Bernadette to dress herself. She chose the gown of scarlet she’d worn to a Christmas feast two years past. There was no time to dress her hair, and she bound it simply at her nape. She looked quite plain in comparison to her charge.
At least she didn’t look as plain as Lady Kent, who had, for reasons that escaped Bernadette, chosen a drab brown gown that made her pale, slight frame look even smaller. Perhaps she meant to fade into a wall, for she’d dressed perfectly for it. Lady Kent often reminded Bernadette of a leaf scudding across the courtyard at Highfield—without substance and in a permanent tremble whenever her husband was about.
Bernadette was taller than both women and larger in frame, and she did not tremble in the presence of men, for which she owed her father grim thanks. He’d been a tyrant, not unlike Lord Kent in his way, and Bernadette had learned at an early age that weakness was to be exploited, and therefore, it was far better to stand tall and proud than to cower.
