The Last Debutante

by Julia London

  “This time it is quite a large sum,” her mother had explained. “Your father must travel to Scotland. We cannot possibly entrust that sum to anyone else.”

  “Honestly, I don’t see why she doesn’t come home,” Daria had complained. “She went to care for her sister, and her sister has been gone for two years. There is nothing to keep her there.”

  “She is not ready to return to England,” her mother said quickly. “Really, love, this is nothing over which you should concern yourself. Your father will go to her and that is that.”

  “It’s decided, then, is it? I’m to have no say in it?” her father had responded. “Beth, darling . . . I can’t imagine making the journey without you. What if—”

  “Someone should be here with Daria,” her mother had firmly interrupted.

  “Oh please, no, Mamma. The summer will be tedious enough without having to graft orchids for the two of you. I’ll go,” she had said suddenly.

  It had seemed such a brilliant idea, the perfect solution to her doldrums—a summer in Scotland, away from Hadley Green and all her happy friends with their beautiful babies.

  But her mother said instantly, “That’s absurd.”

  Those two words had sealed Daria’s determination. What was absurd was to continue on as she had been. “Why?” she’d demanded. “I am perfectly capable of carrying a bit of money, and I’ve missed Mamie terribly. She’s not been home in ages.”

  “To begin, you cannot travel all that way without your parents or a chaperone. What would people think?”

  Better they think she’d at least found some adventure than that she was well on her way to being the Hadley Green Spinster. “I can find a proper companion.”

  Her father had chuckled. “Forgive me, Daria, but your mother is quite right in this. You will stay here at Hadley Green and amuse your mother with your company while I go.”

  Even now, seated on her trunk in the middle of a Scottish forest, Daria shook her head. Her parents had never understood how determined she could be. That evening she had told Griswold to bring the carriage around, and off she’d gone to Tiber Park. She’d banged the brass knocker three times, marched into midst of the Scott family, and with frustration still heating her blood, she’d said, “Charity, will you accompany me to Scotland?”

  Much to Daria’s great surprise, Charity had looked at her brother and shrugged. “Why not? Scotland is the thing now, is it not? I’ve been at Tiber Park too long, and I think it might be nice to see a change of scenery.”

  Daria’s parents had refused this idea, of course, but Charity was persuasive with them. It was agreed that her daughter, Catherine, would stay behind, as the eleven-year-old girl was far more enamored of Lady Eberlin’s new baby than the prospect of Scotland. Further, Lord Eberlin’s closest friend, Captain Robert Mackenzie, would bring them to Scotland aboard his merchant ship.

  Charity and Daria had set sail for Nairn a fortnight later, at which point Daria unfortunately discovered she easily became seasick. Despite how much ginger beer she was made to drink to quell her nausea, she’d spent the two-day voyage in her bunk, groaning through wave after wave of illness. She scarcely remembered any of it at all, other than Charity slipping in and out of the room, the scent of her perfume making Daria even sicker.

  Even when the ship stopped rocking.

  Charity had said, “We are moored, and still you do not rally. I think Mackenzie is right. I think we must send for a physician.”

  “We are moored?” Daria had asked, and had pushed herself up, blinking against the bright sunlight streaming in through the porthole.

  Charity had given her a rare smile. “I’ve already taken the liberty of going ashore while you recuperated. It’s rather a rustic village, but not without its charm. Oh, and I arranged transportation to your grandmother’s house. It is very near here, as luck would have it. You will have a seat on a private tour of the Highlands that will deposit you in Glenferness. That is where you will find your grandmother.” She had turned to the small mirror bolted to the wall, looking one way, then the other as she checked her hair.

  “What of a seat for you?”

  “I’ve arranged one for me, as well. But on a different coach, for I am to Edinburgh.”

  “What?” Daria exclaimed. “We meant to see Edinburgh together, on the way home from seeing Mamie. That was our plan, Charity.”

  “We will see it together, of course we shall! You will come to me in Edinburgh when you’ve seen your grandmother. You don’t need me for that.”

  It had been too much for Daria to absorb, since even thinking gave her a headache. She’d forced herself up. “How will you get there? What coach will take you there?”

  Charity’s smile had deepened a little more. “Captain Mackenzie has kindly arranged it.”

  Daria knew in that moment that even Charity would desert her. She truly was the last debutante of Hadley Green.

  “Don’t look so distressed!” Charity had said. “You are off to a grand adventure! Isn’t that what you hoped for? You will accompany a delightful set of sisters. Mrs. Gant and Mrs. Bretton are both widows and they’ve planned their holiday for quite some time. They are eager to see the Highlands and just as eager to offer you a seat in their coach. They seem quite lively.”

  Daria had found the ladies to be lively, all right, but not in the way Charity had meant.

  A brilliantly blue spring sky greeted Daria that morning when she’d boarded the coach. She was cross with Charity for having abandoned her, and she was sure that ten miles would seem like ten days in the company of Mrs. Gant and Mrs. Bretton.

  The two sisters, both plump and gray and fond of matching hats, had hired Mr. Mungo Brodie to drive them. After demanding he speak his native language, they realized there was no way to understand what he was saying, so they expressed their desire that he be “as native as he might.”

  “Their language is too harsh on our ears,” Mrs. Bretton had confided to Daria, who agreed. The language was too harsh, and the roads too pitted.

  Their slow progress along the narrow road into the hills allowed the sisters the opportunity to pepper Daria and Mr. Brodie with several questions. That was when they were not demanding that Mr. Brodie come to a halt so they might pile out of the coach, dragging Daria along with them. They shared a pair of opera glasses to have a look about, and liberally pressed them into Daria’s use so that she might view the birch and oak that grew so thickly beside the road, or try to see the crossbill birds seated high in the trees, or catch a glimpse of the ospreys flying overhead. They would then climb back into the coach, and off they would go, inching along for another few yards.

  As the day crept by, Daria began to fret. She didn’t want to spend an entire evening with these women, but they had yet to see any signs of civilization, and they hadn’t met a soul on that road. Daria was peering out the window with the hope of seeing a village ahead when the coach suddenly came to a halt, sagging to one side as Mr. Brodie came down. A moment later, he opened the door. “Glenferness.”

  The sisters looked at Daria.

  But they were in the middle of nowhere, with nothing around them but forest.

  Daria’s heart climbed right into her throat. “Pardon?” she croaked.

  “Glenferness.” He walked away, and Daria could hear him unlashing her trunk.

  Now Daria’s pulse began to pound. “Oh no—there must be some mistake.” She hastily climbed over the sisters’ legs and leapt out of the coach. “Mr. Brodie!”

  He appeared from the back of the coach with her trunk on his shoulder, then dropped it like a bundle of hay at the side of the road. “Aye?”

  “There is no house here,” Daria said, gesturing to the forest alongside the road.

  “Aye, there is. Just a wee walk.”

  Daria looked at the thick wall of trees. “A wee walk to where? I see nothing but forest.”

  “There,” he said, and pointed.

  Daria saw it then—a path no wider than a rabbi
t trail.

  “You can’t possibly mean there is a house on that path.”

  “Ach, lass, walk up the road, then. Ye’ll find it well enough.” He reached for her smaller portmanteau and placed it on top of her trunk.

  “But what of my things?” Daria asked, panicking now. “Is there no footman? No conveyance? Am I expected to walk through those woods in these shoes and carry my own things?”

  “Brodie lads will come round and bring the trunk, miss. No time to dawdle, now—I’m to have the ladies to Piper-hill Inn by nightfall, and we’re a wee bit behind schedule.” He walked to the head of the coach.

  “Good day, Miss Babcock!” Mrs. Gant called, sticking her silver head out the coach door. “Our regards to your grandmother!”

  “But . . .”

  Mrs. Bretton gave her a cheery wave as they rolled away.

  That was how Daria had come to be utterly alone on the side of the road, thinking unkind thoughts about Mr. Brodie and Scotland.

  “Quite a deep pit of muck you’ve walked into, Daria,” she sniffed. She glanced at the rabbit trail that passed for a road here. She’d never believed herself one to wilt at the first sign of trouble, but she felt on the verge of doing just that. She reminded herself that if Mamie—elegant, sophisticated Mamie—had come to Scotland and managed, then so could she. She had only to decide whether she would remain seated on the road waiting for marauders and murderers to come along or do as Mr. Brodie suggested and walk up that tiny, overgrown trail.

  She stood up and looked at the dog. “Do you intend to accompany me? Or will you sleep the day away?”

  The dog sat up, his tail wagging.

  “Very well. But you must be responsible for yourself. I am not a nursemaid,” she warned him, and picked up her portmanteau. She took a deep breath, muttered a small prayer, and stepped onto the rabbit trail, almost toppling over when the dog rushed past her in order to be first on the path.

  Two

  A REDDISH MIST clouded Jamie’s vision. Pain burned in full conflagration at his ribs, then down his left side to his toes. He was lying on his back, and when he tried to lift his head, searing pain blinded him. Feeling the back of his head for the source of the pain, he found a thick bandage. Along with the scent of witch hazel, commonly used to dress wounds, there was a sweet, cloying smell that he didn’t recognize.

  He struggled to remember what had happened, where he was.

  “You’re awake!”

  The moment he heard the Sassenach’s voice, everything came flooding back. The old woman. The blunderbuss. Uncle Hamish. He tried to focus on her, but the haze in his vision was too dense.

  “For heaven’s sake. She told me the valerian would keep you sleeping for hours!” She made a clucking, impatient sound. “One should not call oneself a healer if one cannot concoct a proper sedative. You mustn’t worry, Mr. Campbell. I shall give you more.”

  The woman suddenly loomed over him, giving his heart a start. She was smiling like a kindly grandmamma, with her hair knotted atop her head and her apple cheeks. “Feeling improved?” she asked hopefully. “I’ve some laudanum if the pain is too deep.”

  Valerian and laudanum. Was she trying to kill him?

  “Stay right where you are. I have a broth.” She disappeared from his sight as suddenly as she’d appeared.

  She was barmy, this Sassenach. Jamie had to think his way out of this, but the fog in his brain and the pain in his side were making that impossible.

  The woman appeared again. She was humming a jaunty little tune as she sat on the bed beside him, holding a wooden bowl, the contents of which smelled quite foul. She smiled as she leaned over once more, and a spoon began to dance before Jamie’s face.

  Jamie pressed away from her, biting back the pain that ripped through him as he turned his head.

  “Oh dear, you shouldn’t resist me, Mr. Campbell. How shall you ever regain your strength?” She grabbed his chin with her hand. Jamie tried to push her off, but the pain was so intense he began to see spots before his eyes. He must have opened his mouth to gasp as well, for the next moment the bitter broth was sliding down his throat.

  “A few spoons more and you will rest peacefully.”

  Peacefully in his grave. How was it that an old Englishwoman was holding him, the Laird of Dundavie, prisoner? What feat of magic was this?

  The woman smiled and held up another spoonful. Jamie jerked his head away and felt a wave of nausea at the pain. “Tha thu as do chiall,” he gasped, telling her she was mad.

  “I think you should try not to speak, Mr. Campbell,” she said brightly. “Firstly, I don’t speak your language. Secondly, you should allow your body to rest and heal.” She bounced the spoon against his gritted teeth. Jamie sealed his lips against the assault of her spoon. When he refused to open, she sighed and pinched his nose shut. “I’ve reared children, Mr. Campbell. You cannot win in this.”

  She was right. When at last he was forced to take a breath, she tossed more of the foul liquid down his throat.

  “You’ll feel much recovered in no time, mark me,” she said soothingly, her words drifting somewhere high above him. He could feel himself sliding down the slope into oblivion, and his last conscious thought was that not only was he going to die in the hands of this madwoman, but he was going to die on Brodie land.

  DARIA HADN’T TAKEN more than a few steps when a stone pierced the sole of her shoe. She uttered a mild curse beneath her breath and carried on, choosing her steps carefully. The shadows were much deeper in the forest, making it difficult to see. More than once, the dog had darted ahead and then suddenly reappeared before her, startling her. “Walk on, you ridiculous mongrel,” she chastised him.

  Her arms began to burn with the weight of her portmanteau. She swore to herself that if vultures did not carry her off, she would never travel with so many items again. “One gown,” she said aloud, seeking company in the sound of her own voice. “One gown for evening, one for morning, and one for day. But no more than three gowns.” She shifted her portmanteau into the other hand. “And certainly no more than two pairs of shoes—”

  The familiar smell of woodsmoke wafted to her now, bringing her to a halt. Where there was smoke, there was life, and hopefully that life was her grandmother. If not, well . . . Daria would face that conundrum if and when she met it. At that moment, she believed she could face any danger if it meant she could put down her portmanteau and take off her shoes.

  She quickened her step, climbing up the path to the crest. There, on the edge of a green field where some cows were grazing and chickens were waddling about, was a cottage. And what a charming little cottage it was, with a thatched roof and blue flowers in the window boxes—the sort of cottage Mrs. Gant and Mrs. Bretton were determined to see on their tour.

  “The peasants of Scotland take great pride in their cottages,” Mrs. Gant had told her with the authority of someone who had studied her guidebook carefully.

  “Please, dear Lord, let it be Mamie taking pride in this one.” Daria sighed, adjusted her portmanteau, and began picking her way along the path as the dog raced after something that had caught his attention.

  Daria arrived at the fence that surrounded the garden. The swing gate was unlatched, and inside the fence was a large patch of glorious color—yellow, blue, and pink flowers springing up, looking slightly untended. In the other half of the small garden were green plants that Daria assumed were root vegetables. This was where her grandmother lived? In a crofter’s cottage? Her elegant grandmother was a crofter? Daria pushed through the little gate and shooed a rogue chicken out of her path with her foot. “Mamie?” she called.

  No answer.

  Daria walked up to the rough-hewn door and hammered it with the flat of her hand. “Surprise, Mamie! It’s me, Daria!” She waited a moment, then added unnecessarily, “Your granddaughter!” She stepped back and stood with the portmanteau clasped in both hands, her smile deepening as she imagined Mamie’s great surprise and pleasure at finding her onl
y granddaughter on her doorstep.

  But Mamie didn’t open the door. No one opened the door. Was she mistaken? Was this not Mamie’s cottage after all? But Mr. Brodie had assured her that he knew precisely where it was. And he had seemed quite certain of himself when he’d deposited her on the side of the road.

  Daria leaned forward and pressed her ear to the door, but she couldn’t hear anything. She debated for one long moment, then very gingerly and reluctantly put her hand on the latch. “Mamie?” she said again, and quietly, slowly, opened the door a tiny bit.

  Through the crack she could see a wooden table with four wooden chairs around it. In the center was a porcelain bowl. On one end of the table was a black iron pot, covered with a lid. On the wall behind the table was a shelf with some books and a basket that held some balls of yarn and knitting needles, and dangling from a hook just below that was an apron. A stack of china plates and four crystal wineglasses looked vaguely familiar to her.

  Daria pushed the door open a little wider and stuck her head in. Behind the door she could see that the kitchen was only one end of a much larger room. On the other end were a settee and two overstuffed chairs. A woolen rug covered the floor just before a stone hearth, in which a fire was cheerfully blazing. It looked as if someone had just stoked it. A pair of books was stacked neatly atop an end table, and next to that was Mamie’s favorite clock, the one Charity’s father had carved from cherrywood many years ago. On the mantel above the hearth were two silver candlesticks that Daria recognized as a gift her mother had given Mamie one year.

  A rush of relief washed over her. This was Mamie’s cottage! She beamed now, proud of herself for having found it, for having braved her first solo journey. Eager to see her grandmother, she stepped inside, dropping her portmanteau on the floor. She removed her bonnet and tossed it on top of the portmanteau, then smoothed her hair as she walked into the room to look around.