Georgette stared at her new maid in surprise. Aside from those first shocked moments upon waking this morning, the difference in stations between herself and the Scotsman had not even crossed her mind. “That really isn’t it at all,” she protested. “I am scarcely out of mourning, and finally in control of my life.” She drew in a breath. “I don’t want to toss that away on a careless, drunken mistake!”
Elsie looked up at her. Sympathy skirted her gaze. “I reckon I can understand that, miss. There’s no sense getting worked up.” She patted Georgette’s ankle awkwardly. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to get to Moraig then. Do you have a more sensible pair of shoes?”
Georgette stilled. Why was the maid concerned about her shoes? “How did you get here, Elsie?”
“Came on a boat from Ireland,” Elsie said, rocking back on her heels and wiping an uncouth arm across her brow. “Nigh on five years ago.” She ran a critical eye over the front of Georgette’s demure, high-necked bodice. “You mentioned you were out of mourning. If you’re going to meet with Mr. MacKenzie, I would recommend something a bit brighter.”
Georgette prayed for patience. “I do not have anything brighter. I am newly out of half mourning. And I mean here. How did you get here, from Moraig. On a horse?” she added hopefully.
“Oh no, I walked, miss. ’Tis only four miles.”
Four miles. It was an impossible distance.
The maid’s question about shoes made more sense now. Georgette had never walked four miles in her pampered adult life, and she owned not a single pair of shoes suitable for the purpose. Though it felt good to have on somewhat sensible shoes after a night apparently spent tripping about town in drunken slippers, the heeled boots Elsie had just laced were not precisely made for walking. They were of fine kid leather and embossed with tiny, trailing vines, and boasted a two-inch heel that threatened the safety of ankles everywhere. They had cost Georgette a month’s pin money at a shop on Regent Street, and were intended to carry their mistress from London town house to coach to shopping and back again.
On a rocky trail, they would fall apart halfway through the journey.
That Elsie could walk such a distance and think nothing of it told Georgette she herself was ill-equipped for life in general, and life in Scotland in particular. Inadequacy pushed at her from all sides. What sort of a woman did that make her?
And what sort of a woman did she want to be?
As they made their way out of the room and down the dark, portrait-laden stairwell, Elsie asked, “If you aren’t in mourning, why are you dressing as if you still are?”
Georgette chewed on that a moment. She couldn’t answer, because there was no good answer. She should have put away her gray and lavender gowns a month ago, preparing to step out in the midst of a gay London Season. And instead, she had fled. To Scotland. Ostensibly to live a little, but how could she explain she had not yet even elected to live through her choice of wardrobe?
A resounding knock scattered her thoughts as she reached the bottom of the stairs. She and Elsie froze, staring at the front door as if Satan himself hovered behind it.
“Who do you think that is?” she asked, her heart in her throat. MacKenzie? The groom? Randolph? Of course, Randolph wouldn’t knock at the door to his own house, and the groom, if he didn’t use his usual entrance in the scullery, would probably do no more than scratch deferentially at the door.
That left Mr. MacKenzie. And that left Georgette in a state of warring emotions.
She lifted one shaking hand to her hair, checking that her blond hair had been properly contained, grateful for having had the temerity to go ahead and suffer through a bath in dirty water. It would not do to greet her new husband in a state of disarray.
She wanted him to regret the loss when she demanded an annulment.
“Answer it,” she urged, pushing at Elsie.
“Oh no, miss.” The maid resisted, pulling back. “I’m the upstairs maid.” A smug tilt fixed on her lips. “I don’t answer downstairs doors. Never know who might be lurking behind them.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Georgette snapped. She strode toward the door, which echoed again with their unseen guest’s impatience. She struggled one-handed with the latch, yanked hard. It fell open in a rush.
Before her stood a red-haired young man, holding his cap in one hand and the rope to a snarling dog in the other. He had the tall, gangly body of a newly minted man, but the sparse stubble on his chin suggested he was still on the south side of twenty. The black and white beast lunged at the kitten in Georgette’s hand with a desperation she had seen only in hungry street children in London, fighting over a currant bun. She lurched back, clutching the kitten to her breast, her heart skidding against the confines of her chest.
“May I help you?” she managed to get out.
The visitor broke into a broad smile. “I’ve brought it, just like you asked.”
Georgette eyed the odd pair, smiling young man and snarling dog, and wondered if she had any hope at all of escaping the beast should the owner lose his grip on that precious rope.
Elsie materialized at her shoulder. “Well, if it isn’t Joseph Rothven, come for a social call.” She smiled at him, and the boy’s cheeks went pink at the attention. “What did you bring us? Oh, I do hope it’s your mother’s gooseberry scones. There isn’t a bite to eat in this bloody house.”
“I . . . I brought Lady Thorold’s dog,” he stammered. His cheeks went redder than the scant hair on his face. “I mean, I brought her one of my father’s dogs.”
The maid leaned forward, and her uncoordinated movements to see the dog better had the unfortunate effect of pushing her mistress and the kitten closer to the snarling, snapping canine.
Georgette met the youth’s eyes in speechless dismay. He stood there, a hopeful, swooning expression on his face. “Why would you think I needed a dog?” she asked, her voice faint. As if she needed a vicious dog on top of the randy husband, the listless kitten, and the harridan of a domestic servant she had already acquired in the space of only two hours.
His brow scrunched up in confusion. “That was part of the bargain we struck, wasn’t it? You mentioned you could use a big dog for protection, staying way out here with your cousin. Said you needed something that wasn’t afraid to bite.”
“I did?” She searched her memory. As was the rule for matters related to what had happened last night, her mind was alarmingly blank. And yet, his words echoed truth. She had thought the isolation of Randolph’s house unsettling, enough to have hired and promptly forgotten hiring Elsie. That she may have also sought a dog for protection was not that far of a stretch.
“When did this transaction take place?” Georgette’s temple started to throb with the ridiculousness of it all. She couldn’t leave a great snapping dog alone with a three-week-old kitten. Gooseberry tarts stood a better chance of emerging unscathed in this house.
“While you were showing me what to do, in the alley behind the Blue Gander.” Joseph’s cheeks went positively scarlet. “I can’t take payment for him, not after how patient you were with me. You didn’t laugh, even though I didn’t know what I was doing.”
Georgette’s mind whirled like dandelion fluff in the wind. Only the bits in her mind were more like shards of glass. And the wind was more like fierce summer storm, hammering her senses mercilessly.
What this young man was implying was sordid. Impossibly vile. Had she really corrupted this fresh-faced youth last night, in the notorious alley behind the Blue Gander, no less? Shame and a desperate sense of denial kicked at her, as violent as the objection that formed mutely on her lips. She couldn’t remember.
But that did not lessen the magnitude of what she appeared to have done.
Surely she was mistaken. But what if she wasn’t? Her acute embarrassment over the forgotten parts of her night, and her fear of the details she might still learn
, made Georgette lock up tight the questions that wanted to tumble out of her. Her breathing didn’t just slow down then, her lungs pinched shut.
“Oh my God,” she moaned, eyeing the young man and the dog. What was she going to do? Apologize to young Mr. Rothven? Apologize to his parents? And the dog . . . the dog she had no idea about. It probably wasn’t mean. After all, the boy still had all his limbs intact, and he didn’t seem afraid of the animal in the slightest. But she couldn’t let the creature run loose with that uncertainty. No, she would have to lock it in the room Randolph used for his study.
Elsie’s affronted voice broke through the train of Georgette’s thoughts. “If you were looking for lessons, Joseph,” she admonished the lad, “why didn’t you come to me last night?”
“I . . .” His gaze darted between the two women. “I mean . . . Lady Thorold seemed like she would know about these things. She’s a London widow, you know.” He leaned in closer, his eyes going wide. “She’s worldly.”
Elsie rolled her eyes. “Aye, the whole town knows. It’s not like she kept it much of a great bloody secret, cavorting about Moraig as she did.”
Joseph shuffled his feet. “Well, she offered to help me. Saw me trying to figure things out all by myself in the alley outside the Gander.”
Beads of sweat had formed on his brow during the halted explanation, and Georgette watched in sick fascination as Elsie reached out a hand and brushed the drops away. “Why, if it’s an experienced partner you were looking for, Joseph, next time come to me.” Elsie cast a shrewd glance back at her mistress. “I know my way around the Gander’s alley better than any uptight London lady.”
He swallowed hard. “I appreciate that, Miss Elsie. Now that I’ve tried it with Lady Thorold, I ken I’ll want to try it with other women too.” His eyes widened hopefully. “Maybe we could have a go later tonight?”
Elsie giggled, an amused, inappropriate sound. She offered him a saucy wink. “Well, sure then.”
Georgette concentrated on breathing through her nose, unable to believe the audacity of her new maid to not only proposition a near-innocent young man, but to disparage her mistress’s capabilities in the process. “How do you propose to see him later tonight if we are stuck here with no means of conveyance?” she asked, her voice cracking under the strain of the morning’s surprises.
Elsie rolled her eyes. “If you weren’t so prone to hysterics, you’d have already seen your answer.” The maid’s chin gestured toward the open door. “Today’s your lucky day.”
Georgette looked out, past the flushed-faced Mr. Rothven, past the dog that had finally stopped lunging against the rope but was still eyeing the kitten with a feral gleam in its eye. The sun was shining brilliantly, and the day was the sort a cloud would never think of ruining. She normally lived for days like this, loved the lazy promise in them.
But right now she could think of nothing beyond the immediate question of how to deal with the newest shock of the morning. “How?” she choked out. “How, precisely, is this my lucky day?”
“Well,” Elsie said, already moving toward the door, “It appears Joseph has brought your new pet in his father’s potato cart. And that, my forgetful mistress, is our ticket back to Moraig.”
Chapter 8
A THREE-LEGGED DOG GREETED James and William as they walked into the courtyard of the cottage James called home. The dog, whose name was Gemmy, barked and lurched around in unsteady excitement. The familiar sight of the shaggy yellow terrier and the small stone house where James had rested his clear head every night for the past year could not dispel the knowledge of where he apparently laid his drunken head last night.
He tried in vain to block out the circumstances of the morning as he looked around the front garden for a place to tie the black mare. Preferably someplace out of striking range.
Patrick’s dog needed every available limb he had left.
“Down, Gemmy!” James commanded. The dog dutifully dropped to all threes and wiggled in the dirt, whining his enthusiasm rather than expending it in further movement. James looped the mare’s reins over the post of a makeshift pen that had been constructed near the corner of the yard. Patrick’s newest orphaned lamb paced on the other side of the rails, bleating for its bottle.
“Like your dinner that fresh, do you?” William joked, jerking a thumb toward the pen.
“We only eat the ones Patrick loses,” James told him, wondering again why he was still tolerating his brother’s nettlesome presence.
“Which means to say we don’t eat very much.” Patrick emerged from the front door, wiping his hands on a rag and blinking into the near-noon sunshine. Straw clung to his light brown hair, which was a step up from the sorts of questionable things one could sometimes find there. His usual quick smile fell into place as he looked James up and down. “So you survived your night.”
William’s chuckle echoed in James’s left ear. “In a manner of speaking,” his brother said. “Parts of him weren’t so lucky. You might want to take a look.”
Patrick snorted. “If you are speaking of his parts below the waist, they probably died happy, and I’m none too interested in seeing the aftereffects. The woman he left the Gander with last night would have made an eighty-year-old eunuch tumble into bed.” Patrick paused on the edge of laughter, his amusement trailing off as he took in the mare. “Why is that horse tied to the fence post?” His gaze swung back to James. “And where is Caesar? Never say you traded this knacker-bound beast for your fine-tempered stallion.”
“That,” William broke in, “is the question of the morning. Well, one of them, anyway.” He reached up and snatched the hat off James’s head. “What to do about this great bloody mess is another.”
Patrick’s eyes widened. A low whistle escaped his lips. Before James could lodge a reasonable objection, before he could even wrap his head around what was happening, Patrick grabbed him under the right arm, and William hoisted him by the left. They dragged as much as helped him into the house.
The foyer smelled of farm animals, and James’s stomach settled halfway on its side at the scent. When Patrick had unexpectedly turned up in Moraig six months ago and offered to help pay the rent, James had eagerly accepted, no questions asked. True, it was sometimes a struggle to live among the sea of misfit pets and animals needing nursing. Mornings found him awake with the damned dog stretched next to him instead of a female companion. Their kitchen had been taken over by the needs of Patrick’s work, and was now little more than a makeshift clinic and sparring ring, better suited for a barnyard or back alley than polite company.
Not that polite company came to call very often. There was only his mother, who came once a month or so and sat primly in a cast-off chair, drinking tea from a chipped china cup and pretending not to notice Gemmy had better manners than her own son.
But there were benefits to sharing the space with Patrick. Such as having only half the rent due each month, and rekindling his acquaintance with the friend he hadn’t seen since they had left Cambridge eleven years ago. Although it was a little hard to appreciate that sentiment when that friend had a death grip on his arm.
They stumbled into the kitchen. William shoved aside the sawdust-filled bag that James used for exercise and sparring, and kicked a chair closer to the sunlight-filled window before pushing him down in it.
“Sit,” his brother commanded, as if he were Gemmy.
Hell, as if he were lower than Gemmy. A protest rose to James’s lips, but before he could give voice to it, Patrick moved in, squinting down at him like a commanding officer. For a moment James was tempted to bare his teeth and give the veterinarian a better look in his mouth.
“I was concerned when you did not come home last night.” Patrick pushed the lids of one of James’s eyes apart and stared at it, his upper lip curled in concentration. He trailed a finger slowly in front of him. “I’m glad William was able to find you. Follow my
finger, please.”
James followed the bobbing finger, and when it came close enough, he grabbed it and twisted. “Would have preferred it if you set Gemmy on me,” he growled. “Why in the bloody hell did you send my brother after me, anyway?”
Patrick dropped his hand, apparently satisfied James could see well enough if he could swipe at him so precisely. He grinned. “The rent’s due. I needed your share.”
James winced. Ah, the rent. That had been tangled up in his money purse too. His morning’s debt was accumulating faster than ice in winter.
“And the dog would not have enjoyed it half so much.” William sniggered. He pulled out his money purse and shook it, making the coins inside rattle as viciously as the thoughts in James’s head. “I’m serving as Jamie’s banker today. It’s nice to have him beholden, after so many years of him shunning all offers of help.”
James glared at William before shifting his gaze to his friend. “Can you put my brother to work shoveling the sheep pen?” he asked. “Two hours into the morning and I’m already sick of the sight of him.”
Patrick crossed his arms. “Sick of the sight of your own brother.” He clucked his tongue with mock sympathy. “Is that why you look so terrible? And here I thought it was that great gaping wound on your head. Which requires sutures, in case you were wondering.”
“I’ll just step outside,” William offered, his feet already threading their way toward the kitchen door. “I’d hate to see my own brother reduced to tears. Begging, perhaps. Aye, that would be nice, though I doubt we shall live to see that.” His deep-throated giggle followed him through the doorway and down the hall.
James heaved a sigh of relief he didn’t know he had been holding. “It’s been maddening having him around this morning. I can’t think when he’s hovering over me like a mother hen, clucking and squawking and scratching about.”
What Happens in Scotland Page 8
