What Happens in Scotland

by Jennifer McQuiston

  It was easier to be a widow. One dressed in black and stayed indoors.

  “We don’t need a hat to sit down for tea,” Georgette assured her, aiming for urgency over honesty. It was an outdoor café, and ladies did not walk about bareheaded out of doors. Why, in London, the lowest of scullery maids would not dare such a thing! But she was hungry, and each moment’s delay served as a reminder that she didn’t know when she had least eaten.

  “It’s not just the hat,” Elsie protested. “You’re dressed like a proper lady. You are wearing gloves, and know which fork to use. I don’t know any of that.”

  Georgette looked down at her gloved hands, one clutching the kitten, the other spread against her gray woolen frock. Her former husband had not deserved a year of mourning, much less the two Georgette had dutifully delivered. And yet here she was, dressed in gray, the brim of her bonnet the perfect length to hide her face, not a frill or flounce anywhere in sight. Though it had felt comfortable when she put it on, the outfit now seemed wholly inappropriate.

  “We can order finger sandwiches,” she told Elsie, as much to convince herself as the maid. “I’ll forgo a fork on your behalf.”

  “You don’t understand.” Elsie threw up her hands in exasperation. “You could shove a bloody finger sandwich in your mouth sideways and you’d still be a lady. And I could learn to use a fork proper-like and still always be thought of as the girl from the Gander. And I don’t mind that, truly I don’t. But I don’t want folks to think ill of you because of me.”

  Georgette stifled the urge to smile. The girl was worried about her reputation? It was a little late for that, and not because of anything Elsie had done.

  “Being a lady is not the wondrous state of being you seem to consider it,” she told the maid, her heart thumping its agreement as she realized it was true. “You think people don’t talk and whisper, just because I am a lady? Let me tell you, they whisper more. And I think you should stop using that title to describe me, given the way I behaved last night. I’m no different than you. No better, no worse.”

  This was no kind sentiment, intended to soothe Elsie’s fears. When she had taken the girl on, Georgette had thought this arrangement would provide a chance for Elsie to better her lot in life, and to learn something about being a ladies’ maid.

  It was uncomfortable to realize she seemed farther along in learning something about herself.

  Was she still a lady? And did she really care if she wasn’t?

  Georgette stood in the bright Highland sunshine and thought about Elsie’s words and the absent Mr. MacKenzie. He had not cared last night whether she acted with decorum. He had apparently liked her well enough to wed her, despite the fact that Elsie’s recounting of events suggested she had acted more the tavern wench than the lady.

  She wished she could remember how she had felt in his arms, remembered what it was like, for once in her life, to be wanted by a man who made no demands on her to say something different, or wear something different, or be someone different. She wished she could recall what it felt like to fall asleep next to him, satisfied and happy and dreaming of tomorrow.

  But the memory remained as elusive as the man.

  And so Georgette settled for the next best rebellion. She reached up with her free hand and untied the ribbons to the plain gray bonnet she had donned this morning. She slid the somber bit of fabric from her head and dropped it to the dusty street. Her scalp tingled in exhilaration, the strip of skin revealed by her severe part reveling in the sunlight.

  “Now I don’t have a hat either.” She offered the maid a conspiratorial smile. “I don’t think anyone will care if we dine together in disarray. And if they do, I don’t care. Shall we try it?”

  Elsie stooped and snatched up the bonnet, dusting it off. “You shouldn’t do that, miss,” she admonished. “People will think I don’t take proper care of you, and then how will I find a new position?” A smile touched her lips. “And your nose will turn pink in this terrible sun. You wouldn’t want the other ladies to talk.”

  Georgette laughed and stretched her face skyward. She had the palest sort of English coloring, with hair closer to the color of bleached linen than spun gold. Men did not tend to write sonnets about ghostlike countenances, and she had always considered herself somewhat ugly for it. But something told her that James MacKenzie, with his unfashionable beard and his hard, sculpted muscles, did not care a farthing whether her skin was tanned or not.

  “I don’t care much for deadly dull bonnets,” Georgette admitted, realizing that a month ago something so incongruous would have never been permitted to fall from her lips. She caught Elsie’s eye. “Or people who judge you for what you are wearing or the company you keep.”

  The maid’s eyes grew round. Not that Georgette blamed her. These were thoughts she was supposed to keep bottled away like last year’s preserves, alongside her opinions about brandy and husbands.

  And then a smile edged out from Elsie’s earlier frown. She settled the discarded bonnet over her own head, tying the ribbons with firm, deft fingers. “Well, bully for you, miss.” She lifted an auburn brow. “But I’m not going to let you toss away a perfectly good hat like yesterday’s rubbish,” she said before marching toward the tea shop.

  Surprise caught Georgette’s mouth open. She watched, incredulous, as the newly bonneted maid approached a table and sat down with a smirk.

  Georgette walked slowly toward the table where Elsie was already pretending to read an upside-down menu. No matter her assurances to the maid they would be welcomed here, her walking dress was smudged with earth from the floor of the potato cart, and her uncovered hair had already started to loosen from its chignon. She had on gloves, at least, which assured she was partway to respectability.

  But even as she embraced that comforting thought, the kitten squirmed in her hand. An unmistakable warmth seeped through the kidskin. Dimly, Georgette registered what had just occurred. The creature had relieved itself.

  On her.

  This could not be happening. She could do without a hat or fork, and manage a half hour’s conversation with a prostitute-turned-abigail, but she could not sit down for tea with a urine-soaked glove.

  Only she could. And unbelievably, she did.

  Elsie exploded in laughter when she saw what had happened, and then waved her hands in refusal when Georgette tried to get her to hold the moist animal. Smiling herself, Georgette placed the kitten on the table, stripped off the soiled glove, and then picked the animal up again in her bare, cupped hand. The touch of soft fur on skin was startling. It felt small and wet in her hand, but it felt alive.

  And she realized that she did, as well. Elsie’s pealing amusement, the resolve to not care whether she was properly attired, the good smells coming from the shop’s open door, all coalesced into a single, unexpected thought: she was enjoying herself. More than she had in months, perhaps more than she had in years.

  They placed their order, and the tearoom attendant immediately brought warmed milk in a china cup. At first, the kitten seemed capable of little more than nosing at the spoon. Georgette grew worried that perhaps she had waited too long, that the kitten would be too weak to survive. She dipped the edge of her handkerchief into the cup and tried offering it the soaked bit of cloth, finally placing the edge directly in its mouth.

  The kitten made a small, contented sound and began sucking at the cloth, protesting with claws and mews when Georgette pulled the handkerchief back to remoisten it with milk.

  “You look like you were born to do that,” Elsie said, awe warming her voice. “I’ve never seen a lady do anything like that before.”

  The continued insistence she was a lady made Georgette’s chest flutter in discomfort. “Haven’t we already discussed this? A lady is permitted to love babies and animals as much as the next person.”

  “If that were true, there would not be such a fearsome dema
nd for wet nurses.” Elsie cocked her head, a puzzled slant to her brow. “You were married before.”

  “Yes.” Georgette concentrated on the little mouth working at the edge of her handkerchief. She could see it coming, and yet could not steer clear.

  “Were there no children?”

  The familiar pang of disappointment had not lessened in the two years since the unfolding of her own personal tragedy. Georgette made no move to explain, settling instead for a swift shake of her head. It was too painful, still too fresh, to explain that she had lost a baby, the one thing in which she had placed her hopes, two months after her husband’s fatal, drunken tumble down a flight of stairs. If she tried, she would have to skim over the shock of the bloodied sheets and the weeks of depression that followed. And if she skimmed, Elsie would not understand.

  It was better to simply shake her head. She wished she could have a child.

  But not enough to risk another husband.

  The kitten stopped nursing the cloth and gradually fell asleep in her cupped palm, sated by the bit of milk. Georgette called for soap and water to wash her soiled hand, and then sat there, enjoying the living, breathing feel of the sleeping animal in her lap, but the feeling was arrested as she caught sight of someone she recognized.

  Unfortunately, it was not her big-boned Scotsman. Neither was it her cousin Randolph. Instead, she saw the man her cousin had pointed out on the street that morning as Reverend Ramsey. Georgette tried to ignore the prickling awareness that ran the length of her spine as he stared at their table. She accepted her plate of salmon and watercress sandwiches from the attendant, even though her first instinct was to gather her things and leave.

  But then a shadow fell across their table, and the man became impossible to avoid.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Thorold,” he said.

  She put on a smile, noticing from the corner of her eye how the man’s approach caused Elsie to slide down in her chair. “Reverend Ramsey.” She offered him her still-gloved hand. “We have not been properly introduced, but my cousin has mentioned you. It appears he has spoken to you about me, as well.”

  The gentleman took her hand, as propriety dictated, but there was nothing of warmth in the gesture. Reverend Ramsey’s starched white collar was an obscene contrast to his dark disapproval. “Does Mr. Burton know the company you keep?” he asked as he released her hand.

  Georgette curved her fingers into a fist. An admirable conversationalist, the rector was not. Her mind raced along every available path and arrived at one sure conclusion: he must be referring to the situation last night. It was not a surprise, really. To hear Elsie tell the tale, half the town had been in attendance at the Blue Gander last night and served as witnesses. It was sure rumors were flying through Moraig faster than the afternoon coach.

  But then the man’s eyes pulled to Elsie. The maid stared back, one auburn brow cocked belligerently.

  “Do you refer to Miss Dalrymple?” Georgette asked in confusion. “She is my ladies’ maid.”

  “Maid?” The man’s face reddened through Elsie’s uncharacteristic silence. “Is that what she’s calling herself now?”

  Georgette looked between the pair, wondering how to handle the situation. Her early lessons in decorum had never addressed how to defuse a brewing altercation between a former prostitute and a man of God. Was this the man who had charged Elsie with public indecency?

  Reverend Ramsey settled the issue for her as he turned his back on the maid. “Where is Mr. Burton?” he asked bluntly. “I presumed there had been a change of plans when you did not arrive at the church last night, but when I saw you together on the street this morning, I assumed you were simply delayed.”

  Her cousin’s earlier insistence that the rector would form his own conclusions about what he had seen this morning still rang in her ears. Georgette swallowed. “I would like a chance to explain, Reverend, about what you may have seen. I was delayed last night. And Randolph found me. But—”

  “You do not need to provide the details,” he interrupted with an impatient wave of his hand. “You were with your betrothed this morning. It is improper, of course, but not unmendable. Of course, I would not advise delaying the wedding further. People will start to talk.”

  “I . . . I beg your pardon?” Georgette asked, appalled as much by the insinuation that she was engaged to her cousin as by the man’s stark delivery of the news.

  “I must presume you still plan to marry Mr. Burton,” he said.

  Georgette risked a glance at Elsie. The maid was doing an admirable job of ignoring the conversation and displaying dutiful appreciation for the sandwiches in front of her. Georgette no longer felt quite so hungry herself. “Did you say still marry?” she asked, squinting back up at the man.

  “Mr. Burton told me last week you both wanted a quick ceremony with minimal fuss.” His eyes raked over her, resting on the dirty dress, her uncovered hair, the single glove. “Given appearances, I would not waste a single moment.”

  He offered a curt nod to Georgette’s stunned silence, and then turned and walked away.

  “What in the criminy was that all about?” Elsie asked, already halfway through her first sandwich.

  “I was wondering that myself.” Georgette sat as still as the water in her glass, not knowing what the odd, aching emotion in her throat was.

  No, that wasn’t quite true.

  She was angry. Randolph had scheduled their wedding. And he had done it last week, before she had come to visit, before he had even asked for her hand.

  And he had handed her that first brandy last night with the assurance of a man who knew what he was about. She could not remember what happened after that, but she could suspect. Randolph had intended to marry her last night, whether she agreed or not. Brandy, consumed by someone with so little experience with spirits, could have only helped his cause.

  “What are you going to do?” Elsie asked, chewing with her mouth open. “You can’t marry two men.”

  “No, I can’t.” Georgette considered for a moment the insane urge to correct the maid’s atrocious eating habits. In the end, she picked up her sandwich and abandoned the idea. She had little enough time to accomplish all the things on her list today without reforming Elsie’s table manners too. “But you see, I have no intention of being married to either one of them.”

  “Sounds like you might need to inform your cousin of that fact.” Elsie licked a smear of sauce from one side of her sandwich.

  Though the maid only stated the obvious, truer words had never been spoken. And that meant Georgette’s list had a new, necessary addition:

  Teach Elsie the fundamentals of being a ladies’ maid.

  Search for Mr. MacKenzie.

  Return the kitten to the butcher.

  And find her cousin and give him the dressing-down he so clearly deserved.

  Chapter 12

  JAMES PUSHED INTO the butcher’s shop on Main Street with his stomach halfway to his feet. He dreaded what he might find, and yet he owed it to his horse and his sanity to find out.

  William followed close behind, an unshakable shadow apparently determined to make sure James didn’t take out the rest of MacRory’s teeth. It was laughable, really. If Caesar had already been sacrificed to the butcher’s knife, it wasn’t MacRory’s teeth his brother needed to worry about.

  William would need to hold him back from full-blown murder.

  James had not a single idea what he had done with his horse, or how he had lost him. Over the course of the last hour, he had begun to remember even more about his evening, starting with every dimple possessed by the delectable Lady Thorold. James had counted them last night, in that ramshackle room above the Blue Gander. There had been two lovely divots of a size to hold kisses resting on her back, just above the flare of her hips. The dimples of her cheeks had prompted him to work hard to elicit the smile that brought the
m into full relief. He remembered the indentation he had discovered, quite by accident, resting behind her left knee.

  Yes, he remembered Georgette Thorold now, every bewitching inch of her.

  But he could not remember trading Caesar to the town butcher.

  No matter how hard he tried, the gleaming counters inside MacRory’s shop brought no sense of recall, no flash of memory. The fresh copper smell of meat did not seem familiar, and the view from MacRory’s shop to Main Street outside was equally unknown.

  He wanted to presume he hadn’t done it. There was no way he would have traded Caesar to the butcher, not when he had worked so hard to possess the animal. James had wanted the stallion since his father had first sent the animal to his house, two weeks after he had returned to Moraig. The Earl of Kilmartie had offered the horse as a gift, but James had refused the man’s generosity. His pride was flying high, and his anger at his father’s meddling was still too great, even after being gone so many years.

  But one look was all it had taken. James had wanted the horse with a passion, scraping for months to come up with enough money and then negotiating the deal to purchase the stallion behind his father’s back. He couldn’t afford such a fine horse, but somehow he had done it, even though his finances were better saved for other things.

  The horse had represented his future and his pride. And James had just lost them, all to one drunken night.

  Furious with himself, he paced the confines of the little shop. “MacRory!” he shouted. “We need a word with you!”

  Instead of a toothless butcher, a tabby cat the size of a toddler emerged from some hidden corner of the butcher shop. Its enormous yellow eyes stared at the visitors as if in accusation for disturbing its sleep. After a twitching moment, it ambled past them through the front door to the sunlit street outside and then sat down and began to clean itself.

  “Where in the deuces is he?” James slapped his fist down on the countertop with a force that made the front windows rattle.