by Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon, Elizabeth Essex, Anthea Lawson
Chapter 21
Hamish came back to himself slowly, as if he had taken a clout over the head and was still in a daze. He rolled onto his back on the thick grass and gathered Elspeth to him. His Elspeth, who lifted her sweet face to the sunshine like a pagan worshiper.
He felt rather pagan himself after having worshiped her with his body. What a fool he had been to think that only experience conferred wisdom. What an ass he had been to overlook the strength of innocence. Elspeth was his ideal because she was both, and neither.
Upon that particularly impractical and philosophically convoluted thought, Hamish took her hand, lacing their fingers together, holding them in quiet, everyday intimacy. It felt good and right and wonderful and terrifying.
Because he wanted this feeling, this warm bubble of quiet contentment to last forever.
But it could not. Life had to go on. Decisions had to be made. But not quite yet.
Not until the heat of lust had ebbed enough to make her shy and wanting her clothes. She turned her back to set herself to rights, and he brushed a long strand of grass from her hair. “You’ll come with me to the lodge? We can make plans there. Decide what needs to be done.”
He would speak to her Aunts later. Declare himself as a gentleman ought.
The decision gave him a warm feeling of rightness. Or belonging—belonging to something, and someone, he had chosen for himself. Elspeth was the beginning of a family of his own, free from the encumbrances and expectations of his parents. Free from their guilt and hypocrisy. Free to write books and laze about orchards all day if they wanted.
“Aye.” She gave him a luminously hopeful smile.
“It will all be right as rain, Elspeth,” he assured her. “We’ll be the happiest people in all of Scotland. In all of Britain.”
“I do hope so.”
He laced his fingers with hers and pulled her to standing. “I hope your Aunts won’t tax me with not fixing their eaves today, but I find I have other, more pressing commitments.”
“Like me.”
“Exactly like you.” They walked in companionable, contented silence to the edge of the lane that led to Cathcart Lodge, until he had to draw her off into the verge when a four in hand coach sped close by, forcing them to crowd into the hedgerow to let it safely pass.
But immediately after it did, a face popped out of the window, and the coach began to slow, coming to a full stop just at the edge of the village, whereupon a gentleman, followed by a young, fashionably dressed lady, stepped lightly into the grassy lane.
“Mr. Cathcart?” the young lady called. “Hamish!” She smiled and waved. “I thought that was you. I told Papa it was so.”
“Hello?” Hamish shaded his eyes, but suspicion hit him like a shovel to the back of his head. Master Lorimer, a brewer from Edinburgh’s southwest side, climbed down behind his daughter and heir. He had met them but once, at a shooting weekend.
Hamish could all but feel his father’s hand stirring this pot.
“Elspeth, why don’t you go on to the Lodge. I’ll follow you directly.” But Elspeth had no time to respond before the brewer’s daughter had made her way down the lane upon them.
“Don’t go, Hamish. It won’t do you know, running away, looking like a scarecrow, with straw in your hair. Not when we’ve driven all this way to find you.” She smiled in a way that bared her teeth, much like an aggressive dog, grinning before it bites. “Rusticating with dairy maids, have you been, Hamish? Your mother will be all agog to hear.”
So perhaps not his father’s hand. But still, his family was stirring the hot pot he seemed to have landed in. “Miss Lorimer. You will excuse me, please.” He would not introduce Elspeth, for such was the surest way to have her name spread about Edinburgh like a contagion.
“I will not, unless I have your promise that I shall meet with you dancing attendance upon me at the Marchioness of Queensbury’s Masquerade ball in Edinburgh on Thursday next. I expect that will be the perfect evening to announce our betrothal, will it not?”
It would not. But her words had already hit Elspeth like a hard slap to the face—he could see her head snap back with the force of the lie. “Betrothal?”
“No. It’s not like that,” Hamish began.
“But it is.” Miss Brewery’s laughing expression stilled, and became serious. “Your family, not to mention the solicitors, say differently, dear Hamish. And so does my Papa.” She gestured to the man standing near.
The brewer himself stepped forward. “Aye. Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I do.” The man was polite but emphatic. “Signed the papers this morning, Mr. Cathcart. I was given to believe you’d be there to make things all right and tight, and when you weren’t, why I set out for to find you straightaway. And here we are.”
Here they all were. Except for Elspeth, who had already turned tail, and, very sensibly, run away from this fine madness.
Would that he could do the same.
***
Elspeth did what she had always been taught to do—make herself so small and quiet that she erased herself from the conversation. But this time, she could not simply retreat to the privacy of her imagination. This time, she had to run to escape the sharp eyes of Hamish’s betrothed, Miss Lorimer, looking her over as if she were a slattern.
Where she ran was a matter of indifference. Through the trees, along the river and deep into the shadow of the woods was all she could think, letting the branches claw at her skirts and switch at her skin, running onward until her lungs were burning with shame and fury and she collapsed onto her knees, and lay sobbing in the moss-covered bracken.
She sobbed out the ache in her chest until it gradually grew smaller and smaller, hardening into something small enough to manage. Small enough to swallow.
Hamish’s betrothed.
She looked the part, Miss Lorimer—well dressed and well spoken, as if she would belong in Edinburgh, or Cathcart Lodge or the Marchioness of Queensbury’s Masquerade ball. As if she were sure of the world and her place in it. As if she were entirely legitimate.
Exactly as Elspeth was not. Just as she had always known.
But there was nothing Elspeth could do about it. The world was the way it was, and sobbing into the underbrush wasn’t going to do anything but make her face blotchy. So she stood and smoothed her skirts, and did the only thing she could do—headed home to Dove Cottage. Where she belonged.
“Is that you, Elspeth?”
At the sound of her aunt’s voice, Elspeth was enveloped in all the homey comfort of the familiar, and she wanted nothing more at that moment than to cast herself into their arms. Not that they were great comforters—physical displays of affection being few and far between at Dove Cottage. Still, a kind word could be as balming as a posset.
Elspeth took a deep breath and let the calm comfort of knowing she was where she belonged wash over her and soften the sharp edges of her anger and hurt. “Yes, Aunt Molly. I’m home.”
The Aunts met her at the garden door, standing in front of the portal with their arms linked together for support.
“What is wrong?” Elspeth rushed forward to assist them.
But Aunt Molly drew back, getting to her point with characteristic directness. “We’ve had the most alarming report, Elspeth, that you were seen consorting with a young man near the orchard this morning, and then later in the lane.”
Michty me. Dread tightened her belly like a leather belt drawn too taut. She ought to have known, of course. She ought to have understood that there was no privacy in a village this small—someone was always watching. Someone always reported what they thought they saw.
And things never got better but that they got worse first.
“It was only Mr. Cathcart, Aunt. He and I were talking. And walking. And saying goodbye. He’s gone for Edinburgh and his life there.”
“You did more than talk if the moss on your collar, and the grass stains on your skirts, and the look of regret in your eye are any indication.”
“No, I—” Elspeth half-turned to try and find the moss, and, instead, found a grass stain on her shoulder. Not that she had never innocuously smudged or stained a gown or petticoat working in the garden before, but today, riddy heat seared her cheeks. “I went into the wood by myself, after he left. To…” To have a good cry would be too revealing. “To be alone.”
But Aunt Isla wasn’t listening—she had been watching Elspeth’s hot face. “Well, at least you’ve the good sense to be mortified by your actions, but I’ll tell you this Elspeth Otis, we raised you better than to consort in orchards with the likes of him—a tramp.”
“He’s not a tramp. I told you, he’s—”
“I don’t want to hear another word, Elspeth Otis.” Aunt Molly held up her hand and closed her eyes, barring any attempt at explanation. “We don’t care who he is.”
Elspeth did care, but she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. “I’m sorry—”
“We’re more than sorry, too,” Aunt Molly said. “Blood will out, Isla’s always said. We tried to raise you right and keep you from iniquity. We did our best—no one can say we didn’t—but we won’t be made to put up with it, do you hear?” Aunt Molly did not wait for Elspeth’s answer, but continued straight on. “We raised you better, Elspeth, and we won’t be subject to such…”
“Such licentiousness.” Isla supplied the necessary word on a whisper.
“Aunts, please.” Elspeth tried to speak over her rising panic. “I haven’t subjected anyone to any licentious—”
“Don’t lie to us, Elspeth. Close up thine mouth before the devil can take any more of your words.”
Dread and panic brewed a hissing pot of shame that sealed her mouth. Elspeth recognized the trunk on the other side of the door—its meaning becoming apparent with a sort of searing pain that ripped a hole in her tattered heart.
“As much as it pains us to say”—Molly squared her thin shoulders—“we’re done with you, Elspeth. We can’t have you here in this house if you’re going to behave with such total disregard for the morals and strictures to which you’ve been raised.”
“Can’t have me?” Were they casting her out? Now, when they had done all they could by means fair and foul to bring her back not a week ago?
The shame and dread were diluted with consternation. And a growing indignation.
“We won’t have it, I tell you,” Molly was saying. “We won’t.”
“We can’t have this upset.”
The pain leeched out slowly, leaving Elspeth rather numb. “You’re putting me out?”
“We are. We must.”
“For your own good.”
“So you’ll realize the value of what you’ve lost and come to your senses.”
“My senses?” Elspeth could hardly believe what she was hearing.
“Aye.” Aunt Molly stood quietly firm. “Much as it pains us. You’ll have to go.”
“Aye, I will. If you’ll be so kind as to let me fetch my cloak and hat.” Elspeth didn’t wait for their approval, but mounted up the stairs to her room. The sloped ceiling that had only that morning seemed so close and comfortable and warm was now too close and confining. Too small minded.
She snatched up a work bag and threw in only enough to put her on the road to Edinburgh, even if she had to ride in a dray like the castoff she was meant to be.
But she was an independent woman now, untethered from the past, who only had the future. A future she meant to shape for herself.
Chapter 22
Hamish extricated himself as politely, but forthrightly as possible from the Lorimers’ claims. “You were right to come here, Mr. Lorimer, for things are most definitely not right and tight. In fact, they are entirely havey-cavey, if my family has entered into any agreements or marriage contract with you.”
“They have!” the bullish brewer confirmed.
“They have not the right, for I am of age, and I am not free to become engaged.” Hamish straightened his coat, and stood himself up tall. “For you see, I am already married.”
This proclamation was met, for the moment, with stunned silence.
The brewer and his heiress looked at each other with something more powerful and more personal than either anger or regret. “To the dairy maid?” Miss Lorimer, who was clearly not stupid, asked.
“To my wife.” Hamish let some heat raise his voice. “Whom I will not allow you to disparage.”
“No, forgive me.” Miss Lorimer amended her incredulity. “I saw nothing in the newspapers, or we should never have come. Never contemplated—”
“Of course.” Hamish eased his own tone. “It has not yet been put in.” Mostly because it had not yet happened, but that was a minor detail he would arrange forthwith. “Nevertheless, I want to make it clear that we”—he indicated Miss Lorimer and himself—“are not engaged, nor will we never be married. And I would appreciate it greatly if my name and that of my wife were not put about.”
“Of course not.” She pursed her lips and looked away. “Though I hope I have given you no reason to think I would do such a thing.”
It was Hamish’s turn to be chagrinned, and he realized that Miss Lorimer had her own, different disappointments than either Elspeth or himself. He could—and would at his first opportunity—find Elspeth and make all right between them. Miss Lorimer, with her trade-earned fortune and her brewer of a father, would have a harder time finding herself a new prospect for a husband.
“I hope you take no offense to yourself, Miss Lorimer. I regret deeply that this misunderstanding has happened, and would have been honored to act upon my family’s wishes were I not already contracted, and in love with another.”
Hamish had meant the admission to be for Miss Lorimer, to salve her pride and wounded feelings, but the moment he said it, he knew that he meant every word.
His wife. His love.
Ye gods. Truer words he had never spoken.
And speak them again he needed to—posthaste. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Lorimer, Mr. Lorimer, I have most urgent business I must attend to.”
***
With Fergus’ adroit assistance Hamish was dressed in a suitably gentlemanly suit of clothes, seated upon a hunter of more aristocratic bloodlines than his own, and ready to present himself to the ladies of Dove Cottage whereupon he would soothe the upset of the morning, and plight his troth.
But the ladies of Dove Cottage were more militant than he expected. They would not answer the bell at their door, even though he could hear them, talking between themselves inside.
So Hamish took himself to the window. “Dear ladies, I have come to make my peace and make my honorable intentions known to you. But I cannot do so through a closed door. But, do you know what?” He changed his mind. “I can do it through a window. I love Elspeth enough that I don’t mind how I ask for the honor of her hand.”
The silence that met this proposal would have been deafening but for the fact that he was in a country lane, where it was never really quiet—the hedgerows fairly rattled with all manner of answers.
“But we don’t know you,” was finally the plaintive response.
“Then let me introduce myself properly, ladies. I am Mr. Hamish Cathcart of Edinburgh, son of the Earl Cathcart of Renfrewshire, and other various and assorted places that I am sure he would be glad and proud to tell you about, but which bore me to tears. Because the point of this visit is to assure you that though my fortune is currently small, it is independent, and I have every confidence that I will increase it if you will do me the honor of letting Miss Elspeth Otis become by helpmeet and wife, and be by my side.”
It was a rather long, rambling sort of proposal, but Hamish was pleased and proud of it, for he meant never to make another. Though he did not yet appear to be finished with this one.
One of the sisters Murray peered around the open door. “We suppose you had better come in.”
Hamish was careful to wipe his boots, and take off his hat so as not to dirty the floor, nor crowd the ceilin
g of the snug little cottage. He bowed to the two tiny sisters. “Thank you for seeing me. I am honored.”
The smaller of the two ladies pursed her lips in disagreement. “We didn’t want the neighbors to see you standing in the garden like a scarecrow.”
A well-dressed, aristocratic scarecrow, he nearly corrected. But he did not. “I see. Then let me do all I can to convince you of my sincerity. I love and admire and esteem your niece, and I should be the happiest of men were you to honor me with her hand, but I will tell you, too, that I mean to have her to wife, whether you give your blessing or not. We are both of age. And this is Scotland. And”—he threw one last piece of fuel on the fire—“we are handfasted, and so engaged.”
They were not yet impressed. “Have you the backing of your family?”
This question, he had not expected, but he was equal to the moment. “I belong to an ancient and honorable family, Miss Murray, but my own name and my own character are all I can offer your niece. I hope that they are enough to secure your approval.”
“She’s a bastard.” The smaller of the two ladies thrust the accusation at him like a sword.
But he had weapons of his own—righteous anger and steadfast love. “Elspeth may be illegitimate, but bastardy is not a part of her character.” He worked to keep the steel from his voice. “And I will not have that word spoken in reference to her again. Do I make myself clear?”
In silence the sisters Murray looked at each other in silent communication before they turned to him.
“We could not give her to you if you felt otherwise, Mr. Cathcart.”
Relief slid slowly into his veins like a cool bath, calming him, and firming his resolve. “Then all that remains is for me to plight my troth to Elspeth. Where is she?”
Another long speaking look passed between the women before the older of the two spoke. “We’re afraid she’s gone, Mr. Cathcart. We are ashamed to say we drove her out, and can only hope that she is gone to her Aunt Ivers in Edinburgh.”
