by Karen Ranney
Go and face the man, Riona. He’ll not bite your head off. Fergus’s voice boomed loudly in the recesses of her imagination. No, Fergus, she answered silently, but he might smile at me, and that would be just as frightening.
Perhaps she should take a bit more care with her hair to ensure that the unruly tresses stayed in place. She pushed at the right side and then the left, making the tiny muslin cap on top of her head list like a sinking ship. Abigail had helped with her hair tonight, but no amount of pomade could keep her curls where they were supposed to be. Perhaps more pins were the answer, but she had used all that she had and borrowed most of Maureen’s.
A knock on the door was her final summons as her mother’s voice came from the corridor. “Hurry, Riona, the guests are already assembled.”
At least she was dressed well. Her soft green gown had a low square neckline edged with a dark green pleated fringe. Her looped-up skirt revealed a quilted underskirt of cream silk. Her sleeves were gathered and tucked, adorned with small embroidered flowers to match those on her bodice.
Of all the nights for her complexion to be sun-brightened. Her gray eyes were a bit too bright, as if she were a mischievous child holding a secret. In actuality, there was nothing even remotely amusing about this moment, and yet she still looked curiously pleased with herself.
“Cease,” she said to her reflection, but the Riona of the mirror stared back, a small smile curling up the corners of her lips. She held her shawl, crafted from the same brocade fabric as her overskirt, closer about her shoulders in an effort to compose herself.
She wanted him to see her differently. Not a hoyden hiding behind a hedge. Someone who’d recently spent five weeks in Edinburgh. A woman the match of his attractiveness.
One more glance at herself in the mirror. When she smiled, her lips curved pleasingly over white, even teeth. All except the front one that overlapped its neighbor by a tiny bit. Her nose wasn’t memorable, but neither was it pointed nor overly short. The chin, however, hinted at her stubbornness with its square appearance.
There was nothing she could do about her accent. She would always sound Cormech born and bred. But she could show him that she’d been English trained. The merriment gone from her eyes, she tilted her head up and surveyed herself, regal pose and all. No, she abruptly decided, that would not do at all. She wasn’t the regal sort. But neither was she the kind of woman who skulks about in bushes.
Or perhaps she was, thinking of the calf she’d helped birth earlier.
What she needed to do was show him some sort of happy measure between the two. Herself, perhaps, dressed for dinner with her best manners showing.
She pushed at her hair again, adjusted her shawl, powdered her neckline, pressed a cool cloth against her cheeks. One last glance in the mirror, and she sighed in resignation.
As she walked through her door and closed it softly behind her, Riona couldn’t help but wonder why it mattered so much. He was, after all, only a visitor, and however embarrassed she was by their meeting, he would soon be gone from their lives.
In three weeks she was going to be married. That fact alone should render her more circumspect.
“My daughters,” Susanna said as Riona and Maureen entered the room a few moments later.
Riona inclined her head in greeting as she’d been taught. Until a man’s rank was ascertained, it would never do to slight him. Therefore, an inquisitive look was always better than a snub. Mrs. Parker’s words.
“My dears, may I present James MacRae of Gilmuir. He’s brought news that our dear friend Fergus is to be married.”
“Fergus? How delightful,” Maureen said, stepping forward with a smile. “How is he?”
With Riona’s marriage soon to occur, Maureen’s betrothal to Captain Hastings looked secure. Over the past week, Maureen’s grief had been replaced by an effusive happiness in direct proportion to Riona’s misery.
In all honesty, Riona could not blame her sister. Maureen had had nothing to do with that night in Edinburgh. Nor should she be restrained from feeling happiness now. No one, after all, had pressured Riona into marriage. There was simply no choice. Still, she felt as if she’d been asked to surrender her glass of wine while there was a full cask remaining in the butler’s pantry.
Their guest was dressed in a buff coat with a high standing collar and deep cuffs, one on which the lapels had been folded back to reveal a rather splendid waistcoat of crimson. His blue breeches were fitted into tall, immaculate black boots. The severity of his attire was offset by gold buttons bearing the image of a thistle.
Not one speck of dust clung to him. Not one leaf or spot of dirt. Even his boots gleamed.
“Fergus is well and happy,” James said. “I have been instructed to give both of you his compliments and best wishes.”
Maureen was an excellent conversationalist, easily describing the sights and entertainments in Edinburgh. As for herself, it was better if she said nothing at all. Before she’d gone to Mrs. Parker’s house, her companions had been Old Ned and the workers of Tyemorn Manor. And prior to that, the maids in their Cormech home. She was not, as the older woman had once ruefully stated, very well suited for polite society.
When MacRae glanced at her curiously, she only smiled slightly at him. A glance that in no way gave him any encouragement. The kind but distant look Mrs. Parker maintained was the kindest way to quell any hopeful, but unsuitable, suitors.
For the first time, she was grateful for the Englishwoman’s lessons.
He didn’t look in her direction again, concentrating his attentions on her sister, instead. Maureen’s laughter was especially annoying, Riona discovered. How odd that she’d never before noticed that her sister seemed to end each sentence as if it were a question.
Had Maureen suddenly forgotten the good Captain Hastings?
“We have missed you, my dear,” the parson said from beside her.
Startled, Riona turned to smile at him and his wife.
“We’ve not seen either of you for months it seems.”
She had thought from the moment she’d met Reverend and Mrs. Dunant that these two people were admirably suited for their roles in life. Mrs. Dunant was childless and showered the children of Ayleshire with enough attention to make up for the lack, while her husband was as gentle from the pulpit. His sermons were genuinely uplifting, making Riona feel that perhaps she was capable of earning a place in heaven. The pastor at the Edinburgh church Mrs. Parker favored made her certain she was about to perish in hell, and that any thought of aspiring to a hereafter was futile.
Mrs. Dunant smiled at her, nodding at her husband in that way long-married people have. “Now I understand felicitations are in order.”
Riona smiled, which surely must have been a pale imitation of her usual expression, but no one seemed to note the difference. A disconcerting revelation, that she was thought to be content with her future. So pleased, in fact, that not one person had wished to discuss it. Not her mother, not Maureen, not even the formidable Mrs. Parker. Her future as Mrs. Harold McDougal simply was, like the dawn or the sunset, expected and assured.
“You’ll be married at Ayleshire, surely?” Mrs. Dunant asked.
“Of course.” In fact, she’d given little thought to where her wedding would take place. Strange, how the details had not yet been finalized.
I’ll return in a month, Riona. Harold’s words replayed in her head. I’ve matters to attend to in Edinburgh.
Take your time, Harold. I am in no mood for marriage.
Ah, but I am, he’d said, chuckling when she frowned at him.
Until he returned she was, no doubt, supposed to wait as any expectant bride, with a bright smile and starry eyes and a giggle not unlike Maureen’s.
She bit down on her tongue at that thought, forced a smile to her face, and nearly sighed in relief when the doors to the dining room were opened.
MacRae led her mother into dinner, followed by Mrs. Parker shepherded by the pastor. She, Maureen, and Mrs
. Dunant were left to bring up the rear.
“Will the manor be participating in Lethson this year?” Mrs. Dunant asked.
“The solstice?” Riona asked.
The pastor’s wife kept her gaze on her husband’s back as she whispered to Riona. “It’s best we don’t use that term. Robert has learned to turn a blind eye to such festivities but such a pagan word should be avoided.”
They’d settled in to Tyemorn Manor in October, too late to participate in the ceremony that marked the first six months of the year, but she’d heard Cook and Abigail discussing it recently. Evidently, the entire village joined in the celebration. Shops were closed, and every other occupation was delayed until the festivities were complete.
“The village elders coordinate everything. It’s best if you speak with them and volunteer yourself before too much more time has passed.” With a pat on her arm, Mrs. Dunant stepped forward, leaving Riona to follow.
The dining room was one of those odd chambers at Tyemorn Manor that was too large in proportion to the rest of the house. A red and tan striped silk lined the walls, and crimson curtains hung from the solitary narrow window. A large tapestry dominated the west wall, the scene one of a crowded courtyard filled with knights, horses, and ladies in waiting. A gate stood open, and through it came a score of hunters, bearing several dead deer between them. The animals’ glassy eyes stared sightlessly toward heaven while blood dripped from each carcass to pool on the ground.
As she did every time she entered this particular room, Riona glanced at the tapestry, marveling not at its artistry, although it was expertly crafted, but its ugliness.
Three silver epergnes filled with candles were set in the middle of the long table and on each of the two sideboards. Despite the candlelight, however, shadows still loomed in the corners.
The parson sat to her right, with Mrs. Parker to her left. Across the table, Maureen was flanked by James and Mrs. Dunant, with her mother seated at the head of the table. At least this way, MacRae would have to look up from time to time and see her. After that first glance at her, he’d not deigned to look in her direction.
She only wished he was as easy to ignore.
“I look forward to officiating at your wedding, my dear,” the parson said, smiling at her. “Although I’m surprised at the suddenness of it.”
“A love match,” Mrs. Parker hurriedly offered from Riona’s left. “They fell in love so quickly it made my head spin. She could not wait and neither would dear Harold.”
Mrs. Parker smiled toothily at the parson, who had no choice but to smile back.
James glanced in her direction, then looked away as quickly, bending his head attentively to something Mrs. Dunant said.
Recalling one of Mrs. Parker’s lessons that a lady never appeared to have an appetite, Riona pretended not to be hungry. She ate barely three spoonfuls of soup, and waved away the wine, choosing cider instead.
“A most charming man,” Mrs. Parker whispered to Susanna.
Susanna glanced at their guest and, finding him occupied in conversation, whispered back. “He is a ship’s captain.”
Mrs. Parker narrowed her eyes. Evidently, not an occupation she considered suitable.
“And the brother of an earl,” Susanna added.
Mrs. Parker’s frown eased as she considered MacRae with a softer gaze. No doubt the woman considered him a matrimonial candidate. Riona could almost see her running through the list of available women, clients who might pay well to be united with such a man.
She hoped he hadn’t overheard their comments. Yet she couldn’t imagine that it was the first time women had speculated about him. Men as attractive as James MacRae must become inured to attention.
Her soon-to-be husband’s face floated in the air as if she’d summoned him there. Harold’s complexion was pale, almost waxen, while James was sunburned brown as if he spent all his time out of doors without a proper hat. Harold’s eyes were hazel, his hair brown, his height average. In fact, everything about Harold was unremarkable. Unlike the man who sat opposite her, with his black hair, blue eyes, and wondrous smile.
She herself had never been entranced by a man’s looks, believing that character was more important. But in that respect, Harold was also lacking. A man who would ensnare a woman in marriage had little honor.
Concentrating on her plate, Riona wished that she didn’t feel so excluded. The parson and Mrs. Parker were discussing the sights to be found in Edinburgh, while her mother was engaged in listening to Mrs. Dunant’s tales of plans for a new communion cloth. Laughter and conversation swirled around her as if they were clouds and she a lone tree beneath them.
She could have saved herself the effort of her toilette, since their guest had looked only once in her direction.
Suddenly, he glanced at her again. His face was immediately stripped of emotion, his mouth losing its smile, his eyes suddenly growing colder. Blue ice, she thought, startled by the indifference of his look, and wondered why she didn’t become chilled from his expression.
Just as quickly, James looked away again, leaving her with the notion that of all the people in the room, he found her the most lacking.
She was to be married.
The idea rankled him. But she was, after all, a stranger. However much she incited his curiosity, he would be wiser to take no notice of her.
She looked almost forlorn sitting there silent among the others. Not the woman he’d met a few short hours ago. Somewhere in between the hedges and this dinner she’d changed. He doubted this woman would comment about his horse with such candor, or stare at him with wide eyes.
A love match.
No doubt she was pining for her intended.
Of the two women, Maureen was, perhaps, the prettier. She had a delicate sort of beauty, her ivory features and black hair reminding him of his sister-in-law. But where Iseabal’s eyes were a vibrant green, Maureen’s were blue, the mirror of her mother’s.
Riona was unlike either her mother or her sister in her appearance. Although some of the features were the same, her eyes were gray, a color so fascinating that he found his gaze returning to her face time and again. What he had thought was embarrassment earlier must be her natural coloring. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright and luminous. The picture of joyful health for all that she sat immobile between the two older people, clenching her shawl so tightly it looked as if she were strangling it. Occasionally, she would look up from her meal, frown at her sister, and then look away.
While Maureen was a charming conversationalist, Riona had said little during dinner. Any personality she might have possessed was well hidden beneath a surface amicability. Riona. The name was as unusual as the woman had been. A pity that she’d disappeared. Or perhaps she was simply a wraith, lasting but a moment near the hedge.
He was, he suddenly realized, being asked a question. Mrs. Parker smiled at him expectantly. Maureen answered, deftly hiding the fact that he had not been paying attention.
“Yes, please tell us about some of your voyages. How exciting to be a sea captain.”
“Not all excitement,” he said, smiling. “There are days of tedium waiting for a wind.”
“Or cleaning tack and decks,” Riona said.
Surprised, he glanced over at her.
“We come from Cormech, Mr. MacRae,” she explained. “It’s a port town, and there are more than enough sea captains and ships to observe.” She sent a fulminating look at her sister, then studied her plate again.
“Riona is correct, sir, in that we are not unfamiliar with the sight of a ship,” Susanna interjected. “But that does not mean we are not curious as to your travels.”
“A dangerous occupation surely,” the parson said.
“There is more jeopardy on land, sir,” James told Mr. Dunant. “At sea one is subject to nature and rarely to man.”
Mr. Dunant smiled. “I minister to mankind, and have no sway over nature, so perhaps I’m biased in that regard.”
“But to
have seen all those sights was surely exciting,” Maureen said.
“I have heard of many strange customs in the Orient,” Susanna said, nodding when Abigail brought another bottle of wine. She came to his side, pouring his glass first and giggling when he smiled his thanks. “Have you traveled there?”
“Yes, often.”
Riona looked up, then away again, her lips thinned. He couldn’t help but wonder what words she’d bitten off without speaking.
“I’ve a cousin with the East India Company,” Mrs. Parker said. “Have you traveled there?”
James nodded, hoping someone would change the subject.
But she persisted. “Do you know any of the British in India, Mr. MacRae?”
“I’ve met a few, madam,” he said. He’d delivered three ships under charter to the Company, but he had no love for the English association.
“God has seen fit to convert many of the heathen in those lands,” Mr. Dunant said.
For a moment he considered not answering, but the pastor and his wife were looking at him expectantly. “Yes, they have.” Although he’d striven for a noncommittal tone, James could hear the disapproval in his own voice.
“Do you not believe we should attempt to introduce God to such a heathen land?” the pastor asked.
Mrs. Parker was likewise curious. “Or bring them British trade?”
This was not the first time he’d entered into such a discussion. Nor, James suspected, would it be the last. But, as in arguments about the weather, there was rarely a definitive winner. Each man had his opinion, and each opinion was simply that.
“I don’t believe that it’s wise for anyone to go to other countries,” James answered carefully, “and interject one’s beliefs to the exclusion of the native population’s. It is one thing to teach faith, another to belittle others’ culture.”
“And you think we do?”
“I know we do,” James said. “I’ve seen the East India Company at work. They’ve no feel for India, no respect for its inhabitants.” The British would not be satisfied until every man, woman, and child was trussed up in English clothing, spoke English, and carried a King James version of the Bible to prove that they had indeed been anglicized. Thoughts he would never convey to the assembled guests.
