by Karen Ranney
“You cannot tell him.”
They looked at each other.
A moment later her aunt sat back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling as if the answer was written in the plaster.
“We are once and truly caught, then,” she said. “If you don’t marry him, he’ll demand to know why. If we tell him, he’ll dismiss the three of us.”
“And if I do marry him, it won’t be a true marriage.”
Her aunt sat forward. “Perhaps you’re wrong about that. Perhaps it doesn’t matter your name as much as your person.”
She blinked at her aunt, who waved her hand in the air as if to dismiss the legalities.
“It’s not as if you were a man,” she said. “Your name is going to change regardless. What does it matter what it is now?”
That didn’t sound right, but her aunt, having decided that her name was of no importance, refused to hear differently.
“I can’t be married without telling him, Aunt Mary. I can’t be married as Jean MacDonald. The marriage won’t be valid. I’ll be engaging in sin, which is the very reason you want me to marry the earl in the first place, so people won’t think I’m a sinner.” A strangled giggle trembled on her lips.
Aunt Mary stood. “I am the first person to demand the truth, Jean. I’ve lived my life with integrity. But I’m practical as well. Because of what your father did, you and Catriona might never find a man willing to marry either of you. I believe we should consider this circumstance a blessing.”
“I have to tell him.”
“I took a chance putting you on Ballindair’s staff, Jean. I never even informed Mr. Seath of your past. If you insist on telling the earl, he’ll not go through with the marriage, and we could all be in jeopardy.”
Before she could truly understand what was happening, Aunt Mary whisked her out of her suite and to the family wing, where she stood in front of a set of double doors.
“The Countess’s Suite,” Aunt Mary said, throwing open the doors. “You’ll be the first countess to occupy it in thirty years.”
Bemused, Jean followed her inside.
“Didn’t the earl’s wife live here?”
“She never came to Scotland.”
Jean stood in the sitting room, the space feeling heavy, as if the very air disapproved of her. Her gaze noted the various blue-and-white urns, the rose upholstered sofa and chairs, the oversized mahogany tables.
Two weeks ago she’d collided with the Earl of Denbleigh, and now she was to be his bride? What kind of place was Ballindair? When she’d first seen the castle, she thought it enchanted, and perhaps it was.
She couldn’t marry Morgan MacCraig.
“I’d rather go to Dumgoyne,” she said.
“If you do,” her aunt said, “you’ll be a servant forever. Is that what you want for yourself? Think carefully, Jean.”
“To be a servant, or a woman living in sin, are those my choices?”
“It was more than you had before,” her aunt said. “I cannot make the decision for you, Jean. I agree that these circumstances are unusual, perhaps even shocking. But your father’s actions condemned you to a half-life. This situation at least gives you a chance to live your life fully.”
Without waiting for Jean’s response, her aunt sailed out of the room, leaving her alone.
Jean walked to the window, pushing aside the rose patterned draperies, and stared down at the ornamental garden. If she married the earl, she’d never have to be a maid again. But, more importantly, she wouldn’t have to leave Ballindair.
She’d be a wife. He’d be her husband. That magnificent, arrogant, irritating, charming, intelligent man would be her husband. Or her pretend husband.
They were a pair, weren’t they? The earl who’d divorced his wife, and the maid who hid her past. Perhaps they deserved each other.
She turned and surveyed her surroundings. The tiny chamber she shared with Catriona could fit into the sitting room four times.
Some people would say the most wonderful wish of all had been granted her. A chance to change her life, even if it was based on a lie.
The painting above the fireplace, no doubt of Morgan’s mother, showed a woman with light brown hair and dark blue eyes, a smile curving her lips and her gaze brimming with happiness. What would the countess have said to her?
Go away. Who do you think you are, to become the Countess of Denbleigh?
Yet the earl was not perfect. He’d stood up in church, said his vows, then turned his back on them. Did he think to make up for betraying one set of vows by taking another or by marrying a maid?
Perhaps they were both to be faulted for considering this marriage.
“Is it true?” Catriona asked, suddenly appearing in the doorway.
Her sister was out of breath, her hair askew and her face pink. Had she learned of the news and raced up the stairs to verify it?
“Everyone says you’re to be married to the earl. Is it true?”
Jean made her decision in that second. She nodded.
Catriona entered the room. “Aren’t you the sly one. I gave you the idea, didn’t I?” Her eyes narrowed. “And you, all prim and proper, seduced him.”
Jean walked to her sister and stared her down. “Even for you, Catriona, that was an idiotic remark.”
“What do you mean, even for me?”
“You haven’t demonstrated your intelligence up until now. If you hadn’t gone to the Laird’s Tower, I wouldn’t have had to seek Mr. Prender’s assistance.”
“Andrew never said he saw you.”
“He didn’t,” Jean said, frustrated beyond belief with her sister. “Since when are you calling him Andrew?”
“Since you’re marrying the Earl of Denbleigh.”
The two of them glared at each other.
Catriona looked away a moment later. “I don’t have to be a maid any longer. There, that’s all I truly wanted. However it came about, I’m happy enough.”
No, Catriona would be happier if she were the one becoming a countess. Frankly, so would she. But was that entirely true? Did she want Catriona to marry the earl?
Her stomach fluttered and she pressed her hands against her waist.
“Does he know who we are?” Catriona asked, glancing toward the open door.
Jean shook her head.
Catriona nodded, as if satisfied. “I’ll have to go and pick out a room,” she said. “I think it should be in the family quarters, don’t you? I’m going to be the Earl of Denbleigh’s sister-in-law.” She glanced down at herself, giving her uniform a look of hatred. “And I shall need a new wardrobe as well. Have we anyone at Ballindair who can do hair?”
She loved her sister, she truly did, but there were times when Catriona stretched her patience so thin she could read through it.
While Catriona was still planning, Jean left the room. She didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone, or answer any questions. A few minutes later she found herself in the Long Gallery.
The day was cloudy; shadows shrouding the room. She sat on the same bench where she’d sat the night she talked to the earl.
What did she know about being a countess? For that matter, what did she know about being a wife?
What would her parents say to see her elevation to a countess?
You were raised with good manners and all the graces, my dear, her father might have said. An earl would be blessed to have you as his wife.
Her mother, on the other hand, would’ve done everything in her power to learn as much as she could about the duties of countess, and educate her for her new role.
She missed her mother dreadfully, had missed her even before her actual death. Pain had taken the gentle woman away, the constant smile turning to tight lips, and the patient understanding to stoic endurance.
Until that last year, when illness stripped her of any peaceful moments, her mother had been the spirit, and perhaps the soul, of their family.
How could she possibly act the same in this marriage?
How could she see the good on even the darkest days? How could she support her husband and nurture any children that might come to them?
How could she be a wife, let alone a countess, when it was all too evident she was being used by the Earl of Denbleigh to atone for his past sins?
For that reason, and that reason alone, she was to be married. And not a real marriage, at that, which was her sin.
Was ever a bride as miserable as she?
Chapter 15
RULES FOR STAFF: Always give way should you be approached in the corridors or stairways. Step to the side, become as small as possible, and avert your eyes.
“Have you lost your Scottish mind?” Andrew said, putting down his paintbrush and staring at Morgan. “You’re an earl. Earls don’t marry maids.”
Earls don’t divorce, either, but Morgan didn’t make that comment.
Instead, he said, “She was employed as a maid out of necessity. Her father was an educated man and her mother comes from good stock.”
“Good God, Morgan, you make her sound like a horse.”
“I wouldn’t be the first one to liken the marriage mart to a stable full of mares.”
“Then if you have a yen to get married, go to Edinburgh, find yourself a wife there. Or London.”
Andrew reached for something in his wooden box. At least the weather was allowing him to paint. The sun was a bright orb in a semicloudy day. Knowing the Highlands, it would rain again soon. Summer was accompanied by enough wet days to last them all year.
“Oh, I’m certain all the mamas would parade their virtuous young daughters in front of me,” Morgan said. “God knows I would be a catch.”
Andrew didn’t say a word. What could he say?
He walked closer to Andrew’s composition, wondering what the squiggles and lines would be when the painting was finished. He knew well enough, from past experience, not to ask.
Andrew had chosen his spot well, however. The river glinted in the distance, a shimmer of light in the vee between the hills.
“This might well be the last time I have the opportunity to marry,” he said. “Besides, she’s an agreeable woman.”
A rather entertaining spectacle—Andrew in shock. Perhaps he should do it more often. The only other time he could remember his friend looking stunned was the day he announced his decision to divorce Lillian.
Andrew shook his head. “You can’t do this,” he said. “Are you ready to fall even more in society’s estimation?”
“Is that even possible?”
“Is it love?” Andrew asked. “Are you in love with the girl? If that’s the case, Morgan, then simply bed her and be done with it. You don’t have to offer her marriage. You’ll be elevating a maid to a countess.”
He’d already explained Jean’s background, and for Andrew to harp on the fact annoyed him. Nor was he about to confess that she fascinated him. He wanted to know how her mind worked.
She lightened him somehow, and maybe he could ask her exactly what it was about her that made him feel so free and boyish in her presence.
“My honor isn’t so tarnished as to bed a woman dependent upon me for her livelihood.” Morgan looked at his friend. “And I’d prefer if you left my maids alone.”
Andrew’s eyebrow arched. “Would you? Is that an order, Morgan? Is that how it is between us now? You, the mighty earl, giving me orders. Tell me, do I unquestioningly obey you?”
“Evidently not,” Morgan said. “Is it Jean’s sister? The little blonde?”
“Catriona.”
At least Andrew knew the girl’s name. He turned, ready to head back to Ballindair, wishing he’d not felt the need to tell Andrew of his decision.
“You’re not your father, Morgan.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Andrew.
“All your life, you tried to be your father. When it’s obvious you’re not.”
“You think I need you to remind me of that?” Morgan asked, pushing down his irritation.
“Evidently. Otherwise, why would you think of doing such a thing? Why, because someone caught you with the girl in my room? You don’t see anyone forcing me to marry Catriona.”
“You’re already married.”
Andrew smiled. “Exactly. And you’re an earl. All you have to do is dismiss the girl.”
Morgan regarded his friend, wondering if Andrew had always been so unscrupulous, or if it was a character trait he’d only begun to notice.
“This is a stupid thing you’re considering doing, Morgan. Why? All for honor? You would ruin the rest of your life for honor?”
Andrew had asked him that very same question when he first decided to divorce Lillian.
What had he answered then? Something about being able to live with himself.
People considered his father a great man. On some level, he had always known he’d never achieve the greatness of his father. No one would ever call attention to his passage on the street, or whisper that he’d been entrusted with the Great Seal of Scotland.
Yet Morgan had wanted to be able to answer this question: Have I lived my life according to a set of principles and values that do not shame me? In this case he could answer in the affirmative.
Now Andrew moved to stand in front of him. “Morgan, don’t do this thing.”
“You weren’t this serious when I talked of divorcing Lillian,” he said. He considered the other man for a moment. “Would you have divorced your wife if she’d done the same?”
From the look on his face, the question obviously surprised Andrew.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said. “Could you have forgiven Lillian her escapades if they’d occurred with a gardener, a deliveryman, the grocer, or the butcher, rather than your friends?”
“No,” he said. “Adultery is adultery, Andrew.”
Andrew laughed.
“What happened between you and the blonde?” Morgan asked, the first time he’d ever questioned him about one of his conquests.
“It’s an interesting adventure,” Andrew said. “Let’s leave it at that.”
Another first, since Andrew normally bragged about positions, stamina, and the noises his partner made, not to mention the gratitude they expressed afterward.
He couldn’t help but wonder if both MacDonald women were proving to be more fascinating than the females of London.
“Stand straight, Jean,” Aunt Mary said. “Or the fit will be all wrong.”
Jean kept her arms raised out to her sides as she’d been instructed. She stared straight ahead, her gaze fixed on the far wall, the better to ignore the other people in the room.
To judge from her expression, the seamstress, whose talents ran to curtains and clothing for the staff, was agonizing over the pale yellow dress she was fitting. Her aunt was frowning, and two of the maids in training were staring, wide-eyed, at Jean. She’d shared meals and learned to make French polish with them. Now she was a stranger.
She was standing on a large ottoman, elevated some two feet above the onlookers, being fitted for the dress she was to wear at her wedding. And a great many other occasions, she fervently hoped. All this effort, and all this material, should not go to waste for simply one wearing.
When she’d ventured the thought to Aunt Mary, the older woman fixed her with a stern look.
“You’re no longer a maid, Jean,” she’d said. “You’ll be the Countess of Denbleigh, and expected to dress as such.”
She nodded, unwilling to continue the conversation in front of the others.
For the last two days, she’d vacillated from thinking this marriage might be a good thing to knowing it would be a disaster. She couldn’t marry the earl.
Oh, she knew her etiquette well enough. There were books galore that could teach her how to comport herself. But how did one talk to an earl? Was she supposed to have an extensive knowledge of politics? Know a foreign language? Or be witty?
She was to have her own suite of rooms, a new wardrobe, a new title. A new life, one seemi
ngly without purpose or duty.
An example was the sitting room of her new suite. Two maids had spent a whole day industriously cleaning, and now the room was spotless and shining. She hadn’t been allowed to do a thing to help.
In fact, she hadn’t done anything for two days now but read. Once, she’d dreamed of having time to read all the books she wished, but now she felt absurdly guilty.
“His Lordship expects you to dine with him tonight,” Aunt Mary said.
Jean glanced down at her aunt.
She couldn’t eat dinner with the earl. She couldn’t marry the earl. She certainly couldn’t bed the earl.
“I believe Mr. Prender will be in attendance,” Aunt Mary continued. “That will make it less difficult for you.”
Would it? Instead of facing just one sophisticated person, she was going to face two. Mr. Prender had a way of smirking at everyone, indicating his barely veiled contempt. But telling the earl she disliked his friend intensely was hardly a way to start a marriage, was it?
Perhaps her misery had something to do with her sister. Catriona hadn’t spoken to her for two days. She wasn’t here now, and Catriona hadn’t shared any of her meals with her. Instead, she was ensconced in the guest room she’d picked, playing at being a guest at Ballindair.
Catriona was going to be a problem.
“Can I lower my arms yet?” she asked.
The seamstress, pins in mouth, nodded, and a few minutes later one of the girls helped her down from the ottoman.
Jean sighed, and went to ready herself for dinner, feeling as enthusiastic about the occasion as scrubbing a dozen chamber pots.
Chapter 16
RULES FOR STAFF: Never repeat any conversation you might overhear.
Jean entered the formal dining room, or the Queen’s Dining Room, as it was called, renamed after Queen Victoria’s visit to Ballindair as the guest of the 8th earl.
The room had been redecorated in honor of that visit. The MacCraig eagle was embroidered on the cushions of the crimson upholstered dining chairs. A rectangular rug covered most of the floor, its background loomed in the same deep red, the pattern one of thistles surrounding the MacCraig clan crest. Crimson draperies adorned the floor-to-ceiling high windows, six of them revealing a view of the glen and beyond, to the river.
