by Karen Ranney
Aunt Mary told her the Queen had complimented the earl on Ballindair’s magnificence as well as his stewardship of the land. She’d signed the guest book, adding her comments that she’d never seen such a lovely setting as Ballindair, or one more representative of the beauty of Scotland.
Mr. Seath had the key to the glass case containing the guest book. If she became countess, she’d be able to unlock it, hold the volume in her hands and marvel that she was touching something the Queen had signed.
Neither the earl nor Mr. Prender were in the dining room when she arrived. Aleck, the footman, stood behind the chair at the head of the table. There was another place setting at the other end, and she guessed she was supposed to sit there. She guessed rightly, because Aleck came and pulled the chair out for her.
She’d known him ever since coming to Ballindair, but he didn’t smile or acknowledge her in any way. Instead, he fetched her a goblet of red wine, for which she smiled in thanks. He then moved back to his position behind the earl’s chair.
Was she supposed to instruct him in some fashion? She suspected she wasn’t supposed to talk to him. Was she supposed to pretend he wasn’t there? She was evidently invisible to him, since he looked right through her as if she were glass.
She sat in the dress she’d borrowed from her aunt, swiftly altered by the same seamstress who’d appeared so worried about her wedding gown. Although it had white lace cuffs and collar, the dark blue color reminded her of her maid’s uniform.
Was she supposed to talk at dinner? Or would she even be given an opportunity to converse? If she was expected to add to the conversation, what would she say? She knew little of politics, and nothing at all about life in London. She was certainly not going to discuss Inverness. Perhaps she should simply ask questions and allow the men to answer them.
At home, her father and mother had discussed his patients sometimes, and treatments he’d advised. When her mother had proposed an opinion, her father listened with great interest. More than once he’d given her mother praise for her insight.
She doubted the earl would be pleased by her recitation of the symptoms and treatment of gout.
Was a countess allowed to speak her mind? Or must she forever be invisible, like a maid?
She knew what her aunt was doing. Aunt Mary thought this was the perfect opportunity for her to have some security in life. Who would marry her, otherwise, knowing who she was?
How did she dissuade the earl from marrying her without telling him the truth?
She took a sip of wine and wished Aleck would go away. As the earl’s soon-to-be bride, did she have the power to dismiss him with a flick of her hand? What if she tried, and he remained stubbornly there? Or worse, what if she did so and he left the room, only to regale those in the kitchen with tales of her arrogance?
The jumble of silverware wasn’t all that confusing, thanks to her mother’s tutelage. Work from the outside toward the plate. But what did she use that odd shaped spoon for? She’d simply have to watch the gentlemen to ensure she didn’t make any mistakes.
She knew the earl was coming because Aleck suddenly snapped to attention. Turning her head slowly, she watched as he approached the table. Mr. Prender wasn’t in sight.
“Forgive my tardiness,” he said.
“You can’t marry me,” she said, blurting out the words.
He waved toward Aleck, who promptly disappeared. Perhaps she’d imagined him and he’d only been a ghost.
“Good evening to you, too, Jean,” he said, sitting at the head of the table and unfolding his napkin.
“You’re an earl. I’m a maid.”
“Thank you for explaining that,” he said.
She needed to convince him that he’d made a mistake. Then, she could obtain another position away from Ballindair, and he’d never have to know who she really was. That way, her aunt and Catriona would both be safe, and free to continue their employment.
But her plan wasn’t going to work if he refused to listen to her.
“Have you ever heard the tale of Cinderella?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Cendrillon ou la petite pantoufle de verre,” he said. “ ‘Cinderella, or the Little Glass Slipper,’ written by Charles Perrault nearly two hundred years ago.”
“I don’t speak French,” she said.
“Pity. It’s the tale of a girl who was forced into being a maid by circumstance. She ends up attracting the attention of a prince.”
“Did he marry her?”
“I believe he did, and they lived happily ever after.”
“What rot.”
His laughter surprised her.
“I thought all women were romantics at heart.”
She’d seen the effect of deep and abiding love. If nothing else, it was frightening.
Another quick flick of his fingers and they were being served by magically appearing servants. She’d never had to serve, being a maid of all work, but she admired both the dexterity and the silence of the girls who flitted around the table.
“Will Mr. Prender not be joining us?” she asked.
“I’ve asked him not to,” he said. “It’s the perfect opportunity to get to know my bride.”
She couldn’t help it; she flinched. That word—bride—had all sorts of connotations, none of which she wanted to think about at the moment.
“Why a little glass slipper?” she asked, desperate for something to say. “Your story.”
“Evidently, the heroine dresses as a princess but leaves a slipper behind, and the prince travels through the countryside trying to fit it to a variety of women.”
She stared at him. “Didn’t he recognize her? Wouldn’t he have noticed her face? Or was he always staring at her feet?”
He laughed again, which made her flush.
“Perhaps he only saw the trappings,” he said. “And not the woman.”
“I doubt they lived happily ever after,” she said. “If he couldn’t remember what she looked like.”
He put down his silverware, placed his hands on the arms of the chair and regarded her. His scrutiny lasted a good two minutes, during which she debated whether to continue eating her dinner or put down her fork and return his stare. The decision was made for her by the sudden cramping of her stomach. She couldn’t eat as long as he was studying her.
She put her silverware down, sat back in the same pose as he and forced herself to meet his eyes.
“You need to find someone of your own rank, Your Lordship. Someone who would be thrilled to be a countess. Someone who will be content enough to be defined by her rank.”
“Do you remember everything I say?”
She didn’t look away. “Yes.”
“You’re recommending I find someone who would throw rose petals down wherever I walked. Or kiss my boots, perhaps.”
“Now is not the time to jest,” she said, irritated at him. “I am serious, Your Lordship.”
“My name is Morgan.”
She couldn’t do that either. To the day her mother died, whenever she referred to her husband, especially to her daughters, she called him “Mister.” Perhaps in the seclusion of their bedroom they addressed each other by their first names, but she doubted they would do so in a dining room suddenly crowded with people. Two footmen stood at opposite sides of the room, and a maid hovered near the door. Why? Just in case the earl needed something? Could he not do for himself?
“You surprise me, Jean. I never thought to be more egalitarian than my wife.”
Panic danced through her. “I’m not your wife. Not yet, anyway. Not at all, if you would only come to your senses, Your Lordship.”
He glanced at the servants in warning, made another gesture with his hand, and the room was suddenly empty but for the two of them. How had he learned those things? Was he taught the care and handling of servants from boyhood? She’d never been trained in how to obey an earl’s unspoken commands.
She closed her eyes, minded her temper, and wished s
he could convince him. The best thing for her would be for him to allow her to leave Ballindair and take the housekeeper position at Dumgoyne. That way, she’d never feel this conflict. She’d never worry about lying to him. Or be concerned he’d dismiss her sister and her aunt on hearing the truth.
“Would you tell me your objections?” he asked. “Perhaps you can convince me. Or I can convince you otherwise.”
Incredulously, she stared at him. “You mean for us to debate?”
He shrugged. “Why not? I’ve debated weighty matters in Parliament.”
“What could possibly be more weighty than your marriage? If it’s miserable, you’ll be miserable for the rest of your days.”
Too soon, she remembered his divorce. Her face flamed, heat traveling up her cheeks to her temples.
He abandoned all pretense of eating, sat back and studied her again.
She held up one finger. “I am not of sufficient rank to marry you.” She tapped the second finger. “I’m not well-traveled. I’ve only lived in Inverness and Ballindair.”
Holding up the third finger, she said, “I don’t speak French.”
The fourth finger was reserved for another comment. “I do not like gatherings of any sort. A large group of people makes me shy.”
Number five couldn’t be spoken aloud, but it was the most compelling of all. She was not Jean MacDonald.
He nodded, which gave her some hope, but then he said, “You entertain me. Number one.” He held up the second finger. “I don’t require a wife who’s well-traveled. I would hope you wouldn’t be ‘well-traveled’ until after our marriage.”
“I was speaking of visiting other places, Your Lordship,” she said, mildly affronted.
“I wasn’t.” His third finger rose. “I don’t require my wife speak French. What on earth made you think so?”
“That’s one of the requirements for being a governess. If I can’t even meet the requirements of being a governess, what makes you think I meet the requirements of being a countess?”
“My decision, that’s what.”
Arrogant man.
He began to smile, which silenced any comment she might’ve made. He did have a lovely smile.
“What was number four?” he asked, waving his fingers at her.
“I don’t like groups of people.”
“Finally, a circumstance on which we agree. We shall have to keep any of our entertainments to a reasonable number, say six?”
He was not going to let her out of this marriage. He had a skewed sense of honor and he was going to save her from circumstances. She sat back and stared at him, realizing she was well and truly trapped.
This was terrible.
She had to tell him the truth. But if she told him the truth, he would certainly repudiate her. And Catriona. And Aunt Mary.
There was nothing to do but marry the Earl of Denbleigh.
Morgan had expected Jean to be effusively grateful. He’d never thought she might want to talk him out of marrying her. He’d expected a more demure Jean, one intimidated by his rank and his wealth. Instead, she’d sat and argued with him like a Jesuit priest.
The dinner hadn’t lasted long. In fact, she’d even claimed a stomach upset, something none of the women of his acquaintance would have ever said.
He’d asked the housekeeper to have Cook prepare her favorite dishes. He’d had roses cut from the garden. The room was thick with the perfume of them. Not once had she noticed. Instead, she’d been intent on convincing him she wasn’t suitable enough to be his wife.
What was strange was not only that Jean was reluctant to marry him, but that he was suddenly anticipating it more than he expected.
Tomorrow, the little wren would be a countess.
Chapter 17
RULES FOR STAFF: Keep a few paces behind your betters if required to aid them in any fashion.
Perhaps she was wrong.
Perhaps she hadn’t thought this through well enough.
Perhaps she was worried unnecessarily.
Early the next morning, before she was to be dressed and prepared for her wedding, Jean slipped out the back stairs, down the corridor, and into the little used North Wing. The steward’s office was the third room to the left, and she stood before the closed door for a moment. Was this the best idea? Probably not, but she needed counsel from someone, and Aunt Mary refused to consider telling the earl the truth.
She knocked three times, so quietly the man in the room might not have heard. But she heard a faint voice, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open, peering inside.
“Mr. Seath, have you a moment to speak with me?”
He looked surprised, then pleased, a reaction she hadn’t expected.
“Come in, my dear. Come in.”
He stood at her entrance, and motioned to a chair beside his desk.
Even though the office was crowded with papers and books, the desk was clear. Her father’s desk had been the same.
“Today is the momentous day. My felicitations on your wedding.”
“Thank you,” she said, sitting where he indicated and folding her hands in front of her.
“You’re troubled,” he said. “What is it?”
“I can’t marry an earl, Mr. Seath. It’s not done.”
His smile dimmed a little as he sat back in the chair and pressed his fingertips together.
“A great many things about the Earl of Denbleigh aren’t done, Miss MacDonald. I agree, this is an unusual situation, but the earl is an unusual man.”
Mr. Seath’s gaze was too pointed, as if he saw beneath her stated fears to the real truth.
“I know nothing about being a countess. I don’t know the etiquette, I don’t know how one dresses. I’m woefully ignorant.”
“Anyone would expect you to be,” he said, surprising her. “But you will have people to guide you. Your aunt, for one, who has an eminently practical head on her shoulders. Myself, if you would allow me the privilege of doing so. As to your clothes, that could be solved by looking through a few magazines, or consultation with a seamstress.”
He waved one of his thin and fragile hands in the air. “You’ve the manners of a countess now, Miss MacDonald. I’ve never heard but the best of you.”
She stared down at her hands, red and chapped from weeks and months of work. She had calluses in places she was certain no lady would ever have calluses.
“Gloves, my dear,” he said. “Until your hands have resumed their normal appearance.”
Did everyone have answers for everything? Couldn’t they see it was impossible?
“What do I talk to him about?”
“What do you talk to him about now?” Mr. Seath asked.
Ghosts and his boyhood, and things he hadn’t discussed with other women. Was that what he wanted from her, a little unusual conversation? Well, he would certainly get it by marrying a maid.
Her secret burned in her chest. The wish to share it with another human being, someone who wouldn’t ignore the situation like Aunt Mary, was unbearable. But she didn’t want to burden the steward. The poor man didn’t look as if he had enough strength to keep breathing through the day.
“My mother had the wasting sickness,” she blurted out, then stopped, horrified.
He didn’t say anything, and she wondered if she should continue. Mr. Seath had always been kind to her, and she wished to reciprocate, if she could.
“I made a tea for her every morning and evening,” she said. “It helped with her appetite. Can I do the same for you, Mr. Seath?”
For a long moment he simply regarded her, his eyes flat.
“I could ask why you think I’m ill,” he said. “But we both know that would be foolish, don’t we?”
She couldn’t answer. All she did was look at him, trying to share her feelings without words being said.
He stood, circling the desk to stand at the small window.
From there he looked even more affected by his illness, as if he were shrinking inside
his clothes. The cuffs of his shirt covered half his hand, and his coat hung loosely from his shoulders.
“I did not mean to be so personal, Mr. Seath.”
“Do you know, you are the only one who has dared to say a word to me,” he said, turning to look at her.
His smile was oddly sad, and because of it, she stood and walked to the window, placing her hand on his sleeve. Wordlessly, they stared at the view of the MacCraig Forest, and beyond to the bog.
“I’ve been giving a lot of thought to mortality, Miss MacDonald. What measures a man’s life? What is the mark of a life well lived?”
“To leave the world a better place than you found it?” she asked, remembering some of the philosophy she’d read in books from Ballindair’s library. “Or perhaps it’s simpler, Mr. Seath. To do whatever you do as well as you can.”
He turned his head. “And you think you’re not equipped to be a countess, Miss MacDonald?”
She dropped her hand, took a step back, prepared to give him reasons why she shouldn’t be the Earl of Denbleigh’s bride, but he continued.
“I never married,” he said. “My spouse was Ballindair. My brother. My children. My soul-consuming interest.”
She had no words to say. Instead, she only felt a deep and abiding pity for the man.
“Rank, privilege, status, these are all things we’ve made up, Miss MacDonald. They don’t mean anything. They’re not real.”
They were as real as anything she knew.
“You have all the seeds within you for greatness. Simply reverse the role you’ve been living for the past year. Instead of taking orders, give them. Remember what it was like to feel slighted and never do so. Recall how it felt to be toiling anonymously, and make sure you see the people around you. Perhaps having been a maid, Miss MacDonald, you’ll be the greatest countess of them all.”
Her eyes swam with tears, and she blinked them back.
“Everyone has such great hopes for me,” she said. “I’m the only one who knows the truth of the situation.”
