The Highland Countess

by M C Beaton

  “This is a sad business,” said the laird. “It is too much for a young lass like yersel tae handle alone. I would hae spoken sooner but I held back in memory of old Roderick. What I am aboot tae say will gratify ye and maybe lift a bit o’ the gloom frae this house o’ mourning.”

  As Morag stared at him wonderingly, he fell clumsily to one knee. “My darlin,’” he said in a sonorous voice, “you have the great honor to receive my proposal of marriage.”

  “No!” cried Morag, putting her hands to her hot cheeks. “I mean, I am very flattered. But—but I cannot marry anyone.”

  Cosmo rose slowly and clumsily to his feet, his face becoming quite red with anger. “Oho! So that’s the way of it. Ye’ve got Roderick’s money by a trick, and that’s made ye too high and mighty for auld Cosmo. Well, let me tell ye this. What think you an I told the world that the young Earl o’ Murr is a bastard got by a kitchen maid?”

  “You could not be so cruel!” said Morag.

  “Think aboot it,” said Cosmo, brushing down his coat. “I’ll be back tomorrow for yer answer. Either ye wed me, lass, or the fashionable world will hear an odd tale of that lad’s ancestry.”

  He marched from the room and Morag sat down on a chair and buried her face in her hands.

  “Lord Frederick Rotherwood,” intoned Hamish gloomily from the door.

  “Oh, no! I cannot see him. I am quite overset,” began Morag but Freddie had already bounced into the room.

  “What on earth is the matter?” he questioned, his boyish face looking concerned. “I did not think you would be so upset over Miss Simpson,” he said, remembering her mirth at the news of his aunt’s demise. “Although the circumstances of her death…”

  “It’s not that,” wailed Morag, too upset to guard her tongue. “It’s Cosmo!”

  “You mean that old Scot I met at dinner. What’s he to do with it?”

  “He is trying to make me marry him.”

  “What! He cannot do that. This isn’t the Middle Ages.”

  “It may as well be,” said Morag bitterly. Realizing she should be silent, but won over by Freddie’s open and sympathetic look. “He—he knows something about… about me and if I do not marry him, he will tell all of London and I will be ruined!” Morag burst out crying.

  He knelt down in front of her and took her hands in his own. “Look,” he said awkwardly. “Was going to ask you to marry me but it’s not the right time. Will you leave things to me? I’ll fix Cosmo. Whatever your dark secret is, it won’t trouble me in the slightest. Come now! Dry your eyes and let old Freddie look after you.”

  Morag give him a weak smile and he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

  And that interesting tableau was viewed in silence by Lord Toby Freemantle, Miss Henrietta Sampson, and Lord and Lady Fleming who had all arrived on Morag’s doorstep at the one time and had been ushered into the drawing room by the second footman, Hamish having been called to the kitchens.

  Lord and Lady Fleming looked sour, Henrietta looked delighted and Lord Toby Freemantle felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his world.

  “May we wish you happy?” said Henrietta coyly.

  “Not yet,” said Freddie cheerfully. “But any day now.”

  Morag made a feeble little motion with her hand. She wanted to protest. She wanted them all to go away. But the second footman was already bringing in a tray of refreshments and everyone sat around, prepared to wait the others out. Freddie, because he felt Morag had not quite taken in that he had asked her, in a way, to marry him; Henrietta to make quite sure that Morag had no further interest in Toby; Lord and Lady Fleming, to borrow money; and Lord Toby to tell her he loved her, which was something he realized he had forgotten to do.

  Morag pulled herself together and dispensed tea to Henrietta and Lady Phyllis while the gentlemen fortified themselves from the decanters.

  All murmured suitable things about the late Miss Simpson. Poor Miss Simpson! Not one person in the room really missed her at all.

  Rory bounced in, his blond curls flying, and The Beastie lurching after him like a dog at his heels.

  “Mama!” he cried. “There is some old wood in the garden and you know we never use the garden and Hamish says if I am good he will give me a hammer and nails to build a house for The Beastie. May I? Please say ‘yes.’”

  “Now Rory,” said Morag severely, “You know I don’t want you to play with nasty things like nails. You could do yourself an injury.” But something drew Morag’s eyes away from Rory and she met the green enigmatic stare of Lord Toby.

  “On second thought,” she said rapidly, “I suppose it could do no harm. You will be careful, darling, won’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Rory. He made an excellent bow to the company, seeming to be aware of them for the first time.

  Freddie gave him a smile. He had better learn to like this horrible child. He was to be Rory’s stepfather, after all.

  “Are you looking forward to the Peace Celebrations?” he asked in what he hoped was a paternal manner.

  “Yes, very much,” said Rory, now fretting to get away. “I suppose we are quite friends with France now. I even heard some man at Lady Montclair’s party say he was a loyal subject of Napoleon Bonaparte, but I can’t remember who.”

  The visitors all stared at Rory with expressions that varied from surprise to concern.

  “Probably one of those Frog actors Lady Montclair had to entertain her guests,” drawled Lord Arthur.

  “Oh, no, he wasn’t French,” said Rory blithely. “There was a French fellow with him. Please can I go now, mama?”

  Morag nodded and Rory scooped his cat up into his arms and scampered out. There was a little silence.

  “He must have imagined the whole thing,” said Henrietta. “Children are so imaginative.”

  “Of course,” said Lord Freddie, his face clearing.

  They all began to talk about the Peace Celebrations and then to turn over the black subject of Miss Simpson’s death. Lord and Lady Fleming and Henrietta were convinced the milk had been bad. Lord Freddie was sure Miss Simpson had added too much sleeping draught to it. Only Lord Toby remained silent, his green eyes fastened on Morag’s face.

  If only Henrietta would go away, he thought. He had not meant to upset Morag so much. She looked so pale and shaken that he began to feel worried. Let Henrietta sue him for breach of promise! He realized he could never look at another woman again. But perhaps he was too late—had she already accepted Freddie?

  It was useless to wait here. He would be better employed in finding that tutor for Rory. He could return and question the boy about that conversation be had overheard at Lady Montclair’s later.

  Henrietta insisted on leaving with him. Then Freddie left, after pressing Morag’s hand warmly.

  The Flemings remained. From long experience, Morag knew exactly what they wanted and silently wrote Lord Arthur a note to take to her bank before he could begin his usual convolvulated dunning.

  Now at last she was alone. Just a few minutes alone to try to sort out her burning thoughts.

  “My leddy.”

  “What is it, Hamish? I am in no mood to cope with household problems.”

  “This concerns Rory,” said Hamish grimly.

  Morag poured herself a stiff measure of brandy from the decanter. “Go on, Hamish.”

  “I’ve had a letter from Mrs. Tallant. She says that the man who fired the bullet at Rory has been caught.”

  “Who was it?” cried Morag, draining her brandy in one gulp and choking slightly as the fiery liquid caught at the back of her throat.

  “It was a poacher, Jamie Sutherland, a wild lad from the village. He was bragging about it when he was in his cups doon at the local ale house. Mr. Baillie, the steward, had him arrested. Sutherland said he didnae mean any harm. He only meant to give Rory a fright.”

  Hamish hesitated. “It seems that Rory was in the habit o’ sneakin’ oot o’ the castle when we was all abed. Mr. Baillie cha
rged him wi’ trying to kidnap the boy as well but Sutherland says it sounded like one o’ Rory’s tales.”

  “Get Rory here immediately.”

  Rory came scampering in and then stopped at the sight of the set look on Morag’s face.

  “Rory,” she said. “Mr. Baillie has found the boy who shot at you. It was Jamie Sutherland.”

  “Oh, him,” said Rory with great indifference. “He was always bragging about what a great shot he was and he got angry when I laughed at him and said that one day he would part my curls with a bullet.”

  “And what about the kidnapping?” demanded Morag in a low voice. “Tell me the truth, Rory, or I shall… I shall… take that cat away from you.”

  Rory turned white. “No! You wouldn’t be so cruel.”

  He stared anxiously at Morag’s face. He had never seen her look so stern.

  “Very well,” he said sulkily. “I made it up. I’d gone to climb my favorite tree and I got stuck at the top. I knew if I told you, I’d never be able to get out again—don’t look like that, mama! I just wanted to play like the other boys.”

  “You could have saved me a great deal of worry by telling the truth.” said Morag, feeling suddenly tired. “Leave us, Rory. I shall speak to you later.”

  When the boy had trailed out, she turned to Hamish. “Then it appears as if Miss Simpson’s death was an accident?”

  “It certainly seems so, my leddy,” said Hamish. “You should see her room. She had aboot every patent medicine in the land in her closet and some o’ thae concoctions go bad, I’ve heard. Och, the auld girl did it tae herself, mark my words.”

  Morag smiled. “It seems I have got myself in a state over nothing.” Then she remembered Cosmo’s threat and her face clouded over. “Sit down, Hamish,” she said. “I have more bad news for you.”

  She told him of Cosmo’s threat and Hamish listened intently.

  “He’d no do it,” said Hamish when he had heard her out. “He always was a terrible coward was the laird. He was always threatenin’ folks but he’d no do it. I’ll hae a wee word in his ear. He’ll no trouble you again.”

  “Oh, Hamish,” sighed Morag, “what would I do without you. There is one last thing. Lord Freemantle was to send a retired pugilist to masquerade as Rory’s tutor and be a sort of watchdog. I shall send you round to Lord Freemantle with a note saying that we do not need this individual, unless,” she laughed, “Rory has been unearthing French spies.”

  She told Hamish of the conversation Rory had overheard.

  Blast the boy! thought Hamish. He did not want to further upset his mistress by pointing out that what Rory had overheard could be very serious indeed.

  Instead he said, “I think you should let this boxer fellow come along just the same. It would do the boy the world o’ good tae have some rough company. He’s been treated a bit too much like a lassie, if ye’ll forgive my speaking so plain, my leddy.”

  “Yes, you are right,” sighed Morag. “Let us have him then.” She should put Lord Toby Freemantle firmly out of her mind. His intentions were strictly dishonorable and she should have nothing more to do with him.

  But her treacherous emotions at war with her brain cried out for an excuse to see him again.

  “Now, my leddy,” said Hamish, making as if to rise, “is there anything else?”

  “No, Hamish. Oh, dear yes. Lord Rotherwood wishes to marry me and I told him about Cosmo.”

  “Lord save us! Ye never told him about Rory?”

  “No, I simply said that Cosmo had some hold over me.”

  Hamish shook his head. “Whit a day,” he said. “Tak’ my advice and forget about the whole thing. It’ll work itself out, never fear. Leave it to Hamish.”

  Morag smiled at him gratefully, reflecting there was a lot to be said for having Scottish servants. The polite world would be shocked to the core had they known she was in the habit of consulting her butler on every affair. The fact that she called him by his first name had raised enough eyebrows.

  “You are right, Hamish,” she said wearily. “Goodness knows, nothing else can happen today!”

  Cosmo, Laird of Glenaquer, was feeling very pleased with himself. Morag’s fortune added to his own would make him one of the richest men in Scotland. Of course, he would not have dreamed of telling anyone anything about Rory. He had given the earl his word and, for all his weakness, the laird was a man of honor when it came to other men. But women were different. They were soft, useless things who needed a firm hand. He was still a fine figure of a man and Morag would be better off with someone like himself than a callow Englishman.

  He stopped in Pall Mall to watch the band of the Coldstream Guards with its giant negroes striking their cymbals with high, rhythmic blows. It was a splendid sound. Those black fellows must be almost seven feet tall! Like a schoolboy, he waited for the next great crash of the cymbals. The negroes raised their massive arms, the great cymbals glittering in a pale watery sunlight. Crash!

  It was a mighty sound. So mighty that no one in the crowd heard the report of the bullet which took Cosmo between the shoulders and passed him on to the other world.

  “Oh, these drunks!” cried a lady in a high-waisted muslin dress as Cosmo fell at her feet. “They shouldn’t ought to be allowed, now should they?”

  Cosmo lay there until the band marched away. He lay while an urchin picked his pockets. He lay there until the new gas lamps flared bravely above him and the watch, turning him over with a heavy foot, saw the bullet hole in his back.

  Chapter Twelve

  The only bright spot in the following weeks in Morag’s gloomy life was the presence of Joseph Service, Rory’s watchdog.

  Although she felt Rory no longer needed to be guarded, nonetheless she felt relieved to know what Rory was doing every minute of the night and day. Mr. Service and Rory had become firm friends and they made an odd couple, the rough, lumbering boxer with his bald head and bandy legs and the beautiful fair-haired child.

  He may not have been much of a tutor when it came to book-learning, but Mr. Service was a fund of information of the kind to delight a small boy—prize fights, poaching, hunting, fishing and the army.

  Lord Toby had only called once and had seemed cold and distant. His sole interest appeared to be in finding out the name of the man that Rory had overheard talking at Lady Montclair’s party. In fact, Lord Toby was having difficulty with the idea of telling Henrietta he had made a mistake. He was still very much bound by the conventions and Henrietta had more than once let fall laughing little remarks about breach of promise.

  Miss Simpson had been duly buried and Cosmo’s body had been packed in ice and sent north to rest in the churchyard on his estate. Morag was torn between relief that Cosmo was no longer around to plague her and a lurking feeling of danger. It had all been so opportune! The thick-headed officer from the Horse Patrol had pointed out that Cosmo had been killed and robbed, an everyday happening. Usually gentlemen of Cosmo’s rank did not parade the streets without some sort of protection. He implied that Lady Murr had an overworked imagination.

  Lord Freddie could not have done such a thing. But Hamish! Hamish was fanatically loyal. And underneath all her worries lay the perpetual nagging ache of longing for Lord Toby.

  Freddie was assiduous in his attentions. He had not repeated his offer of marriage but seemed to take it for granted that they had an understanding. Morag wondered wearily whether to accept him or not. He was friendly and cheerful and undemanding company. He would not become engaged to one lady and philander with another. Only look how Toby had tried to seduce her when she was a married woman! He had no morals. Henrietta was welcome to him. On and on ran her troubled thoughts.

  Because of the deaths of Miss Simpson and Cosmo, she had refused all social invitations. But she soon began to feel lonely. Rory preferred the company of Mr. Service to her own and she could not help feeling slightly jealous.

  Freddie called as usual to try to persuade her to go for a drive with him and th
is time she found herself accepting.

  Morag had to admit she felt much better as Lord Freddie tooled his smart curricle through the gates of Hyde Park. All the fashionables had turned out in the bright sunshine, dresses fluttering, carriages glistening in the hot, breezy, sunny day.

  She was wearing a blue muslin gown the color of her eyes and gold Roman sandals on her feet. She unfurled her parasol since the sun was hot and her pretty hat was merely a puff of blond straw and ribbons.

  Lord Freddie was pointing out all the Notables. He chattered at a great rate, never seeming to expect a reply other than “yes,” “no” or “really” and Morag was content to listen to him. Then she became aware that he was saying, “Hey, there’s Freemantle and Miss Sampson!” Lord Toby neatly edged his carriage next to Lord Freddie’s and raised his hat. Henrietta gave a stiff little bow.

  “Has Rory discovered the identity of the Bonapartiste?” asked Lord Toby, his hard eyes fixed on Morag’s pale face.

  “No,” said Morag. “He probably made it up. I am afraid Rory invents things.”

  “Yes,” tittered Henrietta. “He does tell lies, doesn’t he? But I gather he will soon have a new papa.” She smiled coyly at Lord Freddie who grinned back.

  “Right you are,” said Freddie cheerfully. “Don’t worry. I’ll send the little blighter to school.” Morag stared at him in amazement and opened her mouth to say something, but Freddie had already touched his hat and flicked the reins and was moving rapidly away. “Cattle are fresh,” he said by way of explanation. “Can’t keep ’em standing.”

  “You should not have said that,” said Morag. “I-I did not say I would marry you, Freddie.”

  “Oh, you will,” he said in his usual cheery way. “Not hankering after anyone else, are you?”

  Morag did not reply and he took her silence for assent. “Well, there you are. Faint heart never won fair lady, and I’ll get you to the altar yet. Don’t worry. I ain’t asking you to make up your mind yet.”

  “But you should not have taken it upon yourself to speak so freely in front of… in front of Miss Sampson,” protested Morag.