by Amanda Scott
It never seemed to occur to Olivia that although she had lost her husband, her brother, and (if Toby were to be believed) her lover over a period of two years, Anne had lost the last four members of her immediate family in as many weeks.
Jake’s strumming soothed her, so she was able to draw a deep breath and let it out again, and to realize she could accomplish nothing by ripping up at Olivia.
“I expect I should not have said that, Anne,” Olivia said abruptly. “We both have a duty to mourn your father, but I had little love for him, so I should not scold you for your lack of feeling. Armadale was a cold person who never understood anyone’s wishes and emotions but his own. Your mother was kinder, however, and I expect you miss her.”
“I loved her very much, and I had great respect for my father as well,” Anne said. “I miss them both.” Hearing a quaver in her voice, she took another breath and let it out before she turned to Fiona and said, “Have you enough light there, love? Mayhap you could see better if you moved your stool nearer the window.”
Suddenly the room seemed too close and too warm. When Olivia said she hoped the gentlemen would not linger long over their claret and their regrettable stories, Anne excused herself, saying she had developed a dreadful headache.
Kit had likewise excused himself, having borne a surfeit of Eustace’s baffling behavior over the past sennight and finding little refreshment in the raucous company of Toby Bell, who received far too much encouragement from the false Lord Berridge. The only light moment had come when Toby announced that he thought Berridge was making headway in his pursuit of Lady Carmichael.
Nearby, the steward had picked up the tray of carving knives and was directing a minion to remove the remains of the roast Eustace had praised, but at this, he turned a startled look toward Toby and dropped the tray with a clatter.
“Damnation, Malcolm!” Toby bellowed. “If one o’ them knives is scratched, ye’ll answer to me. Get out now, and take the others with ye.”
“I believe you upset him,” Eustace said when Malcolm had stalked out with his nose in the air. “He fancies himself in love with your niece, you know.”
“What, with Olivia? The man’s mad. Ye should see how his lordship twists her ladyship round his finger, though,” he added, swilling claret and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “He bows, scrapes, and says he can see where Fiona inherited her beauty. He’s already got farther with Olivia than any o’ the others I’ve introduced to her these past months, and I hope he may go all the way.” Grinning at the supposed Berridge, he said, “Mark me, but this place needs a strong man to run it. Anyone can see that.”
“Aye, it does,” Eustace agreed, “and I’m surprised that you don’t do more to call the tune here.”
“I’ve better things to do with my time,” Toby replied with a shrug. “Besides, the lass don’t listen to me. She needs a man who’ll keep a firm hand on the rein.”
When it looked as if the conversation would go on for some time, Kit excused himself and, not wanting to join the ladies lest Lady Carmichael urge him to charm her daughter, he decided to walk to his bedchamber and back in the hope that she would soon dismiss Willie so they could talk. Kit’s room was the same as before, and from the gallery it faced, he could see the garden. When he saw a forlorn figure cross the plank bridge from the stableyard and disappear behind the tallest hedge, he turned on his heel and headed back to the stairs.
Hurrying down, he strode outside and toward the arched stone bridge at the other end of the garden. The afternoon sun was shining, but the air was crisp and cold. He hoped she had worn something warm, but his impression from the brief look he had had was that she wore only the thin silk dress she had worn to dinner.
It was a most becoming dress and became her slender but pleasingly curvaceous figure well. He liked her even features, speaking eyes, and soft auburn curls, but compared to her extraordinarily beautiful cousin, Anne’s beauty was less obvious. Her expression contained warmth that was missing from Fiona’s, however, and her eyes held an expression of intelligence and wry humor that appealed to him much more than Fiona’s vague, disinterested gaze ever could.
Although he had told Eustace he wanted to ride with the jester merely for the exercise, and had certainly hoped to talk with Willie, the real lodestone that had drawn him back to Mute Hill House was the same one calling urgently to him now.
Crossing the bridge, he made for the hedge garden, but when he arrived, he did not see her at first. Only when he heard what sounded like a sob did he realize she stood behind a tree at the far side of the hedged area, leaning against its far side with her back to him. The gray silk of her dress nearly matched the tree bark, so without the slight noise to guide him, he might have passed her by.
Making no effort to muffle his footsteps on the pebbled path, he strode toward her, expecting her to hear the crunching sounds he made and step out to greet him. But she remained perfectly still.
“Lady Anne?” He spoke quietly, believing she must be deep in her own thoughts, and not wanting to startle her.
He saw her stiffen, but when she turned and moved out from behind the tree, he strode quickly to her and caught her by the shoulders to look into her eyes.
“What’s amiss, lass?”
“I… I’m sorry you saw me,” she muttered, looking down at the ground. “I hoped you would walk on without stopping.”
Gently, he put a hand under her chin, making her look up. “If you haven’t been crying,” he said, “you’re as near as makes no difference. Who has upset you?”
“N-no one,” she said. “I don’t c-cry.”
He moved the hand back to her shoulder and pulled her close, at this thoughtful gesture she buried her face against his chest and burst into tears.
When his arms tightened around her, Anne wondered at herself, but she could not stop crying. Greater sobs wracked her body than any she could remember even in childhood, and only his strong arms kept her upright.
He did not speak. He just held her, wrapped securely in his arms, until the storm passed.
At last, the paroxysms eased and she was able to draw breath without sobbing, but she remained where she was, feeling safe, until her heart eased its pounding. However, when he pulled a handkerchief from somewhere and pushed it into her hand, she kept her face pressed against his chest, because she was uncertain how to extricate herself gracefully from a place she had no business being.
It grew hard to breathe again, but once she had blown her nose, that difficulty had nothing to do with her tears. Guilt overwhelmed her, and with it came a flood of sorrow.
“You haven’t been meeting Eustace on the stairs again, I trust.”
The absurd suggestion nearly made her smile, but although she could not quite manage that, she felt instantly steadier and able at last to collect her wits.
“You must know I did not,” she said, raising her head at last and looking up at him. “Have you not been sitting with him ever since we left the table?”
“I grew bored with their conversation, so I came out to get some fresh air.”
“And walked into a rain cloud instead,” she said ruefully. “What you must think of me, flinging myself at you like that!”
“What I think is that something upset you, and I want to know what it is.”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“You cannot cry all over my fine doublet and then say it is nothing,” he said. “I haven’t known you long, lass, but I do know you would never burst into tears like that for no reason.”
“We should not be here alone, and certainly not like this,” she said, feeling a sudden sense of urgency and starting to step back.
He held her a moment longer, then released her, letting his hands drop to his sides. But he continued to stand where he was, blocking her way.
“We can walk back inside if you like,” he said, “just as soon as you tell me what or who has upset you.”
“You are the most exasperating man,” she mut
tered.
“You are not the first person to tell me that, but we are not leaving here until you explain that little rainstorm. So, tell me.”
“It is nothing that important,” she insisted. “I am merely feeling a trifle abused, but you should not encourage me. Indeed, you are the one who told me not long ago that my aunt should scold me fiercely for my sins.”
“She certainly didn’t scold you today for something you did ten days ago, however. What new sins have you committed?”
“None,” she said. “I even stayed home today rather than ride to the Towers without an escort, as Fiona was so quick to tell you.”
“Yes, she did, didn’t she, so it is a good thing you made such a sensible decision.” His eyes narrowed, and he said more sternly, “You will not divert me from my purpose so easily, lass. Why did her ladyship scold you?”
“She didn’t, not really.” Reading equal amounts of sympathy and irritation in his expression, she said, “Now you are making me feel stupid for making such a fuss about… about nothing at all.”
“I don’t believe it was nothing.”
The emotions that Olivia reawakened and that his initial sympathy had unleashed stirred again, and another tear trickled down her cheek. Annoyed with herself, she brushed it away with the back of her hand.
If the gesture renewed his sympathy, he did not show it, saying only, “I should perhaps warn you that at the best of times my temper is unpredictable and my patience short.”
“Oh, very well, but it will serve you right if I start raining all over you again just because you are making me talk about it.”
“Anne.”
The warning was clear now, and although she could not imagine why her refusal to burden him with her woes should irritate him, she did not want to make him angry with her. Also, his sharp tone had banished any lingering impulse to cry.
“I managed to provoke Olivia,” she said with a sigh.
His lips twitched. “I can’t think how.”
“She stopped Jake when he began to sing, telling him the merry song he chose did not suit her state of mourning. Fiona was enjoying it, and she needs to laugh again, so although I know it is not my place to rebuke Olivia, I asked her if some people might not think it wrong to urge a wedding whilst she is in mourning.”
His eyes began to twinkle, but he said, “As I recall life in the Borders, folks don’t stop the business of life overlong to grieve. Death is too much with us here.”
“That is what she said,” Anne admitted. “Then she said I would understand her grief, except that if I felt any myself, she had not seen any sign of it.”
“Blinded, no doubt, by her own constant tears for herself,” he said dryly.
She nodded. “My aunt rarely spares a thought for anyone else unless it’s Fiona, and even then I’m not so sure it is Fiona she thinks of. She just wants—”
She hesitated, knowing she ought not to speak the thought aloud.
“She just wants the connection to the Chisholm wealth and power,” he said.
“You see that, too,” she said. “It is not unusual, I suppose. Doubtless, if my uncle Stephen were alive, he would be doing his best to see Fiona well married, too. It is her parents’ duty, after all, and not something we should condemn in Olivia.”
“It is completely normal,” he agreed, “but this wedding business is something else we need to talk about.”
“Oh, but there is nothing to discuss,” she said. “I know that your uncle believes his suit must prevail, but I don’t imagine Aunt Olivia can be wrong about the decision Cardinal Beaton will make. Clearly, the first betrothal must stand, since the second was based on a falsehood.”
“Do you really want me to marry your cousin?”
It was an awful question to ask her, and the very last one she wanted to answer, but she forced herself to say quickly, “Yes, of course, because you must, since her only alternative is to marry your horrid uncle. I’d have to be the greatest villain living to condemn her to that. So would you!”
“Are you going to give me back my handkerchief?”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll see that it’s washed first. May I go in now?”
“I’ll walk with you.”
Although she knew she ought to refuse lest someone see them together and tell her aunt, she did not. As they were crossing the plank bridge, she said, “I’m sorry to have treated you to such a display, sir. I don’t know what came over me.”
“You lost your entire family within the past year, lass,” he said gently, “and I’ll wager you’ve had little or no time to grieve properly. As I understand it, whilst you were still recovering from the shock of your brother’s death, you had to help nurse your mother and little sisters, and when they died, you nursed your father. Directly after his death, you came here to Mute Hill House, where you have done your best to serve your aunt and look after your cousin. When have you taken time even to think about yourself and all that you have lost?”
“I was not raised to believe that thinking about myself should be a priority.”
“Not a priority, perhaps, but neither should you neglect your own needs to the point of making yourself ill.”
“Is that what you think I’ve done?”
“Not yet, but you had made a good start before your aunt stirred the coals.”
She thought about that. His blunt description of her past year had awakened the aching grief again, but she felt no further urge to cry. Talking with him about her feelings had provided a solace she had not expected.
“You are very kind,” she said. “You will make Fiona an excellent husband.”
His expression turned grim. “I doubt that.”
Attempting to striker a lighter note, she said, “You did say, did you not, that your temper is unpredictable and your patience short?”
“Those are scarcely qualities that will recommend me to your cousin.”
“No, but only think how fortunate it is for you that she is meek and biddable. She will not try your temper or your patience, so it will be an excellent match.”
“You don’t know what tries my patience,” he retorted. “Look at me.”
He had stopped where the shrubbery still screened them from the stableyard, and when she looked up, he searched her face carefully.
“Have I got a smudge on my cheek?” she asked.
“No, but a blind man could see that you’ve been crying. Why the devil did you not think to wear a cloak out here? One with a nice, large, concealing hood. I have one of those myself. Perhaps I should give it to you.”
“I didn’t think at all,” she said. “I just wanted to get out of the room. Besides, I don’t feel the cold easily, so I wouldn’t have thought to fetch a cloak, anyway.”
“Well, walk briskly then, and we’ll go in at the kitchen door. You can slip up the stairs there, whilst I’ll go round to the main entrance. With luck, no one will question either of us.”
Accordingly, he left her at the postern door, and she hurried up to her bedchamber without meeting anyone. Opening her door, she slipped quickly inside, only to stop short as she began to shut the door.
Fiona and the jester sat side by side on her window bench.
Chapter 15
Hello, Anne,” Fiona said. “Where have you been?”
Shutting the door firmly, Anne turned back to the pair on the window bench. Controlling her voice with difficulty, she said, “What is Jake doing here, Fiona?”
Fiona’s eyes widened. “H-he is teaching me to play the lute.”
“But why in my bedchamber? Surely, you must realize how unseemly it is for the pair of you to be alone in here.”
“Mama said she was going to take her nap,” Fiona explained. “I knew he should not be in my bedchamber, although I cannot think why, when Molly is most likely in there, tidying things, and would make an excellent chaperone.”
“Definitely not in your bedchamber,” Anne said, striving for patience.
“Well, yes, I could see that
, but I did not think you would mind if we came in here to wait for you, and Mother will not object, because he is not in my room.”
“She would certainly object just as strenuously to his being in mine,” Anne said, her voice sharpening despite her resolve.
“But you were not here,” Fiona said, as if that made it all right.
With a sigh, Anne said, “I see that we need to discuss this at length, but we need not do so until Jake leaves, which he is going to do right now. And if you would keep my good opinion,” she added with a stern look at the jester, whose head was down but whose shoulders shook suspiciously, as if he were suppressing laughter, “you will say nothing about this to anyone, and you will show the good sense in future to have more care for Mistress Carmichael’s reputation.”
“Yes, my lady,” he murmured, taking his lute from Fiona as he arose but keeping his head down and moving hastily toward the door. As he neared Anne, he shot a swift look at her from under his eyebrows, frowned, and lowered his gaze.
“Try not to meet half the household as you leave the gallery,” she added frostily as she stepped aside to let him open the door.
Nodding, he slipped out and shut it, leaving her alone with Fiona.
Wondering what on earth she could say that would neither frighten her cousin nor anger her, Anne thanked the fates that Lady Armadale had explained to her certain things that married people did and why it was unwise to encourage attentions from anyone other than one’s husband or betrothed. Her ladyship had not had to deal with Fiona, however, or anyone else who jumped at the least sound and worried about what others might think about everything she said or did.
Fiona did not look at Anne but stared at her own hands clenched in her lap.
Moving to sit beside her on the bench, Anne said gently, “Whatever possessed you, love, to steal away up here with the jester?”
