Genevieve imagined Arabella as stern and distant, Francine as quiet and timid. She had no reason for that, save that Madame Ferriers said Scottish ways were not enlightened as those of their home: Her cousins might behave as if they'd been raised in an earlier century.
I shouldn't let her cloud my judgment. She wasn't going to be drawn into any false impression, but meet them when she met them.
Which could take two weeks.
The journey to Scotland itself could take two weeks. A week to the coast – in bad weather – and then a week, perhaps, in crossing. The seas were known to be rough, and her father had already stipulated the captain was to take no risks.
I think Papa would wrap me in sheepskin like we did with my dance-slippers, keeping them safe from any harm.
She shook her head, wincing as the coach jolted and her needle stabbed her thumb. She sucked it, looking out the window at the countryside as it flashed past. Despite the anxiety – her own and that of her father – she was excited.
The journey took two weeks. Genevieve surprised herself by not being sick on the ship. Madame Ferriers had spent so long painting a vivid picture of the horrors of sea-sickness that she'd fully expected agony. As it was, she found herself adapting quickly to the rocking motion, the sound of the wind and the cry of the gulls.
After three days, the land hove into sight.
Genevieve stared. Dark green against the pale gray sky, the land seemed to breathe mist over the shoreline, swathing it in subtle, shifting magic. She felt her stomach clench with excitement.
“Scotland, milady,” the captain said softly. “We make anchor by noon.”
The port was a thrum of activity. Genevieve, expecting something like the scale of Calais, was surprised to discover it smaller, more cramped. All the same, it seemed just as industrious – with fishing boats, galleys and sailing ships crowding into it.
“Lower the gangplank!” the captain called out to the crew. “Trim the sails. And start unloading!”
While he took charge, Genevieve wandered dreamily to the railing, drinking in her first sights of her mother's original land.
This was going to be her home for three whole months.
“Milady?” Madame Ferriers whispered, subdued. “You think we should get off?” She was looking down the gang-plank with a mix of apprehension and dismay that would have been funny had it not been so serious a situation. Genevieve nodded decisively, her own fears evaporating in a haze of joy.
“Yes,” she said. “Let's go down.”
At the quay, her trunk and other belongings were loaded onto a coach. Her cousins had sent it for her – the driver informed them it had waited at the Seaside Inn for three days.
“They'll be right glad tae see ye, milady,” he informed her in Lowland Scots. Genevieve nodded, relieved her vast education had comprised mainly languages, including English and a little Gaelic.
“Thank you,” she said softly in English. “You're very kind.”
The driver looked at her with raised brows, as if he'd never heard someone speak, but helped her up into the coach carefully and slammed the door. They were off.
A week later, they arrived at her cousin's home.
It was evening when the coach drew up, the sun long set on the horizon.
“Whoa!” the driver called, bringing them to an abrupt halt. Genevieve stared out of the coach, alert and awake. A tall building was ahead, its windows lit brightly. A torch burned in a bracket on the wall, sending fitful orange light up and outwards, illuminating a tall, narrow doorway. The door opened as Genevieve jumped down from the coach.
“Cousin!” a woman said, arms outstretched to enfold Genevieve in a sweet-scented, caring embrace. “Welcome to Scotland!”
Genevieve hugged her in return, amazed by the degree of response her heart made. She had never met her cousins, but already part of her seemed to feel the kinship. She felt hands gently take her shoulders and hold her at arm's length. She found herself looking into a full-lipped, gentle face that looked quite strongly like her mother's, except for the tranquil gaze.
“I'm your cousin Arabella,” the woman said gently. “We're so pleased to meet you.”
“And I you,” Genevieve said, kissing the woman's cheek even as another stepped forward, taking her hands.
“Welcome, Genevieve.”
Next, she met the men. Richard – tall, auburn-haired and handsome – was English. That was a relief for Genevieve, who had feared she and her cousins would have no common tongue. As it was, they spoke French and English both.
“Welcome.”
Genevieve stood where she was, suddenly aware of how tired she was.
“Come,” Arabella said gently, seeming to guess at how exhausted she was. “You must be weary. We've had a chamber made up, and dinner's in the parlor whenever you want it.”
“Th...Thank you,” Genevieve murmured. “You're very kind.”
Arabella took her hand and led her toward the door. As she did so, Genevieve noticed another two men, standing a little back from the family group. Arabella paused, looking up at them both.
“These are our guests, cousin,” she explained quickly. “Ascott Brooke and Adair Hume.”
“Enchanted, miss,” Ascott Brooke exclaimed, bowing low over her hand. He had the manners of a courtier, and Genevieve guessed he was from some nearby noble house. The man who stood just behind him met her gaze.
“Miss,” he said softly. He took her hand and Genevieve felt something stir inside her as his dark gaze met hers. Then he bowed, and the contact was broken. She shook herself, stirring her attention.
She was tired, she told herself firmly. That was why she was being fanciful.
All the same, she had never felt a sudden thrill of – of something indefinable – like she had in the moment when his eyes touched hers.
Wearily, but still alert, she followed Arabella and Francine into the house.
Dinner was in the small parlor. Genevieve – washed and dressed in an elegant simple gown – felt suddenly ravenous. The meals during the journey had not been exactly appetizing, and she had eaten less than she might have liked. Safe and sound at her cousin's home, she could finally feel the hunger that must have been lurking all those days. It took the edge off her exhaustion and she walked out past Madame Ferriers – who had helped her dress – and into the hallway.
“Dinner's in the parlor, milady,” a footman said, in Lowland Scots.
Genevieve nodded. “Thank you.”
He led her up the stairs and Genevieve, hearing the murmur and lilt of voices, felt some apprehension return. She looked down at her hands, resting in front of the cream brocade of her hooped skirt, and hoped that she looked halfway decent.
It would be a shame to make a bad impression tonight.
As she thought it, unbidden, that face flashed into her mind. Adair...Hume? She shook her head impatiently. He might not even be at dinner. And anyway, why did he matter to her? He wasn't her cousin, after all! Just a guest.
Feeling a little impatient with her fanciful mind, she walked up to the door the footman indicated and paused at the threshold, hesitating.
Inside, a long table was laid out with silverware, and a fire crackled in a grate below a white mantelpiece. The room was lit to cheery warmth with tapers, and long windows – drapes shadowing them – looked out to the garden on her right. As she paused there, the clatter and click of cutlery stopped. She felt eyes on her. A particular gaze – dark and brooding – roamed her face. She swallowed hard.
Mr. Hume, you are impertinent.
A sort of defiance thrummed down her veins – a pleasurable feeling that made her hold his dark gaze, just to challenge him. He looked at his plate and, wearied though she was, a prickle of triumph ran through her.
“Ah, cousin!” Arabella said, pushing back her chair and coming to join Genevieve. The three gentlemen all stood. “Welcome. Here. I've had a place laid by me.”
Genevieve allowed herself to be settled beside her
cousin, which left her – awkwardly – opposite Hume. She looked at her plate, embarrassed.
“Milady,” he murmured.
Genevieve nodded in his direction, and let her cousin take care of the awkward silence, asking her questions about her trip. “It was very pleasant,” she said, nodding as a serving-man filled her goblet. “We made good time.”
“The seas were not too rough, I reckon?” Richard asked. “At this time of the year, they can be irregular.”
“We were fortunate in the weather,” Genevieve said automatically. She breathed in the wonderful scent of shellfish, stewed, as the serving-man returned, this time with a salver of stew, which he proceeded to ladle onto their plates.
“We eat simply here,” Richard said. “Oysters from the river, stewed in wine.”
Genevieve was too hungry to heed anything at that point. She reached across the table for the basket of steaming bread that was there, and her eyes caught those of Hume, who watched her with some intensity.
She took a roll of bread, sopping it in the rich gravy, and looked down at the plate, disconcerted. What possessed this fellow to stare at her like this?
“You are enjoying your time here?” she asked him, swallowing. There! She might as well set the example of good manners, since he seemed ignorant of the meaning.
“Yes,” he said. He reached for his own glass, wetting his lips with it.
Genevieve waited for him to elaborate, but it seemed that was the total of his conversational efforts. She groped around for another topic. Anything to break the awkward silence. “You have had fine weather, for the season?”
“Yes.”
Sacre bleu! The fellow was as taciturn as stone. Genevieve almost rolled her eyes. She turned away as his companion answered her from beside Arabella.
“We've had fine weather, Lady Genevieve,” he said. “We're keen riders, Lord Adair and I. We like to go out daily.”
“Oh,” she said, nodding politely. “I enjoy riding also.”
He beamed and started down another conversational avenue, leaving Genevieve free to think of something else.
Lord Adair?
She curiously surveyed the fellow opposite her. Knowing he was a nobleman added to her information about him, but didn't answer any questions she had. If he was a nobleman, why was it he didn't talk to her? Why was he either too surly or too unskilled in French or English to partake in the conversation?
If he's a nobleman, someone made a terrible mistake in his education.
She reached for the salt-cellar, scattering a pinch across her food and tasting it eagerly. It was delicious.
While she ate, she felt a gaze on her again and looked up, catching those dark eyes watching her. She felt a sudden impatience and then, staring at him, realized that he was watching her tenderly, a soft smile on his face. She felt her heart stir, even as she bridled.
What is the matter with the man? Has he never seen a person eat?
She resolved, in that moment, to find out more. There were too many questions in her heart about this strange, silent character. And she was, after all, here to answer questions. That's what her father sent her to achieve.
AT FIRST SIGHT
Adair made himself look away from the woman who sat just across the table, eating dinner.
I have never seen anyone so beautiful before.
He swallowed hard, impatient with himself at this reaction. He was not fifteen years old, to be moonstruck by the first beautiful woman he saw! He couldn't recall ever having such a strong response to anyone, not even when he was fifteen. He ran a hand through his chin-length black hair and tried to focus on the group around him.
“You're planning to go up past the cliffs on your ride?” Lady Arabella asked genially, interrupting his thoughts.
He nodded. “Yes.”
She smiled and turned away, talking with Ascott, who sat opposite her. Adair looked at his plate. Dinners were difficult for him – so many people, so much noise! Arabella and Richard were some of the few people who understood that. It was why he always visited here when he left Hume Manor.
They know I don't like talking.
He looked up from his plate, hearing a sweet laugh flow across the table from Lady Genevieve.
“Richard! You jest!” she teased, making him laugh.
“No, Genevieve, I am in earnest,” Lord Richard protested.
She laughed again and, despite his best efforts to ignore her, Adair found himself studying her with amazement. Her hair was a thick cloud of curls, night black. Her pale skin contrasted with it sharply, and those eyes! Big and luminous, a shade paler than her hair, they seemed to bore into his soul.
“More gravy, sir?” a serving-man asked.
“Um, thank you,” he nodded, and the fellow poured another ladleful of gravy onto his plate. Adair realized belatedly that he'd barely touched his food, and that the gravy might be in danger of overflowing. He hastily reached for a bread-roll to mop it up, feeling a complete fool.
Whist, Adair! The lass opposite you is a fine lady. You'll have her asking to change seats soon.
He dabbed carefully at his chin, hoping he hadn't spilled gravy on it, too, and focused his view pointedly on Richard, ignoring Lady Genevieve. He didn't want to see the scorn written on her face.
“You'll join the ride, Adair?” Richard asked politely.
“Mm. I mean, yes,” he said, hastily swallowing his mouthful of bread. “I want to.”
“Good,” Richard nodded cheerfully. “You're a keen rider, I hear, milady?” he asked Lady Genevieve, who nodded.
“Yes. I'd like to join in.” She favored Richard with a smile that made Adair's blood race. He had no idea how Richard looked so calm. He turned to his wife, smiling.
“Arabella, dearest?”
“Yes?”
“Will you make a note that our cousin needs loan of a horse? We could maybe let her use Raindrop? She wants to join in tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course.” Arabella nodded.
Adair felt his heart sink. He wouldn't dare go on the ride if Lady Genevieve was going also! He knew all too well what would happen. She would see him do something foolish and scorn him and he'd lose all chance of ever talking to her. It always happened like that. Who would want to talk to him anyway? He was a blight on the earth's surface.
“Adair?” Richard asked.
“Yes?” Adair asked quickly.
“I just wondered if you'd heard about the proposed taxation of tobacco imports?” Richard said.
It was a clear attempt to draw him into the conversation. Adair shook his head, feeling stupid again. He rarely listened to talk in the marketplace and never paid heed to scandals and complaints that found their way up from Edinburgh, or Glasgow, to this more remote corner of the country. Consequently, he rarely knew what was going on outside the world of Hume Manor.
And one more reason why I can't risk saying anything to our new guest.
He glanced sideways at Richard, who was engaged in lively debate with Ascott and, surprisingly, with Lady Arabella, about the matter of taxing luxury goods.
“If you think about it,” he was saying, a smile on his face, “it's not to our disadvantage to allow wider trade of imports.”
Arabella looked at him askance. “Richard! What about the local craftsmen? What do you think would become of our own linen, say?”
“Linen from Scotland is traded everywhere,” Genevieve said, winning a smile from Richard.
Adair looked away, impressed.
Beautiful, and clever. She'd ignore me for sure...I never know what to say.
He looked down at his plate again, taking another mouthful of the stew. It was delicious, and he let himself focus on that for a change, ignoring the discussion and – with difficulty – the white-dressed beauty opposite.
Next to him, Ascott addressed another point of Richard's. Lady Genevieve sat opposite Adair, silent.
It was a perfect time to say something to her, but the harder he racked his brains t
o think of something appropriate, the more difficult it became and the more threatening the silence. He looked back down at his plate, finishing it just as a serving-man whisked it away, replacing it with a fresh one.
“Gammon served with glazed carrots,” the man opined, producing the second course. Adair nodded his thanks, wishing the tension wasn't having negative effects on his appetite. His hosts were famously good entertainers, and he would have liked to be able to enjoy it.
“You'll be here tomorrow evening?” Lady Arabella asked, fixing him with a bright-eyed gaze.
“Of course, milady,” he nodded, swallowing hard. Even Arabella – whom he knew well now – he found it hard to talk to sometimes. He couldn't stop thinking about the fact that one day she'd know. His true story would come out, and then they'd throw him from the hall, if not from the windows upstairs.
“Well, then,” she beamed. “You'll be pleased to meet my sister, Lady Francine. She's coming all the way up here to see our cousin, Genevieve.”
“How lovely!” Genevieve said opposite. When she smiled, her lips slightly parted, she was even more ravishing than in repose.
Adair looked at his plate as a flush of longing, powerful and irresistible, worked its way up through his body. He drew in a shaky breath and tried to focus on his cutlery.
“We're planning a little gathering,” Arabella continued, making his stomach clench in dismay. “Just a few people from the surrounding manors.”
Adair felt a rising panic. Here, with people he knew, he could feel safe. However, when the room was filled with strangers, he wished he could simply disappear. All of them would be looking at him, guessing, wondering.
You aren't fit for human company, you cur. His father had said that during one of his bitter rages. Adair had believed him. Inarguably human, Adair nonetheless was left with the impression that he was some kind of monstrous fiend.
Only a monstrous fiend would have led to the disasters I led to.
How could he, given that, consider being attendant at Lady Arabella's party? Fiercely loyal to both she and to Richard, he couldn't sully their happy event with his presence.
Shadowy Highland Romance: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 2
