To Scotland, With Love

by Karen Hawkins

  He caught her arm, holding her upright. She leaned against him with a grateful sigh, smiling weakly up at him, much in the manner of a very poorly acted Drury Lane drama.

  Venetia met Gregor’s gaze, and for an instant, amusement quivered between them.

  Then his expression tightened, and he abruptly turned away.

  Venetia turned back to her portmanteau, fighting the urge to burst into tears. Never again could she and Gregor be friends. Their relationship was far too damaged.

  As Elizabeth allowed her maid to assist her to the chair, Venetia tried to focus on her irritating chamber mate instead. What mischief was she into? Was she trying to capture Gregor’s attention?

  The thought burned through Venetia. She rammed her silver comb into her reticule, almost tearing the delicate stitching. Blast it, blast it, blast it! She wished she could stop reacting every time Gregor was nearby—yet another thing that had changed during the last five days.

  “Miss Higganbotham, the squire wished me to inform you that he will be ready to leave shortly,” Gregor said. “He is sending up a man to collect your trunks.”

  Venetia’s skin tingled at the rough sound of Gregor’s voice, but she forced herself to continue placing items in her reticule—her favorite watch, a handkerchief, her silver mirror. Act calm, and you’ll feel calm, she told herself firmly.

  “I hope to be ready soon,” Elizabeth said unconvincingly, her voice soft and shaky. “I’m sorry if I seem indecisive, but I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Venetia turned an amazed glance on the girl. She had snored so loudly last night that Venetia had fantasized about placing a pillow over those delicately shaped lips.

  “I am certain you’ll feel better once you are under way,” Gregor told her.

  “I hope so,” she said softly. She took a shimmering blue opera cloak from her maid and pulled it over her shoulders. “There. I believe I’m ready now.”

  Venetia wondered at the odd choice of cloak. Far too fine for traveling, it would afford very little protection from the weather.

  “Venetia?”

  She found Gregor looking at her, his expression dark and unreadable. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Venetia yanked the strings on her reticule and placed it over her arm. Gregor’s gaze fell on her portmanteau, and he stepped forward, his broad shoulders and towering height making the bedchamber seem suddenly small and airless.

  Venetia grabbed the leather handle of her portmanteau, but he was quicker, his fingers brushing hers.

  A jolt of heat surged through her. Her chest ached from the lack of air before she turned away to gather her pelisse and bonnet. “I must settle with the Treadwells for the bedchamber and—”

  “It has already been taken care of.”

  She frowned. “You didn’t need to do that.”

  “Yes, I did. Ra—” He scowled, shooting a glance toward Elizabeth, who was too busy whispering with her maid to hear. “Your brother was even more under-funded than I thought.”

  “Then who fixed the carriage?”

  Gregor shrugged.

  Yet something else she owed him, blast it. As soon as they returned to London, she’d repay him.

  She pulled on her pelisse and buttoned it to her neck. “I’m surprised the wheelwright could fix our wheel in so short a time.”

  “He replaced it with one from another carriage. Fortunately, Ravenscroft’s equipment is rather plebeian, so it wasn’t difficult. The squire wasn’t so fortunate.”

  Elizabeth turned a suddenly concerned face toward them. “What happened?”

  “The axle was beyond repair. Fortunately, Mrs. Bloom has offered to allow you and your maid to ride with her and Miss Platt to London. The squire will accompany you on horseback.”

  A frown appeared between Elizabeth’s eyes. “I see.”

  Her maid watched her mistress with wide eyes, her habitual smile missing. Finally, Elizabeth nodded, spots of color high on her cheeks. “I suppose I shall have to ride with Mrs. Bloom, then. I hope Jane and I don’t give her the ague.”

  Venetia eyed the maid, who didn’t seem ill.

  Gregor turned to Venetia and started to speak, then glanced at Elizabeth, who was adjusting the hood of the bright blue cloak so that it framed her face. Frowning, he merely said, “I shall see you downstairs, then.”

  He hefted her portmanteau and was gone.

  Venetia waited until she couldn’t hear Gregor’s footsteps anymore before she walked down the stairs. Perhaps it would be better if she and Gregor just had a good, loud row and got all of their frustrations out. The trouble was, this time it might take much, much more than a mere argument.

  Venetia found Ravenscroft standing in the doorway to the innyard, his bags about him. She noted sourly that while she had been told she’d only need “a few things” to travel to grandmama’s, he’d apparently brought everything he possessed.

  He brightened on seeing Venetia, rushing up to her with both hands outstretched. “There you are! I asked MacLean when you’d be down, but he was damnably vague.”

  Venetia glanced past Ravenscroft to the carriage and large traveling coach awaiting them. Apparently, Mrs. Bloom believed in comfort, for the traveling coach was huge and would easily accommodate several additional passengers.

  A door slammed upstairs, followed by the pounding of booted feet upon the stairs. Venetia and Ravenscroft looked up to see Miss Platt storming down. Her thin face was lined in outrage, her chin jutted out at a rebellious angle. She paused on the bottom step and said in a dramatic voice, “Miss West, I have left Mrs. Bloom! I throw myself on your mercy.”

  “What?” Venetia said, blinking. Twice.

  Mrs. Bloom came downstairs next, dressed in a black pelisse, a large fur-lined bonnet trimmed with purple velvet, and a long lavender scarf. Her lips were folded in disapproval, her eyes snapping angrily. She saw Miss Platt at the foot of the stairs and pointed a gloved finger. “There you are, you ungrateful wretch!”

  Miss Platt notched her chin higher, crossing her thin arms over her chest. “I am not ungrateful! I am merely asserting my right to—to—to—” She looked at Venetia as if asking for the word.

  Venetia just blinked at Miss Platt.

  Mrs. Bloom reached the bottom stair, her extra chins quivering. “Miss Platt, I wash my hands of you. Now, please move, for you are blocking my way!”

  Miss Platt sniffed. “I will be glad to let you leave. You have not treated me well, has she, Miss West?”

  Mrs. Bloom turned an accusing glare on Venetia.

  Venetia opened her mouth, astonished to be brought into the conversation. “I can’t possibly say. I mean, that’s for you to decide and not—”

  Miss Platt put her hands on her hips. “Mrs. Bloom, I am not your servant.”

  “I never said you were!” Mrs. Bloom snapped. “I was paying you a wage, which I didn’t have to do, after all I did for you and that worthless brother of yours.”

  “Bertrand is not worthless!”

  “He is a scoundrel,” Mrs. Bloom said firmly. “If you don’t believe me, ask the people he stole money from, running that fake investment company!”

  Miss Platt’s cheeks burned. “He made some bad choices—”

  “No,” Mrs. Bloom said firmly, “he is a bad choice.”

  Ravenscroft cleared his throat. “I think I’ll take my bags to the carriage.” He scooped up the closest two and dashed for the safety of the innyard, abandoning Venetia without a backward glance.

  Mrs. Bloom snorted. “To think that I helped your good-for-nothing brother because I felt pity for you and your circumstances! I have gotten you out of trouble for the last time, Miss Platt. From now on, you are on your own!”

  “I want to be on my own! I have options, plenty of them, and I don’t have to settle on you. I know, because Miss West told me so.”

  Venetia’s heart sank. She had said that.

  Mrs. Bloom’s outraged gaze rested on Venetia for a startled moment
before color flooded her cheeks. “Fine, then! If Miss West thinks you have options, than let her be your first one. I wash my hands of you and your brother!”

  “Good!” Miss Platt said, marching smartly to Venetia’s side and taking her arm. “From now on, I am Miss West’s companion! The next time Bertrand needs assistance getting out of prison, I shall ask her to help him and not you!”

  Mrs. Bloom tossed her scarf over her shoulder and sailed past them into the innyard.

  “Good riddance!” Miss Platt said, fixing a bright smile on her face. “Miss West, I suppose that means that I will be traveling with you.” She sent a delighted grin toward the innyard, where Ravenscroft was instructing the Treadwells’ man.

  “Miss Platt…I don’t know how to say this, but I don’t need a companion!”

  Miss Platt’s face fell. “But you said I had options, that I didn’t need to put up with Mrs. Bloom’s ill tempers!”

  “And I’m certain you do have options. Only I am not one of them.”

  “Oh, dear.” Miss Platt’s thin lips began to tremble. “What am I to do, then? I cannot go back to Mrs. Bloom. Not after the horrid things she’s said.” She looked at Venetia pleadingly.

  Venetia could feel her resolve melting. In the back of her mind, she could hear Gregor telling her not to meddle in the affairs of others.

  She sighed. “I suppose you may come with us. I can find you a position once we reach Stirling.”

  Miss Platt grasped Venetia’s hand between her own. “Thank you! This will work out beautifully, wait and see.” With a glowing smile, Miss Platt ran upstairs to fetch her things.

  Venetia looked up the stairs, her hope for things to improve slowly draining away. Good God, what had she done? Now she was saddled with Miss Platt, who would annoy them all by fawning over Ravenscroft and tittering like a madwoman.

  “There you are.”

  Venetia turned to find Gregor standing behind her. He looked at the bags still blocking the entryway. “Good God, Ravenscroft. These can’t all be yours!”

  Ravenscroft, who had just returned from the innyard, grabbed two more. “I thought I was leaving the country, so naturally I packed a few more things than normal.” He nodded to the remaining two bags. “If you’ll just get those, I can have them all loaded in a trice.”

  Gregor folded his arms over his chest.

  Ravenscroft sighed. “Oh, never mind.” He tromped out to the waiting coach, passing the squire, who hurried inside to say jovially, “There you are, Miss West! I was worried I wouldn’t see you to say my good-byes.”

  “I couldn’t allow that,” Venetia said lightly, though she felt anything but. “In fact, I was just getting ready to tell Lord MacLean that Miss Platt will now be traveling with us.”

  Gregor’s gaze narrowed. “Oh?”

  Venetia lifted her chin in the air. “Yes. She and Mrs. Bloom have decided to part ways.”

  “No surprise there,” the squire said, “though I do think Miss Platt is making a mistake. There aren’t many women who’d put up with a companion who puts on such airs.”

  Gregor quirked a brow. “Miss Platt is not wholly to blame for her attitude. She had some assistance in thinking herself better than her station.”

  The squire glanced past Venetia to the steps. “Ah! Elizabeth, my child!” He rushed forward to where the girl was coming downstairs, the blue cloak swirling about her. “I hear you are feeling poorly.”

  “I’m not as badly off as poor Jane. Father, I don’t think she should travel with us today. She’s coughing and coughing. I told her to stay in bed. We can send one of the coachmen to fetch her once we reach London.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Mrs. Treadwell can see to Jane until she’s better.”

  “But if your maid stays here, who will attend you on the road?”

  “Oh, I shall be fine by myself. Miss West hasn’t had a maid all week, and she seems to do well.”

  The squire eyed Venetia’s hair before he replied in a doubtful voice, “I suppose you’re right.”

  “It’s either that or you’ll have to sit in the carriage and hold a bowl for her.”

  “A bowl?”

  Elizabeth turned a wide, guileless eye toward her father. “Didn’t I mention that not only is she coughing but her stomach is upset, too?”

  The squire looked a little queasy at the thought. “No, you didn’t. I will speak with Treadwell, and we’ll leave the girl here.”

  “Thank you, Father.” She reached down to brush off one of her lavender half-boots. “If you’ll send one of the men to fetch that final trunk from my room, we’ll be ready to go.”

  The squire frowned. “Another one? I don’t know how we’ll get another on the coach.”

  “You can’t,” Gregor said shortly. “Chambers said it was overloaded as it is.”

  “Wonderful,” the squire muttered.

  Elizabeth coughed a bit. “Pardon me, Miss West. If there’s no room for my trunk on Mrs. Bloom’s carriage, would you be willing to take it on yours?”

  Venetia blinked. “On mine? But—”

  “If you’ll let us know when you’ve arrived in London, Father will send a servant to collect it.”

  The squire brightened. “That’s an excellent idea! I say, Miss West, would you mind?”

  “No. Not at all. Though it may be several weeks before I arrive.”

  “Oh, that’s no problem.” Elizabeth said. “Thank you! I knew I could count on you.”

  There was something odd about the way she said that, but Venetia couldn’t fathom what the girl could possibly mean.

  “It’s time we were on our way,” the squire said. “Mrs. Bloom is already in the coach, Elizabeth. We’ve just been waiting for you.”

  Gregor caught Venetia’s eye, a question in his gaze. She nodded. “I’m ready, too.”

  Within a short time, she and Ravenscroft and Miss Platt were ensconced in Ravenscroft’s carriage. Gregor stood by with his mount while they waited for Chambers and Mr. Treadwell’s man to bring the forgotten trunk.

  Meanwhile, the squire assisted his daughter into Mrs. Bloom’s handsome carriage.

  The girl coughed again. “I shall sleep the entire way—oh! I forgot my gloves.” With amazing agility, she whirled from her father’s side, the blue opera cloak swirling about her. “I shall be right back!” she called as she hurried toward the inn.

  The squire shook his head. “She’s sadly shatter-brained.”

  “The young are like that,” Mrs. Bloom said, sending a glare toward Miss Platt. “I hope we shall not have to wait for Miss Higganbotham very long, as I—”

  “Ah!” the squire said, satisfaction in his voice. “There she is now.”

  Miss Higganbotham dashed from the inn door through the puddle-strewn yard, her brown boots hopping between the puddles with assuredness, one gloved hand tightly clutching the hood around her face.

  She climbed the carriage steps and slid into the far corner.

  The squire stepped back to allow the coachman to put up the stairs and close the door.

  Mrs. Bloom leaned out the window. “Miss West, Mr. West, Lord MacLean. I daresay I shall see you in London.”

  Venetia didn’t think so but nodded anyway. Ravenscroft, apparently having forgotten that once he returned to London he had a duel to face, promptly agreed. Gregor merely bowed.

  The great coach creaked to a start and left, the huge wheels cutting deeply in the mud. Moments later, Chambers and Treadwell’s man staggered out, carrying the forgotten trunk.

  “Good God,” Gregor said, coming forward to assist the two men. “What does that woman have in here?”

  “I have no idea,” Chambers said, “but we’re wagerin’ ’tis bricks.”

  “Or gold.” The other man gasped.

  Eventually, the trunk was lashed to the back of the carriage, and they, too, set out. Gregor rode behind; Ravenscroft pretended to sleep to avoid conversation with Miss Platt. Venetia, meanwhile, leaned back on one corne
r, miserable and exhausted.

  And Miss Platt, blissfully unaware of the currents that swirled about her, chattered on and on, delighted with events.

  Venetia could only hope they’d reach Grandmama’s house before any of their tenuous relationships unraveled even more.

  Chapter 17

  Och, me wee lassies! ’Tis important ye learn to say what ye mean. ’Tis the greatest gift ye can give yerself and the ones ye love.

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND

  TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  G regor urged his horse to a trot. It was wonderful to be on horseback, the air cool and moist, heavy with the scent of damp earth, the trees whispering. It was a pity Venetia hadn’t brought her riding habit; this was precisely the type of ride she loved, one that tugged at all the senses.

  He could imagine her now, riding ahead, her horse prancing, that mischievous half smile on her face as she laughed back over her shoulder at him.

  Gregor smiled for the first time since their conversation yesterday.

  He glanced back at the carriage, which lumbered slowly along, Chambers meticulously avoiding the deeper ruts and muddier spots. Even from this distance, he could hear the murmur of Miss Platt’s incessant chattering. Venetia and Ravenscroft would be ready to murder the woman by the time they reached Venetia’s grandmother’s house.

  The carriage’s leather curtains were pinned open. If he dropped back, he could catch a glimpse of Venetia, her brown hair haphazardly pinned, the thick curls hanging down around her neck, doubtless a pained expression on her face as Miss Platt tittered on.

  Venetia couldn’t walk down the sidewalk without some story of woe attaching to her skirts. He supposed he should sympathize with her. In the past—last week, though it felt like years ago—they would have laughed at the silly creature.

  He would have ridden beside the carriage and met Venetia’s look, and she would have instantly known his thoughts, and he hers. Now, she avoided his gaze, avoided him.

  All desire to smile left Gregor. He missed those times, and part of him feared they’d never be again. He hadn’t realized how much he loved to hear Venetia laugh until these last few days, when she’d done so little of it. She had the most endearing gurgle of humor, her eyes lighting to a sparkling silver, her lips curving in an entrancing way.