The Name Of Love (Lowland Romance Book 4)

by Helen Susan Swift

  'Yes, thank you, Maggie.' My thoughts had taken me away from reality, losing my sense of time and place.

  I had resigned myself to meeting John Aitken. The brief encounter with Alexander, coupled with my day-dreams, had unsettled me again, so I was in a bad fettle when poor Maggie helped me dress. I snarled at her when she fumbled my buttons, glowered when she hooked the eyes in the wrong sequence and threatened to slap her when she stepped on the hem of my dress.

  'I'm sorry Miss.' Poor Maggie was nearly in tears, after having been so friendly with me only a few moments before.

  'So am I,' I said, recovering my temper. I have said that I was bad tempered; I was also quick to restore my normal disposition. I did not like to upset anybody, particularly a servant who could not retaliate. 'I did not mean that Maggie, I should not have said it and I would never slap you. I do apologise. You have done nothing wrong.'

  'It's all right, Miss,' Maggie was one of these sunny, cheerful girls who are a delight to know.

  All the same, my mood remained foul when I eventually clumped down the stairs in my clumsy best shoes, with my wide dress rustling against the bannisters and my hair piled up so high that I had to duck to get under the door frame. The things we do in the name of fashion. Sometimes I could wish we were all like the Hottentots or Cherokees or such like and could wear the minimum of clothing without any fuss. Still, I suppose that our weather forbids such extremes of au naturel. As it was, my mother inspected me minutely, making unnecessary adjustments to my dress before finally nodding her satisfaction.

  'You'll do, I suppose' Mother said, which was probably as high praise as any Scottish matron can rise to when formally introducing her daughter to her prospective husband.

  I was unused to formal meals in Cauldneb. We usually sat all together like pigs at a trough, with the servants walking in and out whenever they pleased, making comments on the conversation and generally acting like members of the family. That evening I sat in rigid uncomfortableness if there is such a word, stiff-backed and grumpy while we awaited our guest of honour.

  Although I had been expecting it, I still started at the sound of the door. I half rose from my chair.

  'Sit there,' Mother ordered curtly. 'I don't wish you to move until Mr Aitken appears through that door. Then you rise and greet him like a lady.'

  'I've met him often,' I complained, for the whalebone corset was crushing my ribs so I could hardly breathe, while my shoes were pinching my poor toes. 'There is no need for this unaccountable formality.'

  'There is every need!' Mother's snapping tone proved that her nerves were also jangling. 'We have to show that we are as capable of respectability as any other family in the neighbourhood. Mr Aitken has seen you on horseback and grubbing about in the mud. It's high time he saw you at your best.'

  I could not think of a time that Mr Aitken had seen me grubbing about in the mud as Mother so elegantly put it. However, this did not seem like the best time to question her. In a contest of hotness of temper, she had better than twenty years advantage over me.

  'Wait here,' Mother instructed coldly.

  I waited, staring at the table with its array of our best china set on a crisp linen table-cloth. I heard the rumble of voices from the withdrawing room next door; I heard mother's light tones welcoming the guest, or guests to judge by the number of voices, and father's gruffness joining in. There was the pleasant tinkle of glasses as everybody fortified themselves for the ordeal of a formal dinner. Everybody except me, I noted, left alone to stagnate.

  'Mary!' Mother opened the door to warn me my destiny was imminent.

  I stood up with my heart pounding. The moment I had dreaded was closing in on me. This coming hour or two might close the arrangement for my marriage. Before this night ended, I would in all probability be engaged to marry a much older man. I took a deep breath, wondering again if I could simply refuse.

  I could. I told myself. I must. I did not wish to condemn myself to a misalliance with a greybeard. . It would be bad enough now, with Mr Aitken in his forties. In ten years time, he would be approaching sixty, a man in his dotage, and I would be scarcely thirty, a woman in my prime. I shuddered at the prospect. I could not go through with it. I would not go through with it.

  Somebody pushed the door further open. The rumble of voices increased. The housekeeper and footmen entered, dressed in their most formal attire. They did not smile as they took up positions against the wall. Mother was next to enter, walking stiffly to her seat. She stood beside it, motioning for me to stand. I obeyed, feeling sick.

  Mr John Aitken entered next, beautifully dressed. I tried not to notice that his waistcoat strained to hold back his expanding stomach. He bowed to me.

  'Miss Hepburn.'

  'Mr Aitken,' I dropped in a curtsey as if I had never met the man before.

  I was surprised when Alexander was next to enter. Although he was dressed as formally as Mr Aitken, he did not bow. 'Halloa, Mary,' he said, grinning.

  'Mr Colligere.' With mother present, I had to ignore his welcome friendliness and drop into a curtsey. As I rose, I remembered his face staring through the window at my unclothed person only a couple of hours earlier. My face was flaming red, much to Mother's amusement. She said nothing, but I read the laughter in her eyes, amidst irritation I did not understand.

  'You two are already very informal,' Mother said as Father took his place at the head of the table.

  'Mr Colligere and I are already acquainted,' I said.

  'Mr Colligere?' Mother looked puzzled. 'Pray, who is Mr Colligere?'

  'It's the name my friends call me,' Alexander said artfully. 'I've been called that ever since I was at school.'

  I managed to control my surprise. 'Is it not your name, sir?' I felt my face burning again. I had managed to call Alexander by the wrong name at a formal gathering, as well as on every occasion we had met.

  'Good Lord, no, Mary!' Alexander shook his head so that his queue must have clattered against his ears. 'It is a nickname. It is a joke, a Latin tag that means to gather together.' He smiled. 'It is a pun on my hobby, you see; even as a youngster I was collecting and gathering specimens of plant life. I got myself into all sorts of bother over it.' He grinned again.

  'I apologise for any offence I have caused, sir,' I felt about an inch tall. 'I did not know.'

  'Offence? What offence could you ever cause me, Mary?' Alexander looked surprised at the idea. 'You are the least offensive girl in the world!'

  Mother spoke then, tactfully turning the conversation away from the subject of my inoffensiveness. 'Have you found anything of interest in your searches?'

  'My word, yes,' Alexander's eyes lit with delight at this opportunity to talk about his obsession. He launched into a list of plants, giving the names in both Scots and English before adding the Latin tag. 'And there are other benefits too,' he said after a lengthy discourse which I found quite interesting, despite Mother's glazed-eye look. 'Why, this very morning I was up a tree in Mr Hepburn's policies when, quite by chance, I came across the most splendid view.'

  That little sally coloured me so hotly that I am surprised I did not set the wall-paper alight. I sensed Mother's gaze on me and clamped my mouth as tightly shut as the Royal Naval blockade of Brest.

  'The most splendid view it is possible to imagine,' Alexander continued. 'It was something more delightful than any number of plants.'

  I said nothing, wishing I could land a hefty slap on Alexander's animated face while I rushed out of the room to hide forever.

  'Pray tell us, sir, what that view might have been?' Mother asked the question.

  'I am sure there is no need,' I tried to stem the avalanche of my embarrassment.

  'The view over the delights of Cauldneb was sublime,' Alexander spoke without a fragment of guilt.

  'We have worked hard to make this estate the finest in the county,' Father's mind rarely strayed far from his policies, his fields and his livestock. I blessed his honest simplicity.

&nbs
p; Mother looked slightly disappointed. I suspected that she knew more than she was saying. 'Here comes the soup,' she changed the conversation.

  We dedicated the next few moments to Cook 's fish soup. I had half expected Mr Aitken to creak down on one aged knee and pose the question the moment he entered the room, so was grateful for every minute of freedom. All the same, it was the most exquisite torture to sit at that table pretending to enjoy the meal while waiting for my world to collapse.

  'Well now,' Mother said as we sat in silence. 'This is a pleasant gathering.'

  'Yes, indeed,' Mr Aitken said. 'It was very kind of you to invite us round.'

  'You have been more than helpful to Andrew with this Edmund Charleton affair,' Mother said.

  'It was my duty.' Mr Aitken said.

  'You and your son put yourselves at risk,' Mother continued. 'Andrew and I are most grateful to you, Mr Aitken.' Her tone hardened so slightly that only Father and I would be able to recognise the alteration. 'Is that not so, Andrew?'

  'Oh, very grateful,' Father said. 'John, that is, young John, John Alexander,' Father addressed Alexander, as he returned to the pre-soup conversation. 'What impressed you most about Cauldneb? I have been addressing the drainage of the top fields this past year; the water runs off the muir onto my fields, causing me all sorts of problems. I dug new drains to counteract the water.'

  I missed the remainder of Father's conversation as I analysed his initial words. Young John, John Alexander? I waited for a gap in the conversation, which was a long time coming as the three gentlemen discussed the mechanics of field drainage, the best use of labour and the most efficient methods of using the resulting excess water.

  'I was thinking of creating a reservoir,' Father was enthusiastic about his subject. Unable to wait any longer, I had to interrupt.

  'Alexander,' I said. 'Is your given name John?'

  'That's right,' Alexander said. 'Didn't you know that?'

  'No,' I said. 'I thought you were Alexander Colligere, remember?' I reminded him of my stupidity.

  'Oh, no. I am John Alexander Aitken. I use my middle name to avoid confusion with my father, John Aitken senior.'

  'I believed there was only one Mr John Aitken,' I said.

  I felt my mother's gaze on me again as my heartbeat increased until I thought it would take a life of its own and fly out of my poor beleaguered breast.

  'Mary, dear,' that was a bad sign; Mother only called me dear at times of crisis. 'Could you please step outside the room for a moment? I wish to speak to you.' Mother's charming smile fooled nobody as she excused herself. 'This is mother, daughter business,' she said. 'I'm sure you understand.'

  'Of course,' Mr John Aitken waved a fork. 'Women's talk, eh? I do hope that Miss Hepburn is not in trouble.'

  'So do I, sir, 'I forced a smile. My legs were shaking as I rose from the table.

  Father gave me an encouraging wink while Alexander surreptitiously touched my hand as I passed him. That was all very friendly, perhaps, but less than helpful when I closed the door and Mother took me unceremoniously by the sleeve and dragged me into an unused guest bedroom.

  'Alexander Colligere?' Mother pushed her face to within an inch of my nose.

  'I thought that was his name,' I said.

  Mother shook her head. 'That is John Aitken,' she had difficulty controlling her voice. 'That is the young fellow I have been mentioning for the past weeks.'

  My heart was pounding like East Lothian surf in a north-easterly gale. 'Oh, dear Lord in heaven. Not Mr John Aitken, not his father.' I gasped out the words. 'I thought you meant…'

  'You thought I meant to marry you off to a man old enough to be your father?' Mother looked incredulous. 'Good God, Mary! What sort of ogre do you think I am?'

  I should have known better, I really should. I shook my head. 'I don't think you are any sort of ogre,' I said.

  'I knew the moment I met him that you and young John, Alexander or whatever you wish to call the poor fellow, are well suited.'

  I felt the breath catch in my throat. 'I love him.'

  I had not meant to say that. The words came from nowhere. I had not even allowed myself to think them.

  'I know.' Mother said. 'I knew you would.'

  I stared at her. 'You knew? How? No,' I shook my head. 'It does not matter. What happens now?' I thought how comfortable I was with Alexander, how easy it was to talk to him, how we laughed without restrictions and told each other our deepest secrets without fear. Oh, dear God, I did love him so.

  'That is up to you and Jo- Alexander.' Mother straightened the collar of my gown. 'Look at you, like a sack of potatoes, no two pounds of you hanging straight. It's a wonder that John Alexander would even look at you let alone anything else.'

  'He looked at me through the window,' I blurted out. 'When I was in the bath.'

  'Good,' Mother was not as scandalised as I expected. 'That will raise his interest even further. Come on Mary; the men will be wondering what's happened to us.' She shook her head. 'Dear heavens woman, did you honestly believe I wanted you to marry John senior? I don't know,' she gave me a sharp slap on the rump, followed quickly by a hug. 'Go in, then, Mary!'

  The last time I entered the dining room I had been in a state of acute depression, dreading a future married to an old man. This time I was elated, so excited that I could hardly feel the floor under my feet as I hoped to hear Alexander's declaration of love and proposal of marriage, which I fully intended to accept. However, fate has a way of keeping its cruellest cut to the last. Have you noticed how things are never as bad as you think they are going to be? Well, they are never as good either. There was another bitter twist to this tangled tale.

  Mr Aitken looked up as we re-entered the room. 'Is everything all right?' He asked. 'I do hope that Miss Hepburn is not in any trouble.'

  'Mary is not in any trouble with me,' Mother resumed her seat at the foot of the table.

  'I am glad to hear it,' Mr Aitken said. 'When she arrived at Tyneford with her message a day or so ago, she looked worn out. I felt quite paternal toward her.'

  Paternal. The word rattled around my head. That was the expression on Mr Aitken's face. That was why he was so gentle and kind to me. It was not love, or at least not the kind of love I had thought. It was the affection of a man to his daughter or daughter-in-law. That meant that Alexander must have been discussing me with his father. I looked at Alexander, wondering when he would make his declaration.

  He was certainly in no rush. Alexander did not bring up the possibility of marriage during that meal, despite his father dropping broad hints.

  'You have a fine daughter, Mr Hepburn,' Mr Aitken said. 'She will make somebody an excellent wife.'

  'I believe she will,' Father spoke too loudly. He was never a man for subterfuge. 'I heard that there is a man from Musselburgh searching for a wife.'

  That was the first blatant lie I had heard my father say.

  'He'd better be quick then,' Mother joined in. 'Our Mary is a good catch.'

  'Couldn't be better,' Mr Aitken said.

  You can imagine how I felt. I sat on my hard chair, literally squirming in embarrassment as everybody sang my imaginary praises. Everybody, that was, except the only man whose opinion really mattered. Alexander sat there dumb until I felt like taking a long pin and sticking it hard into what Maggie would call his doup to make him wake up and propose to me. Oh, I would make him jump! That thought consoled me for a few moments without in the least advancing my position.

  It was Mr Aitken; bless his balding head, who finally got Alexander to move. Unfortunately, Alexander's reaction was not what I wished.

  'Well, John,' I was interested to hear that John Aitken called his son John. It must only be outsiders that called him Alexander. 'You've heard our conversation.'

  'Yes, Father,' Alexander gave his characteristic grin.

  'Do you have anything to say?' That was the most direct hint so far.

  I saw Mother's face; she glanced at Father and then
at me in high expectation.

  'No, Father.'

  These two words tumbled my dreams around me. I could have swept out of that room in a cascade of tears and anger. I did not.

  When Mr Aitken looked at me, I could read the apology in his face. Well, I was not inclined to sit and wait on the shelf until spiders spun cobwebs around my head. Why should men always take the initiative?

  I took a deep breath. 'Well, Alexander, you and I have got to know each other over the past few weeks.'

  I could feel the tension in the atmosphere. Mother nodded encouragement.

  'I know that you discussed me at Tyneford,' I put my cards on the table, one by one, aware that everyone in the room was listening. 'I do not know how much you like me.' I waited in vain for a response.

  It was harder than I thought, proposing to a man in front of a critical audience. However, I had set my cap on it, and I am not a woman to easily give up. I took a deep breath.

  'I love you, Alexander.'

  There. That was it said. That was my queen of hearts out in the open with no secrets.

  Alexander stared at me, with concern in his fate.

  I played my ace.

  'Will you marry me, John Alexander Aitken?'

  I could not be any more direct than that.

  Alexander responded with his joker.

  'I can't.'

  Oh, dear Lord. Oh dear Lord, no!

  'Why the devil not?' John Aitken nearly shouted the words. 'By God, man, she's a peach! A veritable peach and she likes you, loves you, God knows why! You'll never get a better, by God!'

  Alexander stood up so abruptly that he would have upset the table had it not been of the sturdiest Scottish oak. I remained still. I could feel my mother's anguish. I felt sick.

  'I can't!' Alexander repeated.

  I tried to catch his eye. I failed.

  'Why can't you?' I spoke quietly, not far from tears.

  In answer, Alexander reached inside his jacket and produced the folded, sealed piece of parchment he had shown me a few days ago and about which I had forgotten entirely. He dropped it on the table. 'That is why.'

  'What the deuce?' John Aitken lifted it. 'It's tied and sealed.'