My Lady's Choosing

by Kitty Curran

  You reach out to comfort the sniffling child, only for him to flinch. “I’m sure Mama didn’t mean that, darling. Mamas love their babies—”

  “Not all mamas!” Alexander shrieks, his eyes now pouring tears. “Mama didn’t love me! She said I ruined everything and she dreamed of killing me in my sleep! And Mama said…Mama said…” He flings himself into your arms. “Mama said I would never be a hero,” he whispers. Your eyes lift to meet the taunting gaze of yet another portrait of the late Blanche Craven, née von Badwolff.

  “Sometimes,” you say carefully, “mamas are wrong. Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?” Alexander wipes the tears from his eyes.

  “To be heroes, of course.”

  Time to learn some fencing, fools! Turn to this page.

  As Fabien momentarily releases your hands, you seize the opportunity as viciously as your captors have seized you. You half dismount, half tumble off the camel, punch Fabien’s pretty face, then kick sand at his already streaming eyes, and flee.

  Another henchman tries to tackle you. You duck, then knee him in an area that is sure to have him singing soprano for the foreseeable future. As he collapses to the ground, screaming, you grab one of the camels by the reins and attempt to swing yourself into the saddle.

  Fabien’s hands firmly grasp your waist and pull you off the grunting creature. Kicking and screaming, you both tumble to the ground. Fabien throws his well-muscled limbs around you and murmurs in your ear.

  “Do not be stupid, chérie. I would hate to have to restrain you any more than is necessary. But believe me, I will do what I must bring you to my employer.” He binds your wrists.

  You spit in his face. He laughs.

  “You have spirit. I like that.” And with that he hauls you onto the camel and onward to Delphine.

  What, did you actually think you could fight off four enormous henchmen single-handed? Come on now. Think of a better plan and turn to this page.

  That evening, you wait in the eldritch garden for the handsome vicar, your bosom heaving in anticipation. Something hangs in the air tonight. Something seething…and unwholesome.

  “I was worried you would not be here,” says a gentle voice from behind. You turn and are relieved to see the smiling, golden good looks of the Reverend Loveday.

  “Of course I am,” you say. “What is it you wish to show me?”

  The vicar steps toward you. He is close. Too close. Your body thrills, and the secret smile on his mouth colors you all over with delicious sin.

  “Reverend Loveday?” you gasp. He pulls you to him and whispers in your ear.

  “This was not part of the plan,” the reverend says. He smooths his hand over your waist, pressing you gently against him, and you feel for a moment like a pair of lovers posing for a portrait.

  “What, sir?” you cry, utterly confused and definitely turned on, despite (or because of?) the circumstances of your meeting. His once-innocent blue eyes brighten with lust.

  “This,” he says and leans in to kiss you.

  Do you let him?

  Hell yes! Turn to this page.

  Hell no! Turn to this page.

  You are greeted at the door of the castle by a bony, frazzled older woman with a large nose and a prominent mole on her cheek. She looks like a fairy-tale witch, but her loud brogue is as cheerful and lively as a babbling brook in a glen.

  “Och, it’s good to see ye, good to see ye, wee Angus!” she says, warmly embracing a scowling Mac. The children nudge one another and snicker in delight.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve been wee Angus, Mrs. F,” Mac says, his voice slightly panicked. The woman throws her hands in the air.

  “Don’t be daft. You’ll always be wee Angus to me. Good tae see you looking so well! And who are these bonnie lassies?”

  Mac introduces you, Jane, and Gertie, and the woman hugs each of you warmly.

  “I’m Mrs. Morag Ferguson, housekeeper and custodian of Glenblair Castle. Och, but it is a pleasure to have ye here! Though I warn ye, the castle is falling apart around us, so ye best watch where ye step!”

  “I will make sure to,” you say, warming to her immediately.

  Mrs. Ferguson turns to the children. “And I see ye’ve brought a bunch of wee Sassenachs for me!”

  “Is this a haunted castle?” says Sallie in excitement.

  “Is it cursed?” whispers Timmy shyly.

  “Was anyone murdered here?” Bert says with a grin.

  “Och, indeed, indeed,” says the old woman, waving her hands about. “What’s left of these walls is fair stained with the blood of many! Hundreds of ghosts we have!” Timmy hugs Dodger and stares at Mrs. Ferguson in silent terror.

  “Dinnae worry, wee one,” she says, ruffling Timmy’s hair. “Our ghosts are mostly friendly.” The rest of the children moan in disappointment. Mrs. Ferguson puts her hands on her hips.

  “I dinnae see why you are upset at a bunch o’ boring old spooks. Not when they say there is missing treasure buried a hundred years ago within these very walls by the mad old laird!” All the orphans perk up at this news and resolve to find it immediately.

  “Well, off you go then, ye wee terrors!” says Mrs. Ferguson. The children run off, intent on exploring their new home. Jane and Gertie follow in an attempt to make sure they do not break anything, or one another.

  Mrs. Ferguson lowers her voice conspiratorially to you and Mac.

  “Quite frankly, that buried treasure nonsense was a cover made by the Abercrombie family to hide that the old laird spent the family fortune on horses and whores. Though what I wouldn’t give for a bit of that now, I tell ye.”

  “How bad is it, Mrs. F?” says Mac.

  “Och, there is more ruin than castle these days. It will cost a fortune to restore, but even getting that roof mended is gonnae cost a pretty penny. We will all have to sleep in the Great Hall for now.”

  Mac looks thoughtful.

  “Are the games on this year?” he asks.

  “Of course they are, wee Angus!” says Mrs. Ferguson. “In fact, they are just three weeks away!”

  “What’s the prize money looking like?” Mac says, rubbing his ruggedly strong jawline.

  “Ye thinking of entering the caber toss again?” Mrs. Ferguson says, grinning.

  “Aye, that I am, Mrs. F. That I am.”

  Her eyes light up with delight. “Och, and I suppose I could teach the wee bairns some sword dancing! Would bring color to their cheeks, and the money from winning two events should be enough to cover the necessary repairs…”

  Mac nods, then gathers what scant luggage you have brought and leads the horses to the collection of planks you assume must be the stable. You stare after his taciturn, manly form in annoyance—and longing.

  Mrs. Ferguson puts a bony yet motherly arm around your shoulders.

  “Ye should come inside and have a cup of tea, hen. Ye’ve already had some post arrive ahead of ye to read.” And with that, she hands you two letters.

  One is written in a distinctive flowing yet scrawling hand that you recognize. Once seated with a cup of hot tea, you tear open the letter, eager for news from your dear friend Lady Evangeline.

  As you know, my dear, I plan on taking a short trip to Egypt soon, and I am in desperate need of a lady’s companion. I understand that you may already be occupied with good works (and handsome Scotsmen) but if the shine has gone from that, please know that you would do me the greatest honor and favor should you agree to accompany this old widow to a most fascinating country.

  You clutch the letter to your chest. The prospect is tempting. Still, you are loath to leave the children. And Mac, for that matter. The realization gnaws at you, and you open the other letter in a huff.

  It is printed in a hand that seems strangely familiar. It is also unsigned. All this would be mysterious enough, but it is the content that tru
ly sends a chill down your spine.

  You are in grave danger. Leave this place—lest you suffer the fate of poor Constantina!

  You stare at the skull-white page, reading the two sentences over and over. Is it a warning…or a threat?

  Well, cripes.

  Do you take the letter’s advice and get the hell away from the Highland mist—and potential attempts upon your life—in favor of warmer climes and Egyptian adventure? If so, turn to this page.

  Anyone could have sent that letter, and you cannot tell if that person’s motives are proper. Plus, there is something about Mac that compels you to trust him and stay…and it isn’t just his caber. Perhaps some sleuthing is in order? Turn to this page.

  You enter the great estate of Manberley solemn and bow-legged. You must ready your mind for a future so undesirable, so colorless, that to dwell on its reality would only be a disservice to the wonderful dream you have just had the opportunity of living.

  You resolve, at the very least, either to flee the Dragon’s employ for someone less detestable or to ratchet up your kindness toward her so that you may see Benedict as often as possible. You look over only to catch him burning a look of love into your eyes.

  “Your breeches are still unbuttoned, my love,” you whisper solemnly and watch his face riot with panic as he attempts to right his wrong. When he realizes you have bested him, and that his buttons are in fact entirely in order, you snicker.

  “Made you look,” you whisper, hoping he has not heard your voice—or heartbreak.

  You take one last breath of happiness before entering the mansion, only to be greeted by an extended shriek from the Dragon, who exits the estate in an angry, agitated hurry.

  “SCANDAL!” the Dragon cries. “SCANDAL AND SHAME!” Her dancing, beady eyes alight on Benedict’s fine, jaggedly walking frame. “Where have you BEEN, Benedict? Henrietta! She is gone! She has run off with—with—a FARMER!” She breaks into a fit of pitiful wails.

  “Now! Here! What is all this about?” Benedict asks, a man in command once more, a king returning to his kingdom.

  You look about you and witness a mad scene: servants in confusion, furniture upended, and no sign of Cad or Henrietta anywhere. There, looking serene and beautiful as ever amidst the madness, is Lady Evangeline, reclining on the settee with a cordial in hand and a smile as wide as the great moors.

  “How the devil did she beat us here from London?” Benedict whispers to you, his voice husky with postcoital satisfaction.

  “Women have their ways,” you respond, in awe of everything. Turning to Lady Evangeline, you say, “What’s news with you, my lady? It seems a great happening has, erm, happened while we were away.”

  “It has indeed,” Lady Evangeline responds calmly. “It appears someone, certainly not me, sent hard proof of the living existence of one Mr. Caddington, signed by a warden of Bedlam, to all the papers in London. Cad disappeared, as did his claims on the Granville name and fortune, as quickly as said papers were published. Oh, and Henrietta has eloped with her farmer. Do you have the time, dear cousin?”

  Benedict, his beautiful face broken into a full grin, glances at the timepiece on the mantel. “It appears that it is one o’clock.”

  “Ah, yes.” Lady Evangeline smiles. “Henrietta and Farmer Sam should be making excellent stride to Gretna Green by now.”

  “GRETNA GREEN! To elope?! Oh! Oh, I shall faint!” The Dragon has reappeared, if only to feign fainting dramatically.

  “Please hold your faint, aunt, for a moment,” Benedict says. Then, still grinning, he takes your face in his. “Cousin!”

  “Yes, Benny?” Lady Evangeline says. You beam. Joy is contagious.

  “Can you see about publishing the banns? I would like to make this young woman my wife as soon as possible, if she’ll have me.” You gaze at the man you love, the man you ferociously bedded in the carriage. There will be many carriage rides in your future.

  “She will,” you say, smiling. “I suppose. Certainly you need someone to keep you on your toes.”

  Benedict chuckles. “She supposes! It is settled then! We are to be married!” he shouts, his voice a waltz of joy you have danced before.

  “No!” cries the Dragon. “Scandal! Shame! SCANDAL AND SHAME!”

  “Scandal and shame, indeed, Auntie darling,” you whisper, practically into Benedict’s mouth.

  “Scandal and shame, indeed,” he says, laughing. And you drown out the rest of your laughter by kissing, kissing, kissing to the tune of the household’s happy cheers—and the Dragon’s pitiful cries of disgust.

  The End

  Two can play that game. You also storm out to the moors, in what you assume is the opposite direction Lord Craven took, judging by the trail of broken brandy bottles.

  You have been storming for about half an hour before you realize you are lost. Mist swirls around you, obstructing your view so you cannot see where you have come from or where you are going. In the distance, a creature howls. The lump of fear in your throat only grows when you see a black-clad figure coming toward you. You gasp and feel about in your reticule for something that may offer some defense against the…

  …handsome young vicar? Reverend Loveday smiles warmly at you.

  “I am terribly sorry, I hope I didn’t startle you,” he says, his blue eyes full of gentle concern.

  “Oh, Reverend,” you cry in relief. “I fear I have lost my way here, for I do not know how to get back. Could you possibly point me in the proper direction?” You feel like a complete ninny, but the vicar smiles and allays your fears.

  “Oh, I can do much better than that, I think!” He offers his arm. “Allow me to show you the way.”

  As you walk, you are overcome by the sensation of his warm body against the unearthly chill of the day. It is comforting, and yet somehow arousing. If the vicar notices, he gives no indication. You talk carefully of neutral topics such as the weather and funeral rites…until your curiosity gets the better of you.

  “The late Lady Craven,” you say finally, “did you know her?”

  “Indeed I did,” he says with enthusiasm. “She was a sweet woman, adored by all.”

  This is not what you wanted to hear. “She didn’t seem…troubled to you?”

  The vicar’s guileless blue eyes darken. “Before her death, she did come to me,” he says quietly. “She told me she was frightened, but of what or whom she did not say. I often wonder if I didn’t do enough to help her.”

  “I’m sure you did everything you could,” you say reassuringly. The vicar looks at you and pauses for a moment.

  “I must confess, I was traveling toward Hopesend with a purpose. You see, shortly after Lady Craven’s death I received a diary written in her hand, with a note from her asking me to keep hold of it and pass it on to someone who could help her beloved son.” He presses a small leather-bound volume into your hands. “It felt wrong to give it to Craven, but I cannot let it languish any longer. You may have noticed my regular visits to Hopesend have been more frequent than usual? I should have—that is, I meant to give this to you earlier…But, the coward that I am, I lost my nerve. Forgive me.”

  You know not what to say.

  “Reverend Loveday, I…” Looking up, you see the familiar foreboding shape of Hopesend looming ahead. The vicar doffs his hat politely and disappears into the mist as you clutch the book to your bosom.

  Well, you can’t not read it…Turn to this page.

  You take Fabien’s angularly handsome face into your hands. “You are no one’s second choice, Fabien, and I refuse to make you mine. Goodbye to you, and to my friends. I will see you, perhaps, in another life.”

  “Well spoken, my lady.” Fabien drops his head, and a small tear lands softly on your still-outstretched hand. For a moment, you fancy it to be a jewel of the Nile. You blink and the jewel is gone, evaporated in the desert heat.

  You walk over to t
he camels waiting patiently in the shadow of the newly risen temple. With ease and grace, you hop astride one.

  “One last thing, Fabien,” you say with a grit and authority you did not quite have when you arrived in Egypt.

  “Yes, my lady?” Hope flashes in his eyes.

  “Will you point me in the direction of Cairo?”

  Once you make the long and arduous return to the city, you must decide what you truly wish to do.

  Do you want to give the ton another chance? If so, turn to this page.

  Or are you kind of over normal society? Do you think managing a single rich child in a far-off mansion sounds like a nice departure from all this nonsense? If so, turn to this page.

  You arrive in America and soon become governess to a sweet girl who often calls you Mama by accident. This causes her to blush furiously and her handsome, young, new-money, widowed fabric-merchant father, a Mr. Haven, to laugh heartily. He lost his wife to influenza but gained you by a sheer stroke of luck, and when he gives you the gift of a fine dress, you surprise him by stripping bare in front of him to try it on.

  He is a tender but ferocious lover, and the two of you have many lovely, hearty, smiling children together.

  His first child is, of course, the flower girl at your wedding. Sometimes at night, when Mr. Haven has laced your ample bosom with a brocade of his ecstasy, you think of Lord Craven. You silently thank him for the gift of love, the promise of freedom, and the stroke of fate that allows you now to stroke your American lover’s face as it travels south to pleasure your sex in an enthusiastic, endless demonstration of your new love’s work ethic and aim to please.

  The End

  “Oh, Ollie!” you cry. He cups your face and then kisses you with long-unfulfilled passion, as if all those years apart, all those years of pain, had never happened. He pulls you closer and gently nips your shell-like ear.