The Lady of the Lakes

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “Mr. Ferguson says you do not dance,” Miss Carpenter boldly said.

  Walter pushed down the insecurity that rose so easily in his mind. “Give us a few steps together and you won’t wonder why.”

  She was silent for the next few steps, limping ones on his part, and then she said, “Oh, you have hurt your leg. I am sorry if I was rude.”

  “You were not rude,” Walter said, smiling at her to confirm that he was not offended. In fact, he was rather relieved to have dealt with the explanation so quickly. Often people ignored his obvious limp, leaving it to him to find a way to introduce the topic. She met his gaze with her dark, deep-set eyes, and he felt the desire to get the whole story out of the way. “I was ill as a child, and my price for surviving was that one leg is shorter than the other, which I can’t say I regret all that much due to the fact that I received my life in exchange. The only lingering limitation is that I do not show other men up on the dance floor.”

  She laughed, a tinkling sound that was still rich somehow, and gave his arm a squeeze, which made him mindful of how close she stood to him. “You ride a fine horse, however. I noticed him when I took Jolie in this morning. Perhaps it is only fair that you cannot dance too.”

  He looked at her and smiled more genuinely than he had before. “Mr. Ferguson and I saw you racing across the glen this morning. It was impressive.” Walter remembered how little Mina cared for riding, then shook her from his thoughts.

  Miss Carpenter’s cheeks colored, and she glanced around as though wondering who might have heard them. But she also smiled, a soft proud curve of her lips. “I do love to ride. But please do not tell my companion, Jane, that you saw me racing. She would not approve.”

  “I will not breathe a word of it,” Walter said with an obliging nod. It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest they ride together, but sensibility held him back. The old Walter might have made such an offer, but not the man he was now. Not the man who did not trust women, who wondered, even now, if Miss Carpenter were weighing and measuring him against every other man in the room.

  They crossed through the doors to the supper room, and Walter caught sight of John, who pointed to the two empty chairs beside him. So, Walter would not have Miss Carpenter all to himself. Good, he didn’t want the responsibility. It had been a long time since he had needed to entertain a woman for the entirety of a meal, and he was not sure he was up to the task.

  He took in Miss Carpenter’s overall appearance and demeanor while they crossed to the table and determined that she was not a debutante. In fact, he guessed her to be near his own age. That explained the confident way in which she carried herself, and why she could ride out alone—though he still thought it an odd practice for an Englishwoman. Then again, she was not exactly English.

  Walter settled her into the chair beside John, who Walter quickly learned had claimed Miss Carpenter for the second dance of the night. Adam sat across from John, and Walter took the seat to Miss Carpenter’s left. John reached for the plate set before her so that he might fill it—never mind that Walter had been her escort—and she slapped lightly at his arm.

  “You tink I cannot make my own plate?” she said, a laugh in her voice. She picked up the plate and leaned forward to spear some sliced ham from a platter set in the middle of the table.

  John gave Walter an anxious look that nearly made Walter chuckle.

  “It seems Miss Carpenter is more self-sufficient than we are used to,” he said, hoping to ease John’s surprise and retain a measure of lightness.

  Miss Carpenter turned her head to smile at Walter. “I mean no offense.” She turned to look at John. “But you would have retrieved only a slice or two of ham, would you not?”

  John looked caught. “Uh—”

  She didn’t allow him to finish. “As you can see, I have four pieces. I have been here before and know dat it will not last long.” She nodded toward the center of the table, drawing the men’s attention.

  “Och!” Adam exclaimed, picking up his own plate and hurrying to claim his share from the platter that was nearly empty from the hands reaching from all sides. John and Walter quickly followed suit, then gathered their share of cheese, fruit, and bread—all of it was disappearing fast.

  “The English forget their manners when they are on holiday,” Miss Carpenter said once they had all sat back. “You will learn dat soon enough. You are all Scotsmen, no?”

  “Uh, yes,” Adam said. “John and Walter are brothers; Walter and I serve together in a dragoon regiment in Edinburgh.”

  “Oh,” she said, turning to look at Walter. “Why are you not in uniform?”

  Walter shrugged and directed a teasing grin at his friends, more comfortable with her than he’d expected to be. “I felt that showing up in uniform in a resort town was rather pretentious.”

  Adam and John objected heartily while Miss Carpenter laughed, delighting in the joke. “Perhaps if you wore your uniform you could tell everyone your leg is a war injury.”

  No one laughed, and she looked between them and frowned. “Ah, not a good joke.” She turned to Walter. “I am sorry.”

  “Nay, nay,” Walter said, too aware of his limitations to be offended, not to mention his growing intrigue with this woman. She held her fork just right, sat straight, and covered her mouth when she laughed—all markings of a well-bred woman. Yet she reprimanded John, served herself, and mentioned his crippled leg—all things that were the opposite of fine breeding. Even asking after their nationality so directly was not considered London-proper. Walter didn’t mind; the incongruity simply piqued his curiosity.

  “Oh, you did not get any grapes,” Miss Carpenter said, looking at Walter’s plate. She used her fork to spear a few from her plate and then held it up. “Would you like some of mine?”

  He held her eye a moment, and then nodded. “Thank you.”

  She used her knife to release them on to his plate. “De rien.”

  Ah, so she was French. One more detail to spark his interest, though that interest did not silence his constant anxiety. So many years of expectation, so many hopes lifted and plans made. All of them surrounding Mina. The energy that had gone into that attention had left him drained and beaten when it ended.

  Something about this woman threatened the protections he had built. But not enough to turn him away. In fact, just the opposite. The romantic in him—so long still and mute—suddenly wanted to know all about her. Certainly his interest in Miss Carpenter was nothing to how captured he’d been by Mina, but was there a purpose in their paths crossing? Did he have any faith left to believe in that kind of purpose anymore?

  I’m not trying to meet up with Miss Carpenter, Walter told himself when he reached the glen she’d been racing through yesterday morning. Not telling John or Adam that he was going for an early morning ride was simple courtesy, considering how late the hour had been when they had returned to their shared room. Walter had retired shortly after supper while they had continued to dance for hours.

  Besides, they hadn’t said they wanted to ride this morning nor had they been awake when the room began to lighten with the dawn. And, this time of day was Walter’s best guarantee of clear paths and fair skies, so waiting for them was insensible. Beyond that, he wanted to find the trail Miss Carpenter must have followed the day before. She’d come to the stables by a different road than the one he and Adam had used, and he was curious as to the route she’d taken. That was all—merely curious. About a riding trail. Nothing more. Never mind that Miss Carpenter had occupied his thoughts like no woman since Mina had. That had nothing to do with his morning ride.

  Walter took the road to where he’d seen her the day before, then navigated Lenore down the rise to the glen. He moved to the center of the glen and headed toward the tree line. Just as he’d expected, he found a trail there. It was more of a footpath than a riding trail, but if she had managed it, then he and Lenore
could too.

  The trees completely encompassed him within a few yards, so much that twice he had to bend close to Lenore’s neck to avoid hitting the branches. The trees thinned eventually and the landscape turned into moorland, covered with the heath so familiar to a Scot. The path branched a few different directions, but he stayed on the widest one that he believed would lead him toward the hotel stable in a roundabout way.

  After several minutes, he emerged onto the road, where, just as he suspected, the back of the stable could be seen. He’d been riding less than an hour and wasn’t sure he wanted to go in. Then a familiar figure in a green riding habit crossed to the stable. Her hair did not hang loose today, but the woman was definitely Miss Carpenter.

  For a moment Walter was unsure what to do. He could disappear back into the trees and go back the way he’d come so as not to risk a chance encounter he wasn’t certain he was ready for. The nervousness he felt around Miss Carpenter had abated some after spending time with her last night, but his awareness of her continued to trouble him.

  After a moment, he decided to put an end to his riding. He did not want to meet her on the trail or have her realize he’d sought out the path she’d taken yesterday. He flicked Lenore forward, arriving at the stable just as Miss Carpenter came out. Her black horse was nearly nose-to-nose with Lenore, who stepped back, dancing a bit until Walter soothed him back to calm.

  “Pardon me, Miss Carpenter.”

  She nodded an acknowledgment. “Good morning, Mr. Scott.”

  “Good morning,” Walter said, patting Lenore’s neck so the charger would remain calm. “It is a pleasure to see both you and your horse again. Is it a Friesian?”

  “Yes, on the smaller side but perfect for me,” Miss Carpenter said. “A gift from my guardian, Lord Downshire. I call him Jolie.”

  Her guardian? What did that mean, exactly? He had heard the term used to hide illicit relationships before. Was Miss Carpenter some Englishman’s mistress? It would explain why she was unmarried at her age and so independent, but not the rather innocent demeanor she presented the night before. Limmers didn’t typically go to dances, nor did they associate with other men if they were under the protection of another. He kept a polite smile on his face while these thoughts cycled through his mind.

  “Well, it was lovely to see you this morning.” He tipped his hat and moved forward, passing her. “I hope you have a nice ride.”

  “Merci,” she said softly. He heard her spur Jolie into a trot once he’d passed her, though he refused to look over his shoulder to watch her go.

  Walter stabled his horse and went in to breakfast, though his dark suspicions of Miss Carpenter remained forefront in his mind. Adam and John joined him within a few minutes, and Walter casually asked them what they knew about her. They had both danced with her last night, after all.

  “French,” Adam said, buttering a slice of bannock—a kind consideration on the part of the cook to include Scottish breakfast fare. “But her parents shipped her and her brother to England when she was a child. She was raised by her father’s friend.”

  “Lord Downshire?” Walter said. It eased his mind that Lord Downshire might be her guardian in the most Christian sense, but he still wanted more information.

  “Her brother is in India now,” John said. “With the Company and doing well for himself.”

  “And what do we know about this Lord Downshire?” Walter asked. Serving in the Court of Sessions meant he knew several members of the English peerage, but his focus was mostly on Scottish proceedings and Walter wasn’t familiar with the title.

  Both men shrugged.

  “I wonder if she’s out riding again today,” Adam said, following the butter on his bannock with marmalade. “If we hurry, we might catch her.”

  Walter focused on his breakfast. “How old is she?” he asked a minute later.

  Both men shrugged again. “Four-and-twenty, I’d wager,” John said.

  “Six-and-twenty, if she’s a day,” Adam said.

  John gave Adam a withering look. “She is not six-and-twenty,” he said. “She’d be on the shelf if she were that auld, not attending country dances and dancing every dance.”

  “Did she dance every dance?” Walter asked. Why he cared he couldn’t imagine, and yet, somehow he did.

  “Every one,” John said with a nod. “I tried to get in on the second half but she was surrounded.” He squinted one eye. “Odd that, really. She’s not a great beauty.”

  “But there is something striking about her,” Adam mused. “Perhaps the exotic appeal. And we do find ourselves in a resort town. It’s not as though any of the men here have their mothers to warn them away.”

  “True,” John said with a nod. “She’s pleasant enough company, and dances very well, but can you imagine presenting her to a Scottish mama?”

  Both men laughed. “My mother would turn us both out on the street and blister my hide to boot,” Adam said. He seemed to notice Walter’s silence. “Don’t you agree, Walter?”

  Walter couldn’t disagree. Scots were fiercely loyal to their own kind. He only knew a handful of English or Irish in Edinburgh. The Lowlanders had a hard enough time accepting Highlanders into their circle, let alone foreigners. Walter had never known a Frenchman, let alone a Frenchwoman, and yet he disliked the automatic rejection of her based on the nationality of her birth.

  “I would hope the merit of a person’s character would recommend them above their nationality,” he said.

  “Nationality is merit in its own right,” John said, not interpreting Walter’s meaning. “But there’s no harm in striking up a flirtation while on holiday.” He turned his pointed gaze at Walter. “You can trust me not to breathe a word of it to Mother.”

  Walter felt his neck heat up. “I’ve no interest in striking up a flirtation.”

  Adam laughed. “Och, there’s no need to pretend you aren’t taken with her, Walter.”

  “The poetry fairly writes itself with an exotic woman like that, does it not?” John remarked.

  “I certainly am not taken with her,” Walter said, taking a sip of his morning ale. He looked toward the window as though assessing the weather and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Of course you aren’t,” Adam said, though when Walter looked up, his friend winked at him.

  Walter groaned and pushed his plate away, feeling an unusual rush of anger toward their teasing, which normally he would bandy back at them. “Yer both a couple of bampots, ya know that?” He stood and hobbled back to his room. He knew they would join him soon enough, likely picking up the joke where he’d tried to leave it.

  I am not taken with her, Walter said, searching himself and feeling honest about his pronouncement. They were right that such a woman would not be accepted in Edinburgh, where his whole life was. She was not Scottish and would not know the way of things. She was not one of his own. She was not fair in her complexion. Not hardy. Not . . . Mina.

  The thought brought him up short. He closed his eyes and leaned his shoulder against the door of his room, drained of energy in an instant. She was not Mina. ’Twas a deficiency Miss Carpenter shared with every other woman in the world.

  Not for the first time Walter wondered how he could ever make room in his heart for another when it was still so very full of Mina Stuart . . . Forbes.

  Walter was attempting to lose himself in the hotel’s well-used copy of Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto when John and Adam returned to the room. They did not continue the banter from breakfast, but instead goaded Walter into a ride along the remaining portion of Hadrian’s Wall, the old Roman wall that spanned this part of England sea to sea. Gilsland itself was built around a watering hole likely used by the very builders of the ancient relic.

  It did not take much convincing for Walter to agree to the day trip—such explorations were exactly why they had come on this ­hol
iday—so he put aside his book and followed his friends to the stable. He came up short when Miss Carpenter, still dressed in the green riding habit from that morning, turned to face them. She stood beside the woman she’d been with at the dance and two additional gentlemen near the corral. Walter had seen the men around the hotel but did not know them. The look of expectation and greeting told him that they were waiting for Walter’s party.

  “I thought we were making a private party,” Walter said quietly.

  “Did you?” Adam said with feigned innocence. He looked at John and smiled. “Don’t know where he got that idea.”

  “The more the merrier,” John said, walking toward the stable. Adam grinned at Walter and followed, leaving Walter little choice but to join them.

  He would not have chosen this course, but he would not give these new acquaintances reason to be uncomfortable in his company. Truth be told, he felt guilty for the thoughts he’d had regarding Miss Carpenter’s relationship with Lord Downshire, to say nothing of John and Adam’s comments regarding her being worthy of flirtation but nothing beyond.

  He stopped in front of Miss Carpenter and her companion, despite Adam and John having only nodded to the ladies as they passed on the way for their horses. The other two gentlemen also turned toward the stable to gather their mounts.

  “Good morning, Miss Carpenter,” he said.

  “Good morning, Mr. Scott,” she said in that rolling tone. French was a romantic language after all. She waved toward the woman beside her. “This is my companion, Miss Jane Nicholson.”

  Miss Nicholson was a few inches shorter than Miss Carpenter and less by way of looks or carriage. She wore a tan riding habit trimmed in gold, her long skirt draped over her arm just as Miss Carpenter had hers. “I am pleased to meet you, Miss Nicholson,” Walter said, bowing at the waist.

  “As I am to meet you, Mr. Scott.” She was formal, with a low voice that seemed to emphasize Miss Carpenter’s lilting tones.