“I’m glad you ladies are completing this party. Otherwise it would have been far less appealing to look upon.”
Both women gave him rather tepid smiles at the flattery. Odd, most women liked to be complimented. Then again, he was out of practice.
“I thought we were to look upon an old wall,” Miss Carpenter said, lifting her eyebrows as though challenging him.
He smiled and changed the subject. “Is someone retrieving your mounts?”
“Oui,” Miss Carpenter said, nodding.
“Then I shall retrieve my own and rejoin you shortly.” He gave them another quick bow, then walked around them to the barn, certain Miss Nicholson at least was evaluating his gait. Miss Carpenter already knew the reason for his limp, and he hoped she would explain it to Miss Nicholson so that he would be spared.
Lenore was being saddled by a groom, so Walter waited until all was ready. “You don’t mind a second outing today, do you, Lenore?” he asked the horse.
Lenore whinnied in response, which Walter took as agreement. He hoisted himself into the saddle, then exited the stable, waiting while the groom assisted the ladies onto their mounts. In Scotland as many women rode astride as rode sidesaddle, and Walter watched in awe as the women arranged themselves, situating themselves so that their knees hooked the horn. Once properly seated, the voluminous skirts were put to use, cascading nicely over the horse’s flank while still covering the women’s ankles and feet.
It took a few minutes for the whole party to convene, and then another for the two bags filled with bread and cheese and a bottle of ale to be thrown over two of the horses—luncheon from the dining room, Adam said.
When they finally set off, it was nearly eleven o’clock, but the skies were clear and a slight breeze kept things comfortable. The two gentlemen rode at the front, and before Walter knew what was happening, he found himself beside Miss Carpenter while John and Adam flanked Miss Nicholson ahead. Walter had no doubt that the arrangement had been decided upon by his scheming friends before they left the hotel. They seemed determined to throw him and Miss Carpenter together.
“Do you know much about dis wall, Mr. Scott?” Miss Carpenter asked.
“I know a great deal about it,” Walter said. “Would you like a history lesson while we ride?”
Miss Carpenter smiled and nodded, and Walter cleared his throat.
Walter remembered nearly everything he’d ever read, a skill that made him a good barrister and an eager student. Relaying details of the old Roman wall was the perfect way to fill the time that might otherwise be awkward, and so he told Miss Carpenter about the Roman Emperor Hadrian, his dislike for the northern populations, and his determination to keep them in their place. Walter explained that the eventual span of the wall, from the North Sea to the Irish Sea, was guarded by garrisons and turrets all along its length, a total of eighty miles that became the northern border of the Roman Empire at the time. Miss Carpenter was a willing audience. She did not ask many questions but seemed attentive to his lesson.
The party had stopped, and Walter left off his lecture as they approached. Just ahead of them he could see the lingering stones from the artifact. He found it fascinating that sixteen hundred years after it was built there were still substantial portions of Hadrian’s Wall more or less intact.
“Is everyone fit for a bit more?” Adam asked. “I understand there is an old turret in another mile or two that provides a remarkable view.”
Everyone exchanged glances and nods, but when the party moved forward this time, Miss Nicholson stayed near her charge, and Walter stayed behind them. Adam drew even with Walter.
“So, did you have a most diverting conversation with Miss Carpenter and praise her lovely eyes and fine horsemanship, or, well, horsewoman-ship?”
“I told her about Hadrian’s Wall.”
Adam furrowed his brow. “You gave her a lesson?”
Walter shrugged, pleased to have waylaid his friends’ plan. “She asked if I knew much about the wall—she didn’t seem familiar with the history—and so I explained its significance.”
“Och,” Adam said with a scowl. “We were all but standing on our heads trying to keep Miss Nicholson entertained and you bored the woman with talk of an auld wall.”
Walter raised his eyebrows as though surprised by Adam’s irritation. “You are the one who wanted to come see this auld wall in the first place and you invited Miss Carpenter. Don’t blame me for your plans not turning out as you’d have liked.”
Adam grunted, gave Walter a withering look, and rode ahead to John, doubtless to relay how Walter had failed them both. Walter smiled at the victory.
“Mr. Scott?”
Walter looked up to see Miss Nicholson nearby, waiting for him to catch up. Miss Carpenter was half a length ahead of her on the opposite side. “Miss Carpenter says you have studied Hadrian’s Wall.”
“I have studied the Scottish borderlands and history, in which this wall factors.”
“I would like to hear your thoughts, then,” she said in the tone of a schoolmistress as she and Miss Carpenter moved in on either side of him. “It seems to me a complete waste of time and resources to build such a thing. It never did protect the Romans from the Picts, now did it?”
“Opinions vary as to whether the true intent was to keep the Picts, or any other people, from invading,” Walter said, as pleased as anything to continue this line of topic. “And it seems the most likely advantage of the wall was economic in nature, a chance to impose taxes and tolls for commerce exchanged on either side of the wall. As I explained to Miss Carpenter . . .”
“Roman history?” John said later that night at dinner in the hotel dining room. “Hours in a pretty lady’s company and you choose to fill it with Roman history?”
“It’s as much Scottish history as it is Roman—more so if you ask me since we’ve put up with the thing far longer than the Romans did.” Walter cut a piece of his roast beef. “I couldn’t be rude and refuse them when they asked questions.”
“You are supposed to be engaging in a holiday flirtation with Miss Carpenter,” John said, as though Walter did not know their intent behind the day’s ride. “Not boring her with historical facts.”
Walter pointed his fork at his older brother, who often seemed like the younger of the two. “She was not bored,” he reminded them. “In fact she thanked me for the lesson.”
John rolled his eyes and turned back to his plate.
“And,” Walter continued, “I’ve no interest in a holiday flirtation.”
A tension he had not noticed before filled the space between the men, and he felt himself tensing in response.
Adam put down his knife and fork before fixing Walter with a serious look. “We’ve tried to keep the fun in this, Walter, but this is not a joke.” He paused for a breath. “The Forbes’ wedding was nine months ago. You have got to move forward.”
“I will not discuss this,” Walter said sharply. He glared at the two men across the table. He could feel that he was gripping his knife and fork too tightly. It was one thing to be dogged by thoughts of Mina, quite another to have his greatest trial discussed over the dinner table.
“You will not discuss it, but you will silently obsess on it,” Adam said.
Walter stared at his plate and gripped his utensils even tighter. Heat roiled in his chest as he raised his head. “It has been only a year,” he said between clenched teeth, fighting back his temper, which had risen up faster than he could abate it. “And I will not discuss this.”
“Mina is married,” John cut in, leaning forward, his expression an aggravating mixture of concern and irritation. “She’s borne Forbes a bairn. Let Miss Carpenter distract you from—”
The men had hit upon too tender a place, and Walter stood abruptly, causing his chair to slide loudly across the wooden floor behind him. He slammed his fist on the table. “No one, not e
ven the two of you, know anything about the state of my mind and heart, and I will not put up with your juvenile attempts. Leave it be and leave Miss Carpenter out of it completely.”
Adam and John stared at him with wide eyes and slack jaws. Only then was he mindful of the dozen or more heads turned in his direction and the absolute silence of the dining room. Mortified, Walter spun on his left foot, prepared to storm dramatically from the room with some shred of dignity left, only to be brought up short by Miss Carpenter and Miss Nicholson standing in the doorway. Embarrassment struck his chest like lightning as his eyes locked with Miss Carpenter’s. Her cheeks were pink, but her jaw was tight with offense. Miss Nicholson was flustered, her mouth opening as though she would say something that she did not say.
Walter was without words, afraid that his explosive temper would rear its head again if he opened his mouth. Instead of attempting to defend or deflect what he’d said, he focused only on escape and continued toward the door.
Miss Carpenter watched him, stepping out of his way so he could exit. He met her eye again for only a moment, wished he knew how to offer an apology, and then pushed forward again, determined to escape. Rather than go to his room where John and Adam were sure to look for him, he made his way to the front door of the hotel and limped out into the night. He didn’t mind the cold—perhaps it would cool his anger—and he needed the exertion. He would come back only when he was calm again.
If only he could outrun his heartbreak.
If only he knew how.
“It is late,” Jane said from her seat in the chair across from Charlotte in the lobby of the hotel. A fine fire blazed in the hearth and the shuffling of guests was beginning to settle. “We should return to our rooms.”
“I should like to stay longer,” Charlotte said, not looking up from her sketching of Hadrian’s Wall. It was a boring drawing—mostly crumbling stone—and she was not much of an artist anyway, but she needed something to busy herself with and this was as good an excuse as any other.
“There is a fine fireplace in our room,” Jane pressed.
Charlotte met Jane’s eye with a solid look. “I should like to stay longer here.”
Jane pressed her lips together in an increasingly familiar expression of annoyance. “It is not decent for you to wait upon that man.”
Charlotte raised her chin. Before embarking on this trip north, she had chosen a set of four rooms in Brighton where she would reside come January. Jane had been invited to come with her, but not as a paid companion. Starting with the new year, Charlotte would be supporting herself solely on her own income, and she could not afford the expense of Jane’s salary.
Jane had taken things well when Charlotte explained the plan, even been grateful for the offer to stay in Brighton until she knew what course she would take, but in the weeks since, she had grown increasingly irritable. Their friendship had never been so thin, and when Charlotte’s attempts at addressing the difficulties ended in terse conversations and increased sulkiness on Jane’s part, she gave up. Jane had to make her own peace with the changes. Charlotte would still move forward.
“I dank you for your concern, Jane, but I should like to stay up a bit longer. Please go to bed. I will go nowhere but here. I’m sure I won’t be much longer.” Mr. Scott had been out for hours, and when he returned he would come through the doors he had stormed out of after his outburst in the dining room. She planned to be here when he did.
Jane scowled, but left Charlotte to her sketching.
Charlotte looked at her drawing and thought back to the afternoon’s outing. She’d been grateful for Mr. Scott’s education on something she had never cared to know much about. He was obviously a great lover of history, and she’d enjoyed his company as that of a new friend willing to share his knowledge.
After returning to the hotel, she’d changed her clothes and repaired her hair for dinner, hoping that she and Jane might share a table with Mr. Scott and his friends as had been suggested. Only she had arrived in time to hear him state in no uncertain terms that he had no desire for her company. There was something more behind his anger, however, and Charlotte meant to hear the whole of it.
Likely it was none of her business, but it was her name shouted through that dining room, and she was the one who had withstood the whispers and looks throughout the meal. She felt she deserved some explanation, and, if she were truly going to make her own way in the world, she would need to learn how to confront uncomfortable situations. This was a chance to hold herself with dignity amid an embarrassing situation.
It helped that she believed Mr. Scott would be accommodating. He did not seem to be a cruel man, and she’d seen how horrified he was to see her standing in the doorway. There could be no safer place for their discussion than the lobby of the hotel, with the proprietor at his desk behind the hearth and guests passing through at will.
She finished a sketch of the partially crumbled turret and held it out to inspect it. She imagined for a moment Roman guards standing upon the long-gone platform where they could keep an eye on the comings and goings from both sides of the wall or fire arrows through the open arches at a marauding band of Scots attempting to cross the imposed border.
The sound of a hinge caught her attention, and Charlotte lowered her sketchpad to her lap. Looking over her shoulder, she met the bright blue eyes of Mr. Scott, finally returned from his night’s wandering. He paused when he saw her, but she smiled in hopes of letting him know she was not there to scold him. He closed the door behind him. His golden hair was plastered to his head, and his coat, though not drenched, testified of a change of weather.
“Warm yourself by the fire, Mr. Scott,” she said. “You must be chilled to the bone.”
He mumbled his thanks as he followed her suggestion, though she wondered if he would have preferred to return to his room. It was not entirely proper for her to accost him and force an explanation, but some manners were rather tedious. He came to stand directly in front of the fire, limping with every step, and held out his hands to the flames, though he continued to shiver.
Charlotte walked around the hearth to the front desk. “Could you kindly bring some hot cider for Mr. Scott?” she asked the clerk. “He is very cold.”
The proprietor nodded and left the desk. Charlotte returned to Mr. Scott but sat in a chair closer to the fire, its placement allowing her to see his face.
He glanced at her warily.
“Did you have a good walk?” she asked, as though it were midafternoon and the sun had been high in the sky.
“I did until it began to rain,” he said, turning his hands. He didn’t add anything, and Charlotte looked into the flames to wait him out. Though he worked for a living, he was a gentleman in manner, and she believed he would want to make things right between them.
After nearly two full minutes, Mr. Scott spoke, but he kept his gaze on the flames. “I owe you an apology, Miss Carpenter, for my outburst in the dining room this evening. I have many weaknesses, one of which is a sharp temper. It does not often get the best of me, and I’m very sorry that it did so in your presence and at your expense.”
“I accept your apology, Mr. Scott, but would like to better understand what you said in the dining room.” Charlotte watched him. “What, exactly, would you like for me to stay out of?”
Mr. Scott closed his eyes briefly, and Charlotte felt bad for making him uncomfortable. Not enough to retract her question, however.
He let out a heavy breath. “I should not have mentioned your name, Miss Carpenter. It gave the wrong impression.”
“But you did mention my name,” she reminded him. “Why?”
The proprietor returned with a steaming mug of cider, two in fact. He handed one to Charlotte and one to Mr. Scott. “Please apply the cost to my room,” Mr. Scott said.
“Very guid, sir.” The man had the same lilt to his voice as Walter and his friends.
/>
“He is a Scotsman?” Charlotte asked.
“Aye,” Mr. Scott said, lifting the mug to his lips. He took a sip, then a longer swallow. “Thank you for requesting the drink, Miss Carpenter. It was thoughtful of you.”
“You’re the one who is paying for it,” she said with a smile. “It is I who should be danking you.”
He smiled at her joke and took another drink. There were several seconds of silence, then he finally turned to face her though he did not move from the fire. He gripped the mug with both hands. “You want an explanation for why I included you in that ungentlemanly rant, but the explanation is not a simple one. I do not wish to burden you with my tales of woe.”
Charlotte held his eyes. “I have my own tales of woe, Mr. Scott, and have no objection to hearing yours. As we are both patrons at the hotel, I would like tings to be as comfortable between us as they were before this evening. To leave this unresolved will make things awkward for both of us, I believe.”
He seemed to consider that, then nodded. “Very well,” he said, though she could hear the hesitation in his voice. “Until one year ago I believed myself to have found the love of my life. In fact, I still believe that’s what she was.” He looked into his mug.
“Something happened to her?” Charlotte asked, trying to guess the story and finding it easy to imagine his love dying young and taking his heart with her to the grave. It didn’t explain what he had said in the dining room, but it was a tragic tale that could explain his anger.
Mr. Scott shook his head. “She may very well be the love of my life, my first and only, but it seems I was not hers. She fell in love with a friend of mine. They have been married for months now, but I am unable to shake my regret.”
She watched him closely. “I am sorry, Mr. Scott.”
“Aye.” He took another drink.
“Was she beautiful?”
He looked at her over the rim of his mug, a questioning look in his eyes.
She smiled. “I would imagine that a girl who could hold a man’s heart so completely would be very beautiful—très belle.”
The Lady of the Lakes Page 17