The Lady of the Lakes

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “She was—is—very beautiful,” Mr. Scott said, though his tone still reflected curiosity in her interest to hear it. “The most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.”

  “And fashionable?” Charlotte asked.

  “I suppose so, though I’m not overly attentive to such things. She always dressed with perfection, however. The perfect colors and trims to accent her features.”

  Charlotte pulled her feet up, tucking them beneath her skirts. “What was it about her that you fell in love with? Her beauty and fashion sense?”

  He furrowed his brow. “You ask very peculiar questions, Miss Carpenter. Why is this of any interest to you?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “I have never been in love,” she said. “I am only curious as to what it was about her that was so worthy of your love.”

  “You think that if I speak of her and list her merits I will find them wanting,” he said with suspicion. “While I appreciate your attempt, I assure you that such a result will not happen. She was the greatest woman I have ever known. Her charm shines as brightly in my mind now as it did the day I met her.”

  Charlotte frowned. “How could her charm shine when you had only just met her?”

  He looked at her sharply. “You don’t believe in love at first sight?”

  Charlotte laughed and shook her head. “Such is for fairy tales, monsieur. You can only love someone when you know them and that takes time and attention.”

  He stiffened slightly. “And yet you told me already you have never been in love.”

  That pricked just a bit, but Charlotte did not let it show and instead inclined her head. “Touché.”

  “I am sorry, that was unkind.” He shook his head and groaned before taking another long drink of his cider. “My manners have deserted me tonight, it seems. I thank you for your interest, Miss Carpenter, and your indulgence. I should like to get some rest and hope that my mind might be clearer in the morning.”

  “We are not finished, Mr. Scott,” she said boldly. She motioned to the chair across from her own, still near enough the fire to keep him warm. “So, you fell in love with dis girl the first time you met her and you feel just the same now even though she is married to your friend?”

  “I suppose that sounds idiotic,” Mr. Scott said as he sat down.

  Charlotte just smiled wider—answer enough.

  “I gave her my heart, Miss Carpenter, and she did not give it back when she collected another’s.”

  He seemed determined to maintain his position, so Charlotte decided not to press this particular aspect further. “So, when you told your friends tonight that I should be kept out of it, what did you mean?”

  Mr. Scott’s neck colored slightly. The fire popped, and he looked at that instead of meeting her eyes. “My friends have been trying to . . . throw you and me together. They seem to think that if I could feel . . . romantic feelings for someone else, I could leave my feelings for Mina behind.”

  Mina, Charlotte said in her mind, surprised at the wisp of jealously she felt for a women she would never meet. “I see,” she said, nodding though her chest tightened at the realization of the men’s intent. “They tink dat I can distract you from your heartache? Warm your bed and—”

  “Och, nay,” Mr. Scott cut in, shaking his head as the blush spread further up his neck. “Nothing like that, only . . . a flirtation.”

  “Is not that a flirtation? I am French, you know. I have received offers before from men who assume I wanted such protection.”

  “What?” Mr. Scott’s eyes were wide, and he looked genuinely distressed, which caused Charlotte’s own defensiveness to make way for embarrassment. Were Scotsmen not the same as the English in their opinion of the French? Were not the fine apartments of Edinburgh filled with French mistresses the way many apartments of London were?

  Charlotte worried that it had sounded as though she were soliciting an offer. Perhaps she was not as prepared for this kind of assertive independence as she thought. “I only mean, uh, many Englishmen have French mistresses.”

  Mr. Scott closed his eyes and swallowed. When he opened his eyes, his expression was pleading. “I canna speak for Englishmen, I am not one myself, but I can promise you, Miss Carpenter, that the intention of myself and my friends was nothing so profane. I am not a man to take liberties of any woman, certainly not a gentlewoman, regardless of her nationality.” He rose to his feet.

  He would leave now, she could see it in his face, and she would not stop him this time. The mutual embarrassment they both felt had changed the tension between them.

  “My friends were taunting me about having spent my time with you today discussing history when they wanted to spark a romance. I let my irritation at their teasing get the best of me in the dining hall and unkindly included you in my reaction when they suggested you could somehow distract me from my heartache. My comment was regarding the fact that I would not discuss this topic with them and did not want you drawn into it. I did not want them creating situations for us to meet, or interact, or to invite any kind of . . . falseness. I truly hope you can forgive me for having lost my temper and therefore not conducting myself properly tonight. I sincerely hope that you know I did not mean to cause you distress in any way.”

  Charlotte could feel his sympathy. His regret was sincere, as was the torment he had faced since his lady’s rejection—there could be no denying either sentiment. “We all, on occasion, act in ways we wish we had not. I hold nothing against you, Mr. Scott, and hope that we might still be friends. Perhaps we could act as though the outburst in the dining room did not happen at all.”

  The relief on his face was immediate, and his shoulders relaxed. “I would be very grateful if we could do that, Miss Carpenter.”

  “Then we shall do it.” She gave him her widest smile. “Dank you for sharing your story, and please accept my condolences for the ill turn this woman has done you.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed slightly and then took a few steps toward the men’s hall of the hotel. He paused when he was beside her chair and looked down at her. “You said you had your own tales of woe, yet you also said you have never been in love?”

  She could feel her smile fall, and it was her turn to look away. She rearranged a fold in her skirt. “Heartbreak comes in many forms, monsieur.” Even as she said it, she felt afresh the loss of her parents, her homeland, her hopes of a family of her own. She missed her brother. She could feel Jane—her only friend—slipping away and knew more and more that her independence would mean loneliness as well. There was more than one way to suffer heartache in this world. She gathered herself and looked back at him. “I suppose I should count myself lucky that I have avoided the romantic kind, no?”

  “Perhaps one day you might share your story.”

  Charlotte looked away, not liking how vulnerable she felt. “Ah, well . . . as you are not implicated within my troubles, I’m sure they shall hold little interest.”

  “You underestimate my respect for stories. It is our experiences which shape us and make us who we are.”

  She met his eye again, a shiver of truth testifying of his words. “Yes, I believe that too.”

  He smiled softly and raised his hand as though he might touch her cheek, but then he must have thought better of it and withdrew. Charlotte was not a romantic, but there was something in this exchange that was very sweet.

  “Good night, Miss Carpenter.”

  “Bonne nuit, Monsieur Scott.”

  Walter dreaded seeing Miss Carpenter the next morning. He had relived their exchange for hours and concluded that he had no right to call himself a gentleman. First, he had lost control of himself and publicly embarrassed her, then he had insinuated that his friends had illicit intentions, and then he burdened her with his own history. The vulnerability he felt at having talked about Mina made him squirm. He had not seen any other choice in order to repai
r the damage he had done to Miss Carpenter, but in the dark of night, he was sure he could have avoided divulging so much personal information if he’d thought it through a few more minutes. The morning came wet and cold, making it easy to stay wrapped in his plaid until the guilt at wasting the day drove him from his bed.

  The three men were cautious of one another until Walter apologized for his outburst. That John and Adam accepted it and offered apologies of their own confirmed the deep trust Walter shared with both of them. The men were too late for breakfast and had to sustain themselves with tea while they played cards near the fire in the card room, repairing their relationship one hand at a time, until a chime informed them that the dining hall was open for luncheon—a plowman’s fare of bread, cheese, potatoes, and cold beef.

  They were seated around the table, Walter’s back to the door, when he saw John straighten like a hound hearing the first brush of a wing. Walter looked around to see what had caught John’s attention and felt a fresh rush of embarrassment when he met Miss Carpenter’s eye. Would she hold last night against him, despite her request that they start anew? She smiled at him, and then turned to say something quietly to Miss Nicholson.

  Miss Nicholson scowled, but then nodded. Miss Carpenter led the way to their table, built to accommodate six with two benches on the long sides, and a chair placed on either end. All three men stood as the women arrived.

  “May we join you?” Miss Carpenter asked, looking between each face with equal measure.

  “Of course,” Walter said, waving the ladies toward the available seats—the two end chairs and the space beside John. Miss Nicholson took one of the end chairs while Miss Carpenter sat next to John, who straightened even more. The dining room attendant appeared at the open end of the table and asked after the women’s meals.

  “Full plate, please,” Miss Carpenter said.

  Miss Nicholson frowned, giving Miss Carpenter a pointed look the other woman ignored. “Tea and toast for me. Perhaps with marmalade.”

  The attendant nodded and hurried to fetch their plates. The table fell silent, and Walter realized he had not told Adam and John that he and Miss Carpenter had resolved the tension between them. Or at least, most of the tension between them. John and Adam were surely wondering if Miss Carpenter were about to ask after it. Walter would need to help them understand there was no further repair to be made without stating it outright.

  “How did you sleep, Miss Nicholson?” Walter asked.

  “Well enough,” she said, though she did not smile. “Though it got quite cold by morning.”

  “Indeed it did,” Walter said. “Being from the north perhaps gives us an advantage on that score.”

  “Because you are used to the cold?” Miss Carpenter asked.

  Walter grinned. “Because we wear our socks to bed and know to add an extra quilt.”

  Miss Carpenter laughed. “Likely socks knitted by your mothers, I’d guess.”

  Walter laughed, and John and Adam joined a moment later. Walter thought about how attentive both Miss Carpenter and Miss Nicholson had been to his history lesson regarding Hadrian’s Wall and wondered if another lesson might be the perfect route to avoid any awkwardness.

  “Have you ever seen the blackface sheep from the Highlands?” he asked, looking between the women. “Both the males and females have horns, and, as you would expect by their name, black faces and legs. Their wool is thick and hearty but, unfortunately, does not make great yarn. The very socks our mothers knit are often made from English sheep, who are bred for softer fibers than the stronger, greasier wool that blackface sheep produce . . .”

  He spoke for some time, encouraged by questions from both Miss Carpenter and Miss Nicholson that turned the conversation from sheep to topography to an explanation of the clan system. John and Adam took part in the discussion regarding clan tartans and the coats of arms specific to each clan and heralded by the families who could trace their roots to them.

  “I had heard it was illegal to wear kilts after the uprising of ’45,” Miss Nicholson said, looking at the men, her manner more engaged than it had been so far.

  “Not just kilts, but tartans of any sort,” Adam said with a sorrowful nod. “Because the Highland clans had been so involved with the Jacobite uprisings, the English government banned the display of the symbols—including clan tartans. The act was repealed in ’82, but you still won’t find many, other than the staunch Highlanders, who will wear the kilts or tartans clipped on their shoulders as they did in the day.” He tapped his shoulder for emphasis. “But you also won’t find many Scots who don’t have their own plaid.”

  “Plaid?” Miss Carpenter repeated.

  “A blanket of sorts in the tartan,” John supplied.

  “So a plaid is a blanket and a tartan is the pattern of your clan?” Miss Carpenter asked, obviously attempting to make sense of this new information.

  “Yes,” John said. “The colors are usually based on what dyes were available in different areas of Scotland, and each member of a family usually gets their own when they reach a certain age. Soldiers take it when they are on campaign, mothers wrap their bairns in them, and we all wrap up in our own when it’s cold out.”

  “John’s has accompanied him to war and back,” Walter said.

  “And will go with me again when I am next called out,” John said. “It is a piece of Scotland and symbolic of our connection to the auld ways.”

  “Not to mention there are few things as warm as a Highlander plaid finely woven from blackface wool,” Adam added.

  “Did you bring your plaids with you on this trip?” Miss Carpenter asked.

  The three men looked between each other. It was a question they were never asked at home and it felt strangely personal. Adam was the first to overcome the surprise and answer Miss Carpenter. “Indeed we did,” he said. “Walter and John hail from the MacDougall and Campbell clans. I am from Macfurgusson, so my plaid is far superior in design.”

  Walter and John quickly argued the point.

  Miss Carpenter interrupted. “May I see them?”

  John coughed in surprise.

  Miss Nicholson shook her head. “That would be improper, Charlotte. The plaids are blankets, for sleeping.”

  Miss Carpenter did not seem convinced that her request was improper, but eventually conversation turned to Miss Nicholson’s years as a teacher, which is where she and Miss Carpenter had met.

  They all ate too much, drank too much tea, and then decided to play a hand of cards in the card room. On their way out of the dining room, however, Walter excused himself. He hurried to his room, retrieved his MacDougall plaid—a rich pattern of blues and greens—and draped it over his shoulders the way he would do at home if he were sitting at his desk and fending off a chill. He returned to the card room and felt four sets of eyes look at him in the doorway. He avoided Miss Nicholson’s disapproving gaze and instead met Miss Carpenter’s eye. She tried, and failed, to suppress a smile.

  Adam, relaxing in the chair near the fire while he sat out the first hand, rolled his eyes, which only boosted Walter’s confidence.

  “I thought it a bit cold,” Walter said, taking his place at the table.

  He felt someone tug on the end of his plaid and turned to see Miss Carpenter rubbing a corner between her fingers. “It does seem very warm.”

  “There are times during military training or my own wandering holidays when I’ve had only this to sleep with on the ground.”

  She looked shocked. “You sleep on the ground?”

  Walter nodded. “Only if I have to, mind you, but the plaid is very warm—very sturdy.”

  “Do you also own a kilt?” Miss Nicholson asked.

  “Nay, I’m afraid that is an auld way that has not yet been restored, though they are used more and more in formal ceremonies and the like.”

  Miss Carpenter laughed. “Can
you imagine?” she asked, her eyes dancing. “Men in skirts like a woman.”

  “Not like a woman,” Adam said, winking when Miss Carpenter and Miss Nicholson looked his way. “Like a Scotsman. We are a breed unto ourselves.”

  “Aye,” John and Walter said in joined reverence.

  Walter added the motto of his country, “In my defense God me defend.”

  Miss Carpenter smiled. “You love your homeland,” she said, looking between the three of them but settling her eyes on Walter. “I admire that a great deal.”

  Walter felt the look like a ray of sun, warm and relaxing and encouraging him to stretch out a bit. Perhaps because of their conversation last night, he realized that Miss Carpenter felt like a friend, and the nervousness he’d felt in her company before no longer seemed to plague him. The curiosity, however, remained.

  There was a moment of silence, and then Adam slapped John’s shoulder. “Well, deal the cards, man. The sooner you bampots get through this hand the sooner I get my turn to beat you blind.”

  On their fifth day in Gilsland, Walter, Adam, and John headed to the stable. They were set to investigate several lakes some four or five miles from town. Walter was eager for the trip but cast a wary eye at the gray sky. Anticipating a turn in the weather, he had worn his heavier coat, scarf, and gloves, but his outer clothing would be little protection if the clouds emptied.

  Still, after two days stuck inside the hotel—though he and his friends had found pleasant enough ways to fill the time—Walter was eager to take a longer expedition across the moorland of northern England so he might report back to Charles Kerr regarding how they matched the similar landscapes of Scotland. Walter was convinced that nothing could rival the untamed wilderness of Scotland that had burrowed into his heart and soul years ago. He would be certain to keep close measure of those things about the Northumbria landscape to prove his case. It was not closed-mindedness, he told himself, simply confidence.