The Last Debutante

by Julia London

  The laird chuckled a little, but Daria had the distinct impression that he was not laughing at Bethia’s second sight, but at her.

  “Bethia has a gift,” Aileen said gravely.

  “Now see here,” Daria said, bracing her hands on the table. “I have freely admitted that it would appear my grandmother and Mr. Hamish Campbell had a misunderstanding of some sort, and I am as eager as you to rectify it.” She paused, glancing at the laird. “Not so eager, mind you, that I would have resorted to kidnapping, but enough to do my utmost to see that reparations are made. None of us should fear that this arrangement,” she said, gesturing between them all, “is in any way permanent.”

  “Well then, there you are,” Jamie said. “Daria has overruled Bethia and intends to leave just as soon as the debt is repaid. So let us, for once, enjoy our meal in peace.” He sat back, allowing Young John to serve a large helping of venison onto his plate.

  Another uncomfortable silence fell over the room; there was nothing but the sound of forks and knives scraping against the china plates. Daria had almost finished the few bites of her meal she could manage to swallow when Robbie, bless him, decided to return the favor of polite conversation and took the initiative to speak to her.

  “Where in England do you hail from, Miss Babcock?” he asked congenially, ignoring a withering look from his wife.

  “Please, sir, you must call me Daria,” she said, grateful for the question. “I call Hadley Green home. It is a small village in West Sussex.”

  “Ah,” he said. “And what is your father’s occupation, then?”

  Her father really had no occupation, but Daria did not think that information would endear her to the Campbells, as they all seemed unduly industrious. “Botanist.” It was the first word that came to mind. “He has been working with my mother to create a new orchid.”

  “Botanist!” Robbie said, suddenly smiling brightly. “Did you hear her, Jamie, a botanist! Aye, miss, the laird fancies himself a botanist,” he said to Daria. “He’s been trying for an age to improve the yield of our grains. We’ve no’ much room to plant them here.”

  “You’re a botanist?” Suddenly the small shed with the plants made sense, and she was absurdly pleased to find something she had in common with him.

  The laird, however, seemed a little embarrassed by the revelation and kept his gaze on his plate. “I dabble, aye.”

  “Dabble!” Robbie laughed. “It takes up every spare moment, it does.”

  Jamie glanced coolly at his cousin. “It is a hobby, Rob. Hamish? How do you find the venison?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “With a keen sense of smell,” Hamish said with a wink, and touched his finger to his nose before handing his spoon to Young John Campbell. Young John quietly returned the spoon to the table beside Hamish’s plate.

  “Perhaps I could help,” Daria offered, in spite of having no idea how she could possibly do so. “I know a thing or two, given my parents’ interest.” That wasn’t even remotely true, but at least it was a start. And it would give her something useful to do.

  “You’ve better things to do than graft grains,” Jamie said dismissively, and signaled to Young John to pour more wine.

  “What things?” Daria challenged him. “As I’ve told you, I am entirely without occupation here.”

  “And as I’ve told you, your talents would be better used at embroidery.”

  Daria had done her very best to be a good captive. The least he might do was meet her halfway. She put down her fork. “Do you truly believe that women sit about and embroider all day?”

  “Aye, he does,” Aileen muttered bitterly. “All the men do.”

  Daria had no doubt Aileen was right. “For the love of England, at least allow me to be useful,” she said to Jamie.

  He settled back in his chair, his gaze assessing. “For the love of Scotland, I canna help you, lass. I have no children for you to rear, nor a house that needs looking after. You will have to make do.” He smiled and lifted his wineglass to her in a mock toast. “But tonight, you may have your occupation and play for us.”

  “Aye, Laurna, let us hear a wee bit of music,” Hamish said.

  “Laurna has been gone nigh on two years, Uncle. But our guest has kindly agreed to play.”

  “I did. However, that does not mean that I have given up on botany, sir; no indeed.” She gave him a pert look before she politely dabbed her lips with her napkin and laid it beside her plate. “If you desire to be entertained, then I shall entertain you.” She made a show of stretching her fingers. “If you will excuse me, I shall go off and prepare.”

  Jamie smiled and nodded at Young John, who hurried to pull Daria’s chair out for her. She marched out of the room, resisting the urge to mutter unkind things under her breath.

  She didn’t see Robbie’s bright smile or hear him say, “I should like to hear a wee bit of song.”

  Nor did she see Geordie scribble on his slate, Jig.

  “Well then,” Jamie said as he rose from the table. “Shall we retire to the small parlor?”

  He didn’t have to ask twice.

  Fourteen

  DARIA, WITH HER flowing, sparkling gown and dark golden hair, was already seated by the time Jamie had hobbled into the parlor on his damned leg, his family in tow.

  “What would you like to hear?” she asked.

  The Campbells merely looked at one another.

  “Shall I choose for you?” She began to play. Jamie couldn’t help but notice the surprise on Geordie’s face—the lad had missed Laurna’s playing as much as he had. Robbie and Aileen—who had what some might term a stormy marriage, and he would term a bloody cyclone—seemed to soften as they took seats on the settee. Music had always had a calming effect on the Campbells, thank the saints, and one of Jamie’s great regrets was that more of them were not trained in the art. They’d been content to allow Laurna to be their high priestess of music.

  Jamie eased himself into a chair and stretched out his leg. He was accustomed to overcoming illness or injury quickly, but he had discovered that lead was a formidable opponent. His recovery was slow, and tonight his leg and side ached. He caught Robbie’s eye and gestured to the bottle of whisky on the sideboard.

  Jamie was watching Robbie pour two healthy tots when Daria Babcock sang prettily, “My love is a river that always flows, my heart a seed from which love grows. I cannot remember the words to this tune, and therefore I hope it ends rather soon.”

  Even Geordie smiled.

  Daria gave them a sly look and played the rest of the tune expertly. When she finished, Robbie clapped loudly, and she graciously accepted his applause with a slight nod.

  “Her mother sings like the angels,” Hamish said dreamily. “Now, lass, let’s have ‘The Battle of Otterburn,’ aye?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Ach,” Hamish said with a flick of his hand. “You’ve played it a dozen times if you’ve played it once. Go on, then.”

  “Hamish,” Jamie said softly, “Laurna is gone.”

  Hamish looked at Daria, his expression full of confusion as he tried to sort it out. It pained Jamie to see his once robust uncle like this.

  “Shall I play a waltz?” Daria suggested.

  “A what?” Aileen asked.

  “A waltz,” she repeated, and looked around at them. “Are you not familiar with it?” she asked, her face lighting with pleasure. “You must learn it! It’s a dance that has become wildly popular. Here, allow me,” she said, and before anyone could respond, she popped up from the bench and grabbed Geordie’s hand, pulling him off the chair. His mouth opened, and if he’d been able to speak, he would doubtless have protested rather loudly. But Geordie was helpless as Daria put his hand on her waist, and placed her hand on his shoulder. With her other hand, she took his and held it out. “On the count of three, we will move three steps to the left, then three to the right. Do you understand?”

  Geordie rolled his eyes.

  “Splendid!” she said, and
began to hum, moving Geordie to the left, and then again to the right, stepping delicately to the count of three. But as Geordie could not seem to follow, she looked at Jamie. “Perhaps you might count it out for us? One two three, one two three,” she said.

  “Count it out,” Jamie repeated incredulously.

  “Yes, just count in threes,” she said breezily, and added unnecessarily, “to keep time.”

  He rather thought it beneath the dignity of a laird and groused, “I do no’ keep time.”

  “We’re ready!” she said cheerfully, pretending he hadn’t spoken.

  He frowned at her lovely smile. “One, two, three,” he said.

  Daria began to move Geordie about in time to Jamie’s counting. Aileen sat up, watching Daria’s feet closely, obviously intrigued by the dance, and Robbie, in an unusual show of kindness to his wife, held out his hand. “Come then, mo ghraidh, let us waltz.”

  Aileen looked up at him with surprise. She hesitantly slipped her hand into his, allowing him to pull her up. With their heads bowed together, they began to study their steps.

  “No, no, you’re missing a step,” Daria said to them, pausing momentarily in her instruction of Geordie. “I grant you it is difficult to move when the beat is not precisely to tempo,” she said, casting a sidelong look at Jamie.

  “What? Am I no’ doing as you said?”

  “It’s one two three, one two three.”

  “I know how to count to three,” Jamie growled, and began to count again, slapping his hand in time on the wooden arm of his chair.

  Daria stood behind Aileen with her hands on Aileen’s waist, moving her in the right direction. “There, you see? It’s really quite easy.” She smiled as she returned to Geordie and began again. “Here we are, one two three, one two three . . .”

  Jamie shifted restlessly in his seat. Though he’d never cared much for dancing, he felt uncomfortably removed from the festivities, as if he were a dog watching from outside a window. He had an almost urgent desire to stand up with Daria, to look at her lovely face and shining eyes as she moved.

  Such thoughts were even more disturbing than his desire to dance.

  “All right then, with the music. We’ll need a partner for you, Geordie,” she said, and smiled at the footman. “Would you be so kind as to bring a willing female? Oh, bother, you might be searching all night for a willing one. Any female will do.” She sat down at the pianoforte and began to play before anyone could question her, or stop her from bringing in the entire clan. She called out instructions as she played, and after a few false starts, Robbie and Aileen began to move in synchrony. “Splendid!” Daria called from the pianoforte. “One two three, one two three!”

  Aileen, Jamie was surprised to see, was beaming up at her husband. Jamie had not seen her smile quite like that in an age, and he was reminded that he’d once considered her a bonny lass. The footman ushered a maid in, and Geordie grinned at her, took her by the wrist and the waist, and began to dance. The girl protested that she did not know what he was about, but in a few moments she was dancing, her focus intent on her feet.

  There was something different in that small parlor that perplexed Jamie. It was vague, intangible, but he could feel it. He couldn’t name it until he heard the maid laugh, then it suddenly struck him. Since the night Geordie had called Cormag out, there had been no laughter at Dundavie. Not until tonight. Not until an English rose taught them to dance.

  They danced until Hamish stood up and clasped his hands behind his back and attempted to dance a jig to the unfamiliar music. But his age and his infirmity had left him without any natural rhythm, and he was soon knocking into the other dancers.

  Everyone stopped dancing the waltz to give Hamish a wide berth. Daria seemed uncertain of what to do and stopped playing.

  “Cluich!” Hamish shouted at her, telling her to play on.

  “Uncle, it’s time we all retired, aye?” Robbie said, putting his hand on his uncle’s shoulder.

  But Hamish clearly had other ideas and shrugged Robbie off. “Cluich, Laurna!” When Daria did not respond, Hamish lunged for the pianoforte.

  Geordie stopped him, gently pushing him back.

  “Take him,” Jamie said, gaining his feet. This was another once unheard of but increasingly familiar side of his uncle—the quick temper, the rash actions.

  Geordie linked his arm with Hamish’s, urging him to come along and gently pulling him to the door.

  Hamish looked confused, staring up at Geordie as if he weren’t certain who he was. “Has Laurna finished, then?”

  “Aye, she has,” Robbie said, and held out his hand for Aileen. He glanced at Jamie, gave him a nod. “Oidhche mhath.”

  “Good night, lads,” Jamie said. “Aileen.” He handed Geordie’s slate to Aileen.

  When they had gone, Jamie looked at Daria. She had stood up from the pianoforte, her expression full of sympathy for the old man. Jamie started toward her, but his leg had stiffened and he limped more than he had all day. When he reached the pianoforte, he eased himself down onto the bench.

  She slowly sat beside him. “What happened to Hamish?”

  Jamie wished he understood precisely what had happened to his uncle. “I donna know,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “It began a few years ago and has grown worse.” He touched a few keys, playing a song from a distant memory of his childhood when he’d been forced by his mother to engage in music lessons. “It will make you a proper gentleman, Jamie,” she had said.

  Daria smiled with delight. “You play!”

  “I do no’,” he said with an easy smile. “I remember a few things from my music lessons, but I donna play. You, on the other hand, play very well, lass. Thank you for indulging us, aye?”

  “Should I take from that you were suitably entertained?” she asked, and playfully nudged him with her shoulder as she began to play lightly, her fingers scarcely touching the keys at all.

  “Aye, that I was.” He’d been entertained in a way he could not describe. He was softening, he knew it. He did not care to be soft; scarcely anything annoyed him more than giving in to a woman’s smile. “When I was a boy,” he said, turning his attention away from the curve of her neck, “Hamish was considered the family historian. He would regale the entire clan with tales of heroic Campbell ancestors.” He smiled at the memory. “He would act out the more gruesome parts of our history with long swords and descriptions of bloody body parts for the boys, myself included. Now, he canna recall his full name most days.”

  Daria nodded and played another couple bars. “May I ask you something? Why is Geordie so angry? He may have told me his grievances against me, but alas, his spelling is so very atrocious, I can’t understand it.”

  Jamie couldn’t help but laugh. “Aye, in English as well as Gaelic. My brother was never one for the classroom. He wanted to be a soldier, a slayer of man and beast. He is a smart man, a good man, aye? Yet I never knew how poor his writing was until he became mute.”

  “Until?” Her hands paused gracefully on the keys. “He’s not always been mute?”

  Jamie shook his head. “It’s a recent injury. In the course of a meal that was intended to bring the Brodies and the Campbells together, no’ drive them apart as they’ve been for two hundred years, Geordie acted rashly. He called another man out,” he said to Daria’s questioning look. “In the Highlands, there’s no’ much that can stop two men who want a go at each other, aye? And, as these things generally go when two clans are involved, there is no’ much that will stop brothers and cousins and sons and fathers and uncles from joining the fray.”

  “Oh,” she said, nodding.

  “And,” Jamie added with a sigh, “as these things go for brash, hotheaded young men, Geordie was so badly wounded in the melee that he was made mute.”

  “How tragic!”

  “Aye. Whether or not his voice will return remains to be seen,” he said. “But at present, a man who once made better use of his tongue than his hands is now reduc
ed to a slate and a wee bit of chalk. That’s what angers him.”

  She gazed thoughtfully at the keys, playing lightly once more.

  If only she knew the whole story of that supper, that infamous, meticulously planned supper, which had been intended to put to bed some of the more egregious complaints the Brodies and Campbells had harbored against each other the last two centuries. Jamie’s first thought—when Cormag Brodie had said whatever it was he’d said (his words lost along with the pig that had been roasted for the occasion), and Geordie had flipped the table, sending crystal, china, wine, and pig flying—was that he was right to have wanted a much smaller affair. His second thought—as Cormag had lunged, his hands grasping for Geordie’s throat—was that perhaps it would be best if the Brodies and the Campbells never dined together.

  The melee had spilled into the old bailey, with Campbells swinging fists at Brodies, and Brodies swinging swords at Campbells. It had ended when Cormag swung his claymore wide, striking Geordie in the neck. If Geordie had not been so agile, he might be headless now. If Cormag had been a little less meaty, he might have lost his life as well, but the knife Geordie managed to stab into his leg had not penetrated so deeply as to drain his life’s blood.

  As three men struggled to drag Cormag away, Isabella had said, “I canna enter into a permanent union with a man whose brother would wish my brother dead. I’m sorry, Jamie.” She’d followed her kinsmen out, daintily holding up the hem of her gold gown so as not to drag it in the blood and muck.

  It had been a moment when Jamie could not think of what to say. He was the sort who needed time to think, to mull, when presented with a weighty matter such as the end of an engagement and the crash of dreams for a happy union and a family. He was the sort to choose his words carefully . . . so he hadn’t spoken at all.

  He had not called her back.

  The end of his engagement to the fair Isabella had been a blow to Jamie’s heart, and, admittedly, his ego. He’d been quite fond of her, and supposed he still was. She was pretty, with wide green eyes and copper hair. But he was a laird, and women did not cry off from engagements to lairds.