Forgetting the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  “It’s Alex. I tried to have him measured for proper evening attire, but he wouldn’t have it.” She puffed out her chest and stuck out her jaw in imitation of her often belligerent husband. “Bloody hell, I can dress ma self, woman. Stop footerin’ aboot ma business.”

  Jemima and Virginia fell apart laughing at Lucy’s entertaining and very accurate impersonation.

  “Merde. It would be just like that stubborn Scot to show up in his father’s ratty old tartan.”

  “He wouldn’t dare,” Jemima gasped.

  “Oh, yes he would. And he’d do it just to spite ‘those bloody English toffs,’ as he refers to my father’s friends. He’s not looking forward to this ball. I just hope he behaves himself.”

  “Is Ian attending?” Virginia asked. The question truly on her mind was whether Magnus was attending.

  “I’m not sure. I’ve invited all of them and the only one with the grace to respond to my invitation was wee Peter. Thank goodness I had the presence of mind to teach him good manners.”

  “Who is wee Peter?” Jemima asked.

  “That’s just what everyone calls him. Alex sort of adopted him four or five years ago. He found him orphaned on the streets of Thurso and brought him home.” Lucy smiled half to herself. “Alex is like you in that way, Ginny. Anyway, Peter was small when he came to Balforss, so people got to calling him wee Peter. He’s Alex and Ian’s business partner now.”

  “People won’t be able to call him wee much longer,” Virginia added. “He’s as tall as I am, and he hasn’t stopped growing.”

  Jemima shook her head, still confused. “How did a foundling end up a partner in your husband’s merchant vessel?”

  Lucy and Virginia exchanged a knowing grin.

  “Let’s just say he’s a very industrious young man,” Virginia said. She turned to Lucy. “Where has your brother been? I haven’t seen Bulford around for days.”

  “And good riddance,” Jemima said. “He has been a thorn in my side since we arrived. Pestering me at every opportunity.”

  Jemima’s little burst of petulance made Virginia laugh. Lucy joined her and cried, “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

  Jemima rose from the table. “If you are implying that I give a fig about that, that, that impossible oaf, you are mistaken.” She tossed her serviette down. “Excuse me,” she said tartly. “I want to see that Iris has finished mending my gloves.” Jemima marched off in the direction of the house.

  “Stay on the path and don’t get turned around,” Lucy called. Then she aimed a furrowed brow Virginia’s way. “Are you worried Magnus won’t come to the ball?”

  Virginia pushed her untouched sandwich around her plate with a fork. “Why ever would I be worried?”

  “Virginia,” Lucy cautioned. “You’re doing it again.”

  She knew what Lucy meant. She’d given herself away by answering her question with another question. “Magnus has a low opinion of English Society. I imagine he has no interest in attending balls and such. Naturally, it would be…pleasant to see him at Maidstone Hall, but I will understand if he doesn’t come.”

  In truth, she would be crushed if Magnus made no attempt to see her before he left England forever. He had to know she was here. Bulford had been to the docks. He would have told Magnus. But not a word since her arrival. Had he given up on her?

  Lucy collected a sleeping Hercules from the folly floor and set him on her lap. “Jemima is nervous about how she will be received. She’s afraid she’ll be snubbed and that no one will ask her to dance. Do you have similar worries?”

  “Yes, well, I’m not as concerned for myself as I am for Jemima. It matters to her, you see.”

  “And it doesn’t matter to you?”

  “My aunt has been busy spreading hateful rumors about me. Her reprisal for being sent away, I suppose. It doesn’t matter. I don’t expect I’ll recover from the scandal. It’s too marvelously salacious not to speculate.” She chuckled. “I mean pirates, and Highlanders, and bigamy. What could be more titillating?”

  Lucy put a hand on Virginia’s. “Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let them see. Hold your head high Friday night. Let them see how powerful you are and that nothing that’s happened to you has even made a dent.”

  Virginia regarded Lucy’s earnest face. As the illegitimate daughter of a duke, Lucy had firsthand experience deflecting haughty looks and nasty barbs. No doubt she’d grapple with more two nights hence. But the three of them, Virginia, Lucy, and Jemima, would face the Ton together.

  “Thank you, Lucy.”

  “And besides, you’ll have plenty of men to dance with. The duke, Alex, my brother.” Lucy smirked. “Even wee Peter. I taught him the quadrille. Oh! That reminds me, the dance instructor comes this afternoon to teach us the waltz. Now, that will truly be scandalous. Papa says he will only allow the musicians to play two waltzes, but I have it on good authority that three is the accepted number at any quality ball.”

  “I’m looking forward to that, but what is it about the waltz that is so…” Virginia hunched her shoulders searching for the right word. She gave up and used Lucy’s. “Scandalous?”

  “It’s the twirling and whirling, I suppose. I’m told it leaves one absolutely breathless. The man holds you so close that sometimes,” Lucy cast a furtive glance around to make certain no servants heard her and whispered, “Sometimes thighs brush against thighs.”

  “Goodness. That does sound exciting.” But the prospect of waltzing with Alex or His Grace or Bulford didn’t appeal to her. The only person Virginia wanted to twirl and whirl her until she was breathless wouldn’t be at the ball. He didn’t like England. He could not abide Society. And he certainly would not stoop to brush thighs with her at a ball. Even if it was important to her that he be there. That realization hurt, because the truth was, she still needed his protection—perhaps now more than ever.

  …

  “I told you six times, I’m no’ going to that bloody ball.” Magnus tossed the last of the 182 sacks of hops in the cargo hold.

  “Nonsense,” Bull said. “It’s the event of the summer.”

  “Out of the way.” Alex elbowed past Bulford and fastened a tarpaulin over the hops. If cargo got wet during the voyage, it would be ruined and the bulk of their profit lost.

  Magnus yanked off his shirt and wiped the sweat from his face. “Look, man, Alex is going because he has to, Ian is going because he’s daft, and Peter is going because he doesnae ken any better, but I’m no’ going.”

  “You must.”

  Magnus clambered up the ladder to the deck for what the English laughingly called fresh air.

  Unfortunately, Bull followed close on his heels. “Some of my mates from the club will be there. Goodbody will be there. Remember him? You liked Goodbody…sort of.”

  “What stunt does that clot-heid have planned for the ball? Walk the length of the dining table on his hands?”

  “You do know Lady Langley will be there, don’t you?”

  Her name struck him like a fist aimed directly at his still open wound. If he didn’t know any better, he would check to see if he was bleeding again.

  “She and Lady L arrived three days ago, and Maidstone Hall is all the lovelier with their presence. They decorate every room like glittering ornaments.”

  “Lady L?”

  Bull waved a hand dismissively. “The Second Lady Langley.” He turned his head and scratched behind his ear.

  Magnus examined Bull for signs of dementia. He’d never known the man to go all poetic about women. “Are you sweet on her?”

  “What? That irritating red-haired baggage? Of course not. What on earth would make you think that?” he asked, suddenly hot under the collar. “Are you coming to the ball or not?”

  Magnus shook his head.

  Bull gave a sigh of surrender. “Fine then. I’ve done what I can. If you change your mind, I’ll be in the captain’s mess teaching Ian and Peter how to waltz.”

  As the bampot strutted a
way, Magnus shook his head and muttered to himself, “That man has been a boil on my arse ever since we made port.”

  Alex joined him on deck. “He did arrange a good price on the hops. I’ll grant him that. Though, between him and Lucy, I may never hear the end of it.”

  “Dinnae expect me to feel sorry for you, cousin,” Magnus said. “If ye hadnae married her ye’d still have your bollocks and you wouldnae have to go to this damned ball.”

  “I dinnae expect you to feel sorry for me. I expect you to be with me.”

  He whipped his head around, not believing he’d heard Alex right.

  Alex cocked one ruddy eyebrow. “Seems to me, you’re the one who cannae find his balls.”

  Magnus took two menacing steps toward his cousin. “What the bloody hell do you mean by that?”

  Alex countered until they stood chest to chest, nose to nose. “What I mean is, Lady Langley has the courage to face a sea of gossips and backbiters, and you cannae be bothered to spend one uncomfortable evening in the company of strangers? She needs you, Magnus.”

  “She no longer needs my protection. She made that clear.” She’d also insisted she was far too busy with her plans for the foundling home to leave London with him, and yet here she was, two weeks later. That she would drop her concerns for a party, but not for him, stung his pride afresh. “She doesnae need me. Nae doubt my presence would only hurt her precious reputation.”

  “Most of what has happened to her is the fault of that prat husband of hers, and he has paid dearly for it, but you have to bear some of the blame. Lucy says the hottest gossip has to do with her being seduced by a Scot—”

  “Dinnae talk about what you dinnae ken—”

  “Yes, it’s gossip and it may only be partly true, but it hurts all the same and she needs you. She needs you there by her side to shield her from those wicked, wagging tongues. To shield her from the nasty looks and snub noses. To show them she is beautiful and valuable and worth the attention of a good man.”

  Magnus closed his eyes. He couldn’t stand to look at Alex, much less listen to him. The truth of what he said left him feeling raw.

  “Dinnae let her do this alone, cousin. She may not want you for a husband, Christ knows you dinnae deserve her, but if you love her, you’ll be there.” Alex dipped a cup into a bucket of drinking water, dumped it on his head, and shook the excess off. “If you change your mind, I’ll be in the captain’s quarters learning how to frigging waltz.”

  …

  Virginia removed her spectacles and regarded the fuzzy reflection in her dressing table mirror.

  “There. That’s better.”

  She had been debating whether or not she should wear her spectacles to the ball. It wasn’t an issue of vanity so much as self-preservation, a way to protect herself from the slights she would undoubtedly encounter this evening. Perhaps she wouldn’t be so nervous if she didn’t see their critical looks and curious stares.

  “Nonsense.”

  She put them on again. Then took them off. Then put them right back on. In the end, she supposed upending her wine glass at supper or stumbling on the dance floor would be more humiliating than suffering a few sour faces or snide remarks.

  “Damn and bollocks.”

  “Pardon?” Lucy’s beloved Nounou Phillipa had come to help her finish dressing.

  “C’est bien.” Her French was terribly rusty, but Phillipa didn’t seem to mind.

  Virginia stood so Phillipa could fasten the back of her gown. It was, perhaps, the most beautiful she’d ever owned. She’d chosen a blush-colored silk with a square neckline, cap sleeves, bodice dripping with seed pearls, and a white cambric chemisette with a treble mushroom-pleated frill.

  “Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plait. I ’ave one more thing.” Phillipa withdrew two pearl-encrusted combs from her apron.

  Virginia sat as instructed to let the maid tuck the combs into her intricate pile of twists and whirls. Phillipa gazed into the mirror over Virginia’s shoulder. “Voila. C’est parfait.”

  It was perfect. Her hair, her gown, her jewelry. Why then, did everything feel wrong?

  Jemima appeared at her door. She cocked her head at a coquettish angle and fluttered her fan. “How do I look?”

  “Absolutely radiant.” The robin’s egg blue gown matched her eyes, but it was the daring neckline that was sure to catch everyone else’s. The skillfully selected strands of gleaming red curls dancing about her shoulders only drew attention to the tops of her breasts plumped up from her corseting.

  “I can say the same for you and more.” Jemima snapped her fan closed. “His Grace and Lucy are waiting for us in the library. Are you ready?”

  “I suppose.” Virginia gathered her fan. “Merci, Phillipa.”

  Phillipa smiled and shooed them out of the room with a flick of her hand. “Allez, allez!”

  Getting from room to room in the sprawling Maidstone mansion was no easy feat. Virginia had a giddy thought to leave bread crumbs in case she had one too many brandies this evening and couldn’t find her bedchamber. After taking a few wrong turns, they found the library. The duke’s family was seated in a kind of tableau under a painting, a Turner landscape, if she had to guess, with Lucy on one end of the settee, her skirts arranged perfectly, His Grace on the other end, looking unnaturally dashing for a man in his mid-fifties, and the elegantly attired Bulford standing center behind the settee, the picture of English aristocracy.

  His Grace rose and met them at the door. “Lovely. Both of you. Positively beautiful.”

  Virginia and Jemima curtsied and murmured a duet of, “Your Grace.”

  “Come in and join us for a brandy.” The duke went to the drinks trolley and poured them snifters of the deep amber spirit. “I thought we should have a private toast before the guests arrive.” He handed one glass to Jemima, and she took a seat across from Lucy.

  “Where’s Mr. Alex?” Virginia asked.

  “He’ll be here later. He’s coming directly from Gael Forss with Captain Sinclair and Mr. Peter.” Bulford circled the settee to stand by Jemima’s chair. Virginia witnessed an interesting exchange between the two. Jemima avoided Bulford’s gaze, and when he came close, she shifted in her chair and presented an almost bare shoulder to him. Bulford, on the other hand, was fixed on Jemima. If Virginia were to speculate…

  “And for you, my lady.” His Grace handed her a snifter and indicated she should take his place on the settee, which she did. He raised his glass. “Let us toast to these fine ladies, the three most courageous women I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, and to their reentry into Society, may tonight be a stunning triumph.”

  “Cheers.”

  A whiff of the strong spirit made her catch her breath a second before she brought the sweet burning liquid to her lips. She let the tiny sip coat her tongue before swallowing. As if on cue, all five celebrants sighed in unison before breaking into laughter at the happy accident. Yes. A good start to the evening.

  Guests began arriving at nine in the evening. Virginia was grateful she had chosen the most comfortable pair of slippers in her closet. They had spent the first hour and a quarter standing near the entry of the great ballroom with their host, greeting each and every one of his nearly forty guests—what he called his closest associates and dearest friends. For Virginia, it had been a long line of Lord This and Lady That. The few faces she remembered from previous social events were just as sour as they had always been.

  When, at last, the supper dance began, the duke suggested they join the party in the ballroom. Alex and Ian had not yet arrived and Lucy appeared tightlipped.

  “Are you worried?” Virginia asked.

  “He knows very well supper is at ten and it’s already half past,” she said, obviously irritated with Alex’s tardiness.

  “Take heart, loosey goosey. He’ll be here.”

  “George, do not start with your nonsense tonight, or I swear you will regret it.”

  “Yes,” Jemima snipped. “That goes double f
or me, Bulford.”

  He placed his hand on his chest and staggered, feigning a mortal injury. “Ladies, you wound me.”

  Virginia hooked his elbow. “It’s all right, Bulford. I don’t mind your nonsense.”

  He beamed an avuncular smile at her. “Thank you, my lady. I’ll be sure to direct all my best nonsense your way.”

  The musicians quit playing; the signal supper was served. His Grace led the way and people filed in after him, according to their station without hesitation, as if everyone had an innate sense of their place in this rigidly held world. How did that last couple feel? Did it bother them to be at the bottom of the pecking order, or were they simply happy to be included?

  Magnus was right to stay away from this awful herd. Still, it would be nice to have him here now, his big body at her elbow, to hear his rumbling burr tickle her ear. He would thoroughly enjoy the food laid out on the table: veal ragu, poached salmon, soup, assorted cold meats, sugared vegetables, aspics, flummeries, and sweetmeats. He might complain about his chair, but he’d appreciate his supper.

  The duke sat at the head of the table, and Lucy occupied the place to her father’s right. Bulford had nestled himself next to Jemima, who was doing her level best to ignore him, but ignoring Bulford was like trying to ignore the sun. Impossible. Like Lucy, he was a force of nature.

  Virginia ended up tucked between two sour dowagers who talked to each other across Virginia’s plate as if she wasn’t there. She recognized one as Lady Rodham, but she didn’t catch the other one’s name. The man and woman seated opposite alternately whispered to each other and cast disdainful looks her way. As the nearest gentleman, it was his polite responsibility to serve the ladies from the dishes set around the table, which he did—everyone accept Virginia. Apparently, they meant to starve her into leaving the table.

  Several younger people were seated a few chairs down. Virginia didn’t recognize any of them. After a burst of laughter from the group, one of the brassier young men said, “Lady Langley, I understand you had quite the adventure aboard a pirate ship, of all things. I’m interested to know, how did you find their company?”