It Happened in the Highlands

by May McGoldrick

  “Some say it’s imposing.”

  He tried to imagine how a ten-year-old might see it, particularly one who’d grown up acutely aware of the strategies of running battles and survival.

  “One might see it as a fortress, ready to withstand all attacks. The place has miles of footpaths that wind along bluffs overlooking the River Tweed where lookouts can spot an enemy’s approach for great distances. And in case of siege, the deer park and the lake would make for a steady supply of food.”

  Cuffe rode along in silence for a while, contemplating his answer and looking through breaks in the wood for a glimpse of the castle.

  Wynne had ridden over earlier in the week to meet with the earl and the countess, and formally ask their permission to marry Jo. It was no secret that they had already been married by the vicar in Rayneford. Still, a second ceremony would be performed at the church here, with a reception to be held the day before Baronsford’s famous Summer Ball.

  All of this was a matter of formality, but Wynne encouraged it, knowing how much the Penningtons meant to Jo. He was prepared to do anything to smooth over the bad memories of the past. He wanted them all to accept him and his son into their family circle.

  And that led him back here this morning, for Jo’s brother Hugh, Viscount Greysteil, had been away on legal business the day Wynne spoke to Lord and Lady Aytoun.

  “Baronsford has always been seen by Lady Jo as home. She grew up here surrounded by a loving family and scores of people who, regardless of their rank or position, are treated with dignity and respect.”

  “Is there anything not to like about it?”

  Wynne would be able to answer that better after his meeting with Hugh Pennington. Cuffe knew nothing of the duel he’d fought with Jo’s brother sixteen years ago. Today was the first time he and Greysteil were meeting since that misty dawn in Hyde Park.

  “Perhaps you can tell me when we ride back to Highfield Hall tonight.”

  They broke out of the woods into the sunlight, and Cuffe reined in his horse. In the distance, perched dramatically on a rocky rise, the castle reared up impressively over the rolling fields and meadows.

  “Baronsford?”

  “The one and only.” He watched a hesitant expression cross Cuffe’s face.

  “Imposing.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Wynne said with a smile.

  “And why exactly are we going there today?”

  “You need to meet your new mother’s adoptive parents, her siblings and their spouses,” he said reassuringly. “I was told her younger brother, Captain Gregory Pennington, was expected to arrive with his wife and niece from Torrishbrae yesterday.”

  “But why can’t all of this wait until the day of the wedding? Won’t there be scores of other people to meet?”

  Wynne understood all the questions. In every new place since they arrived in the Borders, with every new group of people, questions and whispers had begun because of the darker color of Cuffe’s skin. Questions about the legitimacy of his relationship to Wynne. Every time, he’d resolved the situation swiftly and efficiently, but Cuffe was aware of the tension.

  “You shouldn’t be nervous. The Penningtons are unlike any family you’ll ever meet. They live according to their own values, without any regard for the opinions of society. They’ve weathered far greater scrutiny in their lives than we ever shall.” Wynne reached across and placed a hand on top of his son’s. “Besides, I need you there today to help me.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “Be yourself and win their affection. Make sure they can’t refuse to take you in as a member of the family.”

  Cuffe smiled. “That will be easy.”

  “Good, because I might have a difficult time convincing the viscount to accept me as his new brother.”

  * * *

  Entering Baronsford’s downstairs library, Jo was taken aback to find her father, the Earl of Aytoun, loudly chastising her younger sister Phoebe. It had been some time since she’d seen the two of them so agitated with one another.

  “This is too much, young lady. This bruise on your face,” he roared. “If you were a man, I’d say someone punched you in the eye.”

  “I’ve told you time and time again. I ran into a door, Father. A door.” Phoebe threw up her hands in obvious frustration. “Why don’t you believe me when I tell you I have my life under control?”

  Of all the five children Lyon and Millicent raised, Phoebe was the one most like their father in temperament. “Explosive” was the way Jo’s mother put it.

  “Under control?” The earl kept up his harangue. “You come and go as you please. You ignore family obligations. Your mother and I have no idea where you are, who you keep company with—”

  “I’m here for my sister’s wedding, aren’t I? Days before the event.” Seeing Jo, she turned to her. “Save me from him. Will you, my love?”

  Jo cringed at the bluish-black mark beneath the young woman’s eye. Phoebe crossed the room and gave her a warm hug, whispering in her ear, “I need to steal Anna for an hour. There’s no one better for hiding ghastly bruises.”

  Before Jo could start her own interrogation, Phoebe ran from the room.

  “I’ve already told Millicent,” the earl said, stretching a hand toward Jo to come and sit by him. “We are hiring a Bow Street Runner to follow her. Your sister is up to mischief again. I know it.”

  She didn’t doubt it. Phoebe was the writer, the adventurer. Growing up, they’d always thought her head was in the clouds, that she was safe in her imaginative world. But lately, Jo had begun to find subtle clues that hinted of a hidden life. Men’s clothing stuffed into a corner of her sister’s wardrobe. Copied ships’ manifests on scraps of paper in a desk drawer. The hilt of a dagger with only an inch of broken blade. And now this black eye today. When confronted, Phoebe simply laughed off Jo’s concerns, telling her they were props for dramatic presentations of her plays at an upcoming house party. And Phoebe’s confidante, their youngest sister, Millie, stayed silent and tight-lipped in the face of all Jo’s questions.

  “A Runner might be a good thing,” Jo said, taking a seat next to him on the sofa. “But she’ll be angry if she finds out.”

  “I can live with her being angry, as long as she’s safe. Each of you is too precious to us.”

  Each of you. The stress he put on the words, the way he looked at her as he said them, wasn’t lost on Jo. The Penningtons knew about the family connections Jo had found in the Highlands. The earl also knew that Charles Barton had walked her to the church to marry Wynne at Rayneford.

  “I know. And I hope you know you’re still my father. The father who raised me, prized me, appreciated me, and made certain I’ve wanted for nothing my whole life. The father who taught me the values I have today,” she said, taking his hand and bringing it to her lips. “I’ll adore you and love you and cherish you to the day I die.”

  “I needed to hear that,” he said, drawing her into a bear hug. “I was ready to call out Charles Barton and duel with him over you. After all, I’ve loved you longest and by far the most deeply.”

  She smiled and stabbed away a runaway tear as Jo’s mother hurried into the room.

  “What are you doing, making my daughter cry?” Millicent scolded her husband.

  Without waiting for a response, she crossed to the windows and peered out into the gardens.

  “I can’t see them, but it’s taking far too long. They didn’t take their pistols out there, did they?”

  * * *

  As Lord Justice, Hugh Pennington used his study at Baronsford as his local seat of power. In no way was Wynne planning on groveling before the man, and he demurred at the suggestion of meeting in a room where he would be at a disadvantage.

  The viscount’s peculiar suggestion of taking a balloon ride while they resolved their past was out of the question too. He didn’t trust the man not to throw him out of the basket. And if events turned out otherwise, Wynne wouldn’t know how to land the contra
ption himself.

  He had no desire to fly to the moon before this wedding took place.

  Walking with Hugh in the gardens was not exactly the manly setting he envisioned for this conversation, but it was the only option acceptable to both Jo and Grace. Neither woman trusted them out of sight of the rest of the family. Both men, smart enough to recognize the value of listening to their wives, accepted the suggestion.

  The speech Wynne delivered was the same that he’d given to the Earl and Countess Aytoun.

  The viscount listened to the words like a judge hearing final arguments before handing down a sentence.

  “Today is exactly ten days before the wedding,” he said finally, facing Wynne. “We can still meet at dawn. Say . . . the glen down by the lake?”

  His reference to the date wasn’t unintended. Wynne had ended his engagement to Jo ten days before their wedding, sixteen years ago. But he saw no humor in the suggestion of another duel.

  “She won’t receive any letter from me today. I am not breaking our engagement. I love Jo. And in case you’ve forgotten, we’re already married,” Wynne told him. “Regarding apologies, her acceptance of mine was the only one required. And she gave her forgiveness freely. She knows what my reasons were then and she shares my feelings now.”

  The viscount’s gaze was steady, and Wynne met it without blinking.

  “Does she also know, Melfort, that you meant to die that day? You shifted your aim away from me at the last moment. You had no intention of firing your weapon.”

  Wynne wasn’t surprised that he’d noticed; Hugh Pennington was a cavalry officer then and a crack shot.

  “And you could have easily buried your bullet in my heart,” he replied. “But you didn’t. You chose to spare my life.”

  Both men were as tall and as broad as the other. Both were secure and confident.

  “I respected you for standing up for your sister’s honor,” Wynne told him. “One way or another, I was leaving her, and I wanted to make sure she had the protection of a good man.”

  Hugh considered this for a moment before speaking.

  “It took me years before I finally came to a clear appreciation of what war and absence and death does to the one left behind,” he said. “I understand you now.”

  Wynne knew Greysteil’s first wife had taken their young son and traveled to war-torn Spain in the middle of winter to be with him. The mother and child had died of the camp fever while Hugh fought to get to them. Jo told Wynne that for many years, her brother lived his life with a death wish. Grace’s arrival at Baronsford was the light that saved him.

  “War takes too many innocent lives,” Wynne said, extending his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss. I truly am.”

  A short time later, while they were discussing Jo’s natural father and his road of recovery, Gregory Pennington and Cuffe came hurrying toward them. Wynne saw his son glance over his shoulder as if fearful of whatever was pursuing them.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, drawing him to his side.

  “I’m helping him hide from Ella,” Gregory admitted.

  Wynne had already met the six-year-old niece of Gregory’s wife, Freya. With enough energy and noise to put a summer storm to shame, the child was a force to reckon with. This morning, upon their arrival, she’d immediately run to Cuffe, declaring that she liked him and asking if she could teach him to dance.

  Freya, who was expecting their first child, had been reduced to stammering. Gregory, coloring deeply, had instantly set out to distract the child. From their reactions, Wynne had a suspicion that there was a great deal of confusion with regard to dancing that the couple had no desire to explain.

  “What do you think?” Gregory asked Cuffe. “The stables, the kennels, or the lake?”

  “Cuffe!” a little girl called from up near the house.

  “The stables first,” Cuffe said, taking off on a run. “You can show me the lake after.”

  Chapter 26

  Seven Days Later

  The note from Lady Nithsdale arrived as she had expected. Their neighbor would be calling this morning.

  Jo asked Grace and her mother not to receive the woman, but rather to have a footman escort her ladyship up to her dressing room where a seamstress and Anna were putting the final touches on her wedding dress.

  She didn’t have long to wait. Anna spotted the Nithsdales’ carriage coming along the drive.

  Jo stared at her own reflection in the mirror. The short-sleeve pleated silver dress, embroidered with pearls, was costly in both materials and labor, but her mother had insisted on it. She’d made it known that Jo was her first daughter to marry, and she would have the most elegant dress imaginable, just as she deserved.

  Wynne, too, made it clear to everyone that he wanted Jo to enjoy every aspect of preparing for this ceremony, even though they were already married. He wanted the whole world to know about their happiness. He’d gone so far as to have an official wedding announcement printed in all of the London and Edinburgh newspapers, naming the Earl of Aytoun and Mr. Charles Barton as the fathers of the bride, in addition to mentioning the rest of the family.

  A few moments later, Lady Nithsdale was announced.

  Jo took a second glance in the mirror, surprised at the serenity in her expression. She recalled all the times over the years when she’d feel sick to her stomach in this woman’s company. Lady Nithsdale had made a long career of conveying Jo’s personal history, true or invented, to whomever she could find to listen. She’d never looked forward to receiving Lady Nithsdale, but had borne it with stoic civility.

  She nodded to Anna to let her in.

  Lady Nithsdale barreled into the room with the grace of an old bull. Stopping short a foot from Jo, she gasped at the sight of the dress. In her usual false show of familiarity, she placed a kiss on each of Jo’s cheeks.

  “And here you are, my dearest.” She stood back to admire the gown again. “Stunning. Regal. Absolutely fitting. You are the picture of the angel that you are. And what a shocking development, finding your natural father after all these years. Shocking. Shocking, indeed!”

  Clearly, to Lady Nithsdale, she was beloved by Jo. They were the closest of friends and it suited her to be complimentary at this moment.

  “I want to hear every detail of what happened in the Highlands. Especially, you must tell me all about you and Captain Melfort. Together again. Astonishing. A second chance at romance after all these years.”

  She motioned to the servants to remove the fabrics and tools from a nearby chair so she could sit, and looked surprised when Jo shook her head and asked the women to go.

  “Shall we be taking tea downstairs with the Viscountess Greysteil and Lady Aytoun?” she asked after they were left to themselves.

  “My apologies, but my family is not receiving callers today.”

  “Of course, dearest. You need to prepare. All of you. Only three days left to the wedding of the year. And only four days to the Summer Ball. Such exciting times for us here!”

  Jo knew the true reason why this woman was here, and it certainly had nothing to do with taking tea or admiring a wedding dress.

  Lady Nithsdale considered herself a Londoner, and lived for the wit and gossip of the clubs and salons and theatres and pleasure gardens. Then, when the fashionable crowd moved on, she followed for a month in Bath before her annual pilgrimage to the Borders in May and June. The only reason she came was because she would never dream of missing the ball at Baronsford. Jo had heard her say it a dozen times. The crowd that attended included many from Britain’s highest echelon, and Lady Nithsdale could sail about amongst them as if she herself were hostess.

  And of course, many who would be attending the ball had also been invited to come to the wedding the day before.

  “I should be home preparing as well, but first I thought I would enquire about our lost invitation.”

  “Lost invitation?” Jo asked, trying to sound surprised.

  “Why, yes,” the woman replied
shrilly. “I blamed the servants for having lost it. But Lord Nithsdale said he believed no invitation had arrived. But I told him that Lady Jo will never, never, forget her oldest and dearest friends on the most important day of her life. Us. Those closest to her. Those who have known her since the first day she arrived at Baronsford. And he said to me it wasn’t only the wedding we were not invited to, we’d also received no invitation for the ball!”

  “You weren’t invited to the ball?” Jo asked mildly, finding it amusing that her sister-in-law Grace—while making certain Wynne’s brother Sir John and his wife were included on the guest list—had crossed out some names as well.

  “Exactly. Can you imagine? The Earl and Countess Nithsdale not being asked to the Baronsford Ball? I laughed right out loud at the idea. Can you imagine?”

  Jo brushed away an invisible piece of lint from her sleeve. “Yes, I can imagine.”

  “Imagine what?” The woman’s shrewd eyes narrowed.

  “There is no mistake. No invitation. It means that you and Lord Nithsdale have not been asked to attend either event.”

  “You’re saying . . .” Deep red blotches appeared on Lady Nithsdale’s face. “I am appalled! We’re neighbors. Friends!”

  “You, m’lady, are a challenge,” Jo said calmly. “And we are certainly not friends.”

  She would have been satisfied if Lady Nithsdale had chosen to flee at this moment and spared both of them further discussion. But the woman was, unfortunately, too accustomed to the polite and reasonable Jo she’d been maligning and bullying for decades.

  “You had better reconsider your actions very carefully, young lady,” she said coldly, making her threat clear. “I could ruin you. It would be so easy. So tread lightly at this moment. Consider, if you will, what your other guests would think if I am not present to—”

  “Pray allow me to tell you what the friends that we have invited to these events will think,” Jo said, cutting her off. “They’ll be grateful they’ve been spared the company of a loud, pushy, intolerant woman and her husband. They’ll be relieved, for they will not need to listen to your malicious gossip, your sharp tongue, your arrogance, your bold and unceasing interference.”