The Laird Takes a Bride

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The Laird Takes a Bride Page 4

by Lisa Berne


  “I’m going to Castle Tadgh. We need Miss Cowden to come in right away, and bring all her assistants, and plan to stay as long as necessary. I need a new wardrobe, and we haven’t much time.”

  Her mother—seated across from Parson Tidwell, who had no doubt come on behalf of his tedious orphanage or his seemingly endless supply of poor people—at once lost her look of thinly disguised boredom and turned to Janet in astonishment. “You’re going to Castle Tadgh? Why?”

  “So I can marry Alasdair Penhallow, of course.”

  “The Penhallow? He’s offered for you?”

  Janet Reid smiled. “No. But he will.”

  Instantly her mother grasped the salient facts. “I’ll send a note to Miss Cowden right away,” she said, and with a nod to Parson Tidwell she rose, indicating that his presence was now, well, more than a little onerous.

  Miss Wynda Ramsay’s home was in the Uplands, but she was not there to personally receive the letter. She was in Glasgow, where she was in her final weeks at Miss Eglinstone’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, at which esteemed establishment she had over the years received a superior education in all the necessary subjects including dancing, French, needlework, watercolors, music, penmanship, and use of the globes.

  However, an express had swiftly been sent from home, and Wynda was to wait at Miss Eglinstone’s until her parents could arrive and sweep her directly off to Castle Tadgh. Wynda used the time very productively to graciously share the good news with her schoolfellows (was it her imagination, or did they seem to turn an unattractive shade of green?), as well as to consult her guidebook which described all the best estates, castles, and monuments in Great Britain.

  Castle Tadgh, it turned out, figured importantly as one of the most magnificent dwellings in Scotland. It had been completely modernized by the present owner’s father, while still preserving the essential and historical qualities of its centuries-long existence. The grounds, said the guidebook, were extensive, with a breathtaking view of Ben Macdui, the towering mountain considered by many to be the area’s distinguishing geological feature.

  Wynda pondered this, then tossed the guidebook aside and turned to her tall stack of London newspapers, magazines, and Court announcements. Alasdair Penhallow was related to the English Penhallows, which was far more interesting. And Mrs. Henrietta Penhallow, the celebrated matriarch of the family, had recently been occupying their palatial townhouse in Berkeley Square during the Season, where she had been seen at receptions at St. James’s Palace (hobnobbing with Royalty!), at Almack’s, balls, routs, assemblies, Venetian breakfasts, concerts, fashionable galleries, and everywhere else the haut ton went.

  Who cared about fusty old castles when Society beckoned?

  Surely, thought Wynda, the Scottish Penhallows would be invited to join their English relations on a long, long visit, and who would provide the requisite entrée into the most exclusive circles.

  And surely she—with her beauty, her charm, her many accomplishments, her deep knowledge of both the Peerage and social etiquette —would shine as one of the most dazzling ornaments among the beau monde.

  Her parents had stupidly believed she would be content to return home to Dumfries. That provincial backwater! Filled with nobodies!

  But now, Wynda’s ambitions suddenly seemed within her grasp.

  Marry Alasdair Penhallow, and then … London. Glittering, sophisticated London. It was waiting for her.

  Sitting in the solarium with Mother and, unfortunately, Cousin Isobel, Fiona had just finished sewing a handsome little baby smock and was deciding whether to start on a new one, or to pick up her book, or to (reluctantly) help Cousin Isobel with a ludicrously tangled mass of yarn with which she was ineffectually wrestling, when Father came striding in, his muddy boots leaving a damp, malodorous trail behind him. In one hand he held an opened letter which he tossed at Fiona.

  “You’re off to Castle Tadgh, girl,” he said.

  “What? Why?” she demanded.

  “Clan decree.”

  Frowning, Fiona picked up the paper from the floor at her feet and scanned both sides. “This is addressed to me.”

  Father shrugged, and Mother said in a high, excited voice, “What on earth is going on?”

  “Alasdair Penhallow’s to choose a bride from among the eligible lasses of the Eight Clans, that’s what’s going on. I suppose I’ll have to reinstate her dowry. Although those drains in the turnip fields are clogging in a bad way.”

  Penhallow, thought Fiona, her brain spinning frantically. Penhallow again! Then she seized upon one pertinent element. “I’m sure I’m too old for this, Father!”

  He only gave her a wolfish smile. “Read the letter.”

  She did. And glared at Father. “It says here that if I were twenty-eight, I’d be past the age of eligibility. This is ridiculous! Demeaning! I’d rather die than traipse off to Castle Tadgh to be displayed like a sheep before some reprobate!”

  “Keep reading.”

  In a disbelieving voice Fiona read out loud: “‘The consequence for failing to abide by sacred clan law is death. Said female to be weighted with stones and flung into the nearest loch known to have a depth greater than twenty feet. Bagpipe accompaniment optional.’”

  “How romantic!” put in Cousin Isobel, wreathed in smiles. “Fiona, dear, what a wonderful opportunity for you!”

  Fiona glared at her, too, wishing she could hang a millstone around that dame’s plump neck and shove her into the closest body of water.

  “You’re to leave tomorrow,” said Father.

  “Tomorrow?” Mother exclaimed. “But I couldn’t possibly be ready to leave by then!”

  “Oh, you’re not going,” Father told her, then looked over at Fiona, his eyes twinkling maliciously. “I’m sending Isobel as her chaperone.”

  There was a stunned silence.

  “No!” said Fiona with revulsion, even as Cousin Isobel gave a little shriek of delight and said:

  “My dear Bruce! What an honor! You can be sure I’ll take very, very good care of dear Fiona!”

  Fiona shot her a malevolent glance. Yes, just as you did in Edinburgh nine years ago, you old bat, when I came for a nice long visit. Encouraging Logan Munro’s advances to me. Leaving us alone together, when you knew it was wrong. And look what happened. I fell head over heels in love with him, and expected to marry him. Only it didn’t quite turn out that way, did it?

  Mother faltered, “But surely I ought to go … I simply assumed—”

  “My mind’s made up, madam. We’ll have no further discussion on the topic. Besides, they won’t be gone long. Penhallow will take one look at her and I reckon that’ll be that.”

  A soft, incomprehensible murmur of distress came from Mother but she didn’t dare to actually say anything, and Fiona responded, with a politeness that imperfectly concealed deep irony, “Why, thank you, Father. Everyone says I take after you, after all.”

  He scowled. “Will you never curb that sharp tongue of yours, girl? It’s lucky for you that you’re the spitting image of myself, else I’d have sworn your mother played me false.”

  “And you’d have left me as a babe on the shores of the bay to die?”

  Another murmur from Mother; a growl from Father who curtly said to Isobel, “Make ready, for you both leave at dawn,” and stalked out of the solarium. Gone but not forgotten, thought Fiona, as he’d left the foul stink of his boots behind him. Furiously she jumped to her feet and thrust the letter into the fire, and with a satisfaction she knew was foolish, she watched it burn to cinders.

  She did not turn around when she heard Cousin Isobel exclaim happily, “Well! This is going to be so much fun!” Because otherwise she might have been tempted to say—or do—something which later, it was just possible she might regret.

  Chapter 3

  Castle Tadgh, Scotland

  One week later …

  This dinner, thought Alasdair Penhallow, was bizarre. During it, as one course succeeded another, he’
d been stared at by his guests as if he were a puzzle to be worked out, a celestial visitation, an exotic and possibly dangerous wild beast, or a meal for a starving person.

  He took a sip of wine and glanced around the high table. How odd to think that sitting here before him was the young lady who would become his wife. He wondered how long it would take for him to make his selection. Would he decide right away, or wait until the last minute? Luckily, no one could expect him to make a decision tonight, so he could, at least, look at them without raising expectations too high.

  One thing was already obvious: they were four very different women.

  Miss Mairi MacIntyre was a wee dainty lass, pretty as a princess, even to the sparkly tiara set in her golden locks. She sat to his immediate right, and shared her chair (and much of her food) with her asthmatic pug-dog, a friendly little beast whose overtures to Cuilean had been met with regal indifference.

  Next to Mairi was Miss Janet Reid, whose emerald-green eyes shone and white teeth flashed. Attractive and vivacious, she seemed entirely at her ease, matching him glass for glass of wine, and exchanging endless jokes and banter across the table with Uncle Duff, who roared with laughter and sent speaking glances of approval to Alasdair.

  To Duff’s left had been placed Miss Wynda Ramsay, clad in a daringly low-cut gown which flaunted a stupendous décolleté. She ignored Janet Reid’s spirited attempts to bring her into the conversation, saying, in a clear, carrying voice to her neighbor, “So vulgaire to parlay-voo sur la table! Il ne foo passie, don’t you agree, mein sherry Mademoiselle Douglass?”

  Miss Fiona Douglass, the fourth candidate, seemed to jump at the sound of her surname, then turned to Wynda and said a little absently (in flawless French, unlike that of Wynda):

  “Ce sont des circonstances extraordinaires, alors peut-être beaucoup plus doit être pardonné.”

  These are extraordinary circumstances, so perhaps much must be forgiven. Alasdair repressed a sardonic snort of laughter as Wynda smiled and replied, with kindly condescension, “You speak French oossie! Trez bean! Quel bonheer!”

  Janet Reid was less circumspect and did laugh heartily, although Wynda seemed oblivious as to the reason why. Alasdair directed his gaze again to Fiona Douglass. She was a striking woman—he supposed that could, at least, be said about her. She was unusually tall, and very slim, with thick straight hair of so pale a blonde that it seemed almost to have a silvery shimmer to it. Her eyes, big in her slender face and framed by long dark lashes, also defied simple classification, for they seemed to change color, much like a stormy sea or a sky roiled by strong winds. Just now they were a mysterious gray-blue, remote, aloof, as if she were—or rather wished herself to be—a thousand miles away.

  She alone among the four gave the appearance of utter disinterest … in him? In the competition for his favor? Alasdair studied her curiously. She wasn’t his type at all. He preferred shorter, rounder lasses, with dark hair and laughing eyes, who were lively and sportive. Not ice maidens who looked at you, through you, like you didn’t even exist. That, he thought wryly, was an unusual experience for him.

  Well, what did he care?

  Fortunately, there were three other lasses who seemed to find him quite appealing.

  Still, as he bent his head to courteously attend to a remark little Mairi was making, something about dancing and a ball (was she actually talking about glass slippers?), he wondered, just for a moment, exactly what it was that Miss Fiona Douglass was thinking about.

  In her mind, Fiona was composing the letter she planned to write to Mother later that evening.

  Today we arrived safely after six straight days of travel. I am deeply grateful I was riding Gealag as it spared me the necessity of talking to Cousin Isobel for much of the time. She was very distressed by the extravagance of our accommodations and insisted on, for her part, sleeping in less expensive bedchambers and so by the time we arrived at Castle Tadgh she was covered in fleas and the carriage is infested. I will look into remedying that as soon as possible. The carriage, I mean. Cousin Isobel is on her own.

  The castle itself was a surprise. I’ve only seen a little of it, but apparently it has been extensively renovated. My rooms —yes, rooms—include a capacious dressing-room with its very own bathtub, with hot water cleverly conveyed into it by means of a cylinder and pipe. Cousin Isobel was scandalized when she saw it and declared I must take my baths in a tub before the fire, with hot water brought up by maids, as is customary, but there she is wrong (yet again). I am going to take a long, hot bath TONIGHT.

  I’m very sorry to have missed your birthday, Mother, but I send you my felicitations and love. This stupid event here cannot, according to its own arcane rules, last beyond thirty-five days, but with luck I’ll be home before then and I will finish your gift as soon as possible. Please can you send Nairna the little smock I made? Also, I’m afraid that tooth of Osla Tod’s will have to be pulled—could you have Ranald Keddy out to do that? He will be gentle, I know.

  By the way, at the inn in Dornoch I had a nice talk with a farmer (a very gentlemanly fellow, no matter what Cousin Isobel may urgently write you as she threatened) who suggested warm oat and burdock poultices for sheep suffering from rupturing blisters. Perhaps you could mention that to Father.

  In this fashion Fiona passed the time agreeably enough, although as she was contemplating adding a border of crimson to the shawl she’d been knitting for Mother, and wondering if tomorrow she could start on a baby smock for Dallis, she became aware of a creeping sensation of being watched. She blinked, and realized that at her side was standing a thin, rather scrawny child of perhaps seven or eight years of age, whose pale blue eyes, with faint, almost transparent lashes, were fixed simultaneously upon herself and some other unknown object.

  Fiona smiled. “Hello.”

  “You face in the wrong direction, lady, you stare at the moon, ever changing,” intoned the little girl in a solemn voice.

  Perplexed, Fiona caught at her small, grubby hand and clasped it in her own. “I understand you not, hinny.”

  “You look but you do not see. Turn about, lady, turn about.”

  From across the table Janet Reid gave another jolly laugh—reminding Fiona irritably of a braying donkey—and cried:

  “We have a wee poetess among us! How charming! How inscrutable!”

  The girl freed her hand from Fiona’s, and slowly twisted toward Janet. After an interval of silent observation, she said, “You leap, but should not. You go, but you ought not.”

  Janet only laughed again, and Alasdair Penhallow said, “Away with you, little Sheila, for you disturb my guests. Return to your place at your table, and you’ll see that ices are shortly to be served.”

  Suddenly Sheila looked like every other child who craves dessert. “Oh, laird, ’tis my very favorite,” she exclaimed, and hurried away at once.

  “Ices,” Wynda Ramsay informed Fiona in a knowledgeable tone, “are the most fashionable goormandooze in London. The trez charmeent Prince Regent is said to be particularly fond of pistachio ice.”

  “I see,” said Fiona politely (although in fact she could not have cared less), then looked at her pretty, gold-rimmed plate as if seeing it for the first time. She had to admit—in another surprise—that dinner had been a most elegant experience, quite surpassing even the most formal meals served at home, where one could count on mutton being served every day: boiled, broiled, braised, baked, fried, stewed, and, occasionally, fricasseed. She had enjoyed every bite of her cold pheasant pie, and the poulets aux champignons, garnished with a delicate watercress sauce, also were delicious. Perhaps she could get the recipe from the cook. Something else to do tomorrow. She added it to her mental list.

  When at last dinner was over, the annoyingly jocund old man with the preposterous beard, Duff MacDermott, uncle to Alasdair Penhallow and apparently in charge of herding them around like farm animals, announced that each of the young ladies was to have time to privately converse with the laird—with hi
mself and at least one chaperone, of course, at a discreet remove.

  “Oh! A teet-à-teet! C’est amoosing!” gaily said Wynda Ramsay, and Mairi MacIntyre asked, in her soft, sweet voice, if both her parents might sit by as chaperones, and could she bring along darling Pug?

  “As you wish, my dear,” Duff MacDermott answered jovially. He shook the crumbs from his beard and glanced speculatively around the high table. “Miss Fiona, may I escort you, the laird, and Miss Isobel to the Great Drawing-room?”

  Yes, get the least likely candidate over with first, thought Fiona cynically, and, placing her linen napkin next to her plate, stood up without haste. She resisted the temptation to paraphrase the famous line from Macbeth and say, Lay on, MacDermott, and merely nodded. As their little group—preceded by servants bearing candelabra—made their way along a long gallery whose walls were hung with dozens and dozens of portraits, Fiona glanced left and right at them, aware, to her chagrin, that she and Cousin Isobel surely made a comically odd pair: herself so tall and thin, Isobel so short and plump. Nor did Isobel improve things by the manner in which she was discreetly, but continually, scratching at her flea-bites which, by the look of things, covered her from head to toe.

  When at length their party entered the drawing-room Fiona had to suppress a gasp of further astonishment: never in her life had she seen such an elegant, such an exquisite chamber, from the handsome array of sofas, chairs, and tables, all arranged so as to encourage easy conversation among small groups, to the luxurious tasseled window-hangings of dark green velvet and the many works of art, both paintings and sculptures, in sizes large and small, that were placed everywhere about to best advantage.

  Briefly she envisioned the saloon at home that served as their drawing-room—darkly wainscoted, low-ceilinged, incurably draughty, roastingly hot when one sat near the fire, and frigidly cold when one stepped ten paces back—and she couldn’t help but contrast it unfavorably to this warm, gracious, light-filled room.

 

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