Autumn in Scotland

by Karen Ranney

  “You wished to see me, your ladyship?”

  Curiosity had taken hold of her—or had never truly left—ever since the moment George had appeared in the ballroom door.

  “I would ask the question of my husband, Matthew, but he isn’t here. Does George have a concubine in Penang?”

  Matthew stared at her, the expression in his eyes unreadable. “I am not a source of information on your husband, your ladyship.”

  She returned his look, annoyed. “Why did he choose Penang for his destination? Why the Far East? It seems a very long way to travel.”

  “I do not know the workings of his lordship’s mind,” he said.

  “Would you tell me if you did know?” She studied him. “Are you truly that loyal?” she asked him. “Do you ever answer a question about George?”

  “I will answer anything it is of my ability to answer, your ladyship, but I must warn you, I do not know a very great deal about George.”

  “Haven’t you been with him some length of time?”

  Matthew bowed, a habit that was growing exceedingly irritating. “Your ladyship, I have been with my master for some time.”

  She frowned at him. “I don’t understand your way of talking, sometimes. Are you trying to be deliberately enigmatic?”

  “Indeed, I am not, mistress. I am trying to answer your questions. If I do not speak in the clearest of English, it is my lack, not your understanding.”

  “Your English is perfect, Matthew, which you know quite well. If everyone at Balfurin spoke as perfectly as you I would be quite pleased.”

  Matthew allowed himself to smile, a sign that their conversation was over. She knew she wasn’t going to get any more information about George from his servant. He bowed once more before leaving her.

  “Isn’t he the most fascinating man?” Maisie said, coming into the room just at that moment. Charlotte wasn’t fooled; she knew her maid had been waiting for the end of the conversation.

  “You needn’t feel as if you have to protect Matthew from me,” Charlotte said. “I am not going to breathe fire on him like a dragon. I can’t dismiss him, and I’m not about to put him in irons, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Matthew is as safe with me as you are.”

  “Oh, I know that, your ladyship, but he doesn’t. I do think he’s afraid of you.”

  She glanced at Maisie. “What has he said about me?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But then, Matthew doesn’t say a very great deal about anything. He has just now begun to tell me about his homeland.”

  “Does he never speak of George?”

  “Sometimes,” Maisie said. “I think Matthew is worried about him, but I don’t know why.”

  “Is he ill?” Was that the reason he’d suddenly come home? Dear God, had he come home to put his affairs in order? Had he needed her forgiveness before dying? Charlotte felt so strange that she abruptly sat in one of the chairs before the fire. No, surely a man as vigorous looking, and as virile as George could not be dying.

  “I don’t know, your ladyship. Shouldn’t you ask the earl?”

  Charlotte nodded, lifting her hand in a gesture of dismissal. She’d lost her maid to George’s servant, and her peace of mind to George.

  Seventeen days. What had George found to do for seventeen days?

  Maisie sat beside Matthew at meals, not to shield him from the other servants, but because she felt protected by him. He never made a comment about her foot. Nor did he ever say anything about her occasional ungainly stride. He never raised his voice and he always had fastidious manners as if he were a lord or something. Even if he didn’t like something Cook had prepared, he always made a point of thanking her for her effort.

  Sometimes, especially when they were out walking together in the evening, he would put out his hand and she would put hers on top.

  “What a lord and lady we are,” she said once, and he smiled.

  “Does it concern you, Maisie, that you were not born to be a lady?”

  She’d never considered it before. She was simply who she was. “I can’t say so,” she told him. “I really don’t think I’d like to be a lady. Her ladyship doesn’t look very happy, for all her title is Countess.”

  He nodded and they didn’t discuss it further.

  Now she did something terribly shocking. She put her hand on his leg under the table. He glanced over at her, so abruptly that she was startled almost into moving her hand. But she kept it where it was atop the silken material of his robe.

  The silk felt wondrously smooth to her palm. What must it feel like to wear such a garment?

  He made a sound with his lips, as if he clicked his tongue against them. When their table mates were making the most noise, he leaned over and whispered to her. “What are you doing, Maisie?”

  “I am being forward,” she said, staring down at her food. In truth, she wasn’t very hungry, but she had learned to always accept a meal when it was presented. There was no telling when another might come along.

  “To what purpose are you being forward?”

  She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

  There was a small smile playing around his mouth, and for a horrified moment she wondered if he was mocking her. But the expression in his eyes was filled with warmth.

  She squeezed her hand over his knee.

  “Because I very much wanted to touch you. You were too far away, and I didn’t want to wait until after dinner.”

  He abruptly stood, startling her.

  “Come.” That was all he said, just that one word command. He didn’t ask if she wanted to be with him. Nor did he try to convince her. Simply that one word as if he knew she’d obey.

  She nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste to follow him outside.

  There was no moon tonight, and she was grateful for the darkness. She wanted to call out to him to not walk so quickly, because there was no chance she could keep up. But he stopped at the other side of the barn, turning to face her, such a looming dark shadow that she halted, cautious of him as she’d never been.

  She’d not had a chance to grab her cloak. Patches of snow were still left on the ground and the wind was cold. She cupped her arms in her hands and stared up at him.

  He was angry. She’d never seen Matthew angry. Normally, his temperament was even, his words calm.

  “Have you no wisdom? Do you not know those things all women do?”

  “I knew what I did was wrong,” she confessed. “I shouldn’t have done it, but I very much wanted to.”

  He didn’t say anything for the longest time.

  “I really wanted you to kiss me, but I couldn’t wait until we went outside. It might have snowed, or we couldn’t take our walk.”

  “You wanted me to kiss you?” he asked.

  “What’s a girl to do, but be forward? What with you being all proper all the time?”

  “Maisie,” he began, but now she was the angry one.

  “I’ve a right to touch you, Matthew. I do. You’re walking out with me, and it means something in Scotland even if it means nothing in the Orient.”

  “What does it mean?” he asked cautiously.

  She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “That you think I’m special. That you want to talk to me where prying ears can’t overhear. That you want to spend time with me, and tell me things you don’t tell anyone else. And if you don’t like that, well you can just be angry all over again.”

  When he didn’t speak, she took a few steps toward him. “I’m not afraid of you, Matthew. You can be just as angry as you like.”

  “There is no reason to be afraid of me. I do not hurt the weak and the defenseless.”

  “Don’t call me weak,” she said. “I may be smaller than you. But I’m not weak.”

  “You are filled with pride. Such a thing can be good but it can also be bad. Pride gives you a wrong view of the world, Maisie. It makes you think that you can do things that you cannot do. It makes you brave in the face of da
nger. Sometimes a person is weak, and it is better to admit such a thing.”

  “I’m weak near you,” she said.

  “You must not say such things.”

  “I only touched you,” she said, uncomfortable with his tone. There was something in his voice that hinted of sadness.

  “You touch me the way a woman does when she wants a man to respond. You want me to put my mouth on you, to take you to my bed.”

  “All that?” She smiled up at him.

  “All that,” he said somberly.

  “And if I do?” She wished there was more light. She didn’t want to see kindness or pity in his expression. Let his eyes reveal that warmth she’d seen at the dining table.

  “That would not be wise.”

  “No,” she agreed. “It probably isn’t wise. But must we be sensible all the time, dearest Matthew?” She took another step and when she was close enough, flattened her hand against his chest.

  “Kiss me, Matthew. Please.”

  He took one step back, but that was all. She smiled and approached him once more and this time he didn’t move.

  “Does a Malay man kiss differently from a Scot?”

  “I do not know how a Scotsman kisses.”

  She reached up and placed her hands on his shoulders, gently drawing him down toward her. “I shall tell you if it’s any different.”

  “Have you kissed a great many men?”

  “Only one man has ever kissed me before, and he was my brother’s friend. He married last year and I couldn’t help but think of that kiss when I watched him taking his vows.”

  “And if it is different?”

  “Then I shall probably like it more,” she said. “I didn’t like his kisses all that much.”

  He placed his hand on her cheek, the action stilling her.

  “And if you don’t like it?”

  “How can you say that, Matthew? It’s better already.” She smiled and stood on tiptoe. “Because it’s you.”

  Then, before he could prevent it, she kissed him full on the mouth.

  “There,” she said when she pulled back. “I’ve been thinking of doing that for quite a few days now.”

  “You have?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, and see, it’s not something I’ll regret in the future. I’ll never have to simply wish that I’d kissed Matthew, because I did.”

  “No woman in my country would have dared to kiss me first.”

  “What would the women in your country do?” she asked.

  “They would wait until I kissed them.”

  “Pity them,” Maisie said. “You might never be brave enough.”

  He reached over and, before she had a chance to react, framed her face with his hands and gently lowered his lips to hers. When the kiss was done a moment or so later, he pulled back. Her lids fluttered open and her eyes grew wide.

  “It is not simply good enough to do a task, Maisie,” he said tenderly. “One must do a task well.”

  She sighed in response, wrapped her arms around his neck, and whispered, “You’re going to kiss me again, aren’t you? Just to show me how it’s done?”

  Matthew smiled, and extended his arm. From his sleeve came a burst of light, a small bluish glare that had her smiling in delight. Then he leaned down and kissed her again, and she forgot all about one kind of magic and experienced another.

  Chapter 18

  D uring the school term, Charlotte insisted that all her students attend chapel every morning in addition to Sunday service. Once a month, a minister came from Inverness to preach a rousing sermon. On the other three Sundays, she and the teachers took turns reading a lesson. They sang hymns, and read from the Book of Common Prayer. Altogether, it was a very short, but very worshipful ceremony.

  Since all of the teachers and students had left the school, Charlotte had thought of simply avoiding Sunday service. But this morning, she’d felt the need to be closer to God.

  Ever since coming to Balfurin, she and God had engaged in a quid pro quo arrangement. Charlotte showed Him some measure of prayerful piety and He in turn let her have her way in a few things.

  However, she’d learned to make her requests to the Almighty in such a way that she didn’t neglect any of the necessary elements. If she were praying for a new cook, for example, someone with the ability to create appetizing meals in the abundance required to feed a school of this size, she didn’t neglect the fact that the woman be healthy or that she have some sense of thriftiness when it came to purchasing supplies.

  God had a way of being literal, of giving her exactly what she asked for and nothing more.

  What would be the proper prayer for George? As the music swelled around her, and the enthusiastic voices of the staff rose to match the sounds of the organ, Charlotte found herself composing exactly the right petition.

  What did she need to incorporate into her prayer to ensure that the Almighty handled George in just the right way? She didn’t want anything bad to happen to him.

  Dear God. There, a good start. She had a problem addressing God as Father. It reminded her too much of Nigel Haversham. He would have been pleased to know that as a child she’d thought Nigel was God. No, Dear God was best.

  Please have George…what? She hesitated.

  George had effectively trapped her, and the knowledge only added to her annoyance. She couldn’t divorce him for desertion since he’d returned, and she couldn’t divorce him, period, unless they were separated. George needed to move out of Balfurin, perhaps live in Edinburgh for a period of years. Then, she could go through the cumbersome steps in the divorce proceedings. She doubted, however, that she could convince him to do so since he was so enamored of the Orient. But if he returned to Penang, the Scottish courts would decree that he was out of their jurisdiction, and she’d be right where she’d been for the last five years.

  Did the Almighty look askance on a woman who prayed for a divorce in the middle of a church service? She didn’t think it was quite fair if God punished her for doing so since she was somewhat trapped by circumstance, but just in case God was not feeling charitable, she modified her prayer somewhat.

  Dear God, please let George leave Balfurin with all possible speed.

  Dear God, please let me be able to frame questions to Matthew in a way that he will answer. There, a more acceptable prayer, certainly. Surely God wouldn’t be annoyed at her for asking that.

  Now, for the important part of the prayer.

  Dear God, please do not let George be attractive to me in any way. Please do not let me wish him to my bed. Please do not let me evince any curiosity whatsoever in the reason he’s been gone for twenty days. Twenty, God. What on earth can he find to do that would take him twenty days?

  Dear God, give me some sense. Help me not to fall in love with my own husband. She hesitated. Surely that prayer wasn’t entirely wise. Dear God, I’m so very confused. I don’t know what to do or what to pray for. Please, help me. Please, show me what is best. Send me a sign, please God. A little assistance would not be amiss.

  She listened to the droning of the voices and sang a verse or two. Sometimes she thought she had a lovely voice, but that’s when she sang alone in front of the fire in her tub. But what she lacked in skill she made up for in gusto. Surely God would approve of her enthusiasm.

  Matthew glanced at her once and then away. How odd that he knew the service so well. She would have expected him to be Buddhist, or some other esoteric religion, but he seemed very much at home with the Presbyterian service.

  Dear God, please let George return soon. We must solve this difficulty between us. I am very much afraid that he’s going to abandon me, and I don’t wish to be cast aside like an old pair of boots. I want to feel love in my life, and while I appreciate the relationship of mankind to you, and while I choose a close relationship to you, God, is it wrong to pray for love with a…man?

  God was regrettably silent, and so was the congregation, the hymn finally over. Charlotte moved to the front and re
cited today’s verse.

  She couldn’t imagine what had been on her mind when she’d chosen it. It was an exceedingly dull selection, having to do with the fruits of one’s labors.

  She looked out at the congregation, numbering no more than fifteen people, servants she’d employed from the early days at Balfurin. Each one of them looked up expectantly, as if she were a minister herself, as if she knew exactly the right words that would give them comfort and ease their days.

  She’d always been a bookish child, and a shy young woman, so odd in appearance that she might have been overlooked in the marriage market except for her fortune. It was only in the last few years that she’d seemed to change, to grow into her features. Her hair had darkened in color a little, had become less blindingly red and more auburn. Her nose hadn’t seemed quite so long. Her chin was not quite so pointed anymore.

  But as her appearance had become more acceptable, her role had grown. She had piled more and more responsibility on herself until every moment of her day was planned. There were such time constraints on her that sometimes she knew she would not get everything done and consequently spent the waking hours worrying about those incomplete tasks, and her sleeping hours dreaming about everything she needed to do.

  Why? So that she would have no free time at all in which to examine her life? Or like now, staring out at a sea of murmuring people, realize that the life she had created for herself was one that should have been lived by a woman thirty years older.

  Where had her youth gone? When had her joy disappeared? Was she not to have any fun at all in life?

  To her horror, she realized she’d become more straitlaced than her mother and more governing then her father. She’d become her parents. Where had the girl gone who’d defied them both? Where was the Charlotte who had decreed that she would remain at Balfurin in defiance of everything?

  That young woman still lived somewhere inside her, a little afraid of what she’d become. Staid, determined, wrapped in propriety as tightly as a bandage. Priggish.

  She caught herself and began to read the passage aloud again. The congregation would have to make of it what they would, extract the meaning for themselves. She was not in the mood to be profound. She didn’t want to be their religious leader. Right now she didn’t want to be the matriarch of Balfurin, its chatelaine. She didn’t want to be the headmistress of the Caledonia School for the Advancement of Females. She only wanted to be Charlotte, a little wild, and a little wicked.