A Scandalous Scot (17 page)

Instead, he said, “She was employed as a maid out of necessity. Her father was an educated man and her mother comes from good stock.”

“Good God, Morgan, you make her sound like a horse.”

“I wouldn’t be the first one to liken the marriage mart to a stable full of mares.”

“Then if you have a yen to get married, go to Edinburgh, find yourself a wife there. Or London.”

Andrew reached for something in his wooden box. At least the weather was allowing him to paint. The sun was a bright orb in a semicloudy day. Knowing the Highlands, it would rain again soon. Summer was accompanied by enough wet days to last them all year.

“Oh, I’m certain all the mamas would parade their virtuous young daughters in front of me,” Morgan said. “God knows I would be a catch.”

Andrew didn’t say a word. What could he say?

He walked closer to Andrew’s composition, wondering what the squiggles and lines would be when the painting was finished. He knew well enough, from past experience, not to ask.

Andrew had chosen his spot well, however. The river glinted in the distance, a shimmer of light in the vee between the hills.

“This might well be the last time I have the opportunity to marry,” he said. “Besides, she’s an agreeable woman.”

A rather entertaining spectacle—Andrew in shock. Perhaps he should do it more often. The only other time he could remember his friend looking stunned was the day he announced his decision to divorce Lillian.

Andrew shook his head. “You can’t do this,” he said. “Are you ready to fall even more in society’s estimation?”

“Is that even possible?”

“Is it love?” Andrew asked. “Are you in love with the girl? If that’s the case, Morgan, then simply bed her and be done with it. You don’t have to offer her marriage. You’ll be elevating a maid to a countess.”

He’d already explained Jean’s background, and for Andrew to harp on the fact annoyed him. Nor was he about to confess that she fascinated him. He wanted to know how her mind worked.

She lightened him somehow, and maybe he could ask her exactly what it was about her that made him feel so free and boyish in her presence.

“My honor isn’t so tarnished as to bed a woman dependent upon me for her livelihood.” Morgan looked at his friend. “And I’d prefer if you left my maids alone.”

Andrew’s eyebrow arched. “Would you? Is that an order, Morgan? Is that how it is between us now? You, the mighty earl, giving me orders. Tell me, do I unquestioningly obey you?”

“Evidently not,” Morgan said. “Is it Jean’s sister? The little blonde?”

“Catriona.”

At least Andrew knew the girl’s name. He turned, ready to head back to Ballindair, wishing he’d not felt the need to tell Andrew of his decision.

“You’re not your father, Morgan.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Andrew.

“All your life, you tried to be your father. When it’s obvious you’re not.”

“You think I need you to remind me of that?” Morgan asked, pushing down his irritation.

“Evidently. Otherwise, why would you think of doing such a thing? Why, because someone caught you with the girl in my room? You don’t see anyone forcing me to marry Catriona.”

“You’re already married.”

Andrew smiled. “Exactly. And you’re an earl. All you have to do is dismiss the girl.”

Morgan regarded his friend, wondering if Andrew had always been so unscrupulous, or if it was a character trait he’d only begun to notice.

“This is a stupid thing you’re considering doing, Morgan. Why? All for honor? You would ruin the rest of your life for honor?”

Andrew had asked him that very same question when he first decided to divorce Lillian.

What had he answered then? Something about being able to live with himself.

People considered his father a great man. On some level, he had always known he’d never achieve the greatness of his father. No one would ever call attention to his passage on the street, or whisper that he’d been entrusted with the Great Seal of Scotland.

Yet Morgan had wanted to be able to answer this question: Have I lived my life according to a set of principles and values that do not shame me? In this case he could answer in the affirmative.

Now Andrew moved to stand in front of him. “Morgan, don’t do this thing.”

“You weren’t this serious when I talked of divorcing Lillian,” he said. He considered the other man for a moment. “Would you have divorced your wife if she’d done the same?”

From the look on his face, the question obviously surprised Andrew.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said. “Could you have forgiven Lillian her escapades if they’d occurred with a gardener, a deliveryman, the grocer, or the butcher, rather than your friends?”

“No,” he said. “Adultery is adultery, Andrew.”

Andrew laughed.

“What happened between you and the blonde?” Morgan asked, the first time he’d ever questioned him about one of his conquests.

“It’s an interesting adventure,” Andrew said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

Another first, since Andrew normally bragged about positions, stamina, and the noises his partner made, not to mention the gratitude they expressed afterward.

He couldn’t help but wonder if both MacDonald women were proving to be more fascinating than the females of London.

“S
tand straight, Jean,” Aunt Mary said. “Or the fit will be all wrong.”

Jean kept her arms raised out to her sides as she’d been instructed. She stared straight ahead, her gaze fixed on the far wall, the better to ignore the other people in the room.

To judge from her expression, the seamstress, whose talents ran to curtains and clothing for the staff, was agonizing over the pale yellow dress she was fitting. Her aunt was frowning, and two of the maids in training were staring, wide-eyed, at Jean. She’d shared meals and learned to make French polish with them. Now she was a stranger.

She was standing on a large ottoman, elevated some two feet above the onlookers, being fitted for the dress she was to wear at her wedding. And a great many other occasions, she fervently hoped. All this effort, and all this material, should not go to waste for simply one wearing.

When she’d ventured the thought to Aunt Mary, the older woman fixed her with a stern look.

“You’re no longer a maid, Jean,” she’d said. “You’ll be the Countess of Denbleigh, and expected to dress as such.”

She nodded, unwilling to continue the conversation in front of the others.

For the last two days, she’d vacillated from thinking this marriage might be a good thing to knowing it would be a disaster. She couldn’t marry the earl.

Oh, she knew her etiquette well enough. There were books galore that could teach her how to comport herself. But how did one talk to an earl? Was she supposed to have an extensive knowledge of politics? Know a foreign language? Or be witty?

She was to have her own suite of rooms, a new wardrobe, a new title. A new life, one seemingly without purpose or duty.

An example was the sitting room of her new suite. Two maids had spent a whole day industriously cleaning, and now the room was spotless and shining. She hadn’t been allowed to do a thing to help.

In fact, she hadn’t done anything for two days now but read. Once, she’d dreamed of having time to read all the books she wished, but now she felt absurdly guilty.

“His Lordship expects you to dine with him tonight,” Aunt Mary said.

Jean glanced down at her aunt.

She couldn’t eat dinner with the earl. She couldn’t marry the earl. She certainly couldn’t bed the earl.

“I believe Mr. Prender will be in attendance,” Aunt Mary continued. “That will make it less difficult for you.”

Would it? Instead of facing just one sophisticated person, she was going to face two. Mr. Prender had a way of smirking at everyone, indicating his barely veiled contempt. But telling the earl she disliked his friend intensely was hardly a way to start a marriage, was it?

Perhaps her misery had something to do with her sister. Catriona hadn’t spoken to her for two days. She wasn’t here now, and Catriona hadn’t shared any of her meals with her. Instead, she was ensconced in the guest room she’d picked, playing at being a guest at Ballindair.

Catriona was going to be a problem.

“Can I lower my arms yet?” she asked.

The seamstress, pins in mouth, nodded, and a few minutes later one of the girls helped her down from the ottoman.

Jean sighed, and went to ready herself for dinner, feeling as enthusiastic about the occasion as scrubbing a dozen chamber pots.

Chapter 16

RULES FOR STAFF:
Never repeat any conversation you might overhear.

J
ean entered the formal dining room, or the Queen’s Dining Room, as it was called, renamed after Queen Victoria’s visit to Ballindair as the guest of the 8th earl.

The room had been redecorated in honor of that visit. The MacCraig eagle was embroidered on the cushions of the crimson upholstered dining chairs. A rectangular rug covered most of the floor, its background loomed in the same deep red, the pattern one of thistles surrounding the MacCraig clan crest. Crimson draperies adorned the floor-to-ceiling high windows, six of them revealing a view of the glen and beyond, to the river.

Aunt Mary told her the Queen had complimented the earl on Ballindair’s magnificence as well as his stewardship of the land. She’d signed the guest book, adding her comments that she’d never seen such a lovely setting as Ballindair, or one more representative of the beauty of Scotland.

Mr. Seath had the key to the glass case containing the guest book. If she became countess, she’d be able to unlock it, hold the volume in her hands and marvel that she was touching something the Queen had signed.

Neither the earl nor Mr. Prender were in the dining room when she arrived. Aleck, the footman, stood behind the chair at the head of the table. There was another place setting at the other end, and she guessed she was supposed to sit there. She guessed rightly, because Aleck came and pulled the chair out for her.

She’d known him ever since coming to Ballindair, but he didn’t smile or acknowledge her in any way. Instead, he fetched her a goblet of red wine, for which she smiled in thanks. He then moved back to his position behind the earl’s chair.

Was she supposed to instruct him in some fashion? She suspected she wasn’t supposed to talk to him. Was she supposed to pretend he wasn’t there? She was evidently invisible to him, since he looked right through her as if she were glass.

She sat in the dress she’d borrowed from her aunt, swiftly altered by the same seamstress who’d appeared so worried about her wedding gown. Although it had white lace cuffs and collar, the dark blue color reminded her of her maid’s uniform.

Was she supposed to talk at dinner? Or would she even be given an opportunity to converse? If she was expected to add to the conversation, what would she say? She knew little of politics, and nothing at all about life in London. She was certainly not going to discuss Inverness. Perhaps she should simply ask questions and allow the men to answer them.

At home, her father and mother had discussed his patients sometimes, and treatments he’d advised. When her mother had proposed an opinion, her father listened with great interest. More than once he’d given her mother praise for her insight.

She doubted the earl would be pleased by her recitation of the symptoms and treatment of gout.

Was a countess allowed to speak her mind? Or must she forever be invisible, like a maid?

She knew what her aunt was doing. Aunt Mary thought this was the perfect opportunity for her to have some security in life. Who would marry her, otherwise, knowing who she was?

How did she dissuade the earl from marrying her without telling him the truth?

She took a sip of wine and wished Aleck would go away. As the earl’s soon-to-be bride, did she have the power to dismiss him with a flick of her hand? What if she tried, and he remained stubbornly there? Or worse, what if she did so and he left the room, only to regale those in the kitchen with tales of her arrogance?

The jumble of silverware wasn’t all that confusing, thanks to her mother’s tutelage. Work from the outside toward the plate. But what did she use that odd shaped spoon for? She’d simply have to watch the gentlemen to ensure she didn’t make any mistakes.

She knew the earl was coming because Aleck suddenly snapped to attention. Turning her head slowly, she watched as he approached the table. Mr. Prender wasn’t in sight.

“Forgive my tardiness,” he said.

“You can’t marry me,” she said, blurting out the words.

He waved toward Aleck, who promptly disappeared. Perhaps she’d imagined him and he’d only been a ghost.

“Good evening to you, too, Jean,” he said, sitting at the head of the table and unfolding his napkin.

“You’re an earl. I’m a maid.”

“Thank you for explaining that,” he said.

She needed to convince him that he’d made a mistake. Then, she could obtain another position away from Ballindair, and he’d never have to know who she really was. That way, her aunt and Catriona would both be safe, and free to continue their employment.

But her plan wasn’t going to work if he refused to listen to her.

“Have you ever heard the tale of Cinderella?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Cendrillon ou la petite pantoufle de verre,”
he said. “ ‘Cinderella, or the Little Glass Slipper,’ written by Charles Perrault nearly two hundred years ago.”

“I don’t speak French,” she said.

“Pity. It’s the tale of a girl who was forced into being a maid by circumstance. She ends up attracting the attention of a prince.”

“Did he marry her?”

“I believe he did, and they lived happily ever after.”

“What rot.”

His laughter surprised her.

“I thought all women were romantics at heart.”

She’d seen the effect of deep and abiding love. If nothing else, it was frightening.

Another quick flick of his fingers and they were being served by magically appearing servants. She’d never had to serve, being a maid of all work, but she admired both the dexterity and the silence of the girls who flitted around the table.