The Highland Countess (2 page)

“Age,” said Miss Simpson grimly, tucking a stray strand of gray hair under her starched cap, “must always be honored. Remember what I have said.”

But Morag merely stroked the satin sheen of her wedding gown and thought of her fine trousseau and forgot, for the moment, everything the governess had said.

Her lord, the Earl of Murr, indeed looked old when she first saw him, which was in front of the altar, although he seemed like a resplendent figure of a man with his great chest, slim hips and good legs with fine calves. His eyes, which were as blue as Morag’s own, were slightly bulbous and his mouth was loose and wet, but he had a fine head of nut-brown hair.

Morag had trained herself to enjoy the best of each minute no matter what the circumstances. It was her way of combating the loneliness of her solitary life. So she simply enjoyed the feel of the new clothes against her body, the fine dresses of the wedding guests and the fact that her father, who hardly ever seemed to notice her, was actually shedding sentimental tears.

The journey from her home among the grim mountains of the Highlands was too uncomfortable and fatiguing to allow for any dalliance, so no attempt at consummating the marriage took place until the night of their arrival at Castle Murr.

The wedding night was very strange. It was embarrassing to sit propped against the pillows watching her husband being undressed by his valet.

First the nut-brown hair turned out to be a wig which, once removed, disclosed a nearly bald pate. Then when my lord’s corsets were unlaced, his chest fell to somewhere about his knees and, furthermore, his fine calves were made of wood and came off with his stockings.

He seemed to be looking forward to his wedding night for he leaped on the bed with a triumphant cry and got to work immediately while Morag lay back, the hem of her nightgown nearly strangling her, and thought of the king. In her mind, nakedness and humiliation seemed destined to go hand in hand. Her thrashings from her father had been administered on her bare buttocks. Her wedding night began to seem like some form of equally stern chastisement, and certainly the earl was old enough to be her father. After an exhausting time, thrashing impotently about on top of her, the earl roared, “I cannae dae a thing wi’ ye, ye cauld bitch. Och, ye mak me sick!”

And with that, he had heaved himself off her, off the bed and stomped out of the room.

She had not seen him the next day, but in the evening he had once more joined her in bed with as little success as the night before.

Although life was becoming much more civilized in this new modern world of the beginning of the nineteenth century, it is probable that under these circumstances the earl would have quietly and quickly disposed of his wife. He could have openly stabbed her to death and never been brought to trial, his servants and tenants depending on him as they did for their livelihood. But fortunately for Morag, he remembered the open envy and admiration of his elderly friends and relatives at the wedding. Somewhere in a corner of his bloated soul was a true appreciation of beauty, so instead of starting off by thrashing Morag in sheer frustration, he took himself down the back stairs and was shortly exploring the buxom charms of the new scullery maid and proving to his satisfaction that he had not grown impotent with age.

The scullery maid was a willing, clever girl, quick to learn and low enough to suit his taste. Morag did not yet know that thanks to her rival she was to be allowed to sleep alone, keep her virginity and enjoy her title. Fortunately for her, the earl had decided to keep her as an ornament to show his friends—and as a weapon to use against his brother.

Virginal Morag, sitting among the blaze of flowers in the garden, shook her head over the mysteries of marriage and decided she did not understand anything about them at all. With her optimistic nature, she put aside these troublesome thoughts and began to “count her blessings” as Miss Simpson had taught her to do.

“Firstly,” thought Morag, looking about her, “it is very pretty here. Much prettier than at home.” Home had been a low, square, damp barracks of a place, perched on the side of a mountain, forever dark and forever cold, with smoky peat fires burning in the winter. Despite the presence of the elderly servants, there was always a great deal of sewing and housework to do, not to mention the endless hours of study, her father being unfashionable enough to consider that a female should have a well-informed mind.

“Secondly, my husband appears to be very rich.” Her own father, she knew, was quite poor, even for one of the Scottish gentry. His living came from sheep farming and his political security from his father’s having changed his religion to Protestant and his allegiance to King George in time to avoid the scourge of the Highlands which had followed Prince Charles Edward Stuart’s abortive rebellion. But at least neither he nor his tenants had been sent to America as slaves, a common enough punishment for Jacobites who had escaped the sword.

“Thirdly, perhaps I shall be allowed to go to Edinburgh.” Morag did not have many daydreams or fantasies but she did want to see the capital city and look at the shops and see what kind of gowns the fine ladies wore and perhaps talk to young women of her own age.

The sun shifted slightly and a shadow swept across the grass at her feet. It was time to join her lord for dinner, which was served at three o’clock. He had told her gruffly that he expected her presence.

She ran lightly into the castle and, mounting to the first floor, entered the small, square, oak-paneled dining room where the earl was seated. He looked up as she entered and she dropped him a low curtsy. She was wearing an old-fashioned round gown of blue wool, but it matched the color of her eyes and her hair burned like a flame in the darkness of the room. The earl privately thought she looked breathtaking but he gave her his customary greeting, “Well, sit yerself down, ye whey-faced bitch.”

Morag found nothing strange about this greeting. In just such a manner did her father address his herdsmen. “And how are you today, my lord?” she rejoined politely.

“There’s a letter frae yer faither,” he said, tossing over a piece of parchment, “and a wee bit in the Perthshire
Times
about the wedding. If I find the rat who wrote that rubbish, I’ll hae him whipped at the cart’s tail.

“Did ye ever see the like?”

Morag looked at the newspaper and blinked in surprise and delight at the description of the “beautiful Countess.” Further down the reporter had written, “The Marriage of the Earl and Countess of Murr was Consummated before the Altar to the sound of the Organ.”

“Very pretty,” she remarked at last. “What is wrong with it?”

“God gie me patience,” howled the earl. “Don’t ye see anything wrong with it? Consummated, indeed!”

“Oh, yes, that… terrible,” agreed Morag politely, inwardly vowing to look up the word
consummated
in the dictionary. “I must write to father. He will be anxious to know the details of our married life.”

“Tell him,” said the earl evenly, “and I’ll shoot ye.”

Morag’s eyes clouded with confusion, then cleared. “Oh, you mean about what goes on in our bedchamber? Oh no, my lord. Miss Simpson says that a lady never talks about that.”

“Quite right,” said the earl, mopping his brow and wondering whether there was madness in the laird’s family. He fell to studying his wife as she ate her food with a healthy appetite. Things had not worked out the way he had planned, but at least his marriage was successful to all outward appearances, and that was all that mattered. The fact that the servants must know that all was not well did not trouble him in the slightest, any more than he paused to consider the emotions of his horse.

Morag must be worn and displayed like a gem and especially to one person in particular, his heir and brother, Lord Arthur Fleming.

The earl detested Lord Arthur, but the fact that Lord Arthur showed every sign of remaining his heir did not trouble the earl one whit. He did not care in the slightest what happened to his lands or title when he passed on, and anyway he felt immortal most of the time. But he had long been in the habit of competing with his young brother, and Arthur had lately become wed to a young lady of high degree who was accounted a beauty. She would pale before the glory of his Morag, thought the earl gleefully. Also, Arthur would expect a bride as young and healthy as Morag to produce heirs and that prospect should give his dear brother at least a few uncomfortable years. Arthur and his wife had been visiting London and had not been present at the wedding. So much the better. He could study their sour faces at leisure when they came to call that very evening. He roused himself from his pleasurable thoughts.

“Morag.”

“My lord?”

“My brither and his wife are to sup with us this evening. You are to wear your finest gown and you are to smile on me in a doting way… fetch me things and hang on the back of my chair. You are to tell the new Lady Fleming that I’m a powerful husband, understand?”

“Yes, my lord. It will be like a play, I think… although I have heard such things are sinful,” she added thoughtfully.

“It seems tae me there’s a great deal more sinful in that prudish mind of yours than play-going,” said the earl looking at her curiously. “Have you never felt the passion of a woman for a man?”

Morag blushed painfully and stared at her plate.

“Is it something I should feel?” she countered at last.

“For God’s sakes, what feel ye when I kiss ye?”

Morag wrinkled her pretty brow. The correct answer was “sick and suffocated” but she knew she should not say that.

“I d-do n-not know,” she stammered. “I s-suppose my f-feelings are somewhat confused.”

“Och, your mind’s a mess,” said the earl in disgust. “You’re as cold as charity, Morag, and you’ll always be the same. I would ha’ expected it had I married that old hag, Simpson, but a young girl like yourself should have mair red bluid in her veins. But you’re a fine-looking wench. I’ve a mind to try my leg over ye again. Let’s to bed.”

Morag’s heart sank. She looked wildly toward the window where the countryside stretched out in an unobtainable vista of freedom. She had made her marriage vows and must obey, but she suddenly felt she could not bear the struggling weight of his old body again.

“I should spend the afternoon preparing for your brother’s visit,” she said hurriedly. “You would have me look my best.”

The earl’s sudden lust had fizzled and died. For all her great beauty, there was something repellently ladylike about Morag with her precise English, her straight back and her exquisite table manners. “Oh, very well,” he grumbled. “Off with ye and leave me tae my wine.”

Morag rose and curtsied and then hesitated in the doorway, suddenly timid.

“My lord.”

“What?”

“Is there any chance we may visit Edinburgh one day?”

“I’m bound for Edinburgh tomorrow. You can come along provided ye behave yerself this evening.”

“
Thank
you,” cried Morag, rushing forward to plant an impulsive kiss on his cheek. She tripped lightly from the room.

“She’s a child,” grumbled the earl into his claret. “I cannae bed a child, and that one is never going to grow up. Never!”

Murr Castle was only partly fortified, having been built in the middle of the sixteenth century in whinstone rubble with freestone facings. It was built on a small hill, a natural hollow at the east and southeast capable of being utilized for defense. It had a large round tower on each corner and a jumble of slate roofs and was surrounded by great walls some seventy yards from the castle which enclosed pleasant flower gardens and a lily pond. The ditch beyond the wall had been filled in long ago and the parkland and woods of the earl’s estates stretched out beyond the walls all the miles to the winding silver twists and bends of the River Tay. The countryside looked rich and placid, unlike the wild and savage scenery of the Highlands to which Morag had been accustomed.

The drawing room in which the company met that evening was small and square and decked with trophies of the chase. Most of the first floor had originally consisted of a great banqueting hall but had since been divided into dining room, drawing room, morning room and saloon.

Stags’ heads glared glassily down on the guests. A large stuffed pike took up most of one wall and sailed silently through the gloom in the flickering shadow waves thrown up by the wavering candles. Two other walls were hung with dull green silk which moved and whispered in the scurrying draughts which scampered blithely through the rooms of the castle like so many lost children of the north wind. On the remaining wall, a great smoking fire crackled and spurted and sent a perfectly splendid blaze roaring right up the chimney so that the roof of the castle must have been very well heated indeed. None of the heat, however, seemed to permeate the drawing room, and if any additional chill were needed, it was amply supplied by Lord Arthur Fleming and his wife.

The couple managed to convey the impression that the earl was vulgar in the extreme and that his new bride was an ignorant schoolgirl. This they did without opening their mouths. Every time the earl spoke, they both gave infinitesimal shudders of disgust and Morag’s timid social sallies were received with high-bred disdain.

Lord Arthur was a tall, thin man dressed in very fashionable, very tight clothes. His sparse hair was teased and combed into wispy artistic curls. He had flat, brown eyes and a rather rabbity mouth.

The Lady Phyllis was arrayed in fine India muslin. Her face was beautiful according to the current mode—she had a very small pursed mouth, large liquid brown eyes, a long straight nose and a high forehead. Her cheeks had the strange, rigid, apple-red roundness of a wooden doll. Morag did not know that this was caused by rouge on the outside and wax pads on the inside. She had still an immense amount to learn about the uncomfortable vagaries of fashion.

Things were bad enough before supper, but no sooner were they seated at the table than the Earl of Murr began to make everything worse.

“Well, Arthur,” he began. “It’s sorry ye must be to see me married.”