The Scottish Companion (10 page)

“How did you become companion to a very whiny and spoiled woman?”

“Arabella has a great many flaws, true, Your Ladyship, but they are of youth, I think, rather than inclination or character.”

“And now you correct me. Perhaps you have carried your self-sufficiency a bit far.”

Gillian didn’t respond.

The countess opened a jar, poured something into the pot. A few moments later, the room was filled with a sultry chocolate smell.

“Why were you roaming the halls of Rosemoor, Miss Cameron?”

“I couldn’t sleep, Your Ladyship.”

The countess looked over her shoulder, her expression irritated. “I believe we have already established that fact, Miss Cameron,” she said briskly. “I’m asking you why you couldn’t sleep. Do you have a troubled conscience?”

“I will allow as how my conscience is not unblemished, Your Ladyship. But it has not yet kept me awake at night.”

“You are either a very fortunate young woman, Miss Cameron, or you’re an accomplished liar. Are there no actions you regret? Not one thing you’ve done that you wished undone? Are you one of the few unblemished souls, Miss Cameron? An example for all other young women to follow?”

“Hardly, Your Ladyship. But nighttime does not bring me any greater degree of regret than I feel during the day.”

“A very careful answer, Miss Cameron.” The countess kept stirring. “I’m awake because I find it sinful to be sleeping while my children are dead. I will, no doubt, awake in the morning, greet God’s dawn once again, be refreshed, and without care for a matter of seconds. While I am gradually coming awake, I will hear the birds singing in the tree outside my chamber and I will glory in the sound of morning.”

“And then it will strike you as a hideous thing that you’ve done,” Gillian said, “to awake when what you love, what you care about, is dead. For a moment you close your eyes, and wonder if you can will yourself to death.”

The countess’s eyes were too sharp, but she said nothing. For some time she continued stirring, and
then she poured the chocolate into two cups, one of which she pushed across the table to Gillian. She sat on the opposite bench. The two remained silent, each woman sipping at her chocolate.

“You know loss, Miss Cameron,” the countess finally said.

Gillian didn’t reply. It wasn’t a question, after all.

She studied the pool of chocolate in her cup, careful to smooth her face of any expression. How strange that it became easier to hide what she felt from people she knew, and more and more difficult to shield herself from strangers.

How very different it would be to live somewhere where people weren’t afraid to reveal themselves, where emotion was prized instead of hidden. She’d heard the Italians were that way. She should ask the earl if such a thing was true.

“Grant doesn’t like to talk about his brothers,” the countess said after several moments had passed. “He thinks that to do so would be to encourage my grief. But simply because my sons have died does not mean they ceased to live. I need to speak of them. To tell tales of them. To boast of their adventures, perhaps. I need to mark their presence in the world, in my heart, and never mentioning them does not make them invisible to me.

“I found it strange to be the mother of three boys. But I think I was blessed. No,” she amended, “I know I was. There could have been no better sons in all the world.”

She sat back, closed her eyes, and sighed deeply. Gillian couldn’t help but wonder if she fought back tears.

“Tell me about them,” Gillian said, leaning forward.

The older woman opened her eyes. “You needn’t be kind, Miss Cameron. I appreciate it, but I do not require it.’

Gillian smiled. “Did they all have the earl’s eyes?”

“The Roberson gray eyes?” The countess smiled. “All of them. And yet, sometimes I think that was all they had in common. They were so different from each other. James was the joker, the one who enjoyed life by celebrating it. Too much, I often thought. Andrew did not play enough. He was the studious one, who reveled in numbers. James and Andrew were so much younger than Grant, but they were all devoted to one another.” She hesitated again, wiping at her cheeks, and this time Gillian had no doubt that she was weeping.

“Would you like to see a miniature of my sons, Miss Cameron?”

Gillian nodded.

“Then I shall show you. Tomorrow, after we’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

What an odd place Rosemoor was. Outwardly it was an estate fit for a prince, lavishly decorated, beautifully appointed, and surrounded by magnificent grounds. Inside, however, emotions swirled and seemed to color the air: grief and loss, and perhaps fear, coupled with an almost fierce determination to put a brave face to the world.

She herself knew only too well that sometimes intentions were not enough.

R
osemoor was lit up like a fairy castle for the ball to introduce Arabella. The gas lamps at the eaves and porticoes were lit; wind-proof sconces were mounted at the windows. A trail of lanterns stretched all the way down the serpentine gravel drive to the massive brick gates of Rosemoor. Footmen were stationed at the entrance to give directions to the carriage drivers, and then again at the steps, one of them holding a silver tray on which goblets of warm wine had been placed, a traditional welcome to the Earl of Straithern’s home.

The third floor had been opened up, aired out, and polished from the oak floors to the four great sparkling chandeliers with their sixteen candle arms and glittering crystal pendants.

The musicians had arrived three days ago from Edinburgh and had taken direction from the countess on what to play and when. Occasionally Gillian had seen members of the orchestra on the veranda outside the ballroom, but she’d never ventured closer.

The night of the ball, Gillian had supervised Arabella’s dressing, surprised when the girl had made no
more than a token protest. When the maid was finished with her hair, Gillian was in awe.

Arabella had always been pretty, but tonight she was beautiful, a perfect princess.

The soft yellow gown emphasized her curves and the alabaster of her skin, while the décolletage revealed what Arabella’s plain blue and brown dresses did not. She was amply endowed, and her cleavage was marked by a delicate brown mole to one side.

Her blond hair was arranged in a coiffure that swept away from her face, with ringlets pulled free to soften the look, and flowers woven through her curls. Her complexion was a perfect porcelain, warmed with a delicate rose blush. Her green eyes sparkled as she regarded herself solemnly in the mirror, and Gillian couldn’t help but wonder if she was pleased with the result.

Would the Earl of Straithern be smitten with his bride?

Gillian’s soft pink gown was lovely as well, but she had no illusions that her appearance could compare to Arabella’s. Her features were unremarkable, her figure slender but not noticeable. She was simply average, neither beautiful nor ugly.

She and Arabella walked to the ballroom together, but when it was time to enter, Gillian stepped back to allow Dr. Fenton to escort his daughter inside. When a footman offered his arm, she shook her head. Instead she walked to the end of the corridor and stared, unseeing, through the window.

How utterly foolish I am, God, to be envious of someone else. We cannot live the lives of other people. We must live the lives we have made for ourselves.

But was it so sinful to wish, for a matter of hours only, to be carefree and thoughtless again? Was it so horrible to wish to be the girl who’d balked at so many Edinburgh entertainments, who questioned why she must dance with that man or this? A heedless child who was feted and charmed as the daughter of one of Edinburgh’s most successful and wealthiest merchants, and through it all never saw that attention as unusual or special in any way—but accepted it as her due.

When she scolded Arabella, she was really scolding the girl she’d been. But she’d paid the price for being spoiled and silly. Every moment of stolen joy was matched with an hour of silent grief. Every unmindful act was countered by endless regret.

Until she came to Rosemoor, Gillian thought her lessons well learned. Yet tonight she found herself envying Arabella.

Dear God, she must leave Rosemoor quickly.

Reluctantly she returned to the ballroom, grateful when Dr. Fenton separated from the crowd and escorted her to the side of the room. A footman arrived in front of her, offering her a cup of punch from a silver tray. She took it from him, more for something to do with her hands than because she was thirsty.

The dance floor was crowded with people in various stages of proficiency dancing the Strathspey and Half Tulloch. How many times had she negotiated the complicated patterns of the dances, feeling a quick impatience when one of the other three dancers was not as nimble?

What a silly girl she’d been.

Gillian had no difficulty in singling Grant out. Nor did it seem that he was alone. Others gathered around
him, two men and three women, vying for his time and attention.

Gillian pressed her hands around the cup of punch and wished her skirts were less voluminous and easier to manage. Instead she was constrained by fabric and lace into being a model of womanly comportment, however much she wished otherwise.

If someone, a sage of the world, perhaps the oldest living man, or the wisest one, would come and ask her one question: what would she like to be now, right this moment, she would be forced to answer with the truth. Free, she’d say, an economy of speech, but a largesse of thought.

Perhaps she’d dress in a style reminiscent of twenty years ago, a long column of fabric gathered beneath her bosom and trailing to the floor. She’d adorn her hair with a simple ribbon to keep it from blowing in her face, and she’d dispense with a sun shade or parasol or bonnet. Her shoes would be supple leather, something that conformed well to her feet. Beneath her dress she would wear only a soft chemise. No corset, no stays, no itchy garments. She would have nothing to do but what she wished. She’d sketch the plants God created, or marvel at the passing of a day, from the brilliance of dawn to the subtle nuances of nightfall. With her new freedom she would go forth into the world and scandalize everyone who knew her. She would sing at the top of her lungs if the spirit moved her to do so. She’d eat what she liked, and drink sherry in the mornings and tea at midnight. She’d ridicule others if she felt cruel and petty. Or she’d be generous with her praise and her money.

Most of all, she’d love with abandon and dance to the sound of the wind.

She would be that most glorious of creatures, a human being with failings and flaws, and accepting of them. Instead she was forced to pretend, by the very requirements of survival, to be someone other than she was.

She didn’t want to be here, but her attendance had been mandatory. A ball gown had been prepared for her almost without her participation. In fact, she’d not known about it until the very end of Arabella’s fittings. The dress was a rose pink, not the color she’d choose, but she was still appropriately grateful to Dr. Fenton for his kindness.

Or should she be grateful to the earl, instead?

She slid her glance to him, and then away again before he noticed. Jealousy was an absolutely insane emotion, especially since she had no reason to be jealous. The world would not look upon her feelings as prudent or wise. What sort of woman lusted after a man she could not have? Not just any man, but an earl?

Dear God, please help me. Please help me understand that there are some things I cannot have. Let me understand, with my whole heart, that wishing for circumstances to be different is as nonsensical as wishing for the moon.

Perhaps one day she would find love. Perhaps one day she would have children. If that day ever came, she would make some grand and glorious gesture, some way to tell the world that dreams did come true and prayers were answered.

But until then, she was doomed to stand here and watch Grant pay attention to all the women guests at Rosemoor. He danced as he did everything, carefully, controlled, with almost mathematical precision, as if he counted the movements in his mind.

He was wearing gloves, as she was. If they danced, they would not feel the touch of each other’s palm. They could be circumspect and proper. What about looking at his face? She would look away, directing her attention to the walls of mirrors or the windows that led to the veranda overlooking the terrace where once they’d stood and chatted as almost friends.

If they danced with each other, their feet would fly over the highly polished wooden floors together, in tandem, a proper, restrained, and acceptable union of their bodies.

Her heart beat so tightly that it felt as if someone were wrapping a cord around her chest. She felt as if she were weeping inside where the casual observer could not see. She was angry and she wasn’t certain who she was angrier at: him for being so fascinating or herself, for being lured too easily.

Grant hadn’t said another word about the ball to introduce Arabella to the neighborhood. Nor had he objected to taking a few hours from his schedule, filled though it was. He hadn’t even caviled at being reintroduced to countless people he’d known all his life but hadn’t seen since his return from Italy. Except for James’s funeral, he’d not socialized, and he could understand their curiosity about him. This evening’s entertainment, modest though it was due to their mourning, was considered a monumental social event,
according to his mother. Therefore he forced himself to smile, to welcome people to Rosemoor, and to hide his increasing irritation.

He was being ignored by Gillian Cameron. Pointedly ignored, in fact, as if she were going out of her way to be annoying. Whenever he looked in her direction, she glanced away. When he moved toward her, she scurried to the other side of the room.

Someone addressed him, and he turned to the man, annoyed.

“I beg your pardon, Your Lordship,” the man said, awkwardly bowing. Any other time, Grant would have told him that he wasn’t the damn king; stop being so servile. Now he only nodded before glancing at Gillian.

Irritating woman.

He turned his attention to Arabella instead. He went to her side, inclined his head, and the crowd of people surrounding her obligingly parted.

“Would you care to dance, Arabella?” he asked.

She looked as if she would refuse, but gave him her hand instead.

With an uncharacteristic feeling of doom, Grant led her out to the middle of the room.

Dr. Ezra Fenton watched his daughter dance with a feeling like amazement. The earl was actually touching her hand, and she was allowing it. Arabella looked like an angel, and she actually had a smile on her face. Earlier, he’d heard her laugh.

Not for the first time since the earl had made his surprising proclamation, he thought of his dear wife. Catherine should have been there to witness the
changes of the last few years. The little girl who barely spoke, who was terrified of night, had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, one who was to marry an earl.

Arabella appeared truly happy this evening. Of course, she was the princess of this ball, charming more than one young man. Even the earl appeared pleased, which was, all in all, a difficult thing to ascertain since he rarely smiled.

Nor did Gillian. How odd that the two of them were spending the entire night on opposite sides of the ballroom, but their expressions were almost identical.

He would have to talk to Gillian. She must remember exactly who she was, simply Arabella’s companion. Perhaps at one time she would have been on a higher social level, but no longer. She was his daughter’s companion, little more than a servant. She must maintain a distance between herself and the earl. While it was very possible she would be living at Rosemoor for the rest of her life, it would not do for there to be discord among the three of them.

Perhaps he should make some overture toward his future son-in-law. The idea had merit, but at the last moment, he decided against it. One did not approach Grant Roberson without an invitation. Even now, at his own ball, people appeared and then seemed to fade away.

The earl and Arabella had a great deal in common, if they could only communicate well enough to understand each other. Arabella was as driven as Grant, in her way. She was as intense, as dedicated to learning. Perhaps this union would prove successful after all.

He beamed, thinking himself the luckiest man in
the world. He caught sight of the countess. Although still in mourning, she’d put aside her grief to plan this ball for Arabella. He caught her gaze and smiled and nodded, and was elated when she returned his look with a small smile of her own.

Her face was too pale, but then she’d always had too little color. Otherwise she was a very healthy woman of a somewhat older age than she admitted to being. But she was still a very fine figure of a woman.

He had loved her for years, and for years he’d told himself that it was foolish to feel such emotion for a woman so high above him in rank. If he could only convince her to dance. Perhaps one day, but not tonight. One wish fulfilled was good enough for now.

Dorothea had smiled at him.

“You and I have not spent very much time in conversation this evening,” Grant said when the break in the music accommodated speech.

Their dance was finished, but he didn’t move away. Why was it so difficult to talk to Arabella, and so incredibly easy to talk with Gillian?

His innate caution surfaced when he was around Arabella. She was not, for all her devotion to healing, a nurturing type of woman. He could not, for all his efforts, envision her cradling a child to her bosom.

“Is it necessary that we speak, Your Lordship?” Arabella asked. “It’s my understanding that you do not wish for me to be personable as much as fertile.”

He stared at Arabella, wondering how he was to respond to that. She wasn’t attempting to shock him. In fact, the expression on her face was one of extreme boredom.

He suspected that the only way to incite her curiosity or even her animation was to bring her someone ill.

“You dance quite well,” he said.

She didn’t respond to the compliment. “And you are very beautiful tonight.”

“A result of artifice, I fear,” she said. “A bit of paint. My eyebrows have been tweezed, and I have been constrained in this gown to the extent that my curves are not natural. I do not doubt it will alter my digestion and cause my stomach fluids to sour.”

“As bad as all that?”

She frowned at him.

“I like your hair, especially with the flowers entwined through it,” he said in the silence.

“Your mother’s maid did that to me. She said I would be like Aphrodite. I have no earthly desire to be modeled after one of the Greek goddesses,” she added. “If she must pattern me after someone, why not Hippocrates?”