The Scottish Companion (13 page)

“I use this room only when I must, Doctor,” Grant said, closing the door behind him. “If you’re able to do so, then I’m glad of it.” Grant waved him back into position. “Please sit.”

Dr. Fenton did so, folding his hands on the desk in front of him, his bearing erect, shoulders squared, for all the world like he was a student in school, and Grant his headmaster.

Grant took a chair in front of the desk, remembering when he’d been summoned to this room as a youth. His father preferred London to Rosemoor. When the 9th Earl of Straithern did come home, it was with an entourage, a dozen or so men who elected to remain in the palace during the month-long visit. Grant was never punished by his father, and the few times he’d been called to his library had been to simply show himself. Once his father was assured that his heir was alive and well, he proceeded to ignore Grant once again.

If there was a disciplinarian in Grant’s life, it was the headmaster of the school to which he was sent as a young boy.

“Do you supervise Arabella’s treatment?” he asked now, pushing his memories away to address the matter at hand.

Dr. Fenton looked startled by the question, but he answered quickly enough. “I do, when there is a need for it. Are you talking generally, Your Lordship, or is there some particular case that you have in mind?”

“A particular case,” Grant said, leaning back in the chair and stretching out his legs. He surveyed his boots, and made a mental note to have his valet send his measurements to Edinburgh. He needed a new pair, and it was easier just to buy a half dozen of the damn things rather than be concerned about something as mundane as shopping. “The gardener’s boy. I understood from Arabella that he has a wound on his hand. I’ve been to see him myself, and I’m not satisfied that he’s healing as he should.”

“I have not seen the injury,” Dr. Fenton said. “There wouldn’t be a reason for me to see it, Your Lordship, unless Arabella has questions. I have the greatest faith in my daughter. She knows nearly as much about medicine as I do.”

“She didn’t seem very positive about the outcome. I would like you to supervise, at least until I am assured of the boy’s welfare. I don’t want his fingers cut off just because Arabella wants to practice her skills.”

Dr. Fenton looked shocked. “I can assure you, Your Lordship, that she would do no such thing. Why, I’ve often put her in charge of my surgery when I’m forced to stay with a patient overnight.”

“All I am saying, Doctor, is that I would like you to see the boy. Assure yourself that everything is being done for him that should be done. That you would do no differently.”

“Your Lordship, she is a good girl.”

“I’m not questioning her character, Dr. Fenton. I am questioning her ability.”

“Very well, Your Lordship, I will see to him.”

Grant hesitated. “There is one more item we need to discuss, Dr. Fenton.”

The other man looked vaguely uncomfortable, as if he had some inkling of Grant’s words. There was nothing to be done but to say it.

“Arabella does not appear to be acquiescent with this arrangement.”

“Nonsense,” the doctor said. “She is simply shy. She will make you a good wife.”

“She doesn’t seem all that eager to be a bride.”

Dr. Fenton began to speak, but Grant interrupted him. “I don’t know your daughter. Part of that is my fault. Part of it is regrettably hers. A month seemed like long enough when I proposed the marriage, but perhaps I was hasty. Do you think another month will give her enough time to become accustomed to the idea of being a wife?”

“Would you be willing to delay, your lordship?”

A delay of a decade did not seem long enough, but Grant nodded.

Dr. Fenton’s smile was one Grant could only call relieved. He stood and studied the doctor for a moment. “One more thing, Doctor, if you will.”

The other man looked up, the expression on his face one of earnest acceptance.

“Leave Miss Cameron alone. Do not threaten her with dismissal again.”

Fenton stood. “Your Lordship, there is much you need to know about Miss Cameron.”

“Then I shall allow her to tell me, Doctor.”

He left the room before Dr. Fenton could comment further or before Grant could launch into an impassioned defense of Arabella’s companion. That wouldn’t be prudent, would it? Nor would voicing the thought that an additional month was not likely to change Arabella Fenton into a warm and caring woman.

A
ttending dinner that night was mandatory. Not only were Grant, Arabella, Dr. Fenton, and the countess present, but Lorenzo was in attendance as well.

Gillian had tried to claim illness and request a tray in her room, but the countess was having none of it. That august personage actually came to Gillian’s chamber to ensure that she would be there.

“I truly do not think that I would be missed, Your Ladyship. I am only the companion.”

The countess did not answer, but the look she sent Gillian was sharp, and almost condemnatory.

“You will come to dinner, young woman,” the countess said. “I will have no argument about it.”

And that, it seemed, was that.

Should she simply be honest with the countess? Her thought lasted the length of time it took for Gillian to close the door behind the older woman. What would the countess say if she told her the complete truth? She’d learned some very difficult lessons in the past two years, but one lesson evidently had not been strong enough.

Her emotions would be the ruin of her.

Perhaps now she would be able to speak to Lorenzo, and to learn something of Grant’s life in Italy. That would be infinitely better than trying not to betray her envy of Arabella or her interest in the earl.

She changed into her second-best dress, a gown that had once belonged to Arabella, but that suited Gillian better. Of blue silk, it was etched with ivory lace at the wrist and at the square neck. A maid assigned to her helped with her hair.

“Would you like to entwine some flowers through the curls, miss? Several of the spring roses would look lovely.”

“No,” Gillian said. In all honestly, she wished she had diamonds or pearls or rubies, something to sparkle and attract the attention. Instead, she should be circumspect, companionlike, the nondescript woman whose sole purpose in life was to accompany Arabella, the future countess.

Why Arabella and not her?

Gillian stared at herself in the mirror, seeing the blankness, the hopelessness of her own expression. Arabella’s life was not hers. Nor did Arabella have her experiences. They were two separate people, with two different pasts, and two entirely different futures.

Whenever she was tempted to feel the least bit sorry for herself, she should lecture herself sternly. There was no one to blame but herself for the situation she was in. She had dared convention; she’d been a rebel, she had defied those who loved her and cared for her. She had demanded her own way, and she’d received exactly what she wanted.

She’d gotten Robert only to realize that she really
didn’t have him. Did anyone ever possess another human being? Robert had done nothing but take advantage of the situation. She was the one who had given up the whole of her life for love, only to understand that love was not an infinite emotion. Instead it grew or shrunk according to the attention it received. If love was returned, then it flourished and prospered. If it was never reciprocated, it was like a plant left arid or a rose bush that never saw the sun.

Yet she had paid with more than regret, hadn’t she?

Whom do you mourn?

“You look lovely, miss,” the maid said, interrupting her reverie. “As pretty as any guest to Rosemoor.”

“Thank you, Agnes,” she said. Perhaps it would have been wiser to wish she were ugly, but she found it very difficult to wish for such thing, especially tonight.

How utterly foolish she was.

A handsome man smiled at her, and her heart beat faster. He whispered into her ear, and her thoughts immediately conjured up passion. He touched her wrist with his fingers, and desire curled up in her stomach, a tiny little flame that seemed annoyingly eternal.

Perhaps she should seek out a nunnery, or devote herself to good works for the rest of her life. If nothing else, she should find a household where there were no men at all. But it wasn’t simply any man, was it? No, it was only a rather striking earl with fascinating eyes and a deep voice that gave her shivers to hear it.

“Miss?”

She looked up to find Agnes staring at her in the
mirror, an expression of concern on her face. “I was asking, miss, if you would like a shawl? These spring evenings can be chilly at Rosemoor.”

“Yes, please,” Gillian said, standing. She didn’t give herself a last look. If something was askew or out of place, then good, all the better. Perhaps he would think her slovenly, or uncaring. Perhaps he would remark to himself that she had no sense of decorum, that she had no inclination on how to dress or comport herself in public. Perhaps he wouldn’t speak to her at all tonight, and she needn’t be bothered having to school her features or arrange her smile so that it was no warmer toward him than to a footman.

Agnes handed her the shawl, and she took it from her with a smile. She left the room, walking down the corridor to the wide marble steps. There was no one in sight except for a footman who stood with his back to the staircase. Beside him, a gas lamp glowed brightly, illuminating the foyer and the bottom of the steps.

Gillian hesitated halfway down the stairs and looked around her. Rosemoor was a home designed for entertaining, for long weekend parties and guests who stayed for months. She could easily hear the voices of people raised in laughter and conversation.

What was she doing here? She didn’t belong at Rosemoor any more than Arabella. Arabella had challenged her fate from the beginning; Gillian was only now feeling the cold hand of doom. She couldn’t remain here after their wedding. She couldn’t see him every day and know that he returned to Arabella’s bed at night. She couldn’t, God help her, watch as Arabella bore his child.

Although she was normally punctual, she saw no
advantage to being on time for this gathering. She would spend the entire dinner, as she did most nights, wishing that it were over. She wouldn’t taste what she was served, and she would be too conscious of the undercurrents at the table. Arabella would be sitting as narrowly as possible, her elbows tucked against her sides in case she accidentally touched someone. She would keep her head bowed, her focus on her food, in case Grant should smile at her. Dr. Fenton would be jocular; the countess would be ever watchful, and Grant…Grant would be too intense, too focused. He would seize upon a topic of conversation, and he and the doctor would discuss it for the duration of the dinner. Occasionally the countess would contribute her comments, but Arabella would never speak, and no one would ask Gillian’s opinion.

Perhaps Lorenzo would change the tenor of the conversation.

She went into the dining room, and to her surprise, none of them was seated. Instead they milled around the fireplace at the end of the room.

The countess was holding a very small glass of something that looked purplish brown. A type of sherry, no doubt, something to settle her stomach. Gillian didn’t doubt that it also aided in settling her nerves, and wished someone would offer her a glass. Unmarried women, however experienced they might be, were not offered sherry.

“We are waiting for Lorenzo,” Grant said from behind her. She turned to find him standing there easily commanding the room. He was taller than the others and dressed plainly in a black suit and snowy white shirt. His shoes were brightly polished, and there was
a gold chain hanging from his waistcoat pocket. She knew, from seeing him consult it before, that it led to a diamond-encrusted watch.

She turned away from him deliberately, putting a few feet between them. She didn’t want him to be charming or personable. It would make this evening even more difficult to endure.

She walked to the window, watching him in the reflection. He was staring after her, and his expression was as carefully neutral as hers. Could emotions travel through the air? Could longing itself be felt without a word being spoken? Would anyone looking at her know what she was thinking?

Grant turned suddenly, greeting Lorenzo. Lorenzo, who was even more resplendently dressed than he’d been this afternoon.

The man wore a dark suit like Grant’s, but there the resemblance ended. A bright red sash ran diagonally across his chest, fastened by a scarlet and gold brooch. She’d never seen jewels quite so large or sparkling, and couldn’t help but wonder if they were real. But then, her knowledge of rubies was somewhat lacking.

“Ah, the little signorina,” he said, coming to her side. He bowed over her hand, making too much fuss over her. “Little one, have you had a good day, a pleasant day here at Rosemoor?” Since she towered over Arabella, it was hardly the proper soubriquet, but she nodded.

“I have, sir.”

“Ah, but you must call me Lorenzo.”

“Must she?” Grant said easily from beside him. He nodded to Gillian and she nodded back, for all the world as if they were strangers on an Edinburgh street.

They found their seats at the dining table, and exactly as she had hoped, Lorenzo was seated next to her. Instead of being forced to listen to Grant and Dr. Fenton, she was able to ignore everyone but Lorenzo. It was an enchanting experience, being subjected to the Italian’s charm. Just as Grant had said, however, it was obvious he was in love with his wife.

“Seven boys?” she asked, after the fish course.

“And another baby to be born soon.”

“Why would you think of coming all the way to Scotland at such a time, sir?”

“Grant needed me,” he said simply. “He is my friend. I owe him a debt such as I could never repay.”

She was hoping her silence would encourage him to speak, but he didn’t say anything further.

“So you say you have never been to Italy, Miss Cameron?”

“I have not,” she said. “I would like to go to Rome,” she said.

“You must see Florence, Miss Cameron. It is the splendor of Italy. And the Palazzo Vecchio is not a sight to miss. The Hall of Lilies, the courtyards, the statues by Michelangelo.” He sighed theatrically. “The Uffizi Square, by Vasari, all such treasures to see before you die.”

He glanced in Grant’s direction. “You should ask Grant to tell you. He has a villa in Florence, and has spent many years there.”

“Do you help Grant with his experiments?” she asked.

“I am a scientist as well,” he said. “But in a different field.” He said nothing further, leading her to wonder if there was a great deal of mystery surround
ing Lorenzo, or was it an impression he cultivated on purpose.

He smiled down at her. “My friend does not allow just anyone into his laboratory. He tends to isolate himself there, and is completely happy to do so.”

She glanced up to find Grant looking directly at her, and only then did she realize that the conversation at the table had halted. Had everyone been listening to the two of them?

“That was only occasionally, Lorenzo,” Grant said. “Otherwise, I consider myself a very civilized sort.”

“He lies,” Lorenzo said in an aside to Gillian. “His valet had to distract him with scientific questions in order to get him to change his clothes. Anyone who is going to share Grant’s life should be versed in science,” Lorenzo said, stealing a quick look across the table to Arabella.

At his comment, she looked directly at him. “I am of a scientific mind, sir. Indeed, my father and I both engage in scientific pursuits.”

“Then I do not doubt that you and my friend will suit quite admirably, Miss Fenton. Perhaps on your honeymoon, you and Grant can discuss Volta’s memoirs. I obtained a set for your wedding present, Grant,” he said. “But you must pretend to be surprised, for the sake of my Elise.”

Grant only smiled in response.

“And you, Miss Cameron, are you of a scientific mind?”

“I regret to say, sir, that I’m not.”

“Gillian does not have an analytical predilection, sir. She prefers novels to texts that would improve her
intellect. I have seen her spend hours arranging her hair and staring at herself in the mirror.”

“Hardly hours, Arabella,” Gillian said, embarrassed. Surely this was not the topic of conversation that should be allowed at the table? But neither the earl nor the countess seemed interested in stopping Arabella, and Dr. Fenton thought anything his daughter said was worth hearing.

“I confess to my share of vanity, Arabella, but I doubt if even I would be interested in spending hours in front of the mirror.”

Lorenzo smiled. “A woman is not to be criticized because she pays attention to her appearance,” he said, a gentle rebuke toward Arabella.

“Neither is a woman to be criticized because she wishes to learn,” Grant said.

His comment stung, but Gillian did not indicate her feelings either by her expression or by commenting.

Lorenzo, however, had no such reticence. “Are you not being too harsh toward Miss Cameron? Simply because she doesn’t wish to study medicine doesn’t mean she lacks a curious mind.”

“I was not singling out Miss Cameron. On the contrary. She has proven to be quite an able assistant.”

“You allowed her to work on your electrics?”

“I have. And I hope to convince her to assist me in the future.”

“You are to be commended, Miss Cameron,” Lorenzo said, turning to her. “Grant does not issue such an invitation lightly.”

“Nor has he issued one to me,” Arabella said quietly.

“Then you should both come,” Grant said.

“To the laboratory?”

“To the marsh,” he said.

“The marsh?” Gillian glanced at him.

“I visit the marsh periodically. I need to go tomorrow morning.”

“There is no necessity for Gillian to accompany you, Your Lordship,” Dr. Fenton said.

“Indeed not, Grant.” Arabella smiled. “I would be more than happy to do so.”

Dr. Fenton looked pleased at Arabella’s comment. Grant and Lorenzo looked rather noncommittal. The countess, however, surprised Gillian by just staring at Arabella, her expression that of someone who’d just received unpleasant news.

“I’m afraid you will not have any time to spare, my dear girl,” she said, her voice more tremulous than Gillian had ever heard it. Grant glanced at his mother, and she wondered if he, too, remarked on the oddity of the older woman’s sudden paleness. But the countess ignored both of them, her attention focused on Arabella. “You must be trained in the running of Rosemoor. There are duties you must assume upon your marriage to Grant that are more important than even your medicine.”