The Scottish Companion (19 page)

F
or the second time in the same day Grant carried her to his bed, but the thought in his mind wasn’t passion this time but panic.

He picked up the bell on the corner of the bedside table and rang it fiercely.

A discreet rap heralded Michael’s arrival. When Grant called out, the young man opened the door and bowed from the waist. Grant didn’t have time for demonstrations of obeisance. Not now. Not until he knew what was wrong with Gillian.

It was more than a faint; even he could discern that. Her color was ashen, her lips bluish, and he feared it was no coincidence that she’d succumbed to illness so quickly after eating the bisque.

His noon meal.

Had he inadvertently poisoned her?

Anger flooded through him, made his voice brusque and imperious. “Fetch Lorenzo,” he told Michael. “Use one of the carriages, and if one isn’t ready, then tell him to use a horse. And if a damn horse isn’t saddled, then tell him to run.”

Michael nodded his understanding, Grant’s des
peration evidently getting through to the young man. When the footman turned and left the room, it was without any gesture of servility at all.

Grant had never felt as useless in his entire life as he did in those next few minutes. He prepared a cold compress for Gillian’s forehead, sitting on the edge of the bed and bathing her face gently. But she didn’t awaken, and her breathing seemed worse then before.

He’d fed her the bisque himself.

Would he ever be able to live with himself if anything happened to her?

He pushed aside that thought, concentrating on smoothing the damp cloth over her pale face. What the hell should he do?

It seemed to him the longer he sat there, the softer her breath became. She couldn’t be allowed to fall into a stupor like James. He angled his arms behind her, raised her until she was almost in a sitting position, albeit leaning against him. He stood, holding her upright and thinking that she should weigh more. She was a slip of a thing, a willow. She should be a more substantial physical presence.

He breathed into her hair and said a quick, unaccustomed prayer. The Almighty didn’t take bargaining well. Grant had already offered up his earldom for James’s survival and God had remained unimpressed. What could he surrender now that might render God kind? His own life, perhaps.

“She’s done nothing wrong, God,” he said in the silence of the room. “Nothing but be herself and seek out my company, for which I will forever be thankful. If we have sinned, then blame me.”

Perhaps it wasn’t wise to alienate the Almighty at this moment.

Where the hell was Lorenzo?

“You look exceptionally lovely today, Miss Fenton.”

Arabella looked at Lorenzo out of the corner of her eye, but she didn’t turn to address him fully. Almost as if she couldn’t be bothered to be polite.

If he didn’t know better, Lorenzo would have thought that she was a countess already. She certainly had the bearing for it, as well as the ramrod-straight back. If he didn’t mistake it, she wore a whalebone corset that was so tightly laced she was not able to breathe correctly. If she were truly a student of medicine, she’d know that tightly laced corsets were detrimental to a woman’s health. Thank God most women preferred them as loose as possible.

“I didn’t expect to find you in the conservatory,” he said, sitting down beside her without waiting for an invitation. If he waited her for her to notice him, or even be polite, he might well stand there for an eternity.

She had a book in her lap, but then she always had a book in her lap. She glanced at him, her expression easily interpreted. He’d annoyed her, he could tell, simply by interrupting her reading.

What would her life be like when one of her children demanded her attention? Or would she simply turn them over to nurses and nannies and governesses until such time as they were ready to go off to school? That was the English upper-class way, was it not? No wonder most of the English were cold and withdrawn people. They’d never experienced love, not even from their own parents.

Arabella, unfortunately, appeared as cold and as unapproachable as any woman he’d met in this gray and unforgiving climate. He couldn’t imagine the Grant he’d known in Italy being married to such a woman.

Elise was warm and beautiful, dispensing her affection to anyone coming to their home. She was open and loving, and the most wonderful mother he could ever imagine. There were times when even he dismissed her passion and yearned for her nurturing. She was his friend, his wife, his confidante, and he missed her every hour. Had it not been for his deep friendship and sense of obligation to Grant, he would have returned home within a day of arriving at Rosemoor.

While it was true Scotland was ruggedly beautiful, he was not prepared for the cold. Even with the season rapidly turning to summer, the breeze still bore a hint of chill. He’d not been warm since coming to Grant’s home.

“Have you read Linnaeus?” he asked Miss Fenton now, feeling an obligation to be civil to the woman who would soon be marrying his oldest friend.

“I’ve read both Linnaeus and Le Clerc, sir.”

“Ah,
Systema Naturae
. An excellent text, as I recall. What is it that you’re reading now?”

He glanced over her shoulder. “Elizabeth Smith-well.
Blessed Herbal
. I have not read this book.”

“It details the medicinal properties of plants, sir. I would recommend it.”

“Do you never read anything else, Miss Fenton? A shocking novel or a ladies’ magazine? Do you never involve yourself in fashion? Or good works? I think you would find that if the interests grow larger, so does the intellect.”

She frowned at him, apparently understanding the subtle nature of his comments. Good, at least she wasn’t a stupid woman; for all that she was an unpleasant one. Why on earth had Grant decided to settle himself with her? Why not a woman he met in Italy? Or someone he could easily meet in London?

Why not Miss Cameron?

Why this particular woman who, although she was pretty in a superficial way, was possessed of a remarkably sour disposition? She had beautiful eyes, when she deigned to look at something other than a book or a suppurating sore.

She had potential, he had to admit that. She could easily be a beauty, if there were some expression on her face other than annoyance. Her hair looked as if it had been impatiently styled, as if her maid had not had an opportunity to finish it before Arabella waved her away.

“May I inquire, sir, exactly what you wish of me?”

“To spend a few moments in your company,” he said easily. “Grant is an old friend of mine. Would it not be wise for us to become friends? You are to be his bride, are you not?”

“I cannot imagine why,” she said.

He simply looked at her, uncertain how to reply.

She went on, “It’s not as if you and I will grow to be great friends, sir. Nor is it even certain that we shall see each other very often. Do you not live in Italy? And if that is the case, why should I occupy myself with attempting to get to know you, to become your friend when it’s all too evident that you will not remain at Rosemoor? If I do indulge any time whatsoever in attempting to know you, have I not done a disservice to
my studies? So I ask you again, sir, what advantage is it to me to attempt to be pleasant to you?”

“I know of no advantage,” he said, silenced by the sudden notion that nothing he could say would have any effect on her. She didn’t want to know him, and so he would remain unknown.

“Then, if you do not mind, sir, I would like to go back to my book.”

“A countess would be more welcoming, Miss Fenton. You are going to be a countess.”

“I am to live at Rosemoor, sir. The dowager countess will remain as matriarch to the people living here. I can serve them better by learning how to treat what ails them more so than talking them to death.”

Lorenzo forced a smile to his face, hoping that it appeared somewhat sincere.

Blessedly, he was prevented from attempting to find something to say in response to the very rude soon-to-be countess by the appearance of the true one.

“There you are, both of you,” the Countess of Straithern said. She sailed into the room like a merchant packet, solid and determined, her black dress adorned with black bugle beads. Unlike Arabella, her hair was styled perfectly, in a crown of braids atop her head. A jet brooch no doubt containing a lock of hair from each of her dead sons was her only adornment.

The air was becoming thick, almost sodden, as if it had recently rained. It was too humid in here for a person to remain for long. He stood and bowed slightly to the countess, offering her his seat.

She declined the offer, instead turning to Miss Fenton. “Where is your companion?”

Arabella shook her head instead of speaking, a choice that quite obviously annoyed the countess.

“I did not see her at breakfast, or at luncheon. When I asked Agnes as to her whereabouts, she stammered something about an adventure. Therefore, I can only surmise that Miss Cameron is off doing something she should not be doing.”

Arabella didn’t look the least displeased to learn that Miss Cameron was missing. Perhaps she was relieved by Gillian’s desertion. Or was it the fact that Grant, as well, had not made an appearance since dinner last night? Was Arabella Fenton so cold and unfeeling that she could not even summon the emotion to be jealous?

Lorenzo fervently hoped that his friend was being foolish, and with Miss Cameron, and that the two of them were attempting to find a little enjoyment before his wedding.

“Well?” The Countess of Straithern was not pleased with Arabella’s silence. One of her black leather shoes tapped impatiently on the slate floor of the conservatory.

When Arabella remained silent, the countess turned to him. Before she could even frame the question, he held up his hands in surrender. “I believe that they went to the marsh this morning, Your Ladyship. Beyond that, I can only guess that Grant is in his laboratory. I would have no idea of Miss Cameron’s location.”

“Was there something Gillian was to do for you, Your Ladyship?” Arabella asked. She actually closed her book to do so, looking up at the countess with a small smile. The look of amiability, however, did not
quite make it to her eyes, and he had the sudden and distinct impression that Arabella Fenton did not like the Countess of Straithern, and that the emotion was returned.

“No,” the countess said, “I merely wished to ask her a few questions.”

“Perhaps I could supply the answers for you.”

“I doubt it,” the countess said shortly.

“Gillian has not returned to her room, Your Ladyship,” Arabella said. She smiled at the countess, so faintly that it might not have been a change of expression at all. “But I am never disturbed by Gillian’s vagaries. She has a habit of wandering around at night, for example. She does not sleep well, you see.”

For a long moment the two women stared at each other. What was going on between them? What knowledge did they share that Lorenzo was not privy to? He was simply grateful that he did not live in this place of swirling secrets. He had not confided such to Grant, but he did not like his estate, preferring the sunny climate of Italy over this dark and dour place. Rosemoor might well be a kingdom fit for an earl, but there was not enough love and warmth here, and too many questions.

“Perhaps she cannot sleep because of a troubled conscience,” Arabella said.

“I would have thought you’d evince some loyalty toward your friend,” the countess said. “After all, she is your companion, is she not? If you dislike her so heartily, why have you not dismissed her?”

“It is my father’s decision, Your Ladyship, to have Gillian as my companion. Not mine. She and I do not suit in a number of ways. She does not appreci
ate my study of medicine, and I dislike her constant meddling in my life. When I become the Countess of Straithern, I shall dismiss her. It will be my first official duty.”

The countess did not respond, choosing to focus her attention on Lorenzo. “Are you certain you don’t know where Miss Cameron is?” She studied him intently, as if to measure his words against the truth itself. He debated, for a moment, telling her of his suspicions, that Miss Cameron and Grant had each found a compatible person in the other. But while the countess evidently prized loyalty, she evidently did not understand that Lorenzo did as well. Grant was his friend. Let Grant divulge his plans for Gillian to the countess. Or if that was not something his friend chose to do, then let him explain Gillian’s absence.

“I regret that I cannot answer that question, Your Ladyship.”

She only nodded, once, in response to his comments. As if Lorenzo was answering in exactly the way she’d expected.

“When you see my son, would you convey to him that I wish him to call upon me at his earliest convenience?”

He held back his smile, thinking that of the two of them, Grant was possibly the more stubborn.

But his answer didn’t indicate either his amusement or his certainty that Grant would do no such thing. “Of course I shall, Your Ladyship,” he said, bowing slightly.

“This is a miserable place for a conversation,” the countess said, looking about her and frowning at the foliage as if in chastisement for its plentiful growth. “I
shall adjourn to my parlor, and the two of you shall join me.”

“If you will excuse me, Your Ladyship, I have letters to write home.” Letters filled with thankfulness. Elise would read them with some surprise, he was certain. But he had never valued her more than he did at this moment.

“Nonsense,” the countess answered. “I wish to speak to you of Italy.” She turned, as if expecting perfect obedience, and left the conservatory.

Lorenzo bit back his sigh, turned, and extended his hand to Miss Fenton, who promptly ignored it. She brushed past him, almost pushing him out of the way. Lorenzo glanced at the bench, and realized she’d left her book behind. He leaned down and retrieved it. The corner of a page was bent back, and he straightened it.

Before he could follow her and return it, Arabella was there, grabbing the book from Lorenzo’s hands.