The Scottish Companion (2 page)

T
he study was so quiet that Gillian Cameron could hear the squirrels chittering to one another outside the window. The day was a brilliantly beautiful one. A chilled breeze brought the hint of spring; the sky was blue and cloudless. Everything about the day had been pleasant, until this particular moment when shock rendered Gillian speechless.

“I expect you to assist her, Gillian. My daughter needs your help.”

She stared at Dr. Fenton, aghast. “Sir, I counsel you not to insist upon this marriage. Arabella is not prepared.”

Dr. Fenton frowned at her. “This is a very advantageous union, Gillian. It’s not often such elevation is possible.” He swiveled his chair to face her. “If she’s not ready for marriage, then I expect you, as her companion, to teach her what she needs to know, tutor her in those social niceties she requires. Make her presentable. You have a month to do so.”

She was so startled that for a moment she couldn’t even frame a question. A month? Finally, she found her voice. “Sir, Arabella cares nothing at all for
feminine pursuits. All she wants to do is study her books.”

How often had she thought she was the only person in this household who did not seem to be fascinated with dying and death?

“His Lordship is not averse to allowing Arabella to pursue her studies, Gillian. In fact, he was quite willing to allow her to treat his staff. Tell her that if she balks. It’s the only way she’ll ever be a physician.”

He turned away.

“You would use that, Dr. Fenton?” she asked, more calmly than she felt. “You would use Arabella’s…” What did she call it? Obsession? Desperation? Nothing existed for Arabella but medicine. From the moment she woke in the morning until she fell asleep, exhausted, with a book in her hand, she was consumed with the idea of learning everything she could learn about the human body, about the treatment of disease. A broken bone delighted her, an inflammation fascinated her, and pus rendered her ecstatic.

“I’ve agreed, and as her father I’ve only Arabella’s best interests at heart. You, of all people, Gillian, should know the foolishness of a woman turning against her upbringing.”

She clasped her hands together so tightly that her knuckles were white.

“I beg you, Dr. Fenton, please do not insist upon this. Whether or not it’s an advantageous union is of no difference. Arabella will not agree. And if she does, by some miracle, accede to your wishes, she’ll be miserable.”

“Then you must plant the idea in her head that it is for her greatest good, Gillian. I expect you to be able
to influence her to accept her future. Her very bright future.”

Since Arabella barely spoke to her, and since she had not once exerted any influence over the young woman since the day she entered Dr. Fenton’s employ nearly two years ago, Gillian could only stare helplessly at him.

Finally she left the doctor’s study and took the stairs to Arabella’s room. Even though it was already midmorning, the girl would not have left her chamber. Instead she would be at her desk, a lamp lit despite the brightness of the day, poring over yet another text featuring gruesome illustrations and even more hideous descriptions.

Life was much more pleasant when she controlled her feelings. As Gillian made her way to Arabella’s room, however, she found herself growing more and more disturbed. Perhaps it was anger. At Dr. Fenton, when he’d alluded to her past? Or at his wish to be aligned to an earl? Or was she annoyed at herself for feeling a surge of unexpected grief when he’d mentioned family?

Nearly three years ago, she’d left her stepmother clutching her lace-trimmed handkerchief, and her father frowning into the bowl of his pipe. They’d said not one word to her as she’d left the manor house that had been her home all her life.

One last time, she’d turned back, optimist to the end, and said, “Do you hate me so much, then?”

Time was arthritic, ticking by on bent and crooked hands.

“Not hate, Gillian,” her father had finally said. “Not hate. But you’ve lost the right to be in the company of decent people.”

Decent people? A stepmother who could watch her walk away and not say one word? A father who cared more for his new family than his daughter? Was that decent?

They wouldn’t listen to her words, however. They hadn’t from the beginning. Nothing would sway them, nothing would soften their iron hearts. So she remained mute and almost sullen, feeling a terror so deep and cold that she was stiff with it.

Perhaps that’s what she felt now. Perhaps it was fear, and not anger. If Arabella married, what would happen to her? Arabella, as the Countess of Straithern, wouldn’t need a companion. In all honesty, she didn’t need her now. Arabella certainly didn’t want Gillian in her room, in her life. Whenever Gillian spoke, it was to silence, and the two women rarely shared a conversation. To converse required the participation of both people.

The only time Arabella talked to her was if Gillian mentioned some discomfort. She’d stuck herself with her needle when embroidering. Her woman’s time was difficult this month. Then Arabella’s eyes would light up and Gillian could not stem the flow of questions.

The problem was, Gillian was exceedingly healthy. Nor was she about to imagine ailments in order to converse with Arabella. Therefore, most of their time together was silent, Arabella studying, and Gillian engaged in her embroidery.

A very proper, if boring, existence, and one that was about to drastically change.

How odd that she missed it already.

She knocked on the door to Arabella’s sitting room, waited a moment, and opened the door. It would be
a waste of time waiting for Arabella’s response. She neither welcomed nor forbade Gillian to enter. She simply ignored her.

Gillian entered the room and closed the door behind her. Without a word, she went to the chair beside the window, sat, and picked up her embroidery. Arabella didn’t turn from her position at the desk.

Long moments passed while Gillian stared out the window, wishing she could be anywhere but here. Perhaps on the moor, standing among the heather. A hardy plant, it scarcely seemed to need anything. Instead, it just planted its roots into the ground, impervious to wind or rain or sun. Would that she could be like the heather.

She turned her head and regarded Arabella. Her head was bent, intent on the notes she was writing. The sun was bright today, and seemed to add gilt to the girl’s blond hair.

“Your father wished to speak to me,” Gillian said.

Arabella didn’t stop writing.

“About your coming marriage.”

Arabella’s head came up, but she didn’t turn. She only stared at the drawers of her secretary in front of her.

“I told him you would object.”

“Did you?” Arabella asked.

“He said it was quite an honor to marry an earl.” Those weren’t his exact words. Dr. Fenton was a bit more avaricious than that, but the gist was the same.

“You really do not have a choice, I’m afraid,” Gillian said. “Your father is set on the match. I have to agree that it seems very advantageous.”

Arabella glanced at her, her mouth curved in a smile. “What would an earl want with me?”

Did the girl not ever look in the mirror? She was perhaps the most beautiful creature Gillian had ever seen. She looked like an angel from a medieval painting with her heart-shaped face and striking green eyes. There was nothing about Arabella out of place, not one imperfection. Of course an earl would want her for his wife.

“He says you can continue your studies. Did your father tell you that?”

Arabella nodded. “I don’t believe him, of course.” She returned to her notes. “Most people say things they don’t really mean to make you do what they want.”

“How horribly cynical,” Gillian said. “Surely you don’t actually feel that way?”

“I do. My own father is not averse to the technique.” She glanced at Gillian again, looking supremely bored by the subject as if they were not discussing her future.

“What if he were telling the truth?” Gillian asked. “Would you consent to the union?”

Arabella smiled again.

“Regardless of what I feel, Gillian, I haven’t a choice. I may rail and protest and shout to the rooftops, but in the end my father and the earl will make it come about. We women have no say in our lives, not truly. When a man asks you what you want, it is only a waste of time. If you tell him, he’ll quickly dismiss everything you’ve just said out of hand.”

She turned her attention to her notes, but she didn’t begin writing. “I don’t want to be married, Gillian, but I shall be. I have no choice in the matter. I’m like a trapped animal, and no amount of prettying it up will change that fact.”

“You might find love, Arabella. It might be possible to find love in such a union. If not, a measure of contentment. No, we do not have a choice, I agree, but in some matters you do. You could choose to be happy, in some way. The earl has said you might practice medicine. Surely you could find some contentment in that?”

“How silly you can be, Gillian. You’re such a child in so many ways.”

Stung, Gillian could only stare at her.

“Sometimes, the price for contentment is too high. He will touch me. He will bed me. I think I shall die if that happens.”

“One doesn’t die,” Gillian said, compelled to speak by the utter hopelessness in the girl’s voice. “In some situations, with some men, it’s pleasurable.” More than pleasurable. The act of love could exalt the senses, transport a place, a room, a mood into something almost hallowed.

“There is nothing you could say to make the situation more bearable, Gillian. I do not have your childish view of the world. I see it as it is, not as I wish it to be.”

This conversation was the longest she’d ever had with Arabella. In fact, it was the most she’d ever heard Arabella speak.

Gillian glanced at the girl, knowing there was nothing further she could say. Arabella had it right. In the end, she’d be married, regardless of what she wanted.

But what Arabella didn’t know was that marriage was so much more preferable to other alternatives. Being alone, for one. Being left adrift without anyone to love, or to love her.

But she had loved well, and that memory must sustain her for the rest of her life. Yet, at times like this, when others were rejecting love’s potential and promise, she felt increasingly lonely. She would have been satisfied to be in Arabella’s place, to be given so much without any effort, to be promised respect, and protection. All Arabella had to do was marry.

For the first time, Gillian truly envied the girl, and wasn’t that a foolish emotion?

G
illian sat back against the cushions of the carriage, wishing suddenly that Dr. Fenton had not requested that she accompany them to Rosemoor. Requested? Hardly the correct word. It wasn’t a request—more a command, rather. What other choice had she? If she wasn’t Arabella’s companion, she’d have no occupation at all.

She should have taken advantage of the occasional trips to Inverness and visited a few of the milliners there. She could have seen the newest styles, perhaps practiced decorating a few of her own bonnets. Then she could have taken the results and solicited a position. She was talented in embroidery, evident from the fact that her work could be found in abundance throughout Dr. Fenton’s house. Surely she could have shown her work to a few dressmakers, and obtained a position with one of them.

Or perhaps she was only being foolish, and there was nothing she could do, no talent she possessed significant enough to support herself. Therefore, she packed her trunk and watched as it was lashed to the wagon holding all of Arabella’s belongings.

Gillian couldn’t help but wonder what the earl would think of Arabella’s trousseau: two trunks of books; one of her personal belongings, such as the silver-backed mirror and brush she’d inherited from her mother, and a porcelain tooth cup from France. One trunk held her clothing, and the last—or the most important, according to Arabella—was a trunk containing a male skeleton.

Not that it was possible to tell, from even a studied glance, what gender Roderick had once been. Gillian had not spent an appreciable time contemplating him. She could still remember when she’d opened the bureau in Arabella’s sitting room the first time and found herself facing a grinning skull. She’d taken one look at Roderick and clamped her hand over her mouth to contain a scream.

“Oh, do not be childish, Gillian,” Arabella had said. “It’s only a skeleton. We shall all look like Roderick one day.”

“There are certain things I don’t wish to know,” Gillian had retorted. “The exact hour and day of my death, for one, and my appearance after that moment.”

She’d ignored—or tried—the skeleton after that day.

Now Arabella sat at Gillian’s side, opposite her father. Her head was bent, her attention directed at the open book on her lap. Gillian knew she wasn’t reading, however. Arabella grew ill when reading in a carriage—one of the few personal details she knew about the girl. Arabella disliked greens, and favored lamb with mint jelly. She liked warm milk in the evening, and preferred wearing a particular nightgown with blue flowers embroidered on the yoke. She had no
patience for card games, or conversation of any sort, and if she did speak it was to that hideous skeleton in her sitting room. That, and her growing dislike of the idea of marriage, was the extent of her knowledge of Arabella.

There was a flash of white beyond the trees. Leaning forward, Gillian caught a glimpse of something pointed. The top of a tower? The tops of two towers, to be precise. Narrow and round, they were built atop a brick wall now covered in lichen or ivy. Beyond the towers were two other pediments, these square and cumbersome, as if they’d been added as an afterthought to the wall.

“Is that it?” she asked, stunned at both the size and the majesty of Arabella’s new home. “Is that Rosemoor?”

Dr. Fenton sat up and glanced out the window. “Indeed it is. Rosemoor, the seat of the Earls of Straithern. A most impressive edifice, don’t you think, Gillian?”

The house was a jumble of buildings, all connected together, some high, some low, some topped with towers, some flat. The whole of Rosemoor was faded red sandstone, with large arched windows where there were windows, and tiny slits where there were none. She started to count them, and stopped when she reached twenty.

“It’s very large.”

“Indeed it is. Seventy-two rooms, to be precise. I myself have seen only a quarter of them. But I expect you, my dear,” he said, shooting a fond look toward his daughter, “will grow to know them well.”

Arabella said nothing. Nor did she look up from her book.

“Your bride will be here any moment, Grant.”

Grant stared at the paper in front of him, wondering if he should engage in conversation with his mother, or ignore her. She was, after all, the Countess of Straithern, and free to speak her mind. But that didn’t mean he had to listen, or even agree. Although he’d occasionally solicited her opinion, he wasn’t interested in what she had to say now.

He glanced up from his ledger. “I have given word that I’m to be notified when she arrives.”

“Are you no more interested than that? A wife is not a horse, Grant, however much you’ve bargained for the filly.”

He stood, unwilling to sit behind his desk while she advanced on him. He really should have left for his laboratory early this morning, but he’d been kept behind by his correspondence.

“The subject isn’t open to discussion, Mother. I’ve done what I feel is necessary.”

“Have you?” She took a step back as if to equalize their height, but he was at least six inches taller. Nor was he cowed by the ferocity of her look as he had been when he was twelve and guilty of some misdeed.

Living in Italy had been a pleasure in more ways than one.

“The subject is not open to discussion,” he repeated. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

She clamped her lips shut and narrowed her eyes. “You’ve become insufferably arrogant, Grant. I dislike that quality in you.”

“Perhaps if you listed all my faults, we could meet
soon to discuss them. I’m not averse to improvement, Mother.”

“Then at least tell me why you’ve chosen Dr. Fenton’s daughter. Are you set on this course, Grant?”

He studied her for a moment. “Are you prepared to go to Edinburgh, Mother? Renew your acquaintances, enter society once again?”

She didn’t respond.

“Arabella Fenton will suit well enough. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mother?” He brushed his fingertips against the letter he was writing, wondering when, exactly, he could finish with this chore and escape. He liked routine, the act of finishing one task before beginning another. If he wasn’t so methodical, he would have bolted from the room before she’d advanced on him.

She stood her ground, frowning at him. “Have you fallen in love?”

He was almost amused by that question, enough that he felt the corners of his lips curve up in a smile. “No, Mother, I’m not in love. I’ve yet to meet the girl.”

“Then why?”

“Because it would be wiser if I married as soon as possible,” he said.

They exchanged a long look, and he wondered what was in his eyes. Some knowledge, something that she saw and recognized, some emotion that made her nod and look down.

Perhaps his marriage to Dr. Fenton’s daughter would leave his family open to gossip, but no more so than his sudden appearance on the Edinburgh marriage mart. He could imagine that speculation.

“She will be arriving soon. If you cannot welcome her, Mother, then I can accept that. But do not make her miserable. I would think that you would train her, instead. Mold her into what you think she should be.”

Her dark eyes were filled with an emotion he didn’t want to decipher. Without another word, she turned and left the room.

He stared after her, wondering if he should have shared his suspicions.

Someone had wanted his brothers dead. But who? And did their murderous intent extend to him? Who was next in line to inherit the title? An obscure second cousin who’d immigrated to America. He hadn’t heard of the family for years, wasn’t even certain the man was alive. But his solicitors would somehow manage to find him if anything happened to Grant.

If anything happened to him. What a warming thought.

His mother would be protected by the enormous Roberson wealth. But she would be forced to leave Rosemoor if an obscure relation inherited the title. The estate was entailed, so wrapped up in codicils and provisos that the most skillful of Edinburgh lawyers couldn’t disentangle it.

His attention was caught by a movement outside. A carriage pulled slowly into the drive. He stood and walked to the window, watching as the vehicle stopped in front of the stone steps. One of the footmen opened the door. Dr. Fenton emerged, extending a hand inside the vehicle.

A woman descended the steps. As he watched, the hood of her cloak fell, revealing her features. Her face was pale, a delicate rose tinting her cheeks. Her hair
was brown and arranged in a tight coronet at the back of her head.

She stared off into the distance, and he wondered what had captured her attention. He stepped to the side and looked to where her attention was directed. A tree. She was looking at a tree, a small smile playing around her lips.

What kind of woman was amused by a tree?

As he watched, she was joined by another female. This one carried a book, and seemed uninterested in her surroundings. But she was even more beautiful than the first woman. An angel, with golden hair to match and a face that had him staring. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She looked up from her book, and he wished for a set of binoculars so that he could determine the color of her eyes.

Should he join them? Welcome them at the broad stone steps? Or should he remain in his study, the arrogant taskmaster with a reputation of disliking interruptions?

One of these women was going to be his wife. Which one? They were both beautiful, a fact that annoyed him. He hadn’t expected Dr. Fenton’s daughter to be beautiful. Why hadn’t Fenton mentioned her appearance? Or perhaps the man had, and Grant had simply taken his posturing for the words of a proud father.

A beautiful woman would be a detriment to the life he’d planned for himself. A woman of beauty expected a certain amount of attention, a certain obeisance. She wouldn’t be content with his routine, his involvement with his work.

The blond woman glanced toward Rosemoor, her attention momentarily distracted from her book. Her face was solemn, her mouth unsmiling. He wondered what would amuse her, what would banish the look of caution from her features.

Suddenly, the prospect of marrying a beautiful woman didn’t seem so abhorrent.

A curving brick staircase in the shape of a horseshoe rose to the double doors, above which stood a crest no doubt belonging to the Earls of Straithern. Topping the entrance was a square tower, the clock in the center of it bearing Roman numerals against an ivory face.

When Arabella made no move to leave the carriage, Gillian stepped out. The shrubberies surrounding the house were trimmed; the trees were arching tidily over the road. Even the gravel path was orderly, as if it had been swept clean of extraneous leaves. One lone tree sat in a circular island, its branches left to grow naturally, its leaves still curling in the cool spring air. As if it were a sentinel, a warning to all what might happen if nature were left to itself. It was, perhaps, the most welcoming part of Rosemoor.

The air of Rosemoor smelled different, somehow, as if the Earl of Straithern had commanded only the best scents to be present for their arrival: grass, newly born flowers, the sweetest breeze from the south.

Gillian turned and faced the edifice, thinking that she’d been wrong. This was no house, but a castle. All the towers and crenellated patterns along the roof spoke of defense, barely needed now in this peaceful age.

Arabella finally left the carriage. Dr. Fenton extended his arm to her, and she placed her hand on his sleeve. The two of them preceded Gillian up the curving steps while two footmen followed. What must it be like to have servants around every hour of every day? Gillian wanted to stop and tell them that she was no more important than they. She, too, was a servant, for all the title of companion. Her role would not change despite Arabella’s elevation in rank.

“You will like this, Gillian.” Dr. Fenton stopped and glanced back at her. “There are bits of needlework at Rosemoor that were worked by Mary, Queen of Scots.”

“Truly?”

He nodded. “I am not certain which ones they are, but I shall find out for you. Also, one of the bedrooms is said to have been occupied by Bonnie Prince Charlie during his retreat from the English.” He looked up at the broad double doors. “A home steeped in history, Arabella. And you will be the chatelaine of it.”

Arabella said nothing, and although Gillian couldn’t see her face, she would wager that it was expressionless. Arabella had a way of hiding her feelings so deep that no one really knew what she was thinking. How very odd that Gillian had adopted the trait over the last year. It was easier to pretend, wasn’t it?

The doors suddenly opened, and they were greeted by a portly man with white hair, attired in a gray suit that fit his corpulent form perfectly. For a horrified moment, Gillian thought he might be the earl. If so, this marriage was even more understandable. He was old, and Arabella was young and beautiful.

But he bowed to Dr. Fenton and stepped aside. Of
course, he was the majordomo. How foolish of her. An earl would not greet them at the door.

“Good day, Blevins,” Dr. Fenton said. “His Lordship is expecting us.”

“Indeed, sir. The earl will welcome you in the Flower Room.”

Dr. Fenton smiled brightly. “My favorite room.”

The majordomo led the way, with Dr. Fenton keeping up a running commentary about all the treasures to be found at Rosemoor.

He stopped beside one table, oblivious to the fact that Blevins eyed him with some disfavor.

“This writing table was made by Gole, the cabinetmaker to Louis XIV of France. It was a gift from the king to the Earl of Straithern who was an ambassador to Paris at the time.”

The majordomo pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it with great ceremony, a none too gentle reminder that one did not keep an earl waiting.

Gillian glanced at the table as she passed. The inlaid pewter, brass, and mother-of-pearl made for a gaudy display. Everything old was not necessarily beautiful.

Of her two companions, Dr. Fenton was more enamored of Rosemoor than his daughter. Arabella had been silent during most of the journey. Now her demeanor was stiff, her shoulders straight, her posture leaving no doubt that she was a reluctant guest, and an even more reluctant bride.