The Scottish Companion (9 page)

He’d spent years of his life keeping Rosemoor safe from rumor or speculation.

Was that why he’d escaped to Italy? Not because he craved freedom as much as he wanted a release
from the almost palpable aura of evil that clung to his childhood home. The deaths of his brothers had only added to Rosemoor’s miasma.

Every moment he spent in Arabella’s company only added to the certainty that she was exactly the wrong choice for him and for Rosemoor. He was growing to dislike Arabella Fenton with an intensity that shocked him. Normally he never felt such raw emotion about any woman, other than the curiosity he now felt about Gillian Cameron.

No, not simply curiosity. Delight. He felt lighter in her company, as if she banished the ghosts of his past, and the worries of his future.

Leave her alone.

How very odd that the command might well prove impossible.

Arabella watched the two of them from the window, making careful note of Gillian’s flushed face and the look she gave the earl when he turned away. She was no better than a strumpet, a woman of loose morals, encouraging him so. Didn’t she know that all she needed to do was to smile at a man in a certain way, and he would immediately deem a woman infatuated?

Gillian must be taught that her actions were like tinder to flame. She must comport herself with propriety at all times, with the dignity that womanhood demanded. Men could be rutting beasts, but women must be their masters. Women must civilize the world, must demonstrate by word and act that human beings could be creatures of intellect.

But would Gillian listen? She doubted it. Gillian
was changing, becoming more annoyed, more irritated with her role. Or was it something else?

Grant Roberson was proving to be as earthy as any of his subordinates, down to the stable boy and the gardener’s helper. Such a discovery was both a disappointment and a secret relief. Had he been a paragon of virtue, an example for all other men to follow, she would have had no choice but to attempt to welcome this marriage. As it was, however, he was as far from virtuous as Gillian was proving to be.

This union was going to be worse than a sham; it was going to be a horror.

E
ach day of the next two weeks was marked by a strange sense of waiting. Each morning Gillian awoke wondering if today would end the disconcerting feeling of anticipation. Would today be the day she finally lost her temper with Arabella and told her what a spoiled and ungrateful wretch she was? Or would she tell Dr. Fenton that she did not need another lecture on comportment or manners—she knew only too well who she was. Would today, perhaps, be the day when she allowed herself to begin to feel again? When she admitted, if only to herself, that Grant Roberson was the most fascinating man she’d ever met?

Gillian allowed herself a few moments of dreaming, before banishing any errant happy—impossible—thoughts. Perhaps if she did this day after day, there would come a time when she’d awake from the mists of a dream knowing that her lot in life would be exactly what it was now, at this moment, in this time, forever.

As if Arabella had discerned Gillian’s short temper, she began to settle into her role. She no longer chased Blevins from room to room, although the man
did eye her with caution when she came into view. She attended the last of her fittings and wore a few of her new dresses without a tirade on the restrictions of stays and the absurdity of the new fashions. On this point, Gillian would have agreed with her—collars were too large and sleeves were too puffy at the shoulder, and too snug between the elbow and wrist. Nor did Arabella constantly appear in company with a book, although there were still too many occasions when she did so. The most striking consequence of their daily lessons, however, was that Gillian overheard her comment to the earl about the beauty of the spring climate.

Arabella had never before remarked upon the weather.

While Arabella was beginning to act like a pleased soon-to-be bride, Gillian likewise behaved with perfect decorum, never once indicating that she would like to step out of the carefully proscribed role she’d assumed. She and the earl met at dinner, of course, and those other social occasions when she was required to accompany Arabella. She avoided any circumstance when they might be alone together, however. Nor did she return to his laboratory.

She was determined to avoid temptation.

Tonight a deep purple twilight fell over Rosemoor. The air was thick with scent from the adjoining gardens and the pines from the nearby forests. Night beckoned on a slender finger, coaxing her to dream of better days and happier times. Dreams, however, would never make up for the fact that Robert was gone, her parents had shunned her, and her friends had been shocked at her abandon.

The price she’d paid for being too free with her affections had been high, indeed.

She stood at the window staring out at the vista of Rosemoor being slowly encased in darkness. The great house was too quiet. She needed tumult and confusion. She needed the noise of Edinburgh, the cacophony that was London. Give her the sound of a house filled to the rafters with people and she would be happy enough.

At Rosemoor there was no need to line the streets with hay. The house was so vast that the inhabitants would never hear a carriage on the gravel drive.

Night deepened, a soft drape of nature to ensure the earl slept well. A princely rest for a man with noble blood in his veins, a man of such immense power that the world no doubt hesitated at the mention of his name.

As she did.

Whenever Arabella spoke of him, Gillian walked away or found another occupation. It would not do to think of him too often, to encourage feelings that were causing her to remain awake, as now.

More than once she’d told herself she was a fool. But the urgings of her conscience vied with a more disturbing voice, this one not quite so pure or driven by higher thoughts. This errant whisper urged her to lose her caution, be adventurous, even daring.

The rest of her life would be spent, in one form or fashion, in ser vice to others. She had, by the feckless actions of her youth, determined her fate. She would no longer be a proper young matron of Edinburgh. She would no longer maintain her house, her husband, and her stature in society. If she married, somewhere
in the far distant future, it would not be for position but simply for security. Nor would it be for love. She wasn’t entirely certain that she trusted love anymore.

Or perhaps it was that she didn’t trust herself. That was part of it, wasn’t it? If her judgment had been so wrong in regard to Robert, then how could she be trusted to fall in love again?

How could she trust herself to know the difference between love and affection, or between physical desire and a deeper yearning?

She opened the window, wishing it were winter. The air would be bitterly cold; the snow would be piled high on the ground. She would be immediately reminded of sorrow. Winter was the season of death. Yet she needed no reminders.

Sleep would come late tonight, if at all.

Tonight, sadness was too close, and her mood too bleak. Loneliness felt like a ghost standing behind her, whispering in her ear, reminding her of the past.

Was it such a sin to want to be loved?

She turned away from the window. The maid had readied the bed, folding down the sheet and comforter on both sides, fluffing up the pillows. The room was a lovely one, a testament to Rosemoor’s wealth and taste. She could fault neither her accommodations nor the warmth with which she had been welcomed to the earl’s estate.

Perhaps her role in life would have been easier to bear had she been relegated to the servants’ quarters and treated with disdain. This way, she actually had moments in which she dreamed Arabella’s role might be hers.

At dinner tonight, the earl had watched her for too
long until she wanted to warn him that other people were noticing his interest. He’d questioned her opinion during the conversation, and when she’d retreated to silence, he’d sought her comments so pointedly that she had no choice but to answer him. Through it all, he’d never quite lost that small smile of his, as if he ridiculed her for her caution, or chastised her for her lack of courage.

She was no coward. But she couldn’t quite forget one very important fact. Had it not been for Dr. Fenton’s intervention, she would now be a woman of the streets. A poor creature whose night’s lodgings or sustenance was paid for by the rent of her body.

She paced, restless, dreading the coming hours. A moment later, she grabbed her wrapper and left the room.

Rosemoor was a labyrinth of hallways and rooms. In the last two weeks she’d learned her way around by using the formal gardens as a landmark. They were located to the east of the structure. Therefore, she could readily find her way to the west and north wings, where the most commonly used rooms were located.

The gallery was long, one hundred fifty-two feet long, as measured by her footsteps. The plaster ceiling was deeply carved with trailing vines. The oak floor was set with alternating blond and dark wood strips, the shading illuminated by moonlight streaming in through the dozen or so floor-to-ceiling arched windows.

Delicate tables no larger than a foot square sat between each of the curtained windows. Some held deeply hued Chinese vases. A few bore intricately carved ivory statues, now a study in cream and gray
shadow. One table sat empty, and as she walked to it, she realized the top itself might be considered a work of art since it was crafted of rare Blue John stone. Her father had ordered a vase made of the purple, yellow, and gray material and had to wait several years before delivery.

She moved to the middle of the corridor, studying the shadowed portraits mounted on the wall to her left. The Earls of Straithern had evidently prized their horses and their dogs, because both were prominently featured. Not so their wives.

A sound at the end of the room made her turn her head. Was there a footman in attendance? She cleared her throat and spoke, “Is anyone there?”

“Are you given to wandering around at night, Miss Cameron?” an imperious voice asked. “And if so, perhaps I should station a footman outside your door. It would not do for one of the guests at Rosemoor to be shot as an intruder.”

“Does that happen often, Your Ladyship?” Gillian asked, searching the shadows.

A moment later, the woman stepped forward into the pale moonlight.

“Why are you awake, Miss Cameron?”

“I could not sleep,” Gillian said.

“You should ask Miss Fenton for one of her sleeping powders. She has advised it for my maid, and now she snores throughout the night, keeping me awake.”

“I can’t help but think that if I am awake, there’s a reason for it.”

“Do you feel that God is punishing you for some errant thought or deed, Miss Cameron? I doubt God has the time to mete out such punishment in that man
ner. Time enough when we die and are called upon to answer to St. Peter for all our sins.”

“Perhaps I would much rather settle my debts as I go, Your Ladyship. There might be too great a score after my death.”

“Are you that sinful?” the countess asked.

“Some would say I am.”

“You are an impertinent young woman, are you not? I thought so upon first viewing you.”

What on earth did she say to that?

The countess turned, and for a moment Gillian didn’t know what to do.

“Are you coming, Miss Cameron? If we are both to be awake, we might as well keep each other company.”

Gillian descended the grand staircase behind the countess, holding on to the polished banister tightly. Only one small gas lamp illuminated the descent, and the marble steps could be dangerous.

The older woman began walking toward the back of the house. “I find that chocolate works when all other things fail, Miss Cameron. Will you join me?”

“However do you find your way in the darkness?” Gillian asked after an encounter with a small table. She rubbed at her thigh and followed the woman.

“Twenty years of making the same journey.” From the sound of her voice, it was evident the countess was far ahead. Gillian increased her pace, only to stumble into another table. She was going to be bruised in the morning.

“Are you coming, Miss Cameron?” the countess asked with a touch of humor to her voice. “Or should I send a footman to escort you to the kitchens?”

“I believe I can navigate there, Your Ladyship,” Gillian said.

“See that you do,” came the disembodied voice. “Or else the chocolate will be cold by the time you arrive.”

Gillian made her way through the clutter of the hallway and down a series of steps. She turned left, and then some distance before turning left yet again. Unlike the other rooms, this space was brightly lit by gas lamps.

“You’ll find the journey a little easier,” the countess said, appearing at the end of the corridor. “My son has insisted upon lighting the entire kitchen.” She looked up at one of the sconces on the wall. “They smell abominably, but it is pleasant not to have to worry about candles. Grant tells me that such a thing will be commonplace in most homes in a matter of years. We live in a very progressive world, Miss Cameron. I suppose it’s necessary to accept that fact, however difficult it might be.”

“You must be very proud of the earl.”

A shadow flitted over the countess’s face, but she smiled a second later. “I am, Miss Cameron. He is a son any woman would admire. I missed him a great deal when he lived in Italy. I implored him to come home. I did not know that he would do so…” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head as if annoyed at herself.

She turned and made her way into the kitchen. Gillian followed her, looking around the room, amazed. She’d never before seen such a large room. A huge table, not unlike the one in the earl’s laboratory, sat in the middle of the space. On one wall was a massive fireplace, large enough that a dozen men could stand
upright inside it. On the other walls were wooden shelves on which pots, pans, and other cooking utensils were kept.

“We can feed everyone at Rosemoor from this kitchen,” the countess said, correctly interpreting Gillian’s awe. “A not inconsiderable feat, Miss Cameron, since we have over a hundred people on staff at Rosemoor. You’ll discover that they eat appreciably better than most. Whatever is served at the main table finds its way to the servants’ dining room. Regrettably, there is little food left over to feed the poor. But I can proudly say that we have never turned away anyone in need of sustenance. Did you know that we have one entire building given over to the storage of foodstuffs?”

“I didn’t,” Gillian said.

“Miss Fenton did not know that fact, either. She has expressed not one iota of curiosity about the running of Rosemoor. I am very much afraid that she feels it is simply beneath her. But as countess, she will have to supervise every single aspect of the running of this estate. Fairies do not appear at twilight to scrape the pots, Miss Cameron. Nor do cobblers’ elves ensure that all the servants are fed or clothed.”

In other words, Arabella must evince some interest, even if false, in the duties of countess. She must also, if Gillian could convince her, express some curiosity about Rosemoor, at least to the Countess of Straithern.

The countess went to the shelf, procured a long-handled pot, and returned to the stove.

“You are looking at me very strangely, Miss Cameron. Did you expect me to call my maid?”

“Actually, I had expected one of the cooks to be awake, Your Ladyship.”

“Then you’d better settle yourself in for the sight of a countess making her own chocolate. I am a duke’s daughter, but my father was a firm believer in not rearing helpless children. After all, he’d seen what happened during the Revolution in France. All of those aristocrats, some of them unable to button their own shoes.” She shook her head. “Self-sufficiency is a wonderful thing, Miss Cameron. I daresay you have it in abundance. I’ve watched you, you know.”

“Have you?”

The countess nodded. “I have asked a great many questions about you as well, Miss Cameron. Dr. Fenton, however, seems uncharacteristically restrained when speaking of you. I sense a mystery there.”

Gillian moved to the table, sat at one end of the bench. She placed her hands on the table, palms together, her fingers pointing in the countess’s direction. “There is no mystery, Your Ladyship.”