“Aye,” Fiona, the Penn-Leith’s maid-of-all-work added, voice low, hands wringing. “And he asked tae speak to Miss Leah Penn-Leith herself.”
Leah’s tongue stuck to the roof of her abruptly dry mouth.
Fox Carnegie wished to speak with her?Toher?
But . . .why?!
He had been living at Laverloch Castle for nearly three months now and had yet to make an appearance in the village. The local rumor mill held that Lord Hadley had called upon Captain Carnegie on at least two occasions. And Lady Hadley had mentioned to Mrs. Ruxton (who then told her cousin, who relayed the information to Mrs. Clark) that the captain was not presently married.
But that was the sum of it.
So . . . why had the captain mounted a horse and ridden for hours down the glen to call uponherat Thistle Muir? No gentleman—aside from Dr. Ruxton, their local vicar—had called on Leah in . . . never. And surely, in this instance, the vicar hardly counted.
“Let’s tidy your hair,” Aileen whispered, tucking a wispy stray behind Leah’s ear. “And, maybe, change your frock for something a wee bitty newer.” She tugged on Leah’s faded muslin gown which, with its enormous poofed sleeves, was a solid five years out of fashion.
Leah remained standing stock-still, blinking, trying to remember what she should be doing.
Breathing.
Oh, yes.
That was it.
Fortunately, she was an excellent breather.
She sucked in deep, mind-cleansing air.
“Come.” Aileen pulled on her arm, dragging Leah into her bedroom and pushing her to sit on the bed. Her sister-in-law bustled over to the wardrobe, her pregnant belly billowing her skirts.
“Shall I have Mrs. McGregor prepare some tea, miss?” Fiona asked from the doorway, referring to their housekeeper and cook.
“Aye, Fiona. Thank goodness she made some biscuits yesterday,” Aileen murmured over her shoulder, reaching for Leah’s favorite day dress, a dusky blue cotton with a fashionable wide neck, sloping shoulders, and unpoofed sleeves. “Have Mrs. McGregor put together a lovely tray. And use the good china, Fiona.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and ran for the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, Leah stood before the closed parlor door—dress changed and hair tamed into an elegant chignon—hand pressed once more to her stomach. She could feel Aileen’s eyes upon her, looking down from the railing overhead. The clink of silver in the kitchen drifted from the back hallway.
Why is Captain Carnegie here?
Surely, he did not remember her from those brief moments twenty years ago, when he had sat on the floor across from her and whispered confidences in the dead of night.
But perhaps . .. a wee part of her whispered . . .perhaps he does remember me as I remember him.
Leah firmly tamped down that foolish wish. Fox Carnegie had scarcely remembered her twelve hours after their first conversation. Such an idea was patently absurd.
His presence here today likely had nothing to do with her specifically. He probably wished to speak with Malcolm about the new stock of cattle her brother was breeding. And, realizing her brother was not home, had asked to speak with the man’s sister instead of his wife . . . because a sister would know more about . . . cattle?
Leah closed her eyes.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Captain Carnegie will sip his tea, eat half a biscuit, and be gone in a quarter-hour. Possibly less.
She pressed a palm to her burning cheeks.
Twenty years ago, she had been a nobody—a Scottish farmer’s unrefined daughter with little to recommend her beyond youth and a quick mind.
And now?
Well . . . nowagedandspinsterwere more apt descriptors.
