***
Lady Marjorie Forrester took the coachman’s outstretched hand as she stepped down to the muddy ground. She’d worn her most practical walking shoes, but they immediately disappeared beneath thick, sticky brown halfway up her toes.
“For heaven’s sake,” Mrs. Giswell exclaimed from the coach doorway, “someone—you, sir!—move those planks over here before we drown in the mud!”
“I’m nearly to the inn, now,” Marjorie returned, nevertheless favoring the large bearded man with a smile as he slogged over with an armful of planks and began laying them between the vehicle and the coaching inn. “Thank you for your assistance, sir.”
“With that woman screeching at me, I was scared she’d put a curse on me if I didnae do as she said,” he returned in a thick, drawling brogue, grinning back at her.
Once the planks covered the mud, Mrs. Giswell stepped down gingerly to follow Marjorie. “A lady does not screech, sir,” she stated in her coolest tones. “A lady merely speaks up when an expected and needed chivalry is not offered.”
“Och, a chivalry,” the large man took up, tugging on his thick brown beard. “Ye hear that, lads? I’m a bloody knight!”
The half-dozen men scattered about the small courtyard laughed. “Aye! Sir Robert the Blacksmith, ye are,” one of them called out.
“Aye, and the lot of ye bow when ye see me from now on.”
The conversation amused her, and Marjorie smiled, starting a little when Mrs. Giswell put a hand on her arm. “A lady is not amused by brutes and their foul language,” she said. “Now let’s get you inside before you catch your death, my lady.”
The wind did have a definite bite, but she wasn’t yet chilled enough to feel more than a sense of exhilaration. The accents in the Lowlands had been charming as the coach drove north, but now just from the thick brogues surrounding her she knew they’d reached the Highlands. For heaven’s sake, they might even be on Gabriel’s land; Lattimer Castle’s property consisted of ten thousand acres—or so her brother’s solicitors had informed her.
Taking a breath, she pushed open the inn’s faded green door and stepped inside. According to the sign hanging outside this was the Cracked Hearth, but at first glance the old stone fireplace seemed to be perfectly intact. The place had a low ceiling braced with massive wood beams, leaving Marjorie with the sensation that she was too tall for the room—despite the fact that she was far shorter than some of the very large men inside.
And it wasn’t just men having luncheon or escaping the rain at the Cracked Hearth; a dozen women and a handful of children sat at the tables or played in the corner, as well. The sight of families left her feeling easier about being in the cavernlike setting, but it also made her very conscious of how… out of place she looked there.
She’d chosen her London-made green and cream walking gown because the color of it had enchanted her, and the heavy Parisian shawl of green braided wool because it was warm and French-made when such things were almost impossible to get. Six months ago she wouldn’t have been able to afford either of them, or her walking shoes, and perhaps they weren’t exactly plain even by London standards. The novelty of being able to purchase whatever she wanted still hadn’t quite faded. Now, though, picking her way through the luncheon crowd to find an empty table at the Cracked Hearth, she wished she’d been a bit more discerning.
“You should be accustomed to being noticed,” Mrs. Giswell whispered from behind her. “A lady doesn’t acknowledge stares.”
“I’m frequently noticed,” she returned in the same tone. “In London it’s followed by people turning their backs on me. Here they keep looking.”
“And they will continue to do so, no doubt. They don’t seem to be any better mannered than those men outside who laughed while we waded through the mud.”
That seemed severe. Dwelling on ignorance versus rudeness, though, would keep her from listening to the very boisterous banter going on all about the large, low room. Doing her best not to return their attention or smile at the young boy with the red hair and pretty gray eyes sitting with a group of boys three tables away, she sat and stretched her fingers out to the candle there to warm them. “I’ll be perfectly satisfied with hot tea and a warm meal,” she returned.
Mrs. Giswell gathered her dark brown skirt and took a seat on the opposite bench. “You might have taken a private room, my lady. A duke’s sister should not be dining with commoners.” She leaned closer. “And while I commend you for traveling with your own driver and coachman, I still believe you should also have employed at least two outriders and someone to travel a day ahead of us to arrange for proper accommodations and announce your coming.”
“That’s a bit grandiose, don’t you think?” Marjorie returned. After five days of being confined in a coach with her paid companion, the endless litany of what a lady should and shouldn’t do had lost much of the limited appeal it had once had. That didn’t make it less necessary, but it had definitely become less interesting. “I did attend finishing school, you know. I have some expertise in etiquette and propriety.”
“Yes, but that was when you were preparing for employment as a governess or a companion. Not the sister of a duke. You hired me to assist you with settling into the aristocracy. If I may be so bold, I daresay I’ve spend more time amid thebeau mondethan you have, Lady Marjorie. And wherever you travel, you must always keep in mind that you are the Duke of Lattimer’s sister.”
“I do thank you for your boundless wisdom, Mrs. Giswell.” Boundless and endless, but she had hired the woman for precisely that reason.
And Mrs. Giswell made a very good point. Because while she had excelled at both boarding school and finishing school, she’d had a very keen insight about the restrictions her birth and income placed on her future. If not for the death of a great-great-uncle to whom she hadn’t even known she was related, the education she’d received would have been completely adequate.
When a soft-faced young man approached the table, Mrs. Giswell placed a request for tea and two servings of roasted veal—evidently the proper meal for a midday rest and a change of horses—so that she wouldn’t have to converse with any commoners, herself. Marjorie settled for giving him a smile, which for once earned her a friendly nod.
Whatever Mrs. Giswell thought was proper, Marjorie didn’t want someone riding ahead to prepare the way, both because it seemed even more frivolous than her wardrobe, and because for once she meant to surprise her brother. That was the true reason for her hurry—because she wanted to arrive before the final preparations were made for his wedding. The rush and her decision to forgo outriders had nothing to do with this being her first and only excuse to flee the emptying streets of London before she was the only soul left in Mayfair. Nor was it because she’d felt like she’d been alone from the moment she’d taken up residence at Leeds House. Before that even, but she’d expected it, then.
“Have you considered yet who you might have sponsor you in the spring so you may have your Season? That would see you introduced to the best families, and would diminish any reason they might have to slight you.” Mrs. Giswell cut her veal into delicate portions, every motion proper and feminine and precise. “I have several suggestions, though any of them will likely require a generous gift on your part.”
Marjorie took a moment to properly dissect her meal, as well. “So I must purchase this female’s friendship.” Not for the first time, she wondered if fitting in with the aristocracy was worth the effort. As a girl she’d dreamed of being a great lady, of men who tipped their hats and bowed at the very sight of her. Abruptly shewasthat lady, only to discover now that the deference of others could evidently be purchased.
“You purchase their cooperation and assistance,” Marjorie’s companion corrected. “In time you might find acceptance and even friendship, but only the first is necessary to your success.” She took another dainty bite, chewed, and swallowed. “As you already know, being an aristocrat is an expensive proposition. And not every title comes with as much wealth as your brother’s. The offer of a new carriage, say, to an appropriate, established household, should secure you a marchioness or a viscountess with good connections.”
Bile rose in her throat, and she drank down half a cup of weak tea to drive it back down again. “Let us discuss something more pleasant, Mrs. Giswell. We can develop our strategy for acceptance when we return to London.”
After that she had to listen to a twenty-minute discussion of the general unpleasantness of Scottish weather. Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer, and rose. “I’m going to stretch my legs before we return to the coach.”
