“I have no objection,” she whispered, so he wouldn’t hear the trembling of her voice. Nothing permanent, but together as long as she was there. She could manage that. Until, perhaps, she decided to go, or he decided it would be safe for her to leave. That, however, wouldn’t be today.
And if part of her wished that Sir Hamish’s fishing holiday was proceeding so splendidly that he would decide to extend his stay in the valley, well, she didn’t need to admit that to anyone but herself.
***
Hortensia backed away from the office door, careful not to rattle the old china tea set on the tray she carried. And she thoughtshe’dgone astray. A few kisses and some discreet handholding, though, could hardly compare to what she’d just overheard.
Of course it would take a herculean effort to salvage Lady Marjorie’s reputation should any rumors about a kidnapping emerge. What neither of the two young people in the office had grasped, though, was that at this moment no one outside of this ramshackle mansion knew there had even been a kidnapping. No one knew Lady Marjorie Forrester was missing.
For heaven’s sake, did the young lady think her companion had learned nothing after the disaster with Princess Sophia? The fewer people who knew anything was amiss, the fewer who could wag their tongues about it. If they needed an excuse, they would have the time and opportunity to conjure one.
In fact, Lady Marjorie seemed to be creating the one possible complication herself. A pregnancy would dash any chance for her to emerge unscathed. On the other hand, a child could always be a foundling or the child of some deceased friend or distant relation or other. A good handful of “foundlings” resided in perfectly respectable households with their perfectly respectable “rescuers.” Everything could be managed, as long as a modicum of discretion accompanied it.
The three younger Maxtons trudged into the house, and she stepped to one side of the hallway to let them pass. Little ill-mannered heathens, even though two of them were taller than she was. Someone should have taken a switch to them years ago. Now it was likely too late to rehabilitate any of them but that Connell—and given the way he preferred to nest with wild animals, even that would be a challenge.
“… doesnae mean anything,” the oldest one was saying, as he wrapped an arm around Connell’s waist and hung the boy over his shoulder.
“It means she could’ve had ye shoveling shite in the stable, and she didnae,” the middle, more clever one pointed out. “And that’s after ye stole her, threatened her, and insulted her. I’d have walloped ye fer every single one of those things.”
“Ye’d have tried, horseface.”
“Cow lips.”
“I’m the Bruce!” Connell yelled, for no apparent reason, and then they were past her and up the stairs.
Madmen. The lot of them. But then Lady Marjorie emerged from the office, her hair coming loose from its pins on one side and her lips swollen. With a smile at the door she turned for the stairs, only to begin humming that song about two bonnie maidens, which everyone knew to be about the Jacobite rebellion. Of course it was good fun to sing it in a horrid brogue in London drawing rooms, but here it seemed very questionable and likely scandalous.
Hortensia opened her mouth to caution her mistress, but stopped herself when Lady Marjorie flung out her arms and twirled in a circle. In the two months she’d known the young lady, Marjorie had never hummed or sung, and she’d certainly never spun.
“Oh, Mrs. Giswell,” the young lady exclaimed, stopping in mid-hum and blushing. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m bringing tea to Sir Robert. To Mr. Polk, I mean. Entertaining him in a room with just the two of us isn’t exactly proper, but with no female servants but that savage cook in residence, I’ll simply have to leave the morning room door open and make do.”
“He seems very respectful of you, in any case,” the lady replied.
“He is. Not that anything could come of a Scottish blacksmith and an English lady’s companion, but flirtation is an art and should be practiced from time to time.”
“Just a flirtation, Mrs. Giswell?” she said, her eyes sparkling with good humor. “Your Mr. Polk seemed excessively relieved to see you in good health.”
“Yes, I think he was. But our time here is both unwilling and temporary, my lady, so what could it be if not a flirtation?”
The teasing grin on her employer’s face fled, her gaze lowering. “Yes, of course you’re correct. What else could it be?” She smoothed her skirt. “The priest is due here shortly. You haven’t seen Connell, have you?”
“Upstairs with his brothers, I believe.”
“Thank you. And please, be certain Mr. Polk remembers the roles we’re playing if he speaks to Father Michael.”
“I will, my lady. My niece, I mean. Ree.”
With a flip of her hand and an utterly fake smile Lady Marjorie walked up the stairs. Her thoughts roiling, Hortensia watched her out of sight.Oh, dear.This was far more serious than she’d realized. However this misadventure had begun, Marjorie was… happy. Here. Perhaps she hadn’t even realized it, but no one who hummed and smiled and spun in private—or what she’d thought had been private—was unhappy.
Hefting the tea tray, she pushed backward against the mostly closed morning room door and slipped inside, only to have strong, warm hands close over her shoulders. “A flirtation, am I?” Sir Robert muttered, leaning around with his bushy beard to kiss her on the cheek.
“I wanted to remind Lady Marjorie that she has plans, and that they don’t include Graeme, Lord Maxton.” She set down the tray to pour him a cup of tea with four lumps of sugar. After ten years of marriage to the very plain and practical Mr. Giswell, she appreciated a man with a sweet tooth.
“But what abootyerplans, Hortensia?”
With a sigh she handed him the cup and saucer and then sat down on the couch beside him. “As long as she needs me, I go where Lady Marjorie goes.”
