Oh, so many things.“Do you think I’m being stupid to want to be accepted in London?”
“What? Of course not. However unexpectedly it came about, you are a duke’s sister. Your blood is as blue as anyone else’s in Mayfair. If your mother hadn’t kept you ignorant of that side of your family, thetonwould have become accustomed to the idea of you and your brother inheriting ages ago.”
Marjorie nodded. “Yes, perhaps. Our monetary circumstances would have been just as dismal, however.”
“Oh, pish. Do you have any idea how many aristocratic families are just one step ahead of debtor’s prison? A great many of them.”
“You do make it sound plausible,” she returned slowly, though she still doubted that anyone would have accepted an eight-year-old girl forced to leave London for boarding school and a seventeen-year-old young man determined to join the army to provide for the two of them. She and Gabriel would have had no London residence, no other London relations but old Lattimer—who, from what she read, hadn’t been a very pleasant fellow, anyway. “Of course it’s all moot, now that I’ve been missing for a fortnight.”
Mrs. Giswell took a breath. “May I speak honestly, my lady?”
“Of course,” Marjorie replied with a frown. “Always.”
“Very well.” The companion folded her hands in front of her. “You have no friends in London.”
“I—”
“Other than a governess or a companion here and there, I mean. No one of quality or influence.”
This was beginning to sound like one of Graeme’s speeches. She wasn’t certain she could bear to hear it all again today. “We have been trying,” she reminded her companion.
“Indeed we have. My point is, no one knows where you’ve gone or when you’re expected back. Not even your brother. As far as he’s concerned, you’re still in London. If you appeared on his doorstep tomorrow, he would have no cause or reason to believe you’d been delayed somewhere against your will unless you told him so. As far as anyone in London is concerned, if they’ve noticed your absence or inquired at the house as to where you might be, you’re at Lattimer Castle and have been for the past fortnight.”
Marjorie stared at her. Mrs. Giswell had it all figured out. If no one knew she’d gone missing, no one could even suggest she’d been ruined. A few people here knew, but they and their opinions mattered even less to London than she did. In addition, they’d have little reason to suspect that Ree Giswell and Lady Marjorie Forrester were one and the same. She wasn’t ruined—except, of course, for the fact that she was.
“You see? Everything can be managed. As soon as this abominable Sir Hamish Paulk leaves the area, so will we. And no one will be any the wiser. Except for us, but we won’t be telling anyone.”
She should have been relieved. She could return to London in no worse a position than she’d been in when she left. But she didn’t feel relieved, because part of Mrs. Giswell’s logic had stabbed at her—the assertion that not a soul in London knew or cared to know where she’d gone.
Not a single soul in an entire town cared a single fig about her, her well-being, her life, or her death. No one. “No one cares,” she said aloud.
“Well… no, but they aren’t yet acquainted with you. We will make them care. In another year or two, well before you’re ready to be put on the shelf, your absence will cause an uproar and make unmarried men weep in worry that you’ve given your hand to someone else.”
She couldn’t quite imagine that even in her wildest daydreams. If three months of effort hadn’t even netted her a wave, she could hardly expect to warrant weeping two years hence. For goodness’ sake, she’d grown up accustomed to being more or less alone, but even that was different than being present but utterly ignored.
A young fist pounded on her door. “Ree!” Connell called. “Are ye in there? I’m nae to come in unless ye say, because Dùghlas told me if ye see a lass naked ye have to marry her.”
Mrs. Giswell gave a delicate snort. “He isn’t wrong about that.”
And Marjorie knew someone who’d seen her naked nightly over the past few days. “I’m dressed, Connell. You may enter.”
Her door swung open, and the eight-year-old strolled in together with the pair of foxes and a big yellow cat. He wore a kilt, as well, a smaller version of Graeme’s. “I see ye’ve noticed,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “I look very fine.”
“Yes, you do. Quite handsome. You may well catch some lass’s eye.”
At that he frowned, stalking forward. “I dunnae want to catch a lass’s eye. I’m too young. And the Lion’s Den is a hoose of bachelors.”
And would apparently remain so, in part because she was an idiot and hadn’t somehow seen that she could enjoy a future with Graeme back when he’d first demanded that she wed him. He hadn’t mentioned marriage since, of course, or love at all, but he had said he wanted her to stay. Here, in the middle of nowhere. How could she call this an improvement over civilized, sophisticated London?
“… amnae a heathen, Mrs. Giswell,” the boy was saying. “I washed behind my ears just this morning. Graeme said we must look shiny fer all the folk who come so far to see us.”
“Shiny, hm?” the companion repeated skeptically.
“Your clan will be very proud of you, Connell,” Marjorie interrupted, before Mrs. Giswell and her narrow definition of proper appearance and behavior could hurt the boy’s feelings.
“Thank ye, Ree. And now ye’re to come with me. Graeme said to fetch ye to see the lads march up the hill, all in the Maxwell tartan and with bagpipes.”
Graeme had thought of her? Her heart lifted a little, as silly as it was. Barbarian or not, he’d said he liked and admired her. That meant something to her, whether it should have signified or not. As for how she felt about him—she couldn’t even decide whether to face north or south. All the rest was too much, too unexpected, and too far removed from a lifetime of dreams for her to make any sense of it or her feelings at all.
