Clearly. But then the English were a very strange people.
“She meant to buck society, so to speak, but now that her doctor has declared bedrest, she has decided to retire to the country.”
Mairi felt her hopes begin to wither inside her. “But then who is to sponsor me?”
“Well, as to that—” Connall began, but she held up her hand.
“You’ve nothing to do with this,” she said tartly. He’d been nothing but a thorn in her side since childhood, and she’d not be listening to his nonsense ever again.
“Actually, he does,” Liam responded, his tone matter-of-fact. “He was to escort you to London—”
“At the same time he brought the whisky to London.” She already knew that. “We’re making the bottles now.” She gestured to the neat row of cooling glass.
“But my father and his men drank too much of the stock. You know this. There’s more aging up every day, but it’s not enough right now. Not to turn a good profit.”
She dropped her hands on her hips. “And what do I care about MacCleal whisky?” she snapped. “It’s not my name nor my fortune tied to it.”
“It’s mine,” rumbled her father, finally joining the conversation. “What need does he have for a glassblower if he’s not got a market for his drink?”
She glared at them all. “It’s notmyfortune,” she spat back. “I have my dowry. I have my looks. What I don’t have is a man!” Then, when Connall opened his mouth, she spoke quickly over whatever mischief he was about to voice. “A man Iwant,” she emphasized.
“Even if he’s English?” Connall said, with that ever-present tease in his voice grating on her nerves.
“Even if he’s English.” Hard not to spit out that last word, but she forced it out. She was a Scotswoman through and through. She never thought she’d consider a Sassenach husband, but necessity required she adapt. “The men are in London now.” She looked to Lady Clara. “Surely there is another woman who could sponsor me.”
The lady nodded slowly and held out her letter. “Diana’s mother, the Dowager Countess of Byrn. She’s offered to sponsor you, for a small fee, but I wouldn’t do it. Not with her. She’s, um, fierce.”
“I’m fierce.”
“You’re Scottish fierce. She’s English fierce.” Clara shook her head. “She frightens me, and my mother could be so disapproving the vicar steered clear.”
How very English to believe that disapproval could sway her from her plans. Her future was at stake. “I’ll take her sponsorship with gratitude.”
“No, you won’t,” said Liam. “You’ve got no one to take you to London. The whisky will require a month.”
“A month!”
Lady Clara shook her head. “She can’t wait that long. She needs to get new clothing made, she needs dance lessons, she needs—”
“To stay here,” her father said. “Plenty of time to go next spring. There’ll be whisky to transport, a winter to learn these dances, make frocks, and—”
“It’ll be too soon for Diana. You’ll have to wait a year for her,” said Lady Clara.
“A year! That’s much too late for a husband.”
Her father laughed. “You think all the men will be gone in twelve months? Will they all drop dead from the ague?”
Good God, were they being this stupid on purpose? She was so furious her words clogged in her throat. Fortunately, Lady Clara explained.
“No, she’s right,” the lady said. “She’s already too old.”
“Too old!” her father exclaimed. “She’s barely twenty-six.”
She was turning twenty-nine early next month, but far be it for her to correct them.
Lady Clara shook her head. “Most debutantes are still teenagers.”
“Teenagers!” Connall scoffed. “No wonder the Sassenach have milquetoast bairns. They’re being raised by children.”
