Or the undoing, Caroline thought. She glanced at the small valise, half hidden by the open door of the wardrobe. It would hold the few gowns she’d purchased in Edinburgh, a book or two, and nothing else. She couldn’t stay, couldn’t watch Alec marry Sophie, promise to love and cherish her all the days of his life. She was sorry she would not be there to stand with Lottie, but she had to go. She would go to Edinburgh or Glasgow, find another job. She would write a letter to Somerson, making good on her promise to renounce her dowry, and cut her ties to her family.
Lottie squeezed the package in her hands, and the paper crackled. “Caroline, I’ve decided not to marry William. Just this moment, in fact. My brother George is going on the Grand Tour. He leaves next month, and I think I’ll go with him.” She jumped to her feet. “Have I shocked you?”
“Frankly yes. Are you sure? What will your parents say?” Caroline said.
“Well, I’ll need a chaperone, of course, besides George—a companion. I thought perhaps you would like to accompany me. Oh Caroline, think of the fun we’ll have. Mama can’t object if you’re with me, and George will be there, with his tutor and his valet.”
Caroline studied her niece’s flushed face, saw the spark in her eyes—determination, delight, and mischief. “Please say yes, Caro!”
Caroline’s stomach tied itself into a knot. It did offer a new destination, a way to forget Alec. She tried to picture herself by Lottie’s side, on a ship, or in Paris, or Italy, and saw only Glenlorne in her mind’s eye. “If this is what you want,” she said slowly.
The string holding the present closed unraveled in Lottie’s fingers, and she looked at the parcel in her lap in surprise, as if she’d forgotten it was there. “Here I am rattling on, and this is your day, and you should be opening your gift.” She handed it to Caroline. “It’s a shawl,” she said before Caroline had even gotten it half unwrapped. “The finest cashmere. It was for my wedding trip, but I can’t bear to wear it now, and I shall buy something new and exotic in Paris or Italy. The colors will look better on you, anyway.”
Caroline held up the lovely shawl. It was moss green, with a deep paisley patterned edging of gold and orange, the colors of the hills of Glenlorne. “Oh, Lottie, it’s lovely, but I really shouldn’t—”
Lottie snorted and snatched it from Caroline’s hands, wrapping it over her shoulders. “Nonsense! You look lovely. It brings out the golden tone of your skin, and the green in your eyes. She fussed with the shawl, wrapping it over Caroline’s hair, tossing the ends over her shoulders. “Oh, you look like a bonnie Highland lass!” she said. “As if you belong here.”
She squeezed Caroline’s hands. “I’d better go and see Mama now. She’ll have just finished breakfast, and be looking forward to lunch. She’s always more approachable on a full stomach. Wish me luck?”
“Luck,” Caroline said. “What about William?”
Lottie turned in the doorway. “Mama’s the hard part. I daresay William will simply find another bride.”
Paris. Italy. The spa towns ... anywhere, Caroline thought, taking off the shawl and putting it into the valise. “Europe.” She whispered the word as she’d once whispered, “Scotland.” Itwasa destination. Still, she could not rid herself of the feeling that once again, she was running away.
CHAPTERFORTY-SIX
Caroline watched Alanna gracefully cross the room with a book on her head, her spine straight, her chin high. Megan followed. Sorcha’s book slid to the floor with a bang. “I shall never, ever be able to enter a ballroom like a lady,” Sorcha moaned, as Caroline picked up the book with a smile. “And I’m not sure I want to.”
Muira grinned from where she was sewing by the window where the light was best. She had come to tell the girls their mother had decided to pay an extended visit to a cousin for the sake of her health, and had to leave this very day, since Brodie had also decided to quit Glenlorne. The girls had been surprised, but they had the weddings to look forward to. And if they asked questions later, well, Muira was certain she would think of something to tell them.
“Tis all right, lass, there are plenty of braw men here in the Highlands who won’t find ye wanting, even if ye can’t carry a book on the top of your head,” Muira soothed Sorcha now.
Megan tugged her youngest sister’s braid. “You have years to practice.”
“She’ll need every one,” Alanna said unkindly, spinning in place with the book firmly in place on her head. “Sophie said she’d send for a dancing master for us, and a music teacher. We’re to learn to play the piano, so we can list it as one of our accomplishments. Sophie says a successful debutante must have a long list of accomplishments.”
“I’d rather read books than carry them on my head.” Sorcha sniffed. “And I would rather have useful accomplishments. I can climb a tree, and win a foot race, and bake a pie.”
Alanna rolled her eyes. “Useful if you’re going to marry a one-legged crofter with an apple tree.”
“Don’t tease!” Megan said. “I daresay when Sorcha is older, she will turn out to be the family beauty and marry a prince who will adore her.”
Sorcha stuck out her tongue at her middle sister, and looked barely even pretty.
“Yer face will stick like that, young miss, and I’ll have to boil up a potion of roots and sheep’s feet to set it smooth again,” Muira said.
Jock knocked shyly on the door, looking for Caroline. “There y’are Miss. There’s yet another Englishman here to see ye. He’s in the den, er, library. I know Lady Sophie wants it called the library from now on.”
“It’s the same room it always was,” Muira said sourly. “The room where the laird has always gone to drink and swear with the clansmen, out of hearing of the womenfolk. I don’t know where Alec will go to do that once she’s mistress here.”
Jock shuffled his feet. “All the same, Lord Somerson is downstairs as well, and bid me to tell ye to hie yerself, Miss, if ye’ll forgive me.”
Muira folded her sewing into the basket and smiled at Caroline. “Why don’t I take the lasses down to the kitchen and teach them another useful skill for a suitable wife while ye’re busy? Such as how to make a proper mutton stew. To my mind, that’s a far better way to win a man than dancing, reading or balancing books on yer head all day.”
Caroline recognized the small man with thinning hair from her mother’s funeral. He jumped to his feet as Caroline entered the room, straightening his sober black coat. Somerson rose more slowly, observing the social convention even as his eyes filled with disdain for his half sister. He hadn’t spoken a word to her in days.
“Good morning, Lady Caroline. Do you remember me? I’m Mr. Rice, from Berwick. I was your father’s man of business in the north, then your mother’s. We met at your mother’s funeral.” He bowed low, and Caroline curtsied. She took in the neat stack of documents on the table and the worn leather case they’d come out of.
