Amanda Scott (17 page)

“Why have you not sent for someone to remove that tub?” Olivia asked. “It is very much in the way.”

“Molly will see to it,” Anne said, continuing to brush Fiona’s hair.

“But you are not dressed, Anne. How will you be ready in time? I expected you to attend to yourself before you came to help
Fiona.”

Sensing Fiona’s increasing tension, Anne rested her free hand on her cousin’s shoulder as she said with a smile to Olivia,
“I hate to think what you would have said had I spilled something on my gown or wrinkled it whilst helping her.”

“Oh, yes, only think how tedious that would be,” one of the other women said. “So likely, too, and doubtless a great stain
right in the middle of the bodice.”

Glancing toward the voice, Anne recognized Lady Scott. She had met her before, more than once, because her husband, Buocleuch,
was one of several powerful Border lords whom Armadale had exerted himself to know.

Changing the subject, Olivia drew a pair of gloves from a hidden pocket in her dress, saying abruptly, “Ashkirk has sent you
these as his gift for your wedding, Fiona. Just look at the exquisite embroidery.”

The other women gathered around to admire the gloves, and although Fiona showed small interest in them, she responded politely
to one comment and then to another. Seeing her thus satisfactorily occupied, Anne left her to the women’s care and hurried
to her own bedchamber.

Peg Elliot was waiting, and with her help, Anne quickly changed from her ordinary day gown to a splendid one of rich emerald
green velvet trimmed with gold-embroidered black bands. The black French hood that concealed her hair was similarly adorned,
but its veil at the back softened its severity, being fashioned from the same green velvet as her gown. Bands and hood declared
that she still grieved for her father, but Armadale had not approved of long mourning. In fact, he had not approved of mourning
at all, saying it was just another fiendish whim of the Roman Kirk, in that august body’s determination to control every aspect
of people’s lives.

“That gown becomes ye well, Mistress Anne,” Peg said. “The green makes your eyes look green, too.”

“I am glad you approve,” Anne said with a chuckle, “but you are the only one who will see me, Peg. Everyone else will have
eyes only for my cousin, which is exactly as it should be.”

“Aye, she’s a lovely lass, is Mistress Fiona, and will make a splendid bride.”

“She must be ready by now,” Anne said. “I’d better go.” Still she hesitated. Time was too short. In less than an hour, the
ceremony would be over.

Gently, Peg said, “It will be well, my lady. Things happen as they should.”

“Sometimes, Peg, but not always.” Nonetheless, she felt comforted, and her thoughts turned to Maggie Malloch who seemed even
more of a dream creature than before. Although Maggie had said she would not meddle, perhaps she could still find a way to
help Deciding to hope for the best, Anne went to join the others.

As she expected, Fiona was nearly ready, and by the look of things, had resigned herself to her fate. She stood in the center
of the room in the sky-blue gown, looking rich and elegant with her hair flowing down her back in soft curls to her hips.
The darker-blue-and-white-ribbon points that connected her sleeves to her bodice, as well as others attached about her slender
person, hung invitingly loose to serve as favors for male guests who would leap forward to snatch them from her the moment
the ceremony ended.

Olivia greeted Anne’s return with relief. “Perhaps now that you are here at last, Fiona will don her veil and we can go downstairs,”
she said. “Ashkirk must have departed for the chapel by now, and everyone else will be standing in the garden, watching for
her arrival. Don’t muss her hair, Molly.” she added, as the maidservant moved to drape Fiona’s waist-length veil over her
head.

Fergus flapped his hands wildly, so Maggie let him speak.

“The lass mustna cover her face,” he exclaimed. “Lady Anne will want that lad tae see how beautiful Mistress Fiona be—if our
Catriona can just get him here.”

“Aye, he must certainly see her,” Maggie agreed, realizing she would have to wait at least until the festivities were over
before she could satisfactorily discuss Jonah’s latest revelation with either Catriona or Fergus.

Anne suddenly realized that Fiona’s nearly opaque veil was a mistake.

Unlike Olivia’s, which merely framed her face, the many folds of sky-blue lace hid Fiona’s and hung to her waist, overpowering
her slender figure. If Sir Christopher did chance to be in the garden, he would be far more likely to intervene if he saw
how lovely she was. But instead of looking ethereally fair as usual, she looked rectangular and sky blue from top to toe.

Taking the plunge, she said quietly to Olivia, “That veil looks more cumbersome on her than I thought it would.”

“Anne is right, madam,” Lady Scott said, tilting her head to observe Fiona. “Such a lovely bride should not hide her beauty.”

Austerely, Olivia said, “I must say, although the custom of veiling has come into high favor of late, I agree that everyone
would prefer to see Fiona. Take the veil off, Molly. She can wear the chaplet alone.”

Obeying, Molly set the gold circlet entwined with fresh flowers on Fiona’s head, and the ladies who had helped her dress applauded
the decision.

“Slip your pattens on, my dear, and take care that you do not let your skirts touch the ground,” Olivia said. “You do not
want to soil your hem.”

“I’ll be careful,” Fiona murmured. She did not look at Anne and was clearly maintaining her poise only with effort.

Brides were often interestingly pale, even scared, as Anne knew from what small experience she had of weddings. After all,
most brides knew little of what lay ahead of them. Nevertheless, Fiona’s tense demeanor worried her.

Downstairs they found many others waiting to accompany the bride on her journey through the gardens to the chapel. Sir Toby
stood with them, regally attired in a dark blue doublet, puffed hose slashed with white satin, and sporting a gold medallion
on a chain around his neck. He was to serve as Fiona’s escort, and as they set off, the entourage was merry if the bride was
not.

The ceremony itself would occur at the chapel door before the nuptial mass took place inside, because that was the tradition
on both sides of the line for rich and poor alike. When Anne had asked Sir Toby if he knew why that was so, he had grinned
in his usual impish way and said, “Sakes, lass, you cannot think the parson would commit the indecency o’ granting permission
inside
the church for a man and his woman to sleep together!”

She had chuckled, as he had clearly intended, but a memory stirred of Armadale telling someone he believed the tradition arose
from nothing more complicated than folks’ desire to keep the Kirk out of their lives as long as possible.

Two little girls led the procession, strewing rosemary and flower petals from gilded baskets, followed by a boy carrying the
rosemary- and ribbon-bedecked silver bridal cup from which the bride and groom would drink their communion wine at the nuptial
mass, and Anne followed next as Fiona’s chief attendant. Fiona and Sir Toby walked behind her, followed by the rest of their
entourage.

Many of the younger women wore sheaves of wheat in their hair to encourage fertility in the bride, or carried bouquets of
roses and rosemary intermingled with wheat straws. Three minstrels strummed lutes near the chapel, their music filling the
air as the procession approached the arched stone bridge.

The bridge boasted neither parapet nor railing, and as Anne reached its center, her curiosity as to whether Fiona and Toby
could cross side by side without mishap made it impossible to resist glancing over her shoulder.

With Sir Toby’s bulk, the undertaking clearly was not easy, but putting an arm around Fiona, he drew her close, and they managed
it safely if not elegantly.

On the other side, as Anne walked along the petal-strewn path to the chapel porch, where Eustace waited with his best man
and the parson by the makeshift altar, she searched the crowd for the face she had hoped to find.

Feeling mixed disappointment and frustration that Sir Christopher was nowhere in sight, she went up the shallow stone steps
and took her place at the opposite end of the porch from Eustace. A light breeze stirred the pair of red and green Carmichael
banners that flanked the altar.

From where Anne stood, she had a slightly better view of the crowd and realized that many had ignored the paths and stood
in flowerbeds or knot gardens.

As if to accompany the minstrels’ lutes, birds chirped in the trees and shrubbery, and garden scents mixed with other odors
that wafted from the murmuring sea of humanity.

Anne swiftly scanned the crowd again, seeking that one barely remembered face, but if he was there, she did not see him. Remembering
how tall he was, she had been certain he would stand out easily and that her own instinct would draw her gaze straight to
him, so her disappointment was sharp.

A sudden lull in the murmuring drew her attention to the bride.

Framed by her uncle’s huge body now behind her, Fiona had paused at the foot of the steps, clearly reluctant to proceed.

Evidently warned to expect some reluctance, and without losing a jot of his composure, Toby put his arm around her slender
shoulders again and urged her forward until she stood in her place between Anne and Eustace, her head bowed.

“Look up,” Anne muttered for her cousin’s ears alone. “Whatever you decide to do, you cannot want all these people to see
you behave like a sullen child.”

The crowd remained silent.

Anne glanced at Eustace and was not surprised to see him frown at Fiona. She was as certain as she could be without looking
that Olivia was frowning too.

Fiona drew an audible breath, raised her head, and glanced back at the assembled crowd. Then she straightened and turned fully
around to face them.

She had gathered her dignity, and she stood now with her head as high as any royal bride, the gold flowered circlet adding
to the illusion of royalty. Her beauty had never been more arresting.

K
it had been trying to decide if the elegant-looking young woman in green velvet who had preceded the bride to the altar was
Lady Anne Ellyson. He suspected it was she, because his instincts cried out that it was, but the lass he remembered had had
dark curls flying wildly around her face, and had been dressed much less fashionably.

The bride’s chief attendant stood calmly, hands folded at her waist, her eyes scanning the crowd until the bride reached her
side. Since her hair was covered, it was that searching look more than anything else that made him think it must be Anne,
because he believed she was searching for him.

He saw the bride pause at the bottom of the steps, and he saw, too, that the enormously fat man who accompanied her seemed
to push her forward until she stood between Eustace and the young woman in green. When the latter murmured something to her,
she straightened, visibly collecting herself, and turned.

Kit gasped, for her beauty was truly stunning. An air of fragile vulnerability surrounded her, making him feel as if he should
exert himself to protect her, and he was certain that every other man in the place must feel the same way.

Before the woman in green velvet had approached the porch, he had watched his uncle, thinking Eustace looked more arrogant
than he remembered. The older man gazed steadily at his young bride, and Kit found himself wondering if Eustace felt protective,
too, or even really loved her, if only for her incredible beauty.

What he saw in his uncle’s eyes, however, was raw desire, not tenderness. The hungry look was startling, almost as if Kit
had caught him in a private moment and ought to apologize for seeing what he had seen. It made him feel a little sick.

Realizing he had dropped his guard, he glanced again at Anne and saw with relief that she was watching the bride’s mammoth
escort step down from the porch.

Her green eyes looked enormous, and her full, soft-looking lips reminded him of how she had tasted when he kissed her. Remembering
how quickly she had smacked him for that impudence, he smiled.

Willie Armstrong stood beside him on tiptoe, watching as avidly as everyone else. His recalling a kinsman certain to be invited
to the wedding had resolved Kit’s problem of how to arrange his own attendance. The kinsman, a chieftain of the fractious
Armstrong tribe, took a large entourage wherever he went—what the Highlanders called a tail—and although Kit had doubted that
he would allow them to join him, after Willie spoke to him, Armstrong told his men simply that they were coming, and that
had been that.

They stood near the rear of the crowd amidst a scattering of Carmichaels, to whom the Armstrongs were more closely akin than
to the Chisholms, and for that Kit gave thanks. As he had expected, Anne paid more heed to a group of Chisholms near the porch,
evidently believing he would mingle with his own. In truth, though, he saw few kinsmen and wondered if Eustace had offended
other members of the family with his dubious actions.

It did not matter, of course, because Kit was just as glad not to have to run a gantlet of Chisholms, lest he meet one who
would recognize him.

The music stopped, and the parson began the ceremony with a brief prayer. When he commended Mistress Carmichael and the Laird
of Ashkirk and Torness to God’s keeping, Kit was tempted to shout out that he was grateful for the thought but that the parson
erred if he believed the man in front of him was that laird.

He held his peace, however, still undecided as to his course. The bride looked so small next to Eustace, and it was not necessary
to recall Anne’s words to see that Mistress Carmichael was reluctant if not afraid to marry him. That she was doing so because
her mother believed falsely that Eustace was Laird of Ashkirk made matters worse, for only a scoundrel could allow such a
fraud to continue.