Lucy Muir (11 page)

Indulgence did not enter into his feelings towards Miss Hartwell. He admired her, for he sensed that she truly liked and appreciated Scottish customs and understood them as Miss Laurence could not. He could easily imagine himself and Miss Hartwell sharing an equal fondness for his homeland and for one another. But such thoughts were dangerous. Lord Murray had to keep reminding himself that Miss Hartwell was already spoken for by Atwood, and that he himself had spoken for Miss Laurence. Making an effort, he turned to his betrothed with an encouraging smile and engaged her in conversation, trying to make her feel less strange.

* * * *

Celeste was glad to escape back upstairs after dinner to the familiarity and security of the more comfortable modern rooms. As her maid, Alice, helped her dress to go riding with Phoebe, Celeste reflected that not quite everything here at Castle Abermaise was as she had dreamed it would be. The customs were strange and the accommodations lacking, although the scenery was everything she had imagined. She wondered if her imagined walk in the moonlight with her Scottish lord in full Highland dress would ever materialize.

Sighing, Celeste wondered that she had to keep reminding herself she was in fact betrothed to Lord Murray. She did not
feel
betrothed. In truth, her feelings for Lord Murray were not at all clear to her. Admiration, certainly—one had to admire so well-looking a gentleman. And respect coupled with a certain amount of awe, but nothing of the romantic attachment the novels she had borrowed from the circulating library in London had identified as love. In her first excitement over the betrothal, she had not noticed this distressing lack of emotion in her own heart, and when she had, she had simply told herself that love would develop with time. No doubt this would be the case, Celeste thought, her natural optimism returning, once they were actually married.

Alice finished arranging Celeste’s curls and carefully fastened her mistress’ jaunty riding hat on top of her creation. Phoebe tapped at the door, asking if she were ready, and Celeste, feeling happy once again, cheerfully joined her friend, certain that all would be well in the end.

Chapter Seven

“Perhaps this morning you might find the time to go over the household accounts with me, Miss Laurence,” Lady Melville suggested to Celeste, a hint of censure in her voice.

Phoebe smiled to herself, wondering what pretext Celeste would offer this time to avoid looking over the accounts. Although everyone in the castle had been advised that the betrothal between Lord Murray and Celeste was not yet official, no one seemed to doubt the eventual outcome. Lady Melville appeared to feel that Celeste should begin learning some of the duties that fell to the lady of a castle, but so far she had had scant success. Celeste always had a plausible reason she could not comply with Lady Melville’s wishes. This morning, however, she had evidently run out of excuses.

“If you wish, Lady Melville,” Celeste replied with a marked lack of enthusiasm. She looked hopefully at the drawing-room door, as though wishing Lord Murray might come and save her, an unlikely event since he spent most of his mornings dealing with estate business.

Phoebe’s momentary feeling of amusement vanished, to be replaced by one of disquiet. It was becoming more evident to her each day that Celeste would never be happy in Perthshire, although Celeste herself steadfastly refused to consider the possibility. Phoebe supposed Celeste had envisaged herself a romantic heroine in the style of Ellen Douglas too long to easily relinquish the role.

Lady Melville rose and walked slowly to the door with the aid of her cane. Celeste followed reluctantly, bestowing a silent plea on Phoebe to accompany her, but Phoebe shook her head as she gave Celeste an encouraging smile. The opportunity for a few minutes alone was rare, and Phoebe wanted to take advantage of the time to think over their circumstances.

She and Celeste had been in residence at Castle Abermaise a sen’night now, and while it was apparent Celeste was entranced with the beauty of the setting, it was equally obvious she was not comfortable with either the customs or the characters. Neither behaved according to her script. The servants and distant relatives refused to stay in the background as they would in England, but insisted on playing a major part in the lives of the lord and his intended lady. Celeste endured the dinners at the large table downstairs, but one could see she much preferred the suppers upstairs in the relative privacy of the Chippendale rooms. Nor had Celeste developed a liking for the pipes, which amounted to something akin to heresy to the Highlanders.

Thinking of the pipes caused Phoebe to recall the previous Sunday’s excursion to church, and she smiled broadly. She and Celeste had prepared to accompany Lord Murray and Lady Melville to services, dressing in simple muslin frocks and thin slippers. Upon going downstairs, they had been surprised to find that instead of riding to church in a carriage, it was the custom for all the kinsmen and servants to walk to worship together with Dinsmore striding ahead as he played the pipes. Phoebe had looked at their thin slippers dubiously, but not wishing to make the others late to worship, she did not suggest she and Celeste go back to change their shoes.

That had been a mistake, for long before they had reached the church both were limping badly. Lord Murray’s gillie, a large, fierce-looking Highlander, had offered to carry his master’s betrothed the rest of the way to the church, an offer which Celeste had found mortifying in the extreme and had refused adamantly. That had not been the end of her trials, however, for when they arrived at the church, Dinsmore had remained outside piping the party in to the “March of Abermaise.” Celeste had kept her eyes rigidly fixed on the minister throughout the service, obviously wishing she were anywhere else. She might enjoy being the centre of attention, but she was still young enough to have a horror of being made to appear ridiculous, and ridiculous was clearly how she felt. Phoebe knew Celeste hoped that once she was lady of the castle she would be able to consign such customs to the devil, but Phoebe knew better.

Restlessly, Phoebe arose from her chair and went to the window, where she stood looking out over the lake. She sighed deeply. She simply could not picture Celeste as lady of Castle Abermaise. She would never fit in. Never. Noticing that the sun was beginning to burn the morning mist away, Phoebe decided to go for a walk. Perhaps that would help raise her depressed spirits.

Donning a sensible hat and her sturdiest shoes, Phoebe advised her maid Sara as to where she would be, should Celeste want her later. On her way outside she encountered the piper.

“Good morning, Mr. Dinsmore,” she greeted him courteously.

“Good morning, Miss Hartwell,” he replied. “I see you are going for a walk. Do you mind if I accompany you?”

Phoebe assented cordially. As Lord Murray had warned, she had found it was impossible for either her or Celeste to go anywhere without being accompanied by one of Lord Murray’s kinsmen or followed at a respectful distance by one of his gillies. Phoebe felt she would prefer Dinsmore’s companionship this morning to that of a silent shadow. The keen-eyed piper was enlivening company, and she was in need of cheering up.

They walked in comfortable silence down the path that skirted the lake. A refreshing breeze blew, causing the water’s surface to shimmer in the morning sun, and the harebells to ring delicately, but Phoebe saw or heard none of this. Her thoughts were still on Celeste and Lord Murray.

“You seem troubled by something this morning, Miss Hartwell,” the piper commented presently.

“Is it that evident, Mr. Dinsmore? I do apologize,” Phoebe said ruefully.

“You are thinking of Miss Laurence and Lord Murray, are you not?”

“Yes,” Phoebe admitted.

“You are not alone in your worries,” Dinsmore said forthrightly. “There’s no denying Miss Laurence is as beautiful as the wild rowan, but she is not for the Murray.”

Phoebe was rather disconcerted by the piper’s frankness, and was once again struck by the boldness with which all the members of Lord Murray’s household offered their opinions.

They had come to a grassy knoll at the edge of the lake, and Dinsmore spread his plaid over a hummock for Phoebe to sit on. He took a stand behind her and they gazed solemnly over the loch.

“It does seem to me at times that Miss Laurence and Lord Murray are not suited,” Phoebe commented at length, “but they are betrothed. There is nothing we can do.”

“It is plain to me the Daoine Shi’ sent Miss Laurence,” Dinsmore muttered.

“ ‘The Daoine Shi’?” Phoebe enquired, turning to look at Dinsmore questioningly.

“The Men of Peace,” Dinsmore translated. “They are faery folk who live underground and are well-known for their mischief. They are happy enough little folk until the time comes when they decide some human is happier. Then there’s the devil to pay though they mean no real harm and fancy a bit of fun. I ken they decided we were too happy at Abermaise, and they hae sent Miss Laurence tae make their mischief. I kenned it frae the moment I saw her een, for green is the colour o’ the faery folk,” he finished, his brogue, which he could lay aside at will, creeping back into his speech as he became more emotional.

“Men of Peace is a strange name for them,” Phoebe commented, but she did not challenge his belief. She thought of Celeste’s changeable green eyes and how often she herself had thought there was something of the sprite about her friend. Yet surely no real harm would come to Castle Abermaise even if the Daoine Shi’ had sent Celeste to cut up their peace.

“Miss Laurence is young and unused to your ways, but she will learn,” Phoebe ventured to say, although she was not fully convinced of her own words. “In time you will become comfortable with each other.”

“There’s those wha belong and those wha dinna,” Dinsmore said with finality. “Miss Laurence doesna. The Murray wad hae done better to choose you.”

Phoebe looked at Dinsmore in some alarm, wondering if the sharp-eyed piper had divined her secret, but his face revealed nothing.

“I am not Scottish either.”

“You maun hae
some
Scots bluid in you,” Dins-more argued. “You hae red hair and you like the pipes. Nor do you scorn the Daoine Shi’.”

“My grandmother was Scottish,” Phoebe admitted, “but,” she added mischievously, “she might have been a Lowlander.”

“Ah, weel,” Dinsmore sighed. “One canna hae everything.”

They remained staring out over the lake a few minutes longer, lost in their separate reflections. Phoebe had thought that perhaps her own feelings for Lord Murray had made her perceive a problem between Celeste and Lord Murray where none had existed, but if Dinsmore had sensed it as well, truly something was amiss. Perhaps she should speak to Celeste about her engagement. Although they normally shared everything, Phoebe had avoided the subject for as long as she could, her own feelings for Lord Murray making the topic a painful one.

* * * *

Upon her return to the castle, Phoebe searched for Celeste, planning to speak to her before she lost her courage, but her friend was still closeted with Lady Melville. She decided to wait in the garden, and went back downstairs, where she found yet another argument in process between Mrs. Baird and Balneaves.

Phoebe wondered sometimes how the castle ran as smoothly as it did with the constant friction between the two.

“I’ll nae gie the kelpies reason tae dae me onie skaith,” the housekeeper was saying, “‘an they will an we tak their food.”

“It is Miss Laurence’s wish to have fish from the lake included on the menu,” Balneaves proclaimed. “It is an order.”

“Wha richt hae you tae gie me orders,” Mrs. Baird retorted, “you Hieland ferlie.”

Balneaves looked down his long nose at the indignant housekeeper. “I must if you cannot speak English sufficiently to converse with Miss Laurence.”

“I ken Inglish weel. It’s nae my faut Miss Laurence dinnae ken Scots.”

“When Miss Laurence becomes Lady Murray where will you be?” the butler asked maliciously.

Mrs. Baird spied Phoebe as she hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. “I canna offend the kelpies, can I, Miss Hartweel?”

Thanks to her discussion with Dinsmore, Phoebe guessed that the kelpies must be some sort of water spirit to whom the lake fish belonged. What Dins-more had said about Celeste gave her an idea.

“Mr. Dinsmore tells me Miss Laurence was sent by the faeries. If it is true they sent her, the kelpies would surely accept her as one of their own and would not mind if Miss Laurence were to eat their fish,” Phoebe suggested logically.

Mrs. Baird and Balneaves both looked much struck by this argument.

“I hadna thocht ‘o that,” Mrs. Baird admitted.

Balneaves gave Phoebe a look of respect before he withdrew. Phoebe remained to speak to Mrs. Baird, hoping to dissipate any feelings of resentment she might still be harbouring towards Celeste.

“I am sure Miss Laurence did not mean to trespass upon your sensibilities by giving orders through Balneaves,” Phoebe said in a conciliatory voice. “She is very young and does not understand.” Phoebe vaguely registered that she seemed to be making many excuses for her friend of late.

Mrs. Baird generously allowed herself to be somewhat placated. “It’s true she’s na mair than a bit lassie. But,” she added, “you ken me fine.”

“I am older,” Phoebe said, admitting to herself that the real reason was that she made the effort to understand Mrs. Baird and Celeste did not.

The housekeeper left to give orders regarding the fish, and Phoebe returned back upstairs to see if Celeste had finished with Lady Melville. She would have to explain the proper procedures to follow before Celeste made things more strained between Mrs. Baird and Balneaves.

She discovered Celeste in her chamber, leafing through
Lady of the Lake.

“Why cannot Mrs. Baird speak English like the other servants,” Celeste complained, when Phoebe informed her of the problem she had caused.

“The others sometimes speak Gaelic, and you do not understand that, either,” Phoebe commented, “but that does not upset you.”