Lucy Muir (18 page)

“I hope this will not cause you and Miss Hartwell to shorten your stay,” Lord Murray continued. “I would be pleased to have you both as my guests for as long as you wish.”

“Thank you, Lord Murray. Our visit has been most delightful and we should be glad to remain awhile longer,” Celeste accepted on behalf of herself and Phoebe. In truth, Celeste was not eager to leave Miles just yet and more time would also allow Phoebe that opportunity to become more familiar with Lord Murray now that they would not have the constraint of the betrothal between them. Celeste smiled sunnily as she left Lord Murray’s presence. Everything was going to come right in the end.

Directly after her successful interview with Lord Murray, Celeste went in search of Miles Huntsford. She was not as confident as to the result of this meeting as her first. Phoebe had assured her Miles was only waiting for her to speak, but what if Phoebe was wrong? Miles had shown no signs of relenting toward her, and only spoke to her when courtesy demanded it. Celeste’s heart began to beat fast with anxiety and her hands became moist with nervousness as she tried to compose a suitable apology for the man she truly loved.

Celeste could not immediately find Miles, and discovered from Balneaves that Mr. Huntsford was out riding with Wilfred. The enforced wait increased her anxiety, and by the time Miles returned, Celeste’s nerves were in a pitiable state. She heard him coming up the stairway with Wilfred, and stepped forward to wait at the top.

“Mr. Huntsford, might I speak to you privately?” she asked as he and Wilfred entered the upper hall.

“You’ll pardon me, I am sure, Atwood,” Miles said to Wilfred, not appearing to be surprised by Celeste’s request. “One must put oneself at the disposal of the fairer sex.”

Miles ushered Celeste into the library, where he bade her to be seated. But as he took a chair nearby,  Celeste sprang up again, too discomposed to sit still. Now that the moment was upon her, she was afraid to speak. What if Miles would not forgive her? She made a couple of quick turns about the room, and then came to stand stiffly before Miles’ chair.

“I want to ask your forgiveness for my behaviour this past sen’night,” she said, embarking upon her carefully prepared words. “You were correct, I was behaving like a child. I
was
playing fast and loose with other people’s feelings with no thought for the hurt I might cause them. I spoke to Lord Murray this morning, and we have agreed we should not suit.”

After coming this far in her rehearsed speech, Celeste faltered and suddenly the words were pouring out, “It was only that I could not bear to see Olivia marry Lord Murray, and I thought he would end up in her clutches if I broke off the engagement during the Atwoods’ stay. Olivia has been so unkind to me and Phoebe, you cannot imagine! I could not let her win for she would have bruited about her victory and Society would have been all agog over her Match of the Season. I could
not
allow her to marry the only eligible Highland lord.”

Miles Huntsford laughed as he watched Celeste turn from a carefully controlled young lady into an irrepressible and angry child. At six-and-twenty he was not so far beyond his own youth that he did not recall how painful it was to feel outside the exclusive circle of society or to suffer treatment he considered unjust and undeserved.

“I do not think you need worry about Robert marrying Miss Atwood,” he said reassuringly. “My cousin has his own mind. Come here,” he commanded, when Celeste finally had the courage to look at him.

Celeste collected her composure and went to stand directly before Miles, who reached out suddenly and pulled her into his lap. Before she could recover from her surprise, he had bent his head over her face and began kissing her expertly. Celeste had never been kissed in such a fashion before, and found she quite liked it. She was disappointed when he stopped, and looked at him questioningly. Miles smiled tenderly and playfully tugged her black curls.

“As for making the Match of the Season, my cousin is not the only Scotsman in the world. You shall marry me and astound Society. We shall be married in your parish in London and I shall wear my full Highland regalia.”

“I shall marry you?” Celeste challenged, thinking to disagree since Miles had ordered her and had not asked, but the expression in his eyes prompted her to change her mind. “I shall,” she agreed mildly, and the next several minutes were spent in a most delightfully satisfactory manner.

* * * *

Celeste’s news overjoyed Phoebe, who hoped that now Lord Murray might feel free to admit his own interest in her, but days passed without her hopes being realized. Had Lord Murray’s feelings changed?  Phoebe wondered. Or was it perhaps because the Atwoods were still under the impression that he and Celeste were engaged and he was reluctant to give rise to any suspicion that might cause them to extend their stay even longer? It was true they seemed to have arrived at a tacit agreement not to inform the Atwoods of either the end of Celeste’s betrothal to Lord Murray or her new betrothal to Mr. Huntsford. Although how anyone could be unaware of the latter Phoebe did not know, given the besotted looks Celeste and Mr. Huntsford could not help exchanging. Certainly the Atwoods showed no signs of planning to depart, she thought, glancing at Olivia and her mother where they sat near the drawing-room window working on their embroidery.

Phoebe sighed and picked up her own fancywork. The days seemed to have become excessively tedious, she thought. It was dull to sit about the castle all day, but Olivia’s presence invariably cancelled out any livelier occupations such as walking or riding.

She felt a touch on her arm and turned to find Celeste regarding her with some concern. Celeste was clad in a pale green muslin day frock, and her inner happiness had given her such a glow that she seemed to have become more beautiful than ever. Phoebe suddenly felt old and tired next to her younger friend and sighed once more.

“Are you not feeling quite the thing, Miss Hartwell?” Olivia asked, responding to Phoebe’s second sigh. “You look quite peaked.”

Miles Huntsford had entered the drawing room in time to overhear Olivia’s remarks. “Perhaps you would care to go for a walk, Miss Hartwell?” he suggested. “The fresh air would do you a world of good.”

“What an excellent idea. We shall all join you,” Olivia said, rising.

Celeste and Phoebe exchanged a look of disgust and resignation, but there was nothing for it but to go. Wilfred went to recruit Lord Murray’s presence, and a short tune later the party set out on a path across the meadows to the southwest of the castle.

Olivia, as usual, managed to walk beside Lord Murray. She was not accustomed to walks of long distances, however, and before many minutes had passed she called a halt so she could rest. Phoebe and Celeste occupied themselves gathering wildflowers, and Olivia went to stand upon a grassy knoll, knowing she would appear to advantage there silhouetted against the pale grey-blue sky.

“Careful, Miss Atwood,” Miles Huntsford called teasingly, “you have stopped upon a faery spot. You would not wish to call the faeries’ attention to you this morning. You are clad in green, and they might take it amiss.”

Olivia looked down in puzzlement at her fashionable green pelisse with yellow fringe.

“The faeries consider green to be their colour, Miss Atwood,” Lord Murray explained. “They do not like mortals to wear it without their permission.”

Olivia hesitated, not quite sure how to respond. Mr. Huntsford might only be quizzing her though she very much doubted Lord Murray would. Faeries had also been mentioned in
Lady of the Lake,
and if the Scots believed faeries to exist she was reluctant to say anything that would tarnish her perfect performance. However, she did not care to be singled out and felt obliged to defend herself.

“But Miss Laurence is also wearing green,” she said, gesturing towards Celeste. “And your tartan has green,” she added to Mr. Huntsford.

“Ah, but the Murrays have the faeries’ permission to wear green, and as for Miss Laurence, she is another matter. She was sent by the faeries and so may wear their colour with impunity.”

“Yes,” said Celeste mischievously, “and I must warn you that you are standing on the roof of one of their faery houses. They live underground beneath these hummocks.”

“Best move, Livvy,” Wilfred advised his sister. “They might take offence if you stand on their roof.”

“Oh, I am sure they will forgive me since I am in company with one of their own,” Olivia said lightly, indicating Celeste. To show she did not fear the faeries’ displeasure, Olivia did not move away, but sat upon the hummock to rest. “It’s too ridiculous to believe in faeries,” she muttered under her breath. In truth she found most Highland customs ridiculous.

* * * *

That evening at supper Phoebe wondered if they would ever be rid of Olivia’s company or if she and Celeste would have to admit defeat and leave first. Certainly none of their plans had succeeded. Not the oats, the pipes, or even Dinsmore’s idea of the dance. As Phoebe helped herself to a venison pastry, she saw the servant take Olivia her usual plate of brose and reflected that one really had to give Olivia credit. Much as Phoebe herself liked oatmeal she doubted she could have tolerated eating a bowl of brose at every meal for such a long period of time.

Wilfred was also watching his sister eat the porridge and shook his head in wonderment.

“Must say, Livvy, you’ve taken an extraordinary liking to oats. Have to find out how to prepare them and give the receipts to our cook in London.”

“What a good idea!” Olivia agreed enthusiastically, although the look she shot her brother belied the veracity of her words.

“Hand me the preserved fruit, will you Livvy,” Wilfred added to his sister.

Olivia reached across her plate and picked up the green glass jar of preserved apricots and moved to pass it to her brother. Phoebe, who was seated across from Olivia, saw the heavy jar suddenly slip from Olivia’s grasp and fall into her plate of brose, splashing the sticky oat/barley/butter mixture all over Olivia’s face and her pretty silk gown. Everyone looked round at the crash, and then hastily averted their eyes, pretending not to notice the mess. Phoebe watched Olivia fight desperately to keep her composure.

“If you will excuse me,” Olivia murmured, rising. A servant came forward to clear her place, and noticing a large clot of the brose sticking to Olivia’s hair, attempted to pick it out. Irritably, Olivia batted the servant away. Turning to leave the room, Olivia caught sight of herself in the glass on the wall and froze. Oatmeal clumps spotted her gown liberally, creating water stains that were spreading rapidly across the silk. Smaller pieces of the mixture were spattered on her neck and face, and a particularly offensive lump was dripped slowly down Olivia’s décolletage.

A snigger he was unable to smother escaped Wilfred, and the sound released Olivia from her frozen stance. With a suddenness and ferocity that stunned the whole table, Olivia exploded in anger.

“Oats!” she screamed. “I loathe them! No wonder in England we give them to our horses. They are not fit food for people.

“In fact,” she continued, turning to address the assembled company, “I detest everything Scottish— oats, bagpipes, tartan, faeries and presumptuous servants and poor relations who won’t know their place. Mr. Scott must have been out of his senses to write a poem in praise of such a barbarous country! It has nothing at all to recommend it to civilized people!”

Olivia’s tirade ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and with a strangled cry she rushed from the room.

For a moment after Olivia’s departure, everyone at the table sat in shocked silence. A sense of deep shame invaded Phoebe. She knew that she was mostly at fault and remonstrated with herself for her lack of sensibility. Olivia would never have lost her composure and made such a scene if Phoebe had not carried the matter so far. She could not be proud of herself even though victory seemed assured, for one could not imagine Olivia would stay any longer at Castle Abermaise.

Lord Murray was the first to recover. He turned to Lady Atwood with a commonplace remark, as if the scene that had just transpired had never occurred. The others followed his lead, and some semblance of normal conversation resumed at the table, although all appeared to have lost their appetite.

When Lady Melville stood to signal the ladies to retire to the drawing room, Phoebe took the opportunity to slip upstairs. Phoebe had not changed her opinion of Olivia: she did not think Olivia could ever be considered a pleasant person, but Phoebe was feeling very remorseful for her part in making Miss Atwood uncomfortable at Castle Abermaise and felt she should check on her. With some trepidation Phoebe tapped at Olivia’s door and entered.

Outwardly everything appeared restored to normal. Every trace of oatmeal had been removed from Olivia’s person, and her maid was fastening the ties of a clean gown on her mistress.

“Is there anything I can do to help Miss Atwood?” Phoebe asked inadequately, hesitating just inside the door.

Olivia turned to Phoebe, anger evident on her face. “You have done quite enough, thank you, Miss Hartwell,” she replied. “You think I do not know who is responsible for all the oats I have been served, and the pipe music played at my door? Scottish hospitality, indeed! I have also noticed how you dote on Lady Melville and give orders to the housekeeper and butler as if you were in your own home. Do you think to be the mistress of this castle? Do you hope that now Celeste has rejected Lord Murray, that he will marry you? I can assure you that the only reason he would do so would be out of pity for your unfortunate appearance and admiration for your housekeeping skills.”

Phoebe started in surprise, thinking Olivia must have heard of Celeste’s ended engagement despite their attempts to keep it from her. Olivia interpreted her expression accurately.

“Yes, I have heard of the end of her betrothal to Lord Murray,” she said scornfully. “Did you think to keep it a secret? The servants always hear everything.”

Olivia’s maid had finished tying the ribbons of the frock, and Olivia came to stand directly before Phoebe where she still stood hesitating by the door.