Lucy Muir (19 page)

“I have tried my best to befriend you and Miss Laurence,” Olivia said in tones of cold fury, “but you especially, Miss Hartwell, have always resented me because of my superior beauty and my ties to the aristocracy. I shall befriend you no longer, and you will come to regret what you have done. When you return to London there will be no more invitations to even the smallest of the entertainments held by the ton. And you
shall
return to London. If you think Lord Murray will offer for you when I am gone you will find you are very much mistaken.”

Olivia paused and deliberately surveyed Phoebe from head to toe. “You.” She laughed contemptuously. “You do not even have the saving graces of beauty and wealth, or a noble grandfather, as Miss Laurence does. What a fool you are. Now, get out! And never cross my path again!”

Olivia’s last words were spoken with such venom that Phoebe involuntarily stepped backwards, allowing Olivia to slam the door in her face. Phoebe turned and left. She had been silent during the whole tirade, thinking that she had deserved the set-down, in part, at least. But Olivia’s final accusations were entirely without foundation. Olivia had been the one to pursue their “friendship,” not she and Celeste. Nor had she ever resented Olivia. She could easily dismiss Olivia’s opinions regarding her chances of becoming Lord Murray’s wife, but Phoebe could not dismiss the lingering feeling of shame that she had broken the Scots’ code of hospitality towards their guests. Worse, if Olivia departed, as she had indicated that she would, the responsibility for inhospitality would fall to Lord Murray, since it was his home. She had inadvertently placed him in an untenable position. What must
he
think of her?

As Phoebe made her way towards the drawing room, she passed a frosty Lady Atwood who was obviously intent upon seeking out her daughter. Phoebe entered the drawing room to find the company gathered there very subdued. Celeste’s usual chatter not was not in evidence, Lady Melville and Lord Murray conversed in low tones, looking very serious, and Miles Huntsford stared thoughtfully out the window. Wilfred, looking even more rumpled than usual, appeared uncharacteristically morose. Phoebe felt another pang of guilt. Wilfred would be obliged to accompany his sister and mother back to London, and he had always been a good friend to her. Wilfred, sensing Phoebe’s eyes upon him, looked up. Catching Phoebe’s glance, he rose and crossed the room to speak to her.

“Daresay Livvy must want to leave now,” Wilfred said, taking the chair next to Phoebe.

“Yes, and I must confess that her desire to do so is partly my fault,” Phoebe said remorsefully. “I was the one who told Mrs. Baird and Dinsmore how Olivia liked oatmeal brose and pipe music.”

“She
did
say she liked those things,” Wilfred responded matter-of-factly. “Livvy brought this all on herself,
I
don’t blame you. I expect you don’t think I noticed, but I know how she treated you and Miss Laurence in London, using your acquaintance to puff up her own consequence. Tit for tat, I say. Maybe she’s even learned a lesson, but I doubt it,” he finished.

Phoebe smiled wanly, still feeling miserable, and Wilfred patted her hand reassuringly. Phoebe was glad Wilfred did not hold the incident against her, for she would have been extremely sorry to lose his friendship. But although he might forgive her part in bringing on his sister’s outburst, Phoebe would not so easily forgive herself.

* * * *

Lord Murray watched Wilfred pat Phoebe’s hand and his grave face took on an even more solemn expression. What a disaster this evening had been! He had been painfully embarrassed for Olivia as well as for her mother and brother. He also felt he was partly to blame for not calling a halt to the lark. Now Lady Atwood and Olivia would leave in high dudgeon, and Miss Hartwell and Miss Laurence would be forced to follow suit. Worse, what would Lord Atwood think? To repay the genuine welcome he had been given at the baron’s home with such callousness toward Lord Atwood’s daughter!

Lord Murray watched his aunt leave the drawing room, presumably to seek out Lady Atwood in an effort to smooth things over, and Miss Hartwell and Miss Laurence retired to their chambers soon after, leaving the three gentlemen alone. Lord Murray took advantage of their relative privacy to apologize to Wilfred.

“You are not to blame,” Wilfred assured Lord Murray. “It was Livvy’s own doing, and so I’ll tell her. Clumsy of her to drop the preserve jar—no one to blame. Odd, that—just seemed to slip from her grasp as if it were greased.”

Lord Murray, greatly relieved by Wilfred’s generous attitude, pressed the younger man to return to Castle Abermaise anytime, an invitation Wilfred accepted with alacrity.

“Like to try the sport here in the fall,” he confessed, “and know m’father would, too. Say, maybe Phoebe would come as well. That would make a jolly party.”

Wilfred’s reference to Miss Hartwell only served to reinforce the conclusion Lord Murray had not been able to avoid. It appeared as if Miss Hartwell had decided against his own offer and had instead chosen to remain betrothed to Atwood. If she ever did return to Castle Abermaise, she would do so as the wife of another man. Yet, somehow, after the night’s happenings, it seemed no more than he deserved.

* * * *

The Atwoods departed early the next morning. After they had left, Phoebe screwed up her courage and asked Lord Murray if she might speak to him privately. Surprised by Phoebe’s request, he ushered her to his study.

“Lord Murray, I wish to apologize for driving your guests away,” Phoebe began, and confessed that she had been behind the pranks from the start. “I have informed Lady Atwood of my culpability,” she finished. “I did not wish you to be blamed for my misguided actions.”

“Thank you, Miss Hartwell, for your generous concern, but I hold myself equally responsible, if not entirely so,” Lord Murray replied gravely. “I was quite aware of the goings-on and did nothing to alter the course of events. If you wish to apportion blame,” he added wryly, “I suspect some should also be attached to Mrs. Baird, Balneaves and Dinsmore.”

Noting the increase in Phoebe’s distress, he added firmly, “Let us speak no more of the matter, Miss Hartwell. If you insist on sharing the burden of guilt, let me assure you I wholeheartedly forgive you your part.”

Phoebe smiled weakly at Lord Murray and took her leave, reflecting that she had rather he had raked her over the coals as she had deserved than to have coldly dismissed her without so much as a smile.

* * * *

Phoebe had hoped that with the departure of the Atwoods, life at the castle might return to its former pleasant routine, but her hopes failed to materialize. At least not for herself, Phoebe amended. Celeste and Mr. Huntsford, at least, appeared content, and spent long hours riding, walking, and talking together. Phoebe tried not to envy them their happiness, but at times it was difficult not to, for it seemed more certain than ever that Lord Murray no longer considered her as anything more than a guest. He had made no attempt whatsoever to reestablish the closeness they had shared before the arrival of the Atwoods.

Had she not treasured the memory of their kiss by the lake, Phoebe might have been persuaded it had never been. She remembered that Lord Murray had said that day that when his betrothal ended he would kiss her again. Yet now his betrothal to Celeste
had
ended, Lord Murray hardly spoke to her, much less kissed her. The Atwoods were no longer in residence, so their presence could not be the reason for his continuing circumspection. Phoebe feared that despite his words to the contrary, Lord Murray had not forgiven her and would not forgive her for causing the departure of his guests. Or perhaps, she thought suddenly, Olivia had been correct. Perhaps it
was
her lack of wealth. It could not be her inferior status or her father’s profession as a barrister—Lord Murray had already known of those facts. But perhaps he had not known how poor she was until one of the Atwoods had informed him. Olivia would have been more than happy to disclose that information.

Celeste was not so lost in her own happiness that she did not notice something was amiss with her friend.

“What is it that makes you so downcast?” Celeste asked one evening as Sara helped Phoebe disrobe.

“Hasn’t Lord Murray given any indication of wanting to offer for you yet?”

“No, and I do not think he will,” Phoebe replied sadly. “He hardly speaks to me at all.

“Celeste, we cannot stay here much longer,” Phoebe said to her friend as she took a seat so Sara could give her bright curls their nightly brushing. “Now that your betrothal to Lord Murray is at an end, we have no reason to remain.”

“But if we leave you will have no chance to attach Lord Murray’s affections,” Celeste objected, taking the hairbrush from Sara’s hand and stroking Phoebe’s red curls herself.

“I would not anyway. He will never forgive me for my part in causing the departure of the Atwoods,” Phoebe said with uncharacteristic pessimism.

“I do not think you have the right of it,” Celeste contradicted. “It is not in Lord Murray’s nature to hold a grudge—even I can see that. I shall speak to him for you.”

“Do not dare,” Phoebe warned, afraid her friend might do just that.

“You told me before that
I
was acting foolish. Now you are the one,” Celeste said, setting the brush down and moving to face Phoebe. “If you do not talk to him, how can you be sure
what
he feels?”

“This is different,” Phoebe asserted illogically. “Promise you will not speak to Lord Murray. Or Mr. Huntsford, either,” she added, familiar with the way Celeste’s mind worked.

“I promise,” Celeste said reluctantly, knowing her friend was not going to be satisfied until she did. “But I still think you are being foolish.”

“Perhaps,” Phoebe acknowledged. “But whichever of us is correct, we still cannot stay here. We must leave soon.”

“Let us stay a sen’night longer,” Celeste pleaded. “Miles says he will travel back with us then, as he must speak to Mama and Papa and explain the change in the person of my fiancé.”

Celeste laughed at the thought of her parents’ reaction to the turn of events, and even Phoebe managed a smile.

“One
week,” Phoebe agreed, not entirely reluctant to be persuaded.

“You will be back together with Lord Murray before the week is out, you will see,” Celeste promised, giving her friend an encouraging hug.

Chapter Twelve

Lord Murray strode purposefully up the hill, oblivious to the chilly morning air and the stickers on the hawthorn bushes that tore angrily at his buckskins, his gillie close behind. He had hoped some vigorous exercise would help to disperse the depression of spirits that had settled upon him since the departure of the Atwoods, but it was not serving the trick. Whatever he did, thoughts of the red-haired Miss Hartwell and her imminent departure dominated his mind. The knowledge that she belonged to another, had
chosen
another over him, made no difference in his feelings for her, and did not help him banish her loveliness from his heart.

He reached the top of the hill and halted, standing on one of the large bare rock clearings that dotted the Highland hills. He folded his arms across his chest and stared moodily out over the loch and the rugged mountains encircling it. Pockets of mist amongst the trees and water made a patchwork of grey, green and blue, the morning sun trimming the whole with a fringe of gold. Previously such a view of his beloved Highlands had had the power to heal his spirit, but this time the unearthly beauty had almost the opposite effect. What was such magnificence if one had no one to share it with?

Lord Murray sighed deeply. Much as he dreaded her leaving, sometimes he could almost wish the day of Miss Hartwell’s departure were upon them. Perhaps after she left the pain he felt would lessen, although he doubted it. The worst part of all was that there appeared to be nothing he could do to alter the course of events. At times he thought of trying to speak to Phoebe, to convince her he was much more suited to make her happy than a callow halfling like Atwood ever could. Other times he actually considered keeping her forcibly at Castle Abermaise and tricking her into a Scottish marriage. Such thoughts arose from his Highland ancestors, no doubt, originating back in the times such deeds, and worse, had been perpetrated. But however tempted he might have been to pursue such a course, Lord Murray knew he could not actually do so. If Phoebe would not come to him of her own free will, he could not steal her from Atwood. Particularly not after driving Miss Atwood, and thereby Lady Atwood and Wilfred as well, from his home. Such an action would be inexcusable, completely beyond the bounds of civilised behaviour.

Thinking of the Atwoods reminded Lord Murray that one of his worries, at least, had been removed. The previous day he had received a packet containing two letters. One had been from Lord Atwood, and to Lord Murray’s amazement it had been an unmistakably cordial missive. It had been evident that the baron did not hold him to blame for anything that had occurred to overset his wife and daughter. In fact, Lord Atwood had written that he and his son intended to visit Castle Abermaise the coming autumn to hunt the red deer, although no mention had been made of Lady Atwood and Miss Atwood joining the party.

A smile briefly touched Lord Murray’s lips as he recalled an amusing bit of news in the second letter he had received, which was from Wilfred. It appeared that Miss Atwood had become the new goddess of Mr. Arnold, and that she was encouraging his attentions. No doubt such total devotion as the excessively handsome Mr. Arnold could give was balm to her wounded ego and compensated for his lowly occupation of solicitor.

Restlessly, Lord Murray shifted his stance and sighed again. He wished his heart might be as easily mended as Miss Atwood’s, but he knew that if he could not have Miss Hartwell as his wife he would never marry anyone. Let Balneaves and Mrs. Baird say what they might about a laird’s duty to his people. He would make Miles his heir. Although, he thought wryly, Miss Laurence would probably not appreciate the gesture.