The Scottish Companion (4 page)

G
illian awoke the next morning feeling pampered and blessed. For a short matter of minutes, she allowed herself to believe that she would always wake in such a chamber, with the sight of a young maid bustling about with a smile on her face, and the smell of morning tea being brought to her bedside.

“I’ve brought you hot water for washing, miss,” the maid said, bobbing a curtsy, “and tea and toast. If there’s anything else you’d like, you’ve only to ring.”

“This is wonderful,” Gillian said, rising up on one elbow to survey the bedside tray.

“I’m to give you a message,” the maid said, bobbing another curtsy. “You and Miss Fenton are to meet with the countess in the Italian Room, miss. This morning.” She turned away, and then turned back, bobbing yet another curtsy. “Nine o’clock, miss. The countess holds great store for everyone being on time.”

The feeling of being steeped in luxury abruptly disappeared, leaving only dread. A feeling that was, unfortunately, more precognitive than she wished.

Arabella was late, but then Arabella was often late. She’d forget the hour, being immersed in one of her
books. Even after being reminded of the time, she often didn’t appear either to care about being late or to be conscious that her behavior altered other people’s schedules.

Today, of all days, she was more slow-moving than usual, to the extent that Gillian almost shouted at her to hurry. But losing her temper with Arabella would have been an exercise in futility—it wouldn’t have made the girl faster in her dressing and could well have made her more mulishly slow.

The consequence was that they were fifteen minutes late for the audience in the Italian Room. Gillian pulled Arabella through the door, startled to find that they were not the only ones in attendance, but evidently the last to arrive. As the entered the room, the earl stood along with Dr. Fenton, both men looking displeased.

This drawing room was a blur of gilded and upholstered furniture that filled the space and yet appeared almost too delicate to use. The deep blue curtains on the tall windows looked to be silk, matching the color of the sofas, while the walls were covered in a dark wood. Landscapes occupied the middle of every panel, each vista one of sun-splashed hills and deeply green groves.

The greatest feature of the room, however, was the countess herself.

The Countess of Straithern stood beside the fireplace, her right hand resting on the mantel, a pose no doubt designed to be imposing.

Despite her short stature, she was a formidable-looking woman. Her face was round, and she looked to have at least two chins. Perhaps the rest of her was
as plump, although it was difficult to tell in the voluminous dress she was wearing. Of black silk, with long puffy sleeves and an overskirt divided in the front to show a panel of lace, it also bore something that looked like a train. Attached at the shoulders, the swath of material fell behind the countess and puddled on the floor.

Her eyes, an arresting blue, were fixed on Arabella with narrowed intensity. Her mouth was unsmiling, the corners hidden beneath doughy cheeks.

When Dr. Fenton brought his daughter forward, the countess simply inclined her head very slightly, just as if she were a queen being introduced to one of her subjects.

Arabella appeared oblivious to the stare from her soon-to-be mother-in-law. Gillian knew the younger girl would much rather be in a small, secluded chamber, perusing one of her books. Give her an elderly manservant to treat, a set of rheumy eyes to examine, or a pus-filled sore, and she would soon be smiling.

The countess, however stern her appearance or advanced her age, did not look as if she were suffering from ill health. However, Arabella was taking the occasion to examine her visually. Her gaze encompassed the other woman from the top of the countess’s hair to the tips of the shoes that peeped beneath her skirts.

Nor was that the only spot to which her attention was directed. Arabella appeared fixed on the older woman’s chest, as if she were counting the rising and falling of that not inconsiderable bosom. She even stared at the countess’s ears, and Gillian knew she was not intrigued with the glittering diamond earrings.
Arabella was no doubt wondering if there was a way to test the older woman’s hearing.

In the meantime, the expression on the older woman’s face had not softened. She continued to stare fixedly at Arabella, who seemed blissfully unaware of the tense atmosphere in the room or the fact that the countess was growing more and more irritated.

Dr. Fenton looked at Gillian, who knew that she would soon be at the receiving end of a rather long and involved lecture about Arabella’s shocking lack of manners.

After all, her only duty was to render Arabella presentable.

Her defense was already prepared, although it sounded weak even to her ears.
She wasn’t actually doing anything wrong. She was simply looking at the countess.

She could only imagine Dr. Fenton’s reply.

For five minutes?

Arabella did look as if she would like to take out her journal and begin writing about the countess’s color. Or, heaven forbid, ask the countess to open her mouth so that she might examine her teeth.

She swerved her gaze from Arabella to Dr. Fenton and back again, and somehow she accidentally looked at
him
. The earl wasn’t finding the situation humorous in the least. In fact, he looked as if he never smiled, or as if the idea of amusement had never once occurred to him in his entire life.

She found it rather disconcerting to return a man’s stare while attempting to hide any hint of her thoughts. But she managed to do so nonetheless, even tilting her head just a little so as to appear as haughty as he.

How odd that while Arabella was being rude, staring at the countess without a word, the earl was doing the very same thing to her. Who would call him to task for his behavior?

Dr. Fenton cleared his throat.

Gillian took a step, positioning herself directly behind Arabella and poking her gently in the back with one finger. Normally such a physical manifestation of her impatience was enough to capture Arabella’s attention. Not today, evidently.

She glanced at Dr. Fenton, whose complexion was becoming more and more florid as the seconds passed.

Did Arabella not have the sense God gave a goat?

Twice the countess tapped her cane on the patterned carpet, the sound an odd punctuation to the otherwise stilted silence.

Gillian leaned close to Arabella and whispered, in a tone she hoped only the younger girl could hear, “Arabella, you are causing a scene. Say something polite.”

Arabella turned her head only slightly. Her gaze met Gillian’s, and a look of irritation crossed her face.

“Why should I not use every situation to improve my powers of observation, Gillian? This woman might be a victim of apoplexy. She has the color for it. I suspect her diet is too sufficient in cheeses and meat. I think she would benefit from a few glasses of ale in the evening. Or wine, perhaps, as a morning tonic. A week’s regimen of purgatives would not be amiss.”

Purgatives? Dear God.

“Young woman, can you pour?” the countess said.

Arabella blinked. “What?”

The countess raised her cane and pointed it at Arabella. “Can you only talk of private matters in public, young woman, or can you behave as befitting a woman of some manners?”

For once Arabella remained silent.

“Well?”

“Arabella is schooled in good manners, Your Ladyship,” Gillian said, stepping to Arabella’s side. “She sometimes forgets, however, in her quest to be a healer.”

“A physician,” Arabella corrected, sending her an annoyed look.

The countess pointed her cane at the adjoining sofa. “Sit.”

Gillian didn’t think twice, but Arabella was somewhat slower. Gillian sighed, bit back a comment, and tugged on Arabella’s sleeve.

The countess sat opposite the sofa, while Dr. Fenton and the earl sat on adjoining chairs.

Just then, the door opened as if the countess had performed some secret signal. A footman came in, struggling under the weight of a massive silver service.

Arabella sent her a look, not of desperation, but of annoyance.

“Use your common sense,” Gillian whispered to her. “If you can stitch a wound, you can certainly pour a cup of tea.”

If only her words had been remotely prophetic. But Arabella proved to be abysmal when it came to making other people around her comfortable. She did not indulge in casual conversation. Other than asking the countess, the earl, and her father exactly
how they wished their tea, she didn’t speak at all.

Gillian did not even receive the courtesy of being asked. Without a word, Arabella simply handed her a saucer and a full cup, tea sloshing over the rim.

Gillian thanked her and sat back in the corner of the sofa, feeling grateful, for the first time, that she was not in Arabella’s position, and was therefore spared from being on the receiving end of the countess’s stare.

It was all too obvious that Arabella was failing in her first test. The entire gathering was awkward, and so filled with painful silence that Gillian would have done anything to escape it.

“You shall learn everything that you need to know,” the earl said unexpectedly. “All you need is a little practice.”

“I have no desire whatsoever to practice,” Arabella said. “I would much prefer to spend my time serving mankind.”

“Well,” Gillian said, “think of it as serving mankind. Only a smaller number of them.”

She hadn’t meant the remark to be amusing. She knew how to appeal to Arabella’s skewed sense of logic. The earl’s sudden smile was startling, as was the countess’s precipitous departure. The woman stood, looked down at Arabella as if she would like to say something particularly scathing, and then simply made her way to the door without a further word to anyone—not to her son, not to the doctor, and certainly not to Arabella, who looked faintly relieved at the other woman’s absence.

Arabella turned to her. “May I return to my room now?”

The earl stood. “Would you prefer a tour of Rosemoor instead, Arabella? I believe you would find the library particularly interesting.”

Gillian sent him a look of gratitude.

Arabella did not look in his direction. “I would prefer to return to my chamber, Your Lordship,” she said.

“May I escort you, then?”

“I can’t think why,” Arabella answered. “I’m not about to become lost.”

To his credit, the earl simply bowed slightly in response. If he was annoyed at her answer, he didn’t reveal it.

Gillian stood and made her way to the door to accompany her, but Arabella didn’t wait, simply left the room with the hauteur of the countess.

Was she supposed to follow her? Did she remain behind?

The earl reached out his hand, staying her with a gesture. She was sure he didn’t mean to touch her, because he pulled back his hand the moment his fingers brushed beneath the lace at her elbow. She was certain the gesture wasn’t meant to be one of reassurance or even intimacy but rather one of arrogance.

He had not meant the moment to mean anything at all, but it did. She stopped, frozen into place by his touch. Nor did he speak, and she couldn’t discern anything from his expression except for an almost imperceptible flinch of surprise.

She wanted him to touch her again, to press his fingers along the top of her arm where she seemed especially sensitive. Or perhaps he might encircle her
wrist with his fingers, and create a prisoner out of her. As if she would walk away.

How much ruin could she endure?

“If I may have a moment of your time, Gillian.”

She turned toward Dr. Fenton. “Of course, sir.”

She left the earl at the door, managing to cross the room without looking at him once. But he was there, nevertheless. She felt him staring at her, could feel his glance between her shoulder blades and on her bare neck, right at the nape where her hair had been gathered up and was now restrained with a tortoiseshell comb.

As Gillian sat on the sofa facing Dr. Fenton, she prayed for composure, and a little propriety. If nothing else, then let memory flood her mind. Let her recall those two days of fear when she’d been abandoned, terrified, and with child in Edinburgh.

The earl hesitated, and for a moment she wondered if he was going to remain in the room and listen to Dr. Fenton’s words. But then he simply closed the door behind him, leaving her feeling relieved.

The minute they were alone, Gillian turned her attention to her employer.

She pressed her hands together and willed herself not to betray any emotion. No annoyance, irritation, or anger would show on her features.

“Arabella does not seem inclined to take on the role of countess.”

Since she had told him that very thing for the last two weeks, Gillian remained silent now.

“She needs to be made aware of what a superlative opportunity this is for her, one that most women would not get.”

Gillian was growing irritated, and annoyance was an infinitely preferable emotion to fear. “Whenever I speak to her about her manners, Dr. Fenton, Arabella merely ignores me. What am I to do?”

“I’m not asking that you treat her as you would a sister, Gillian. I know that is impossible. But I would not wish her to be shamed by her own behavior.”

Gillian didn’t think that was possible. Arabella was so completely unconscious of the entire world that she doubted the other girl noted when it rain or snowed or was otherwise a fair day. If it was not within Arabella’s small frame of reference, she simply paid no attention to it.

“I fear the countess was not impressed by Arabella,” Dr. Fenton added. “It is imperative that all of Arabella’s deficiencies are eliminated, Gillian, as quickly as possible.”

What could she say to that? It was all too evident that Arabella was not prepared for the role she was to assume and didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Very well,” she said. “I will try a little harder.”

“See that you do, Gillian.” He studied her for a moment. “The Earl of Straithern is very conscious of his position in society.”