“Yes, but it is surely respectable for a sister and
brother to reside together?” Eleanor smiled sweetly. “He will need
someone to keep house.” Not that she had any intention of
mouldering away as her brother’s cook and housekeeper. Although
what aspirations she did have, Eleanor could not yet say.
She just wanted to do something. She wanted to
live.
“Indeed,” Henrietta replied after a moment. “But how
will you get there? Your brother surely isn’t going to fetch you,
and a woman your age unchaperoned on a ship...! I dread to think of
it.”
No doubt you do, Eleanor thought with a fleeting,
grim smile. “I should think a widow may travel alone without too
many questions raised,” Eleanor said mildly. “There will be other
women on the ship, joining their husbands and brothers.”
“Will there?” Henrietta looked skeptical, and
Eleanor forced herself to offer a bland smile. In truth, she did
not know what kind of vessel--much less with what sort of
passengers--she could afford to travel to America in, but she did
not wish to inform her mother-in-law of this fact, who knew as well
as she did that John had died a near-penniless soldier. “Tell me,”
Henrietta said after a moment, her eyes narrowed, her expression
both shrewd and strangely satisfied, “will your brother welcome
your visit? I have not heard mention of him in all the time you’ve
been with us in Glasgow.”
Eleanor swallowed.
She had not seen Ian since he’d run away at the age
of sixteen. It had been his fault Achlic was lost, although Eleanor
knew Sir James Riddell had much to do with it. She couldn't forget
her sister's white-faced rage upon hearing that Ian had not read
the business contract properly--and signed away the entire farm,
instead of the twenty acres he'd been meant to.
Eleanor had no idea what man that feckless boy had
turned into--Ian's formal letters, short and infrequent, gave
little clue as to what person he'd become. Still, Eleanor knew
she’d cause to be proud of him, and she hoped after so many years
he might want his family near him again.
Yet
would
he be glad to hear from her?
Did he have the means to offer her an escape from this dreariness?
Eleanor did not know the answers to those questions. Her only hope
lay in the arrival of the
Julia
Rose
.
Henrietta watched her, a cruel smile of satisfaction
playing about her mouth. Eleanor's own expression hardened.
“Of course he will be glad to hear from me,” she
told Henrietta firmly, for the alternative was too grim to bear.
“He’s my brother.”
“Your uncle Sir James is expected for tea, Miss. A
messenger just came from Tobermory, and the master will be here
shortly. He asked particularly that you wear your rose silk, and
put your hair up.”
“Did he, Simmons? Oh, how lovely!” Caroline Reid
spun from the drawing room window of Lanymoor House in delighted
anticipation of her uncle’s visit. “And I was so afraid the
afternoon was going to be deadly dull. I’ll go change right away.
Is he bringing guests, do you think?”
“He didn’t say, miss.” Simmons, the
butler, did not change his expression as Caroline skipped gaily to
the door.
“Well, he must be, mustn’t he,” she cried. “Uncle
James would hardly mind what frock I wore, or if my hair was up or
down.”
Humming under her breath, Caroline hurried down the
corridor. Her uncle rarely came to Lanymoor House anymore, spending
most of his time at his estate in Berwick, and more recently, in
America.
He’d travelled the Atlantic Ocean across and back
six times by her last count, though he never stayed for long on his
business trips. Caroline had never asked what new enterprises were
to be found on those distant shores. America held little interest
for her; though it had gained its independence over fifty years
earlier, it still struck her as a land full of colonials and
savages.
Still, she sometimes wondered why her uncle did not
visit Lanymoor House, when he used to spend so much of his time
here, preferring the peace of Mull to the busier shires in the
south.
Caroline had heard vague rumors
that her uncle was disliked in these parts, due to the mass
clearances that had been going on, crofters evicted from their land
to make way for sheep.
She dismissed this line of thought
with a toss of her head. What did it matter what farm people
thought, after all? Her uncle was coming to visit today, and he
always brought her a little present or treat. Perhaps this time he
had something even better... news, or even guests. Anything that
would make life at Lanymoor House more interesting, more
bearable
...
Life at Lanymoor House was, for Caroline, a time of
waiting. There was little on Mull to amuse or interest her; the
occasional country dance hardly counted. No, she was surely meant
for better--and greater--things. In fact she had been pleading with
Uncle James for over a year to take her to London for her season.
She was eighteen years old, after all. She should have had her
coming out ages ago, but Uncle Edward had been away in America on
business too much to pay any notice to her age. Caroline had pouted
for several weeks over the disappointment, much good it did
her.
Even she was honest enough to acknowledge that her
uncle might enjoy her company when he saw her on his infrequent
visits, but for the rest of the time he put her quite completely
out of his mind. Perhaps this time, Caroline thought with a sudden
burst of hope, it would be different.
“Mrs. Stimms, I need you upstairs,”
she announced breathlessly from the kitchen doorway. It still put
her out that she had to use the housekeeper as her ladies’ maid,
when only a few months ago she’d had her own maid, Millie, at her
constant disposal.
Then a rather terse letter had arrived from Uncle
James, dismissing Millie with the explanation that a household of
one needed only the most basic of staff, of which Mrs. Stimms was
included.
Now Mrs. Stimms followed Caroline upstairs with a
rather grim expression. Caroline knew the dour housekeeper disliked
being taken away from her usual domain, and what was far worse, her
hairdressing skills were barely passable.
“I wonder what guests Uncle James is bringing,”
Caroline said as she nearly flew up the stairs to her bedroom.
“Have you made anything fresh for tea, Mrs. Stimms?”
Mrs. Stimms pursed her lips. “There’s some lemon
custard from yesterday. If I’d known he was to arrive today...”
“Oh, you know how Uncle Edward is,” Caroline replied
as she took out her rose silk and spread it on the counterpane,
inspecting it for rents or tears. “He’s always coming or going, it
seems.” She paused to give a pretty pout, catching her reflection
in the mirror as she did so. Yes, quite alluring. “Although he
hasn’t been to visit me since Hogmanay, to be sure,” she said, her
gaze still on her own reflection. Satisfied, she turned back to her
gown. Unfortunately it was a bit worn along the shoulders, the
material too shiny, but it couldn’t be helped. The dress allowance
Uncle James provided her had never been exceedingly generous, and
this year it’d been sparing indeed.
Mrs. Stimms stepped forward to help Caroline with
her dress. “I’ll make a fresh batch of scones, after this,” she
said in a warning tone. “So you’d best get ready quick, miss.”
With a sunny smile Caroline sat down at her dressing
table and handed her housekeeper the heavy silver brush. “Oh, I’ll
be as quick as a wink, Mrs. Stimms,” she promised in a tone she’d
practised and knew to be quite charming.
A quarter of an hour later, Caroline was seated in
the drawing room, awaiting her uncle’s arrival, while Mrs. Stimms
had returned to the kitchen to make hurried preparations for the
afternoon tea.
Outside the rain beat steadily on
the gardens, the trees with their barely opening buds just visible
in the thick gloom. Caroline sighed. She longed to be away from
here. It seemed as if she’d spent her whole life waiting for
something truly exciting to begin.
As a child, she’d enjoyed the run
of Lanymoor House, and her brother Andrew as well as her uncle had
been in attendance. Then James had left in disgrace, after his
fiasco of a betrothal to Harriet Campbell, her pianoforte tutor.
Caroline had been only eight years old at the time, but she still
remembered the letters Andrew had hidden in his room, and how she’d
been the one to alert Harriet to them.
A flicker of regret passed over her like a shadow.
If she hadn’t told Harriet about the letters from her first
betrothed, Allan, that Andrew had hidden, Harriet would have stayed
and married Andrew. Instead she’d disappeared from their lives as
quickly as a ghost, and both James and Uncle Edward tried to act as
she’d never been.
How different life might’ve been
then, Caroline thought now. With Andrew and Harriet in residence,
Lanymoor House would’ve been alive and happy, with children and
servants, and not just her alone among its mouldering, empty
rooms.
Caroline ran her fingers lightly
over the pianoforte keys, wincing as the notes were badly out of
tune. She couldn’t regret telling Harriet about the letters. If
anything, she was a romantic, and in her heart Caroline knew
Harriet had not loved Andrew. If she’d stayed, Lanymoor House
wouldn’t have been full of love and laughter, for its mistress
would’ve been terribly unhappy. Caroline was glad she’d spared
Harriet Campbell that fate.
She'd no idea what had happened to
Harriet or any of the Campbells since then; they were farmer folk,
hardly in her circle or really of any interest at all.
With an impatient sigh she whirled away from the
pianoforte. When would uncle Edward arrive? She felt instinctively
that this visit was going to be important; it had to be. She was
tired of watching life pass her by as she waited for her own to
begin.
If Uncle James was in a receptive mood, perhaps she
could convince him to take her to London for the season. It was due
to start in just over a month, but if she found a suitable
dressmaker, she could be ready in time.
She imagined the gowns she’d have fashioned, with
the full gigot sleeves and vee-shaped bodice, a la Marie Stuart.
She’d have a full skirt--the dresses she owned now could only be
worn with four petticoats, and everyone knew you needed at least
six to have any sense of fashion at all.
The sound of crunching gravel outside had Caroline
rushing to the window. Her uncle’s carriage had arrived, and she
watched as he stepped out, followed by a tall gentleman. Her heart
pounded. Uncle James had brought a guest! A male guest, and though
she could not see his features, shaded by an impressively tall silk
hat, she was sure he was dark and handsome. What could be the
meaning of this?
“Your uncle, miss.” Simmons closed the door behind
Sir James Riddell and his visitor.
Caroline curtseyed more deeply than usual to her
uncle, gazing up at him from under her lashes. “Good day to you,
Uncle.”
Lately her uncle had been rather grim and
preoccupied when he’d visited her, but now he was all joviality,
albeit a bit forced. “Isn’t she charming, Dearborn?”
“Charming, indeed.” The gentleman spoke with a
strange, flat accent Caroline didn’t recognise.
She glanced at the visitor
covertly, from under her lashes as she’d so often practiced, and
felt a stab of disappointment. Close up and without his hat, he was
tall and slightly stooped. He had to be as old as her uncle, with
thinning grey hair compensated by immense, bushy
eyebrows.
He gave her a thin-lipped smile, his grey eyes
narrowed, and Caroline forced herself to smile back with all the
charm she could muster.
The man Dearborn’s lips curled into a coldly knowing
smile, as if he suspected she was only practising her charms on
him, which was indeed the case.
Caroline found herself blushing, even as a vague
unease stole over her. With a toss of her head, she turned away.
There’d be no entertainment from that quarter, although she could
still plead her case for London.
Mrs. Stimms brought the tea tray in, and, as was her
custom, began to pour. A flicker of irritation crossed James’s
face.
“Leave the tray, Mrs. Stimms. Caroline may act as
hostess for us. She is mistress of this household, is she not? It
is high time she took on the responsibilities of her station.”
Caroline was torn between humiliation and pride. She
was glad Uncle James saw her as a young woman, yet at the same time
he managed to make her feel a gauche girl. Flustered, she lifted
her chin and took the tray from the housekeeper.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stimms. That will be all.”
Mrs. Stimms glowered, and Caroline knew she resented
this interference. She sighed inwardly. After Uncle James left,
there would be the fallout to deal with... but perhaps she would
not even be here. Perhaps she would be in a carriage, halfway to
Edinburgh or even London.
“I’ve been remiss in my visits here, I see,” James
said as Caroline served the tea. “It’s high time I took you in
hand, Caroline. You must be... seventeen?”
“Eighteen, Uncle,” Caroline replied
demurely.
“A lovely age,” The visitor, Dearborn, murmured. His
eyes, underneath those eyebrows, were flinty grey and all too
shrewd.
Caroline handed him a cup, and as he took it his
hand touched hers. His skin was as cold as a fish, Caroline thought
with a jolt, and slimy as well. She pulled her hand away too
quickly.
Tea sloshed on the saucer, and Uncle James grimaced
again. “Careful, girl! You’re not fit to be in company, as far as I
can see.”