The Wedding Escape (19 page)

“Really, Oliver, why are you going to the trouble of making boot blacking when it's so much easier to buy it?” wondered Annabelle.

“If ye can afford to rot yer boots with store-bought blacking, that's up to you,” Oliver said. “This costs little to make and polishes up so fine it makes a pair of boots look like glass.”

“Something is burning,” remarked Grace, sniffing the air.

Eunice glanced at the stove. “Ye must be smellin' the wood burning—”

“Blazes!” exclaimed Amelia suddenly, “will you look at that!”

Everyone turned in surprise to look at her, and the smoking black hole she had burned in Jack's shirt.

“Never mind, lass,” said Doreen quickly. “That's enough ironin' for today, anyway.”

“You're from America, aren't you?” asked Jamie, intrigued by Amelia's accent.

She regarded him uncertainly. “Yes.”

“Whatever brought you all the way to Inverness?” wondered Simon. “It's a long way from America.”

“The lass is here visitin' her family,” Eunice explained.

“They live nearby,” added Oliver.

Annabelle studied Amelia with new interest. “Forgive me for staring, Miss Wilson, but have we met?”

“I don't believe so.” Amelia's voice was taut. “I haven't been here very long.”

“I'm sure I've seen you somewhere before.” Jamie was also staring at her. “Your face is very familiar.”

“You must be thinking of someone who looks like me.” Amelia began to awkwardly fold Jack's burned shirt.

“Sweet blessed saints!” Annabelle exclaimed. “You're Amelia Belford!”

“That's why you look so familiar,” said Grace, nodding with recognition. “We didn't see you on your wedding day, of course, but your picture has been in the newspapers a great deal, both before and after you disappeared.”

“No wonder Jack couldn't wait to leave from your wedding.” Annabelle's eyes were sparkling with mischief. “We thought he was just being obstinate—we didn't know he was running away with the bride!”

“He wasn't actually running away with me,” Amelia clarified. “He discovered me trying to take his carriage and he helped me to get away.”

Jamie smiled. “That sounds like Jack.”

“The newspapers are saying you have been kidnapped,” Grace reflected, “but witnesses at the Wilkinsons' ball said you fought everyone who tried to save you from the old man who took you.”

“Was that you, Oliver?” asked Simon.

“Here now, who are ye callin' old?” Oliver was clearly insulted. “ 'Twas Jack in disguise, and he looked twice as old as me.”

“Jack's disguise was superb,” Amelia agreed. “When he grabbed me and started to dance, I thought an elderly servant had taken leave of his senses.”

“Jack danced with you?” Annabelle looked shocked.

“Yes—why?”

The brothers and sisters exchanged bewildered glances.

“Jack doesn't care much for dancing.” Charlotte regarded Amelia with new interest.

“He was only dancing with me because he was trying to get me away from Viscount Philmore,” Amelia elaborated. “Things were rather confusing at that point, as no one knew who Jack actually was.”

“When they came runnin' out I drove them down to the
Liberty,
but she caught fire, so we sailed here on the
Charlotte
instead,” continued Oliver.

“Fortunately, me and Eunice was here when they arrived,” Doreen finished. “Otherwise the poor lass would still be wanderin' around in Jack's clothes.”

“Why didn't Jack tell us that he had Miss Belford staying here?” wondered Grace. “Surely he must have known we would want to help.”

“The lad doesna want any of ye involved on account of the scandal,” Oliver explained.

“That's ridiculous,” scoffed Simon.

Jamie nodded. “We're used to scandal, Oliver.”

“We've known it our entire lives,” pointed out Grace.

“One more won't make any difference,” Annabelle assured him.

“And Jack should know we are always eager to help.” Charlotte smiled at Amelia. “We're family.”

“That's why he doesna want ye mixed up in it,” Oliver insisted. “Ye've all known what it is to have folk look down on ye, but now ye've made respectable lives for yerselves.”

“Ye lasses are married with bairns of yer own, Jamie is a respected doctor, and Simon is makin' a name for himself as a fine inventor,” added Eunice. “Jack doesna care to have ye involved.”

“Now that we've met Miss Belford, I'm afraid we are involved,” declared Jamie emphatically. “And we want to help you,” he told Amelia. “Just tell us what your plans are, and we'll do whatever we can to assist you.”

“That's very kind of you.” Amelia seated herself in the chair Jamie had pulled out for her. “I had initially planned to marry Viscount Philmore, but he tried to turn me over to my family in exchange for my reward.”

“The vile wretch!” Fury heated Annabelle's cheeks. “He deserves to be skinned alive, chopped up, and boiled over a fire!”

Amelia smiled. “I hadn't thought of quite so bloody a punishment.”

“At the very least he deserves to suffer a perfectly miserable marriage,” declared Grace.

“But then that would make his wife miserable, too,” Charlotte pointed out. “I think you should be glad you discovered his true nature before you married him, Amelia, for you could never have been happy with a man like that.”

“Of course you're right.” Amelia immediately liked Charlotte for her quiet, gentle wisdom. “Now it's up to me to take care of myself, and I'm afraid I'm not sure how I'm going to do that. As you can see, I'm somewhat lacking in certain skills.” She gestured ruefully at Jack's ruined shirt.

“Ye're hardly about to make yer livin' as a laundress,” scoffed Doreen. “Anyone can see ye're much too fine for that.”

“Doreen is right,” Simon agreed. “We have to find some other way for you to support yourself.”

“First of all, we need to evaluate your skills,” suggested Annabelle. “You were taught to read and write, weren't you?”

“Of course.”

“And you studied history, mathematics, and science?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, you are young, presentable, unmarried, with a solid knowledge of the primary subjects of education. You would make an absolutely wonderful governess.”

“I don't think that's a very good idea, Annabelle,” reflected Grace.

“Why not?”

“First of all, there is the matter of her American accent. Any family who hired her might be concerned their children would pick it up. Not that it isn't quaint,” Grace quickly qualified, “but I don't think many parents here would choose to have their children imitate it.”

“I'm afraid you're probably right.” Amelia sighed. “Lord Whitcliffe thought my accent was awful. He also said I had no sense of what was proper behavior. I don't think those are very good traits for a governess.”

“Lord Whitcliffe is an idiot,” Jamie growled.

“You could become a writer,” suggested Simon. “That way no one would hear your accent, or even know who you were.”

Amelia was intrigued by the possibility. “What would I write about?”

“Write about your experiences,” Annabelle replied. “You could write a book about a wealthy heiress who travels the world—or travel books about the wonderful places you have visited.”

“That isn't terribly practical, Annabelle,” objected Jamie. “It would take a long time to write a book, and there is no guarantee she would find a publisher. You have been very fortunate with your books, but writing for publication is extremely competitive and not necessarily lucrative.”

Amelia regarded Annabelle with new fascination. “What have you published?”

“Annabelle has written a wonderful series of children's mystery books called
The Orphans of Argyll
.” Simon winked at his sister. “Charlotte does the sketches for the opening page of each chapter. The books are very popular here in Scotland.”

“How wonderful—I would love to read them.”

“Next time I visit I'll bring you some copies,” Annabelle promised.

“It must be wonderful to have some special talent like writing or painting, or designing fashions,” Amelia remarked. “I'm afraid my abilities lie more in the direction of running a large household and arranging grand dinners and parties.”

“That's it!” exclaimed Grace. “Amelia, how many balls and dinners and teas did you attend in London and Paris while you were being introduced to society?”

“I've no idea. Hundreds.”

“And before you came to England, did your mother organize similar affairs in New York?”

“Of course. For years my mother has made it her mission to be accepted by every level of New York society, which snubbed her and my father when they first acquired their wealth. She is renowned for throwing the most lavish affairs in New York and Long Island. Invitations to her parties are highly coveted.”

“Could you organize an event like a formal dinner or a wedding?”

“I know how to arrange dinners or balls for anywhere from five to five hundred. Not how to actually cook the dinners,” she qualified, smiling at Eunice, “but how to organize them, right down to the forks and finger bowls.”

“That's perfect! There is a lovely old hotel in Inverness where one of my client's daughters is having her wedding reception next month,” Grace explained. “I'm designing the gowns for the bridal party and the mother. There are three hundred guests invited, and Mrs. MacCulloch is determined that the event must be utterly grand and fashionable. Unfortunately, she doesn't have the first idea what actually is fashionable these days, and apparently neither does anyone at the hotel.”

“Oh, Grace, that's brilliant!” marveled Annabelle. “No one knows more about what's fashionable than Amelia—her wedding was going to be the most spectacular event of the decade!”

“Exactly. The Royal Hotel has been serving the same food and setting the same tables and decorating with the same flowers for more than fifty years. But Inverness has grown a great deal in that time, and so have the tastes of the people who live here.”

“Amelia could help the hotel organize receptions that match those in London for style and grandeur, which would increase their business,” concluded Charlotte. “It's a wonderful idea.”

“I know Walter Sweeney, the manager of the Royal Hotel,” said Jamie. “I'll drop by there tomorrow morning and speak to him about Amelia, and arrange an interview for tomorrow afternoon.”

“There's just one problem.”

Grace regarded Amelia in confusion. “What's that?”

“My face and my accent. All of you felt that you had seen me somewhere, but you couldn't quite place where—until you heard my American accent. Then you were able to piece it together.”

“Actually, it was your hands that gave you away,” Annabelle told her. “They're far too soft to be the hands of a housemaid, and the scratches on them reminded me that you had fallen into the bushes at the side of the church.”

“You can wear gloves until the scratches heal,” suggested Grace.

“But surely someone will recognize me,” Amelia insisted. “My picture is in the newspapers.”

“Dinna mind about how ye look, lass.” Oliver's eyes narrowed as he studied her. “I can make ye look so old and haggard yer own mother wouldn't recognize ye.”

“We don't want her to look too old and ugly, Oliver,” objected Grace. “After all, she is supposed to be selling a more youthful, fresher way of doing things.”

“Fine then,” Oliver relented, impatient. “I won't make her look any older than, say, forty.”

“I have some gowns in my shop that would suit you perfectly,” said Grace. “If you're going to convince them that you can bring style and flair to the hotel, you can't go to an interview wearing a plain dress like that.”

“Not too fancy, though, Grace,” Annabelle advised. “If she's going to play the role of a woman looking for a job, she shouldn't appear to be wealthier than the manager.”

“What about my accent?” wondered Amelia.

“If we had time, I'm sure I could teach you to master a Scottish accent,” Annabelle reflected. “I was an actress for a time when I was younger, and I loved doing accents. But it would take a few weeks of practice for it to be really convincing.”

“We don't have a few weeks,” said Grace. “If we want her to get the job of arranging Mrs. MacCulloch's daughter's wedding, we have to get her an interview immediately.”

“Could ye flatten yer way of speakin' a wee bit?” wondered Doreen. “Ye know—try not to sound quite so American?”

“I don't think so.” Amelia regarded the group helplessly. “This is the way I speak.”

“How about tryin' an English accent, then?” Oliver suggested. “Ye know, like the way they talked at the balls ye went to.”

Amelia thought for a moment. “Wonderful weather we've been having lately, isn't it?” she chirped, affecting her best English accent.

“Well, that won't do.” Simon shook his head. “She sounds ridiculous.”

Oliver shrugged. “So do the English.”

“Maybe we don't need to hide the fact that she is American,” reflected Annabelle. “I mean, lots of families here have relatives living in America.”

“Perhaps we just need to say that she comes from somewhere other than New York,” Charlotte suggested. “So people don't assume that she knows Amelia Belford.”

“Fine, let's say she is Mrs. Marshall Chamberlain, our widowed cousin from Boston,” said Annabelle. “We'll tell Mr. Sweeney she is the daughter of Genevieve's aunt.”

“Does Genevieve have an aunt?” asked Charlotte.