Amanda Scott (9 page)

“Come in, my lord,” the man said. “Her ladyship is expecting you.”

“Good day to you, Andrew,” Michael said, smiling. “I trust she has not fretted herself into a lather with impatience.”

“Now then, sir, ye ken full well that her ladyship never frets. Would this bonny lassie be the Lady Bridget, then?”

“Aye, she would,” Michael said as he linked his arm with Bridget’s to escort her up the steps. “This is Andrew, my dear. When I was in school here, he took excellent care of me. Where will we find her ladyship, Andrew?”

“Upstairs, sir, in her drawing room. I might just add that she generally dines at half past three now, sir, but she has put dinner back today, pending your arrival.”

“Devil a bit, she must be starving.”

“Aye, sir. Shall I show ye to yer rooms to rid yourselves o’ the road dust, or straight along to her?”

“To her, I think,” Michael said. “We can change for dinner after we’ve made our salutations. You may show our servants where to put our things, however.”

“Aye, sir, I’ve a lad on the way to attend to that. Come along now.”

Bridget had been unusually silent, and Michael, knowing that the plain little entry hall with its pale green painted walls, bare flagstone floor, and three straight-backed chairs had done little to impress her, gestured for her to follow.

Andrew into the equally ordinary stair hall and up the stairs.

Andrew moved straight ahead to open a pair of white double doors with shiny brass fittings. Pushing them wide, he stepped into the shadowy room beyond and said, “His lordship and Lady Bridget have arrived, my lady.”

Bridget glanced at Michael, but he only smiled at her and gestured for her to precede him. As she did, Andrew opened one set of curtains, allowing the late afternoon sun to spill into the room. Bridget gasped.

The drawing room walls, hung with silk and cotton damask in two shades of gold, matched colors in the gold and rose-colored Savonnerie carpet. Deep rose pink curtains matched the upholstery on the gilded cane-backed chairs. Ornately carved walnut console tables and side tables held Sevres bowls of fresh spring flowers and other beautiful porcelain pieces. A pair of gilt-framed oval mirrors graced the walls between the three windows, and over a pedestal table at one side of the doorway hung a matching gilt-framed clock. Suspended from the center of the ceiling, a delicate cut-glass chandelier glittered where rays of sunshine touched it.

A sleepy voice said, “So you are here at last, are you?”

Michael, having become acquainted with the room some years before, while he was a student at the university, had spied the sole occupant of the room the moment he entered, but he saw his sister start at the sound of Lady Marsali’s voice. As she turned to face her ladyship, Bridget’s eyes widened.

Michael hid a smile, saying, “I hope we did not waken you, Aunt.”

“Oh, no,” she said, still reclining—as she had been when they entered—against cushions piled at one end of a giltwood-framed sofa that was upholstered in the same deep rose-colored damask as the chairs. Her little feet were propped on another cushion, and the only concession she had made thus far to their entrance was to lift the lacy white handkerchief that had covered her face to peer at them. Wearily she said, “Is it really necessary to open
all
the curtains, Andrew?”

“Aye, ma’am, it is,” he said with a fond smile. “Ye’ll be wanting to ask after their journey, I’m thinking, before they must change their dress for dinner.”

“I suppose you are right,” Lady Marsali said with a sigh.

Michael said, “Do you need assistance to sit up, Aunt?”

“I do not. You keep a civil tongue in your head, and, pray, do not feel obliged to recite every detail of your journey. I daresay that, when all is said and done, it was as tedious as any other journey.”

“Don’t you like to travel, ma’am?” Bridget said. “I liked it enormously. First we sailed to Oban, which I have done twice before, but then we hired horses and rode to Dalmally, where we enjoyed Lord Glenmore’s hospitality overnight, and then to Lochearnhead, where we stayed with some cousins of Papa’s.”

“They are my cousins, too, dear,” Lady Marsali said, sitting up at last and without visible effort. A comfortably padded little woman, she wore a simple pale pink, sack-backed afternoon gown and matching pink slippers. A lacy cap perched atop her hair, which was arranged in fashionable twists and curls from which wisps had escaped during her nap. “It was I who suggested that you spend a night there, when Michael wrote that you would pass through Lochearnhead. As to my opinion of travel, I find it quite wearing. Nothing but ruts and bumps and dust, and more dust. I don’t know why I do it.”

“But don’t you
want
to go to London, ma’am?” Bridget’s voice began to rise. “You won’t change your mind, will you? That would be dreadful!”

“Don’t fret, child,” Lady Marsali said. “I may not like to travel, but I shall like
being
in London very much. My cousin informs me that her house is tolerable, and I daresay we shall all enjoy ourselves enormously once we have arrived.”

“I do wish there were not such need for hurry,” Bridget said. “I would have liked to have at least one or two gowns made up before we leave Edinburgh.”

Lady Marsali smiled. “My woman has taken care of that, child. We find it quite easy here in Edinburgh to receive the latest patterns from London and Paris, you know, and Louise is a skilled seamstress. You will recall that you sent me your measurements some time ago, and she used them to make several gowns for you. You need only allow her to fit them properly, and the thing is done.” She glanced at Michael. “I cannot think your mission will prosper, however, my dear.”

“We can but try, ma’am,” he said.

“Aye, well, that’s so, and even if things do not go as you hope, perhaps you will manage to win through in some other way.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, “but we can afford to stay no longer than a month.”

“We’ll see about that,” she said. “I don’t fancy getting there only to have to turn round again and come home. Most unsettling that would be. I should prefer to stay at least until the middle of June. How long will this journey take us, by the bye? I have heard of mail coaches traveling the distance in only four days, but I cannot think that sounds at all comfortable for ordinary mortals.”

“No, ma’am, for I am persuaded that they must drive through the night, which I know you would not like at all. The distance is nearly four hundred miles, but I think we can do it in a week without too much discomfort.”

“Well, that remains to be seen, does it not? I asked Andrew to begin saving the newspapers for you the moment I learned you were coming to town. He will have put them in your bedchamber.”

Accepting this less than subtle hint, he said, “Thank you, ma’am. If you will excuse us now, we’ll change for dinner. I presume they will be serving it shortly.”

“Lud, yes,” her ladyship said with more energy than she had yet shown. “I am told that the dinner hour these days in London can be as late as five o’clock, so I have been trying to adjust myself, but it is not a pleasant business. Perhaps my cousin will not insist that we dine so late as that.”

“I don’t care how late we dine, ma’am,” Bridget said. “Now that I know I shall be well dressed, I quite look forward to London.”

P
INKIE PASSED HER FIRST
week in London in such a whirl of activity that she never seemed to know if she was on her head or on her heels. The city was unlike anything she had experienced before—overwhelming, exhausting, and fascinating. Mary and Lady Agnes seemed determined to turn her out in grand style, and she spent hours with silk mercers, mantua makers, milliners, shoemakers, and even a dancing master. She did not mind the latter, however, since the time she spent with him she also spent with Chuff. He, too, was busy acquiring new clothes, new friends, and new amusements.

Both of them knew how to dance, of course, but there were any number of new steps—even new dances—for them to learn if they were to enjoy their Season in the metropolis. According to their mentors, terpsichorean accomplishment was especially important if they were to gain entrance to a new, extremely fashionable set of assembly rooms that recently had opened in King Street, St James’s. They had no sooner learned of its existence, during their initial visit to Rothwell London House, than Lady Agnes decided that both Pinkie and Chuff must attend the first subscription ball to be held there.

Rothwell London House had proved even grander than Faircourt House when the family went to dine the afternoon following their arrival in town. The dinner also proved grander than expected, because, not knowing exactly when they would reach London, Lady Rothwell had previously arranged a party for that date. She simply included them, though, saying it would be good for them to meet others.

Rothwell House overlooked the Thames, and no sooner had Balcardane’s party entered the drawing room and been announced to their host and hostess than the latter suggested they take a turn on the terrace.

Lady Rothwell was kin to Mary, and his lordship was cousin to Duncan, and thus another member of the Duke of Argyll’s powerful Campbell clan. At times in the past, the women’s clans had been Campbell enemies, but like others who had taken opposing sides during the two failed Scottish risings, they had made peace in the years that followed. In the Rothwells’ case, Pinkie knew that peace had come at a price, because after the Scots’ defeat at Culloden, the English government had awarded to Rothwell estates belonging to the Chief of the MacDrumins. Rothwell’s falling in love with MacDrumin’s daughter had turned calamity to victory, however, and the estates, still managed by her father, had grown exceedingly profitable. Pinkie had met both Rothwell and Maggie several times before, in the Highlands.

“The river is looking its best today,” Maggie said, linking arms with Mary. “I vow, ’tis the prettiest prospect in London, so do come and see it whilst you tell me about your journey. Charles,” she added, smiling at Chuff, “bring your sister and Lady Agnes out, too. I know that Rothwell and Balcardane will be talking politics and tobacco until our other guests arrive, so unless those subjects fascinate you…”

When she paused expectantly, Chuff returned her smile, saying, “I shall certainly prefer the river, ma’am.”

Leaving him to escort Lady Agnes, Pinkie followed Maggie and Mary through a set of French doors onto the flagged terrace that ran along the front of the house. Except for the limited view she had had through the drawing-room windows upon entering that room, she had scarcely caught so much as a glimpse of the Thames since entering the city, so the panoramic view astonished and delighted her.

She went to stand by the iron railing that separated the terrace from the water some ten feet below her, lapping at the stone wall. A landing and water stairs led up to Rothwell House at the south end, where they served the house next door as well.

Rowboats, wherries, and sailboats dotted the waterway. The opposite riverbank contained only a few warehouses. Beyond them lay fields and woodland. In the distance to the north, where the river curved to the right, she could see the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral rising above the sprawling city.

“Pinkie dear, come here,” Mary said, interrupting her reverie. “We have been talking about fashions, and Maggie means to send her mantua maker—that is, her modiste—to us on Friday, so tomorrow we must shop for fabrics.”

“Yes, indeed,” Lady Agnes said, turning from the river view and deserting Chuff to join them. “I want to visit a good silk mercer. Someone recommended George Hitchcock’s silk warehouse, which is somewhere near St. Paul’s, I believe.”

“Yes,” Maggie said. “His merchandise is excellent.”

“I know that fashions change more quickly here in London than they do in Edinburgh, let alone in the Highlands,” Lady Agnes went on in a rush, “and we do want to be utterly à la mode. After years and years of hearing Balcardane—Duncan’s father, of course, not Duncan—telling me that new gowns were too dear even to think of buying any, I mean to enjoy myself, I promise you. Balcardane, rest his soul, was a good husband but a dreadful nipfarthing—and you needn’t look at me in that way, Mary, because everyone knows he was. He had a great reputation for it, and was quite proud of that. In any event, I daresay that since fashions change here as quickly as they do, silk may have gone out of style and been replaced by something else. Our seamstress in Edinburgh—for call her a modiste, I will not—assured us that the gowns she fashioned for us are the latest style, but I can see by looking at yours, Maggie, my dear, that they are no such thing.”

She paused to draw breath, and Maggie said with a smile, “I assure you, ma’am, that dress you are wearing is lovely. Anyone who sees it will know it cost a great deal and was fashioned by a highly qualified seamstress. My dress is just Frenchified, that’s all. It’s become the rage to do everything as the French do, you see, which makes no sense at all. I resisted at first, because I frequently have been disappointed in the French. They let our prince down dreadfully, did they not?”

Pinkie heard Mary inhale sharply, at which Maggie burst into a peal of laughter. “Oh, dear, how fortunate that Rothwell did not hear me! He would be so vexed, although after so many years of marriage he knows that I am frequently put to the blush by my unruly tongue. At least the danger is not so great as it once was, but, my dear ma’am, I do beg your pardon if I have offended you.”

Lady Agnes looked bewildered. “Well, I’d willingly pardon you, my dear, if I had the least notion of how your words might have offended me.”

Maggie exchanged a roguish look with Mary. Pinkie, as confused as Lady Agnes was, glanced at Chuff, but he stood gazing at the river scene and seemed not to have overheard. After a short silence, Mary said to Lady Agnes, “Maggie has remembered that you are a Campbell, ma’am, just as Rothwell is. You must recall that she is a MacDrumin. Her loyalty was to—”

“That upstart prince?” Lady Agnes raised her eyebrows. “Lud, my dear, was it indeed? I never paid much heed to all that nonsense, you know, although my late husband was in the thick of it, of course; but he never told me what he was doing from one moment to the next; you see, or why he was doing it. I always thought the prince a rather foolish young man, myself, to stir up all that trouble and fuss, but I will not say so if you supported his cause.”