Lucy Muir

HIGHLAND RIVALRY

Lucy Muir

Chapter One

“ ‘But when, advancing through the gloom,

They saw the Chieftan’s eagle plume,

Their shout of welcome, shrill and wide,

Shook the steep mountain’s steady side.

Thrice it arose and lake and fell

Three times return’d the martial yell;

It died upon Bochastle’s plain,

And silence claimed her evening reign...’ ”

Phoebe Hartwell declaimed dramatically to her friend Celeste Laurence, finishing the third canto of
Lady of the Lake.
Every morning they read aloud to each other from the popular poem, and in the seven weeks since it had been published, they had gone through it once and were now upon their second reading. Her
enjoyment of the beautiful words was as great as ever, Phoebe reflected as she sank back into the pretty damask-covered armchair in the Laurences’ small drawing room. Repetition did not dim the enchantment.

Celeste lounged against the back of a French-style settee, her eyes half-closed, lost in an imaginary world.

“I can just picture the brave Rhoderik Dhu,  silhouetted against the purple mountains, staring purposefully into the distance. A stern expression settles upon his face as he banishes thoughts of his lady love and dedicates himself to battle. Do you not think the Highlands of Scotland must be the most wonderfully romantic place to visit?” Celeste asked dreamily.

Phoebe looked indulgently at her friend as she placed a marker in the slim volume and laid it on the small gilt table next to her chair. Celeste had a tendency to be excessively rhapsodical, but Phoebe had to agree that the picture Mr. Scott painted of the Highlands was most compelling. She herself would like to see the lake that was the setting of much of the poem.

“Yes,” Phoebe agreed aloud. “I understand why Lake Katrine promises to be the most popular destination for the ton this summer.”

Celeste came out of her reverie and sat up, a frown marring her youthful features.

“I still do not understand why Mama will not agree to an excursion there in July,” she complained loudly, hoping that her mother, who was visiting with Mrs. Hartwell in the adjoining room, would overhear. “We shall be the only members of Society who are not planning to go.”

Phoebe smiled, knowing full well what Celeste was about, but could not avoid a certain amount of disapprobation from entering her thoughts. Celeste was an only child and accustomed to having things ordered as she wished. Her young friend had not taken kindly to her parents’ refusal of what she felt was an unexceptionable request to visit the Highlands. Phoebe suspected that Mrs. Laurence was not up to the rigours of such a journey, having suffered a severe attack of the influenza earlier in the Season. But Celeste, with the unconscious selfishness of youth, did not understand the slower recuperative process in adults, and thought her parents were being unreasonably cruel.

Still, Phoebe could understand Celeste’s disappointment. Society had tired of the Grecian and Egyptian crazes, and the Highlands had been all the rage since the previous year. The recent publication of Mr. Scott’s
Lady of the Lake
had brought the Scottish craze to a peak. One heard people quoting lines from the poem to each other in the street, and many of the ton
were
planning excursions to Lake Katrine this summer. When one was young it was very difficult not to be allowed to join Society in its latest caprice.

“Are you positive your mama cannot accompany us?” Celeste persisted, having received no response from the drawing room to her earlier complaint.

Phoebe shook her head. “I have explained before that Mama dare not leave London so close to my sister’s lying-in.”

That was only half the reason, but Phoebe did not elaborate. An excursion to the Highlands would be far too dear, even sharing the expense with Celeste’s family. What with the hire of a vehicle, mileage duty, tolls, meals and accommodation, the journey would cost over half her father’s yearly income. Probably more, Phoebe concluded sadly. Barristers often had difficulty making ends meet, for they were not allowed to discuss fees with their clients, or to attempt to collect them. They had to rely entirely upon their clerks to obtain their earnings, and even should a client refuse to pay altogether, they were not allowed to sue to recover their fees. She sighed softly, leading Celeste to believe Phoebe shared her frustration over not being able to travel to Scotland.

“It is the worst luck,” Celeste complained, albeit in a lowered voice. “If we could go to the Highlands I know we would meet Highland lords and marry them. Imagine how romantic it would be—walking through the heather, the rugged mountains in the background, the lord in his belted plaid, dirk in hand,” she fantasized.

“I think a lord would carry a sword, not a dirk,” Phoebe corrected. “And I doubt that a Highland lord would ask for
my
hand.”

This was Phoebe’s fourth Season, and she had yet to receive an offer—from anyone she cared to marry, that was. She rose from her chair and went to stand before a gilt-framed glass, resisting a childish impulse to stick out her tongue at her reflection.

“I wish my hair were any colour but red,” she said mournfully. “Red hair will
never
be fashionable, especially when it is accompanied by freckles.”

Celeste spoke up eagerly. “That is all the more reason we must go the Highlands. I understand such colouring is not at all unusual there.”

Phoebe laughed at her friend’s persistence and shifted her focus in the mirror to where Celeste was reflected sitting restlessly on the settee in the background. Celeste had no worries about her appearance. Her complexion was flawless, and her clear green eyes coupled with the glossy black curls that framed her piquant face made an unusual but striking combination. No fault could be found with her slight figure, and her beautiful hands and tiny feet proclaimed her descent from the aristocracy. Celeste was undeniably a Beauty. Yet one of her most appealing qualities was that she was entirely without vanity and never gave herself airs.

Not that Celeste did not have faults. She was rather heedless and inclined to be peevish if things did not go her way. But who did not have faults? Phoebe knew that she herself was rather stubborn and possessed of a somewhat whimsical sense of humour.

Altogether, Phoebe would not have traded her friendship with Celeste for that of a duchess. They had been friends for nearly fifteen years, ever since the Laurences had moved into the adjoining brick town house on John Street. Unlike the more fashionable inhabitants of the area, Phoebe and Celeste did not leave London after the Season, but remained in Town year-round. Phoebe’s father, being a barrister, had to stay near Chancery, and Celeste’s father disappeared into the depths of the City every morning. This circumstance had led to the forging of a very close friendship between Phoebe and Celeste despite their four-year age difference.

“You do not have so many freckles,” Celeste said in an effort to reassure her friend as the moments passed and Phoebe remained silent before the glass. “They do not prevent you from having admirers, in any case. Why, Mr. Arnold calls upon you every day.”

“You know quite well Mr. Arnold calls upon me only in hope of encountering you,” Phoebe said, turning to address Celeste with mock severity. “You should not pretend to be so unaware of his admiration, nor refuse to reward such devotion.”

Mr. Arnold was a young solicitor who prepared cases for Mr. Hartwell. Calling upon Mr. Hartwell at the barrister’s residence one morning, he had spied the enchanting Miss Laurence there, and had been totally smitten. Since that day he had taken to haunting the Hartwells’ drawing room every morning in hopes of catching a glimpse of his goddess. He had become rather a joke to the two friends, although there was nothing to cavil about in Mr. Arnold’s appearance. Indeed, he was actually quite well-looking, with his golden curls, fine features and soft brown eyes.

“Perhaps I
should
take
pity on Mr. Arnold,” Celeste agreed, “but it is difficult to take someone seriously who sits in complete silence for a half-hour at a time, making calves’-eyes at one. At any rate,” she said, deftly changing the subject to the earlier topic, “I am quite happy no one you cared to accept offered for you during your first three Seasons. We could not have had this one together had you already been married.”

“That is true,” Phoebe agreed, going to sit next to her friend and pressing her hand affectionately. This Season
had
been the most enjoyable for the simple reason that Celeste had made her come-out and that they had at last been able to share their experiences, going shopping together, attending entertainments together and exchanging confidences about the gentlemen they met.

Now it was almost June. Another Season would be over in a few short weeks, and neither of them had accepted an offer. Phoebe had received one, and Celeste four, which was a small number for such an acknowledged Beauty. But none of the offers had been from anyone either of them cared to marry. Although they rarely spoke of the matter, both girls realized their backgrounds kept away many of the most eligible gentlemen. Phoebe had neither wealth nor fashionable good looks, and her father was only a barrister. Celeste was the granddaughter of an earl, and had both beauty and wealth, but the fact that her father worked in the City was enough to frighten off many gentlemen of the ton.

A footman appeared at the door of the small drawing room, interrupting their separate reflections.

“Miss Olivia Atwood,” he intoned.

Phoebe and Celeste exchanged quick looks of dismay and resignation. Miss Olivia Atwood, the
honourable
Miss Olivia Atwood, as she was fond of pointing out she must be addressed on an envelope, was not their favourite person, although she was often in their company, and most of Society assumed the three were friends. The association was not of their choosing; indeed, Phoebe and Celeste found Miss Atwood’s company decidedly disagreeable, what with her superior airs and condescending attitude. Phoebe rather suspected the only reason Olivia sought out their company was that they were the only ones her age of lesser rank who were at least marginally acceptable in Society.

“Good afternoon, Miss Laurence, Miss Hartwell,” their caller said politely as she entered, walking slowly around the perimeter of the room so as to give her friends a good view of her new gown and matching bonnet. “I trust I find you both well?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Celeste replied, grudgingly polite. “Please sit down. I shall ring for refreshments.” Celeste rose to reach for the bell pull, momentarily turning her back to Miss Atwood, and took advantage of the situation by directing a simpering face toward Phoebe, mocking her guest. Phoebe was hard put not to smile at the accuracy of the imitation, though she could not condone such shocking bad manners.

“I hope you are also well, Miss Atwood, and Lord and Lady Atwood?” Phoebe enquired, hoping to distract Olivia’s attention from Celeste.

Olivia, unaware of the byplay, seated herself primly on the edge of a gilt open armchair, patting a new garnet pendant that shone darkly against her creamy throat. “Quite well, thank you, Miss Hartwell. I can only stay a moment, but I wished to share my good news with my dear friends before I told anyone else.”

Celeste, her face now schooled into a proper expression, sat back down and prepared to endure the call. Phoebe and Celeste knew from the expression on Olivia’s face that she had something to lord over them, but even Celeste dared not be so rude as to fail to follow her guest’s conversational lead.

“What news is that?” Celeste asked unwillingly. She would at least refuse to comment about the obviously new and expensive garnet pendant Miss Atwood was wearing—most inappropriately for an early call.

“We are to have an unexpected guest for the remainder of the Season.” Olivia hesitated a moment to create suspense in the minds of her listeners. “Lord Robert Murray, the Earl of Abermaise,” she then announced, a triumphant tone in her voice, and watched eagerly for the effect the unmistakably Scottish name would have on her friends.

Olivia’s scrutiny was rewarded, for Celeste made an involuntary exclamation, and Phoebe’s hazel eyes widened with interest.

“Lord Murray’s father was a friend of my father’s,” Olivia elucidated. “He wrote to Papa recently, enquiring about accommodations in London, and naturally my father invited him to reside with us as long as he wished.

“He is addressed by his family name as Lord Murray instead of Lord Abermaise because of his clan affiliation,” Olivia added in a patronizing tone.

Phoebe glanced quickly at Celeste, and could see that her friend was seething with envy at Olivia’s news. Still, she could not refrain from asking the question of highest importance.

“Will his family accompany Lord Murray to London?”

“Lord Murray is unmarried,” Olivia informed her friends exultantly, immediately divining the intent of the question. “He is coming to London for the express purpose of seeking a wife, or so he wrote Papa. He wrote there are no eligible women in the remote region of the Highlands where his castle is located, and that he felt he would be most likely to find a woman of acceptable background in London.”