Authors: Janice Maynard
* * *
I fumbled my way through the next week like a zombie. But a zombie with phenomenal acting skills. Only someone who knew me extremely well would have been able to see my misery.
Abby and I were inseparable. In the evenings, we watched episodes of
Outlander,
the first season, all the way to the end. We spent endless hours discussing the plot and the swoon-worthy factor of Jamie Fraser.
By day, she took me anywhere and everywhere I wanted to go. I became a seasoned tourist, somewhat of an expert on this particular area of the Highlands. In between excursions, we prepared for the ball.
Long before I arrived at Dunvarstone, Abigail had contracted with a young, up-and-coming English designer to create a gown for the charity event. Clearly this was an expensive dress, because the woman actually travelled to Inverness for the final fitting. The creation was stunning. Grecian in design, the moss-green satin with a gold lace overlay flattered Abby’s skin tone and hair color.
The closer we moved toward the night of the ball, the more nervous Abby became. I suspected it was the prospect of being with her peers again. I knew they would have nothing to criticize, but I understood.
Abby already knew she had the receptionist job she wanted. In fact, she would be starting work three days before I left for London. I decided I would find a hotel in Inverness for those last few nights. I couldn’t stay at the castle without Abby as a buffer. She would be home every evening, but that wasn’t enough.
It took a lot of arguing back and forth to convince Abby that not only would I not let Bryce pay for a dress for me to wear to the ball, but that I would buy something off the rack. I couldn’t imagine the recommended dressmaker’s rates were anything I could afford.
Nevertheless, since department stores were not thick on the ground, I at last agreed to meet with the seamstress. She was a sturdy Scottish mother of four who helped support her family with a career that allowed her to work from home. I liked her immediately.
Abby had errands to run, so she left me with Mrs. Duff. Once it was just the two of us, Mrs. Duff looked me up and down. “Ye’re a tall one, lass.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I resisted the urge to apologize.
“Not to worry. A woman of your shape dresses well. I’ve pattern books here. Why don’t you flip through a few and let me know your tastes. After that, I’ll show you fabric samples.”
“Before we start,” I said, “I need to ask about the cost. I’m on a budget.”
She eyed me strangely. “I had a call from Mr. MacBrae. He said ’twas his intention to cover this order, you being a friend of the family and all.”
I did my best not to blush. “It’s very kind of him, but I’m accustomed to paying my own way. So you and I will need to settle on your fee and the price of the materials before we proceed.”
Luckily for me, Mrs. Duff was a practical sort. “Aye. I’ll make up an estimate before you leave.”
“Thank you.”
The whole process turned out to be more enjoyable than I had imagined. I didn’t go to my prom. There had been no one I wanted to go with and no money for a dress. Despite my strained relationship with Bryce, I was very excited about the charity ball. It would be a wonderful way to finish out my Scottish adventure.
In the end, I let myself be guided by Mrs. Duff’s expertise. I selected half a dozen possible patterns. She ruled out four of them. We discussed the pros and cons of the final two and settled on a design that was both elegant and sexy. And also intimidating. It was the kind of dress that required panache from the wearer. I hoped I had it in me to pull it off.
“The cut of the bodice will flatter your bosom,” she said. “But you’re small enough on top you won’t have to worry about a bra.”
I’d actually seen something very similar on the red carpet at a Hollywood awards show. The front dipped only slightly less than the back. No sleeves either. A lot of bare real estate. The fitted waist flared into a slender column of swishy silk.
“But what about color?” I asked. “I want to fit in. Will most of the guests be in black and white?” I knew Abigail’s dress was a gorgeous green, but she was the hostess.
“If this were a mid-winter event, maybe so. But for a summer affair, I’d wager most of the ladies will opt for color. I’m thinking red for you.”
Red? I was more of the wallflower type. Red was a color that drew attention. “How about navy?” I said. “Or cream.”
“The red will be brilliant with your dark hair and pale skin. Trust me, lassie.”
I nodded, feeling somewhat boxed into a corner. Maybe the price would be prohibitive and I could go elsewhere.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending upon how one looked at the fashion conundrum, Mrs. Duff’s quickly calculated figures were more than reasonable. I could easily afford the dress, especially since I had spent virtually nothing on housing since I had arrived in Scotland.
Accessories might still be an issue, but I was willing to splurge a bit on those, because I would select items I could wear again back home. I really doubted there would ever be another occasion in my life for a fancy red evening dress.
* * *
By the day before the charity event, the great hall in the closed-off portion of the castle had been transformed. Thousands of tiny white lights had been strung both inside and outside in the walled garden. The forecast at the moment looked favorable. Hopefully, the guests would be able to enjoy one of the last warm weekends of the summer—warm being a relative term in the Highlands.
In a shop in town I had found an ivory shawl crocheted of yarn so fine it looked as if it might have been woven by fairies. Hopefully I wouldn’t need it. I’d spent enough on the dress that it would be a shame to hide it. My tiny clutch purse and modest heels were basic black. Abigail had promised to loan me a thin gold chain with a single pearl that nestled in my modest cleavage.
Again and again I fought the urge to talk to Bryce. I wanted to clear the air. I missed him. His humor. His kindness. His rugged masculinity. The way he made me feel feminine and desirable.
I suspected I had hurt his pride. That had never been my intent at all, but at least it was better than him guessing that I was in love with him. I couldn’t bear to see the compassion in his eyes if he deciphered my secret amidst my inexplicable behavior.
Every night since I cut his hair in the garden and we argued, I found myself tempted to go to his room and beg his forgiveness. His coldness was painful. He was never rude to me, but our interactions, scant as they were, were now couched in freezing formality.
If Abby noticed anything amiss, she didn’t let on. She had blossomed from the woman I had met on the day Brodie pounced on me. I hoped we could maintain a long-distance friendship, even though her brother would likely never want to hear my name spoken again.
The worst part of my life now was the succession of lonely nights when I struggled to fall asleep. I turned on my phone promptly at nine every evening, almost hoping for a 9-1-1 alert from Hayley or McKenzie. I wanted so badly to talk to either or both of them. I couldn’t imagine their adventures were as astounding as mine, though I hoped they were happier.
In my quiet room, I relived again and again the night Bryce had come to me. It seemed like a dream now. I’d had the laird in my bed, but I had sent him away. Equally bad were the memories of the day at Culloden and our private picnic. He’d been so happy that afternoon, and so had I.
Being mature and responsible sucked. If I hadn’t been so scared of being hurt, I might have been in Bryce’s bed or he in mine every single night. In my heart, though, I knew I had done the right thing. If losing him like this hurt, how much worse would it have been if he’d made love to me over and over again?
It was better this way. Soon I would go back to being a hairdresser from Atlanta. Castles and fairytales and handsome Highland lairds were delightful, but you couldn’t build a future on them. Reality was the only currency I understood, the only one that ultimately mattered.
I was in an odd position. Part of me couldn’t wait for the night of the charity dinner and dance. But unfortunately with every day that passed, I was that much closer to leaving Scotland and Bryce. My plan was to move from the castle to a hotel in town on the morning after the ball.
Would Bryce dance with me during the party? I suppose he would have to or his sister would think it odd. My heart raced at the thought of my laird holding me one last time.
With all the bustle of getting the castle ready for a party, Abigail and I still managed to do more sightseeing. Ancient abbeys and mysterious ruins and ordinary pleasures like rummage sales and old bookshops. I loved every minute of it.
Even though Bryce and I were estranged, I found comfort in knowing he was nearby. Some small part of me still hoped for a reconciliation, but because I had been the one to rebuff him and not the other way around, any change in the status quo would have to come from me.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t think of a single valid reason to be intimate with him again. I was a strong person, but not strong enough to wallow in my infatuation and then give up my laird cold turkey. The course I had chosen was the only one that made sense.
In the evenings, I began hiding out in the library. The formal, wedding-like invitations for the charity ball had borne fruit. Abigail and Bryce were inundated with mail, and they worked together after dinner each night to deal with it all. Though they had hired a competent event planner, they wanted to see the reply cards themselves so they could begin working on a seating chart.
Some of the attendees would be served around the enormous dining table in the great hall, with other smaller tables tucked around the outer edges of the enormous space. At one end of the room, a polished, wooden, parquet surface was being installed on top of the stone floor for dancing.
Two nights before the party, I fond myself swamped with a wave of melancholy. The thought of leaving Dunvarstone was a physical pain. I had come to love the old castle. There were still many parts yet to be explored, but like Cinderella with her eye on the clock, my time was running out.
With my two hosts hard at work, I slipped away to the library. The room was drafty. Someone had carefully stacked wood in the fireplace, ready for use. I decided that Bryce wouldn’t mind if I availed myself of the warmth and cheer, even if it
was
August. The kindling was dry. It only took me two tries to get the fire going.
I pulled a chair close to the hearth and curled up with yet another leather-bound book. This one was all about customs concerning birth and marriage and death in Scotland. I read about changelings, babies supposedly left by the devil in place of the real children who were snatched away. Again, bits and pieces of
Outlander
came to mind. Perhaps if we taught all our history in novels, more students would be enthralled by it and want to know the rest of the story.
Though it was a form of self-torture, I took particular delight in the chapters about marriage. Courtship in the old days had not been easy. Small communities had to devise ways for teenagers to meet each other. It wasn’t unusual for groups to gather at a church and stay four or five days, feasting and singing and dancing and generally allowing the young people to get acquainted. Often four or five marriages came out of the event.
Sadly, in modern times, marriage was less
necessary.
We no longer sent the men to work in the fields while the woman sewed and cooked and tended to the children. That old partnership idea had been supplanted by independent men and women choosing careers and lives that fulfilled them.
Truthfully, I didn’t
need
a man to take care of me. But what about love?
I closed the book and rested my head on the back of the chair as I stared into the dancing flames. I was confused and sad, and, though it caught me off guard, homesick again. My life back in Atlanta involved plenty of hard work. But at least I knew what I was doing day after day. I had a purpose for getting up in the mornings.
Here at Dunvarstone, I was playing a part without a script. Soon the final curtain call would come.
When a small knock sounded at the door, it startled me. I had almost drifted off. I sat up and quickly opened the book again. “Come in.”
Abigail poked her head around the door. “I don’t want to bother you.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “It’s your house.” I paused. “How are you doing with the RSVP cards?”
Abby grimaced as she settled into the armchair adjacent to mine. “Bryce had planned for two hundred guests based on other years. But apparently no one in the area has a thing at all on their social calendars, because they’re
all
coming. We sent out almost three hundred invitations, and I’ll bet we have less than fifteen or twenty regrets.”
“Wow. That’s good though, right?”
“In theory. But because so many people were late returning their replies, the caterer may wring our necks.”
“Ah.”
I wanted to talk to Abby about my situation and ask her advice. But as nicely as she and I had
clicked
, there were certain lines I knew I shouldn’t cross. Number one, she was fighting her own battles. Number two, Bryce was her brother.
“What are you reading?” she asked.
There was no reason I should be embarrassed, but my face heated anyway. I handed her the book. “Do you know this one? It’s really interesting.”
She turned up her nose. “Willow. Honestly? I have an e-reader loaded with wonderful books. You’re welcome to use it any time. These leather-bound dinosaurs are old as dirt.”
“Maybe to you, but I’m learning things. Did you know about tying the knot?”
“You mean getting married?”
“Yes. But do you know why we call it that?”
“Do I care?” She grinned to let me know she was kidding.
“You should. It’s fascinating. Back in the old days before Velcro and snaps and zippers, all the fastenings on the bride and groom’s clothing—garters, shoestrings, petticoats, and such— were loosened just before they entered the church. Then after the ceremony was over, the bride stepped aside with her attendants and the groom with his to have all the knots tied before heading off to the post-wedding celebration. And voilá…tying the knot.”