The Scottish Companion (11 page)

“I believe Hippocrates was a man, and she wished you to appear as a female tonight.”

She didn’t comment.

“Would you consider another dance, Arabella?”

“I would prefer not, Your Lordship. I have managed to avoid your mother’s censure by achieving a balance between my duty and my tolerance.”

He could not help but smile at her answer. She really did hate socializing. “My brother Andrew was the same,” he said. “He hated any manner of gathering and would hide out in the library.”

“Indeed, Your Lordship?”

He had lost her again. Her interest level evidently
flagged when talking of anyone other than herself. Or perhaps he was simply being unkind, and she was merely uncomfortable speaking with him.

“Have you found any patients at Rosemoor who require your skills?” There, a subject she would like.

“The gardener’s son has a very bad cut on his hand. I believe it is suppurating,” she said. “I do not know if he will be able to regain the use of his fingers, or if I shall have to amputate two of them.”

“Good God,” he said, shocked. “I hope that will not be necessary.”

“A physician does what one must, Your Lordship. The details of his wound are difficult for a layman to understand, or indeed to bear without a strong stomach.”

“I have a great deal of forbearance, Arabella, but also some measure of compassion. Mark needs to be able to earn a living. How will he do so without the use of one hand?”

“Better than he will if he dies of infection, Your Lordship.”

She turned away, facing toward the ballroom, as if dancing were more preferable than his company.

The question he asked her was unwise, but he asked it nevertheless. “Do you think we shall suit, Arabella?”

She glanced at him. “Are you seeking my opinion? It is the first time anyone has done so in this entire adventure.”

“That’s what you think it is, an adventure?”

“For lack of a better term. What would you call it, Your Lordship?”

A disaster. But he didn’t say the word aloud.

As they stood at the edge of the room, she kept pulling at her gloves and pushing her hair off her cheek. Her puffed sleeves evidently bothered her, because she kept moving them upward on her arm. When she was studying her books, or treating a patient, Arabella appeared composed, controlled, and in her element. Now, however, he was struck by how uncomfortable she seemed.

He reached out and touched her on the shoulder, his fingers trailing along the curve in a reassuring touch.

She froze. “Remove your hand, Your Lordship. We are not yet wed. I do not belong to you yet.”

When he did not instantly comply, she stepped away.

“I have never done you any harm, Arabella. Nor would I. You needn’t be afraid of me.”

She stepped back, away from him, a repudiation of his words and of him.

“You are to be my countess. That point alone should bring you a measure of reassurance.”

He wanted to reassure her, banish that haunted look on her face. There was suddenly something about her that was innocent and almost childlike, an aura that made him abruptly realize he would probably never feel passion for her. But he might well be able to feel some degree of protectiveness. That would have to be enough for a marriage, and it was probably more than his parents had.

“I just want you to leave me alone.”

“Hardly encouraging words for future husband, Arabella.”

At her silence, he spoke again, “Do you wish me to release you from our upcoming marriage, Arabella?”

“I could not ask for you to do so without disappointing my father,” she said, reluctance evident in every word. “Therefore, I think we must suit, Your Lordship.”

“Perhaps a delay, then?”

She looked absurdly hopeful.

“That would be acceptable, Your Lordship. Thank you.”

“A condemned prisoner might have more enthusiasm, Arabella.”

“I do not wish to be married at all,” she said. “To anyone.”

“At least I suppose I should consider myself fortunate to be in such good company.”

At her quizzical look, he smiled. “With the rest of the male gender.”

“You do not understand, Your Lordship. How can you?”

“Then, pray, enlighten me.”

“No,” she said simply, and abruptly left him, skirting the dancers and pushing through the guests.

Grant was left to survey the ballroom and tamp down the feeling of relief Arabella’s absence instantly produced. He looked for Gillian, and found her easily on the other side of the room.

Gillian was being personable, perhaps even amiable. She was obviously attempting to be charming and succeeding too well. Grant ignored the people congregating around him and frowned at her. If he approached her directly, she’d have nowhere to hide. What would she say if he asked her to join him in a dance? Perhaps he would coax her outside, into the moonlight. The shrubs, the trees, and the flowers would be witness to
their meeting, but only nature, because humans caused too much grief with their speculation and gossip.

He was not given to poetic moments, despite the years of living in Italy. But she made him want to be a man of sonnets, a talent he’d never before desired until this moment. He wished he played the mandolin, or some other instrument that would allow him to serenade her. With music he could mute the confusion of his mind, communicate to her in a way that transcended words. Unfortunately, he had no such talent, never having given music any time at all.

He could lecture on a variety of subjects. Would she like to know his theory of magnetism? Or read his recent paper, “On the Motion of Heat and Its Validity to the Mathematical Theory of Electricity”? He could orchestrate a spark for her, perform another experiment to demonstrate his various hypotheses, but what woman wanted such an exhibition instead of a little romanticism?

Perhaps Gillian. Perhaps she would understand, of all the women he’d ever met. With her self-deprecating humor, and her aura of sorrow, with her layers of personality, one stacked upon the other like a fine Italian pastry. She was a conundrum; she was a puzzle, and he was as dedicated to solving her as he was his electrics.

That was not a very romantic declaration, perhaps, but he didn’t have any right to make declarations of any type.

He was the Earl of Straithern, the last of the line of lecherous men who made no secret of their proclivities. The last in a long line of men who’d used their title and position to obtain anything they wanted. A
line of men who’d been granted nobility by their birth, but hadn’t done anything particularly successful with their lives.

He’d wanted to be different. He’d always wanted to be better than his father. He would be wise to remember that, but he wasn’t altogether certain that with Gillian he was wise.

What was it about her that so fascinated him? Her brown hair was styled very simply, the thick curls arranged in a demure fashion. Her soft blue eyes? She was pretty in an average, nondescript sort of way. But she had a way of looking at him that made him wonder if she had the ability to peer into his very soul.

What utter rot.

She was no more and no less than any other woman he’d ever met. He was simply lonely, that was all, and marriage to Arabella Fenton suddenly did not suit at all. He was behaving no better than any of his ancestors, with the sole exception of his father, whose sins so far outweighed anything that Grant could attempt.

Yet when Gillian smiled, he wanted to respond in kind, or to laugh, relieved that she found humor in life instead of pain.

She was taking the time to amicably chat with the young men who made their way to her side. Why was she doing so? His mother was there to ensure that the gathering proceeded smoothly. Gillian had no need to be pleasant to all those toothy young males.

Why wasn’t she dancing? And why did he feel so enormously pleased about the fact?

This night was interminable.

Now one of his neighbors was talking to Gillian, and the man was standing entirely too close. Why, ex
actly, was Barton spending so much time on an impecunious companion? Everyone knew the man needed a rich wife. He really should warn Gillian that she was making a spectacle of herself, being so pleasant to the man.

He had other things to occupy his mind rather than standing here being seen, being civil, being annoyed. Before his emotions could overwhelm him completely, he left the room.

G
rant walked down to the lake, stood on the other side, and stared at the palace. In the moonlight, the statues arrayed along the colonnade appeared almost like people, dressed in Roman togas, secretly congregating when there were no other witnesses to their meeting. They seemed to guard the structure jealously, as if they reveled inside and wanted no human eyes to witness their nocturnal celebration.

When he was a child, he’d been afraid of this building, possibly because of his father’s dictate that he was never to come near it. Later he’d felt an aversion based on knowledge of what had gone on inside these walls. But twenty years of emptiness had made it simply a building again, and although it carried memories, mostly it was just a structure an ancestor had built and he used because it was convenient.

In the moonlight, and the silence, with the distant sound of the music coming from Rosemoor, the palace seemed almost an enchanted place.

Good God, but he was being fey tonight.

For the first time in a very long time, he was dissatisfied with his life, his choices, and his decisions.
He missed Andrew and James. His brothers had the ability to tease him from his dark moods.

Grant found himself walking toward Rosemoor’s chapel.

Twenty-five years ago, his father had conceived of a structure that rivaled Versailles, and it had taken nearly all of that time for the architect and team of builders to achieve his dream. The chapel was an example of supreme excess, gilt, marble and Rubenesque murals depicting selected scenes from the Bible painted on the ceiling. The walls were adorned with floor-to-ceiling stained glass panels while the altar gleamed with gold, a huge gold burnished cross resting in the middle of the pristine white lace cloth. Hundreds of workmen had toiled day and night for a decade to carve the gargoyles perched near the roof, and the ornate carvings stretching from the ground to the turrets. Larger than life-size lions perched near the door, as if to remind each entering worshipper that he was in the presence of greatness—a family descended from English nobility who’d made their home in Scotland.

For a few moments, he stood at the end of the aisle, remembering only too well the occasion of his last visit: James’s funeral. He hadn’t been back since then, and as he stood there he knew only too well the reason why.

Sadness clung to the air like the final notes of a hymn. He could smell the lingering scent of too many flowers, the peppery incense, and the beeswax of the candles.

Slowly, he walked toward the altar. Once there, he mounted the five steps, and then turned, facing the empty pews. He began to light the candles on the al
tar before descending the steps, lighting candles at the wrought-iron stands throughout the chapel.

He moved to the end of one pew and sat, his concentration fixed on the altar.

Why did man assume that God was present only in sanctified structures? Could He not be felt in other places as well: a forest, the deserted cottage in the glen, the top of the nearest hill? Had the Robersons tried to imprison God in this place, the better to be spared judgment as to their acts throughout Rosemoor?

The God of Scotland was too fierce to be contained.

Too philosophical, brother.

He could almost hear James’s teasing voice. Damn, but he missed him, and Andrew, too.

Grant wished, suddenly, that they were ghosts, that his brothers had become spirits. If so, perhaps he could coax them to speak to him, give him advice, tell him what to do to avenge their deaths and solve the mystery of their murders.

Only silence answered him.

Tears were for women, for children. His anguish needed no physical counterpart to be felt. It was there in his memory, in the imaginary voice echoing through the silent chapel.

This place was too damn large to belong to a family home, even one as sprawling as Rosemoor. Perhaps the chapel was Ranald Roberson’s entrance fee into heaven. Could God be bribed? And would He wash clean that particular filthy soul?

Grant doubted it. His father’s sins were too hideous to be easily forgiven.

He raised his gaze to the ceiling, and the pennants
flying there. Even in his act of contrition, his father could not help but brag a little. No one could doubt that the Earls of Straithern occupied this space.

“James.” His voice carried too well throughout the chapel and was carried back to him by the stone walls and the marble pillars. James wasn’t here, and that knowledge bit at him. Andrew. This time, he didn’t bother speaking his brother’s name. It was actually too painful to do so.

Why the hell was he here? What did he hope to gain? A little peace, perhaps? Absolution? Neither was to be found in an empty chapel.

Leave her alone.

The thought was so strong that it was almost a spoken command. He remained still, knowing that the voice he heard was not God’s, but his, emerging from his conscience. Would Gillian be happy to know that he was condemning himself for his interest in her? Or would she, instead, be horrified to know that he thought of her at all?

Such a fixation was unwise, bordering on foolish, perhaps more. His path was laid out before him, firm and fixed, hardened by resolve. He was the Earl of Straithern, a fact that he’d never forgotten in all those years in Italy. A title that seemed to weigh heavily on his shoulders now.

Dr. Fenton was suddenly at Gillian’s side, nodding affably to a few of the guests. His expression, however, was not quite so friendly when he turned to her.

“I think, perhaps, my dear, that it’s time for you to be leaving. You would not wish to overstay your welcome.”

You are, after all, only the companion.
Words that needn’t be said.

She grabbed her shawl. “Shall I say good night to our hosts, sir?” she asked, hoping that her voice sounded submissive enough for Dr. Fenton. “Or shall you say it for me?”

“There is no need for you to do so, Gillian.” He frowned at her. “You should not presume upon acquaintance with the earl. Anything you need to say to him can be directed to Arabella or myself.”

Gillian wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, taking more time at the task than it required. “I will just say farewell to Arabella,” she said.

“Arabella will not miss you, I think.” He smiled in fond acknowledgment of his daughter’s popularity.

“Very well, sir. I’ll bid you good night.”

Gillian turned, nearly desperate to leave the ball. Arabella probably wouldn’t notice her departure; she doubted anyone would. The only person in the corridor was the footman stationed at the top of the steps, and he avoided making eye contact as she nodded to him, and then descended the staircase. Did he think himself witness to an assignation? She was not meeting anyone—only trying to escape from herself.

She stepped through the front door, into the night, seeking an unknown refuge. Turning left, she began to walk, taking the gravel drive to the end of the main building. Once she stepped onto the path, she realized where she was heading—the chapel. Communing with God might be what she needed. Doing so would certainly take her mind from sin.

The arched chapel door, flanked by gas lamps, groaned slightly as she opened it.

Someone had lit the candles on the altar. The pool of light illuminated the gold of the altar plate, and snowy linen etched in lace.

The now darkened stained glass windows occupied most of the wall on the eastern side of the chapel. During the day, the room was probably bathed in multicolored light. She’d chosen to avoid the ser vice the past two Sundays, but had been regaled with tales of the magnificence of the structure. Arabella had seemed impressed for the very first time since coming to Rosemoor.

She didn’t see him until she was midway to the altar. Seated at he was behind a massive pillar encased in marble, he gave the impression of someone who had deliberately sought privacy. One hand fluttered at her side while the other gripped her shawl. She didn’t know whether to go, or to stay, to speak, or to remain silent. In the end, it didn’t matter anyway. He spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Is it you again, Miss Cameron?”

She hesitated for a moment, Dr. Fenton’s words prominent in her mind. If she truly had a servant’s heart, she would turn and leave the chapel. She would return to Rosemoor, barricade herself in her room, and pray for divine intervention to remove this fascination.

Instead she turned toward his voice.

“It is, Your Lordship. Forgive my intrusion.”

“Is there no place at Rosemoor that is forbidden you? Would you care to examine the wine cellar? Or the old dungeon? It’s reputed to be haunted, and I do not doubt that you would be fascinated with it.”

Stung, she retorted in kind, “If there are places
where I should not be, Your Lordship, pray tell me where they are. I did not know that I was invading your laboratory. Is the chapel now forbidden me?” She looked around at the cavernous space. “Is this the preserve only of earls? Is God not for all of us to worship? Or do the Robersons claim a special relationship to the Almighty?”

“If anything,” came his dry reply, “we have no affinity for God. Nor has God any affinity for us, evidently.”

There was such sadness in his tone that it occurred to her that he might be here for the very same reason as she, to seek comfort of a sort.

She turned, and without another word, began to walk toward the door.

“Whom do you mourn?”

The question stopped her cold.

“I asked you before, do you recall?”

Without turning, she replied, “How do you know I’m mourning anyone, Your Lordship?”

“By the paucity of that reply, for one,” he said. “And because there is sadness in your eyes, Miss Cameron.”

“I have thought the same about you,” she said.

“Then we are a pair, are we not? Avoiding levity to mourn those who have gone.”

She turned and walked forward until she could see him again. “I didn’t know you’d left the ball.”

“I found myself oddly lonely in the midst of others. Do you ever feel that way, Miss Cameron?”

“Yes,” she said simply.

“I find myself missing my brothers more today than I did the day they died. Is that very odd?”

“No,” she said. “The more you come to the realization that no matter how you wish it, the person you love will never be alive again, the more pain you feel. Death is permanent, and it seems that’s the most difficult part to understand about it.”

“You are my betrothed’s companion, Miss Cameron. When did you become so very wise?”

“If I were wise, Your Lordship, I would not be here with you.”

He surprised her by laughing. A dry, husky sort of laugh that made her wonder how long it had been since he’d felt amusement.

“So, you consider consorting with me a bit of foolishness?” he asked.

What a very dangerous question. Of course she shouldn’t be here with him, and from his glance, he knew it as well. A small smile played around his lips, and he looked as enticing as sin.

“You ignored me at the ball, Miss Cameron. Why?”

“I thought it prudent.”

“Do you always take the most prudent course?” he asked.

She had not been a model of restraint for all her life, but for the last two years she’d practiced it diligently. Yet he seemed to beckon her to forbidden places with his questions and tempt her to be foolish enough to say what she truly thought.

She was no wiser at this moment. “I attempt to do so, Your Lordship.”

He motioned his hand toward a pew. When she hesitated, he smiled. “We are in a chapel, Miss Cameron. In the sight of God. Surely you can relax your guard sufficiently for a moment.”

She sat down, drawing her skirts around her ankles, placing her hands on her knees, and exhibiting the posture of which she’d always been so proud.

He came, sat in the pew in front of her, and turned to face her, his arm on the carved back. “Shall we pretend that we have never met each other?” he asked.

“To what purpose, Your Lordship?”

He didn’t answer her question.

“I shall be an acquaintance of your father’s. And you shall be someone he has long wished for me to meet.”

“Will you still be an earl, Your Lordship?”

“I think I shall be a plain mister,” he said. “But we knew each other before, as children. You shall call me Grant, and I will call you Gillian.”

“Your Lordship,” she began, but he held up a hand to forestall her. “I am Grant,” he said, “and you are Gillian. Where did we meet for the first time? At a gathering for your grandmother, I recall.”

“No,” she corrected, entering into his game, “a very ancient friend of hers, I believe. A woman who was very taken with your father, as I remember. Being, as he was, a bookseller in Inverness.”

His smile broadened. “A bookseller in Inverness?”

“You aren’t an aristocrat,” she said. “But I often remember thinking that, as a boy, you were insufferably proud.”

“Did you truly think so?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “But I believe it was an affectation only, and not a true reflection of your character. After all, you went to school with boys who were destined to serve in the House of Lords.”

“I wonder, did I make their life miserable in school?”

“Was yours?”

“No worse than for anyone else in a similar position,” he said easily. “I learned to defend myself and to not mind being away from Rosemoor.”

He was telling the truth, she was sure of it, and she wanted to give him something of herself in return.

“I was very studious when I was young,” she said. “Perhaps you remember that I used to hide in the corner of my father’s library.”

“A well-read man, I’d often thought.”

She shook her head. “I suspect that my father wished other people to think so. Unfortunately, I think he bought the books by the yard to impress others, rather than to read any of them. But they suited me, and I vowed to make my way through each and every volume.”

“Did you?”

“I confess to having no interest whatsoever in horticulture or farming methods, and there were several philosophers who bored me beyond belief. But I adored the novels. I could have read novels endlessly. In fact, I was often accused of wishing to read my life away.”