The Scottish Companion Read online

  “Tomorrow,” he said, turning to leave her. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Before dawn.”

  “Your Lordship,” she began, but was interrupted by his smile.

  He stopped and turned. “We will have two footmen with us, Miss Cameron. And bring your maid, if you wish further protection.”

  “Shall I bring Arabella?”

  “Shall I be completely honest, Miss Cameron? Or shall I exercise a little restraint?”

  “I think perhaps restraint would be better, Your Lordship,” she said.

  “Then by all means,” he said, “bring Arabella.” He smiled and left her.

  The Countess of Straithern dismissed her maid with a wave of her hand. She was attired for night, although not necessarily sleep. Her wrapper was fulsomely edged in lace, imported, she’d been told, from a convent in the South of France.

  Nothing was good enough for the Countess of Straithern. Wasn’t that what her husband had always said? He’d repeated it so often that she could almost hear his voice even after all these years. She had thought, with the naïveté of the very young and very innocent, that such a sentiment meant that Ranald loved her, and wanted only the best for her. Regrettably, such was not the case, but she didn’t understand that until a decade after their wedding.

  She knew now, with a hard-won wisdom, that Ranald had simply been accustomed to the best clothing, the finest furniture, and the most desired wife.

  When he proposed, she’d deluded herself into believing that he’d fallen in love with her after her first season. And she, naturally, had been infatuated with him. Who would not have been? Ranald Roberson, the 9th Earl of Straithern, was an exceptionally fine specimen of man. He was blessed with gray eyes that seemed to search a woman’s soul, and black hair, both attributes he’d passed on to Grant. Grant did not have his easy manner, however, or his ready smile. Or the laugh that still seemed to echo through the halls of Rosemoor. But Grant had something his father had not, a quality that had taken her years to discover lacking in her husband. Grant had decency, and a well-developed sense of morality, honed, no doubt, by his father’s horrible deeds.

  As she did every night, she moved to her secretary, and began to write in her journal. The small desk was a repository for her paperwork of a personal nature, those letters that she did not want anyone else to see. She’d often turned down Grant’s offer to employ someone to assist her with her correspondence. She didn’t like the idea of relying on a stranger to transpose her words to paper. Her old friends would simply have to endure her increasingly shaky writing.

  She opened her journal and began to write. As usual, her diary entries were of a prosaic nature. The plant she was cultivating in her garden, including details on the fertilizer used, and pruning methods employed. She wrote of the menu Cook had devised for the week, and either her approval or disapproval. She wrote of Miss Fenton and Miss Cameron and her disappointments about both women. Nowhere, however, did she divulge any hint of her inner torment. What she felt was not for posterity to read, and she was of an age where Death was looming around the corner, peering at her from time to time to see if she was ready. She was not, and would not be, she had already decided, for many long years. But her decision did not stop Death from intrusively peeping at her.

  Her journal entry done, she snuffed out the candle and moved to the prie-dieu in the corner of the room. Here was her sanctuary, so much more intimate than the lofty family chapel Ranald had built. She knew, now, why he met with the architect for months and spent a fortune on the construction of such a lavish edifice in the Scottish Highlands. She knelt, folding her hands and bowing her head.

  She did not seek forgiveness for herself. She prayed for her children, the infants she’d borne in pain and optimism and joy. The two young men who had been such a source of happiness in her life, and yet they were no more. She prayed that God would not seek vengeance on them but would forgive them their parentage.

  James and Andrew. In her mind’s eye they were boys still, their smiles bright and their laughs infectious. Beneath her closed lids she saw them as she did every night when she allowed herself to remember. Only in this short hour, when darkness fell over Rosemoor, and the house quieted around her, did she allow herself to fully grieve.

  Were her sons angels now, waiting for her arrival in heaven? They might have to wait for eternity. God would have His say about where her soul was transported, and she doubted, very much, that it would be to heaven.

  She ignored the pain in her knees, sacrificing comfort for this hour. Perhaps the pain was a type of atonement. God would forgive her or not for the sin of being too foolish to see what was happening under her very nose. Or for seeking out her husband’s bed—surely that was a sin for which she should be punished. If God ever did forgive her, it would be with the understanding that she had truly been a fool.

  Wisdom must come to everyone, and hers had come in searing pain and shock. Gradually, the disbelief had worn off, but the agony and shame still lingered, so deeply that she felt its echoes even now.

  Night surrounded her, but it was never truly quiet at Rosemoor. She’d learned to accept the noises as part of the ritual preceding sleep, just as she knew that she wouldn’t rest for the full night. After a few hours, she’d awaken, either crying or suffering from the effects of a particularly troubling dream. Then, just when she thought she’d fall asleep again, the voices and tears of children would come to her.

  God forgive her, she knew why.

  Chapter 15

  Gillian was awakened two hours before dawn by a sleepy Agnes. “Miss,” she said, shaking Gillian’s shoulder gently. “The earl is waiting for you. Outside.”

  The earl?

  For a moment, nothing made sense, until she surfaced from her dream. A dream, strangely enough, that had featured the earl.

  “He’s waiting for me?” she asked, before remembering the conversation of the night before. Of course, he’d asked her to accompany him to the marsh.

  Agnes placed the small lamp she was holding on the bureau.

  “Does the earl have a great many servants with him?”

  “He has Michael, miss, and one other footman.”

  So she would be chaperoned well enough. “If you will fetch my gray dress for me, please,” Gillian said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “It is the oldest thing I own, and the most threadbare, and I have the distinct impression that my appearance is not going to matter.”

  “What are you about, miss? And why did the earl send Michael to my room to wake you?”

  “I’m about to go on an adventure, Agnes,” Gillian said, wondering at the sense of excitement she felt.

  It seemed foolish to fuss with her hair, so she braided it and wrapped the braids in a coronet at the top of her head before pinning it into place. Agnes had laced her into her dress and helped her with her shoes, all the while looking worried at Gillian’s choice of adventure. Gillian wanted to reassure the young woman that she wasn’t doing anything untoward, but she wasn’t absolutely certain that was true.

  At the door she turned. “Would you like to accompany me, Agnes?”

  Agnes shook her head. “If it’s all the same, miss, I’d like to go back to bed.”

  Gillian smiled and left her, walking quickly through the corridors and nearly racing down the steps.

  Excitement flowed through her as she nodded to one of the footmen. Regardless of the time of day, there was always a staff of servants waiting to assist at Rosemoor, and at this moment she was grateful for it. The tall oak doors were almost unmanageable by herself. She slipped out before the door was fully opened and stood at the top of the steps to find Grant looking up at her.

  “Is Arabella going to join us?” he asked.

  She hadn’t given a single, fleeting thought to Arabella.

  She shook her head, but he didn’t comment on her absence. Instead he asked, “Are you ready for the marsh, Miss Cameron?”

  “With a few reservations,” she sai
d. She took the granite steps with more decorum than she’d used descending the interior staircase.

  “How many petticoats are you wearing, Miss Cameron?”

  The question so took her aback that she could only stare at him in the light of the lanterns. When he repeated it, she shook her head. “I have no intention of telling you, Your Lordship.”

  “I merely thought that you might dispense with one or two. They will only drag you down.”

  “Am I going wading?”

  “Not unless you’re clumsy,” he said, his smile mischievous in the lantern light. “But there is a distinct possibility that you will get wet, yes.”

  “I have a manageable number of petticoats, Your Lordship, and I promise not to be clumsy.”

  He turned and began to walk away, leaving her no choice but to follow him.

  “Why are we going to the marsh? And why in the middle of the night?”

  “It’s not exactly in the middle of the night,” he corrected. “Merely an hour or two before dawn. I’ve found it’s the best time to capture the marsh gases.”

  She remained silent, hoping that he wanted to explain that comment. But he didn’t, merely turned and nodded to Michael. He led the way down the path almost to the palace, but before they could reach the lake, he turned left, following Michael’s bobbing lantern. Behind them came the second footman, a long pole resting on his shoulders, his wrists dangling over the ends. Hanging from the pole by a thick rope were six bell-shaped glass jars, cushioned from clanking against one another by thick cotton wadding.

  What a very strange procession they made: two servants, an earl, and a companion.

  Finally, unable to bear the curiosity any longer, she turned to Grant. “What are marsh gases and why do you want to capture them?”

  He glanced at her.

  “All living things give off a gas when they die. From animals to birds to plants. It’s possible, in the marsh, to actually trap these gases because they hover near the water. They are heavier than air but lighter than the surface of the water, so they can be contained in a glass vessel.”

  “But why would you?”

  “It was one of Volta’s experiments that I occasionally repeat, simply to see if I can do it better. I run an electrical charge through the gas and cause it to explode.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Of course it is,” he said with a smile.

  “You say that as if it doesn’t concern you at all.”

  “Miss Cameron, it is my belief that someone is trying to kill me. Why should I worry about a little explosion?”

  She stopped in the middle of the path and stared at him. She stood there for so long that the footman behind her was forced to stop as well. Ahead of them, Michael was blithely unaware that he was going on alone.

  “I beg your pardon? Someone is attempting to kill you?”

  He folded his arms and regarded her, and for several moments they simply looked at each other. She was as stubborn as he, and perhaps he became aware of that fact the longer they stood there in silence. She wasn’t going to back down, and he didn’t seem to be forthcoming in his explanation. But finally he smiled, his expression visible by the faint light from the footman’s lantern.

  “I believe my brothers were murdered, Miss Cameron. I believe that someone wished them dead. And it follows that if someone killed them, then I should be next.”

  “They died of a blood disease.” She had heard Dr. Fenton explain it to Arabella in somewhat nauseating detail.

  “That’s Dr. Fenton’s explanation. It is not mine.”

  “Do you think them truly murdered? And not simply ill?”

  “I think them truly murdered. Despite the fact that Dr. Fenton believes that I may have the same malady, and that each of my days is numbered.”

  She could barely breathe, and her heart was beating much too quickly. “You cannot die,” she said, unable to hold back her thoughts any longer. “You are in the prime of life, Your Lordship. You are handsome and strong, and anyone who looks as vigorous as you cannot die. You are the most vibrant man I’ve ever seen. You cannot simply die.”

  His smile had disappeared, and in its place was an oddly somber expression. He reached out and touched her face, his fingers trailing along the curve of her cheek. He cupped his hand beneath her chin and smiled into her eyes.

  All forbidden gestures, and all thoroughly shocking.

  “I had no idea, Miss Cameron, that you’d been watching me with such assiduousness.”

  “Forgive me,” she said breathlessly.

  Abruptly, he dropped his hand, and turned.

  Michael waited for them at the slope of the next hill holding the lantern aloft. Without speaking further, the earl headed toward him.

  “Come, we are almost there.”

  She’d not been paying much attention to the scenery, but she looked around her now, realizing that this part of Rosemoor was strange to her. The woods began to her right, with the land sloping downward on all four sides like an inverted bowl. At the deepest part was the marsh. Tall grasses rimmed the perimeter, and moss and bits of algae floated on top of the water, creating the illusion that the area was nothing more than a bit of soggy ground.

  Matthew belied that impression by holding the lantern aloft and wading knee-deep into the middle of the marsh.

  While the second footman carefully lowered the jars to the ground, the earl was evidently preparing to follow Michael, looking as enthused as a boy about a new adventure.

  His decision to marry Arabella was suddenly more understandable.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to pair yourself with someone you love?” she abruptly asked. “Especially if you believe you’re about to die. Wouldn’t passion in your last days be infinitely preferable to aversion?”

  “Are you speaking of Arabella, Miss Cameron?” He turned to face her, his smile no longer in view.

  They were delving into dangerous territory. Every time they exchanged words they seemed to do so. She concentrated, instead, on the sodden ground beneath her feet.

  “Have you a candidate, Miss Cameron? Someone with whom I could share passion?”

  There they were again, entwined in a net of words.

  Did he actually think she was about to answer him? She was not that foolish. What would he say if she abandoned all decorum, faced him boldly, and answered, Me.

  “What do we do now?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “We perform a small experiment,” he said, “to ensure there is gas is present. You might want to step back, Gillian, and hold up your skirts just a little, in case you need to run.”

  What on earth that she gotten herself into? She took a precautionary step back and grabbed her skirts with both hands, picking them up until they almost exposed her ankles.

  He retrieved the lantern from Michael, along with a paper cone he then lit. Bending down near a tall clump of grass, he touched the lit end to an area above the water. A burst of orange light flared for a second before being extinguished. So quickly did it appear and then disappear that Gillian thought she must have imagined it. But he bent again, and another plume of orange flame appeared against the dawn sky.

  “You have to come to the marsh at night,” she said, suddenly understanding. “Otherwise, you would never see the flame.”

  “Absolutely correct. If you were my student, I would reward you for your observational abilities.”

  “But how will you get the gas into the jar?”

  “In a very convoluted siphon,” he said. Over the next hour, she realized exactly how complicated it was, and how potentially dangerous. More than once, she wanted to shout out cautions to both Grant and the footman, knowing how flammable the gas was. And more than once, she restrained herself, realizing that the Earl of Straithern was going to do exactly what he wanted to do in the way he wanted to do it.

  As the morning lengthened and dawn made its appearance, Gillian began to realize that what she’d thought was the Earl of Straither
n’s autocracy or arrogance was simply a certainty of self. He knew exactly what interested him, what challenged him, and what he wanted to accomplish in his lifetime. Ignorance was an anathema to him, and in that regard, he and Arabella had a great deal in common. If Arabella had stood here, she wouldn’t have been concerned as to his safety, as much as encouraging him to learn more, do more, solve more riddles.

  It was quite possible that Arabella would be a perfect match for him.

  “You look excessively thoughtful, Miss Cameron. What intrigues you so on such a beautiful morning?’

  She glanced over to see him standing on solid ground, the dawn sky behind him. For a moment, she was taken by the sight of him, mussed and disheveled, and yet so perfectly handsome that he took her breath away. He would have been as handsome as the head of a mercantile company, a ship’s captain, or a soldier.

  “Do I?” she asked. “I must confess that I cannot even remember what I was thinking.”

  “I’m sure it was a weighty matter,” he said, smiling.

  “I’m not so sure,” she said, answering his smile with one of her own. “I am given to flighty thoughts just like any person. Surely, Your Lordship, you cannot say that every thought that comes through your mind is worth sharing with someone else.”

  He seemed to be considering the question for a moment. “I honestly do not know how to answer that,” he said. “If I confess to silly thoughts, then that makes me seem like a dilettante. But if I confess that I never have less than vast, important thoughts on my mind, that makes me sound stodgy, doesn’t it? Excessively tiresome, if not boring.”

  “Then I shall have to simply retract my question. I confess that I was thinking of the stars and the moon, and wondering if Galileo was correct.”

  He laughed, and she liked the sound of it, feeling absurdly pleased, as if she’d accomplished something grand by amusing him.