To Wed an Heiress Read online

  “It’s not that he’s not an admirable man, Mother. Or that he wouldn’t be a good husband.”

  “Then why do you feel that way, Mercy?”

  She looked down at her hands nervously twisting together. “He and I don’t suit.”

  “You were very supportive of Gregory during the war.”

  She nodded. She had been. What kind of woman would have broken an engagement to a soldier fighting for his country?

  “Nor does Gregory seem to feel the way you do, Mercy.”

  How did she tell her mother that Gregory truly didn’t care about her, that he would have married her if she’d had two heads as long as she was James Rutherford’s daughter?

  She tiptoed among the words, picking the right ones. Her mother had to understand.

  “I don’t wish to marry him, Mother. I can’t envision living the rest of my life with Gregory.”

  “That’s only silliness, Mercy, and you’re not a silly girl. It’s natural for a young woman to feel as you do. Marriage is not as frightening as you think it is. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t want to marry him, Mother. Truly.”

  Her mother had shaken her head and smiled. Reaching over, she’d patted Mercy’s arm.

  “Your feelings will go away the minute you marry him, Mercy. I’m sure of it. It’s only fear that’s making you say these things now.”

  Perhaps it was fear, but not the type her mother thought. She didn’t want the life her parents and Gregory had planned for her.

  “We won’t hear any more of this, all right? You’ll be fine. What you’re feeling will go away in time. You’ll even smile at what you’re feeling today.”

  She’d known, then, that her mother didn’t understand. By extension, neither would her father. The marriage would happen whether she wanted it or not.

  Coming to Scotland had not only been a way to obtain some freedom, but it had been a respite, of sorts, from Gregory. The freedom wasn’t going to last, of course. Sooner or later she’d have to return, but when she did, hopefully he would have finally understood that their engagement was over.

  No, she wasn’t the one to give advice of the heart to anyone.

  Less than an hour later—the time no doubt expedited by Lennox’s wishes—they were on their way. The coach was more luxurious than she’d expected, the springs such that Ruthie didn’t suffer any jarring movement. Still, Mercy had taken advantage of Connor’s offer and propped a pillow beneath Ruthie’s arm.

  Mr. McAdams’s horses followed, their reins tied to the back of the carriage, an act that necessitated the vehicle’s slow speed. Even so, less than a half hour later Connor looked out the window and announced that they had arrived.

  They truly were close to Duddingston Castle, neighbors in this isolated part of the Highlands. The carriage pulled into a graveled drive and Mercy looked out the window.

  For the next few moments she stared, incapable of speech.

  Macrory House was built of red brick in the shape of an E, with the circular drive facing the middle part of the letter. She’d never seen such an ill-named structure in her life. It wasn’t a house. Instead, it was a series of buildings linked together by porticos and extensions. The whole of the complex was easily the size of a city block.

  At least two dozen chimneys topped the sloping roofs and at least that many white-framed windows faced the approach.

  She truly hadn’t considered that her mother’s family might be wealthy enough to build the palace that was Macrory House.

  “Is that it?” Ruthie asked, her voice faint.

  Mercy glanced at Connor for confirmation.

  “That it is,” he said.

  When they stopped in front of the impressive two-door entrance framed by carved white stone, two servants emerged from the house, one to hold the horses and the other to open the carriage door. Each was dressed in identical green shirts with black trousers.

  She hadn’t expected livery, either, but she had a feeling that she should be open to anything from this point forward. Nothing had been as she’d anticipated from the moment they left Inverness this morning.

  Connor left the carriage first, holding out his hand for Mercy and then Ruthie. It wasn’t at all proper for Connor to grip Ruthie’s waist in an effort to assist her down the steps, but that was another comment Mercy wasn’t going to make.

  “Welcome to Macrory House.”

  She turned to find that they were being greeted by a white-haired man standing at the top of the steps. He was attired in a black coat, green waistcoat, and cravat. His somewhat amenable expression immediately faded as he stared at the carriage.

  “Does that belong to Caitheart?”

  Connor answered. “It does, McNaughton, and I’ll be moving it as soon as I can.”

  The older man, whom she assumed was the butler, turned his attention to her. His mouth thinned, his bushy white eyebrows lifted, and his hazel eyes hardened. All because of Lennox’s carriage. Evidently, the antipathy between the families was equally shared.

  “I’m McNaughton, miss,” he said in a voice as cold as ice. “How can I be of service?”

  The inference being, of course, that he couldn’t possibly help anyone who’d arrived in a Caitheart carriage.

  Mercy had given a great deal of thought on how to announce herself to her relatives, except that she’d never considered that she would have to do so through a servant. She’d envisioned a tearful reunion with her grandmother and her aunt. Then, they would introduce her to her great-uncle and other relatives.

  That vision had been turned on its ear.

  “I’m Mercy Rutherford,” she said. “I’ve come to visit my grandmother.”

  McNaughton tilted his head slightly, but before he could ask, Mercy said, “Mrs. Ailsa Macrory Burns.”

  If the butler was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded and stepped aside.

  “If you’ll follow me, miss,” he said, his tone still icy.

  She only nodded before turning back to Connor and the coachman.

  “I’m so sorry about everything, Mr. McAdams,” she said. “I quite enjoyed the journey before the accident.”

  He nodded and pulled on his hat, bowing a little.

  “Thank you for your help,” she said to Connor. “You’ve been very kind.”

  She gave Ruthie a chance to say her farewells in relative privacy as she grabbed her valise and reticule and followed McNaughton up the steps.

  Chapter Seven

  Mercy was led to an understated room with a circular table in the middle adorned with a bouquet of summer flowers. A large fireplace sat on the opposite wall. Other than a bench in front of the fireplace, there was no other place to sit.

  McNaughton bowed slightly and removed himself, no doubt to alert her grandmother to her presence.

  She placed the valise beside the bench and rubbed the marks on her left palm. Soon she would give it to her grandmother and be rid of it. She wouldn’t have to worry about the money anymore. Or carry the heavy thing everywhere she went.

  There was no doubt of the artistry around her. The overmantels were friezes of female figures dressed in diaphanous garments. The ceiling was similarly carved with cherubs and angels. Two deep-set windows with a view of the drive were framed with burgundy curtains. Between the windows sat small tables, each topped with a tall mirror, their white frames carved with vines and small flowers.

  As she waited for Ruthie she realized that she should have sent word somehow. She shouldn’t have assumed that her relatives—people she’d never met and only had a brief correspondence with over the years—were living in poverty.

  At the very least she should have warned her grandmother. Ailsa was not a young woman and the journey from North Carolina had probably been a difficult one.

  Ruthie entered the room and Mercy went to her side.

  “Come and sit down,” she said. “You’ve had a tumultuous morning.”

  Ruthie only nodded.

  Her lack of s
peech coupled with the fact that she hadn’t uttered one of her superstitions since the accident was worrying Mercy. She wanted to say something uplifting, but nothing occurred to her. Was Ruthie in pain? Was that why she wasn’t acting herself? Or did her somber mood have something else at its root? Was it Connor?

  It might be possible for Ruthie to see Connor again, but nothing would come of it. They weren’t going to remain in Scotland. There was no sense involving yourself in a romance with no future.

  McNaughton entered the receiving room, bowed slightly, and asked, “May I offer you some refreshments, miss?”

  At least the butler hadn’t said anything about their deplorable condition, although he was looking down his very long nose at both of them. According to the mirror she kept in her reticule, she had spots of blood on her white collar. Her hair was matted at the crown with dried blood and she no doubt smelled of whiskey.

  Ruthie looked even worse with her bandaged arm and her pale face.

  They needed beds, something to eat, and a warm welcome, not necessarily in that order. That was not a comment she was going to make to the butler, however.

  “Thank you, no.”

  “I’ve conveyed word to your grandmother that you are here,” McNaughton said.

  That was all. He didn’t say anything further, leaving her to imagine their reception. Hopefully, her grandmother would appear soon. Otherwise, she had the feeling that they were going to be left here for hours.

  Would they be turned away? If they were refused what would they do? They didn’t have a carriage. For that matter, they didn’t have a driver. From the conversation on the way here, Connor was going to see Mr. McAdams back to Inverness.

  Perhaps she could borrow a carriage from the Macrorys to take her and Ruthie to Inverness as well. Except that she wasn’t altogether certain that Ruthie could make the trip until she had a chance to rest.

  No, her relatives were just going to have to allow her to stay for a few days.

  How odd that she’d never doubted her welcome. Perhaps she shouldn’t have made that assumption.

  She wasn’t feeling all that affectionate toward the Scots right at the moment. Other than Connor and Mr. McAdams, she hadn’t met very many of them whose acquaintance she would like to pursue. Certainly not Lennox Caitheart. Or McNaughton who looked down his nose at them.

  She doubted if the butler could have handled the events of the morning any better than they. In fact, McNaughton looked like the type of man who would quail in the face of adversity. Or blame his problems on some other person.

  Or perhaps she was just out of sorts because she was tired and her head was aching.

  “Mercy?”

  She turned at the sound of her name to see her aunt Elizabeth striding toward her, her arms opening in a hug and her smile so welcoming that tears peppered Mercy’s eyes.

  “When McNaughton said you were here, I couldn’t believe it. What are you doing in Scotland? But I’m so glad to see you. It’s been so very long. How is your mother? And your father? They are well, aren’t they?”

  She didn’t know which question to answer first, but it wasn’t necessary to talk at all as she was being warmly embraced.

  A moment later, Elizabeth pulled back and studied her.

  Her aunt was ten years younger than her mother, but all the Burns women looked alike. In fact, they were so close in appearance it was like seeing a younger version of Fenella Rutherford in Elizabeth. Both women had dark brown hair, deep brown eyes, and fine features in an oval face.

  Mercy was shocked at the change in her aunt. The last time they’d seen each other, five years ago, her aunt had had a sparkle about her, an enthusiasm that seemed dampened now, no doubt because of the privations she’d suffered in the war. Or it could have been simply grief that had aged her. The black dress she wore was no doubt in honor of her fiancé.

  “I was so sorry to hear about Thomas,” Mercy said.

  He’d been a tall, robust, and handsome man with a deep voice and a laugh that made others want to join in. The world—Elizabeth’s world—must be different without Thomas in it.

  Elizabeth only nodded, her wan smile acknowledging Mercy’s words.

  “What are you doing here?” Elizabeth asked.

  She’d forgotten about her aunt’s voice. Her accent was of North Carolina, just like her mother’s was occasionally when she was either tired or moved in some way. Her grandmother, or seanmhair as Mercy had been taught to call her, spoke with an accent made up of a Scottish lilt combined with a North Carolina cadence she’d acquired after living in America for the past forty years.

  “We’d heard that you moved to Scotland,” she said.

  She would talk about the valise of greenbacks later. It didn’t seem appropriate to discuss money right at the moment.

  “Mother was concerned that you were all right.”

  “And she sent you here to ensure our well-being, is that it?” Elizabeth asked, her voice filled with doubt.

  “In a way.”

  Elizabeth frowned at her, but the expression was fleeting.

  “Now tell me what has happened to you. McNaughton said you came here in a Caitheart carriage. Is that true? And why do you look as if you’ve been coshed on the head? And that poor girl? What has happened to her?”

  Ruthie had stood at Elizabeth’s entrance, but Mercy waved her back down.

  “This is Ruthie,” Mercy said, going to the other woman’s side. “She and I traveled together from New York. We had a bit of an accident this morning and our carriage was damaged. Ruthie suffered a broken arm.”

  “What on earth happened?”

  She gave her aunt an expurgated version of events. She couldn’t eliminate the flying machine entirely, but when she explained how the accident happened, her aunt pressed her lips together and looked exactly like Mercy’s mother when she was incensed and at a loss for words.

  She didn’t have any doubt that news of their adventure would be transmitted to New York, as soon as the postal service could deliver the letter. If her aunt didn’t write her mother, her grandmother surely would.

  “Mr. Caitheart doesn’t seem to have a great deal of fondness for the family, Aunt Elizabeth.”

  “That’s all right. We don’t like him any more than he likes us. Most of the time we can ignore each other.” She sighed. “It seems as if, by moving here, we’ve only traded one war for another. But never mind that. Come, we will get both of you settled. I’ll give the housekeeper instructions to prepare a room for both of you. In the meantime, McNaughton is very good at handling injuries. Could he look at your arm?” That last question was addressed to Ruthie who nodded in response.

  Mercy wasn’t in the position to refuse.

  A few minutes later Ruthie had her arm examined by the butler in a room off the kitchen. He frowned a good bit, then announced that Lennox’s handiwork was acceptable and that Ruthie’s arm lacked only time to heal correctly.

  As for herself, she was subjected to McNaughton’s look of disapproval once more as he poked and prodded her head. Finally, he sat back, announcing that she needed a bandage until the wound had a chance to heal.

  He wrapped a wide linen bandage around her head, frowned, then looked to Mrs. West, the housekeeper.

  “Have you any hairpins?” he asked, his tone almost polite.

  The housekeeper nodded, opened a drawer, then handed him a few hairpins. Evidently, Mrs. West was prepared for every contingency. McNaughton fixed the end of the bandage to Mercy’s hair, gouging her scalp as he did. She thought he was finished, but he kept wrapping the linen around her head until half her forehead was obscured.

  When he was finally done, the butler frowned at her once more, accepted Aunt Elizabeth’s thanks with a small smile, and left the room without saying a word to her.

  As soon as he was gone Mercy pulled the mirror from her reticule and sighed inwardly at her reflection. She had scratches on her face and was developing dark circles beneath her eyes. Coupled with
McNaughton’s mummy-like ministrations, she was a sorry sight.

  “You’ve been injured, Mercy,” Aunt Elizabeth said. “No one cares what you look like right now.”

  Mrs. West led Ruthie away to her room. Mercy promised to come and check on her later. Ruthie only nodded again, her uncharacteristic silence worrying.

  “Shall we go and see Mother?” Elizabeth asked.

  No, she really didn’t want to see her grandmother right now. She wanted to go hide under the covers somewhere, or have a day or two to prepare.

  Instead, she forced a smile to her face, picked up the valise, and followed her aunt.

  Chapter Eight

  All of the furniture at Macrory House was made by Chippendale, the information passed along by Elizabeth. Mercy didn’t know who Chippendale was, but it was obvious he was a master at carpentry. Every piece of furniture was beautifully crafted for its intended purpose.

  Even the banister of the massive staircase in the middle of the house was lovely. She’d never seen anything like the various shades of carved wood twisting to follow the incline of the stairs.

  Mercy gripped the valise with her left hand and the banister with her right.

  “Why don’t you let one of the servants take that to your room?” Elizabeth asked, glancing at the bag.

  “It’s something I’ve brought for Seanmhair,” she said.

  Elizabeth didn’t ask any further questions.

  At the second-floor landing, her aunt turned left and walked to the end of the corridor. There, a set of double doors stood like a wall between Mercy and her grandmother.

  “I think you’ll find Mother a little changed, Mercy. These past years have been difficult for her.”

  Mercy nodded, understanding. Her grandfather had died four years ago, at the start of the war. It had been up to her grandmother and her aunt to keep the farm going. In the months preceding the end of the war, their house had been burned to the ground and all their crops, such as they were, torched. They’d been left with nothing, difficult enough when one was young and resilient. But her grandmother was in her sixties.