The Devil Wears Tartan Read online

  “Your guests are leaving this morning, Your Ladyship. If you will be patient for a few hours, the entire staff of Ambrose will be at your disposal.”

  “I do not require the entire staff,” Davina said. “Merely a few maids and a footman or two.”

  “May I ask why, Your Ladyship?”

  She wanted to be insufferably rude. She wanted to inform the woman that she’d the position neither to question nor to refuse what Davina wanted. Instead Davina forced a smile to her face.

  “I need assistance removing the Chinese silk from the walls of my suite.”

  Mrs. Murray looked surprised. Her lovely smile faded, and the twinkle in her blue eyes flattened. “That wall covering was extraordinarily expensive, Your Ladyship.”

  “You do not approve, Mrs. Murray?”

  “It is certainly not my place to approve or disapprove, Your Ladyship,” the woman said, but the look on her face belied her words. She very much did not approve, and that suddenly pleased Davina immeasurably.

  Had she always been so petty? So vindictive? So jealous? Or had marriage brought out the very worst in her?

  The two women stared at each other for some time, long enough for Nora to evidently become uncomfortable. The young maid rested her weight first on one foot and then the other, as if she’d turn and run if given half the chance.

  “The afternoon will be fine,” Davina said, still smiling pleasantly. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience our guests.”

  Servants could punish their employers furtively and quite effectively. The sheets would suddenly become rough as if they’d had starch applied to them. Meals would be warm, instead of hot. Hot water would be tepid as well. Any confrontation would result in the servants looking innocent of guile and the misery being piled on. She wasn’t going to give Mrs. Murray any excuse to foment rebellion at Ambrose.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Murray.”

  The woman nodded, this time not even bothering with a curtsy. She turned and began to walk away, and Davina called her back.

  “Perhaps we could go over the menus for this week sometime this afternoon?”

  “I only discuss the meals with the earl, Your Ladyship,” came the response. Nor did Mrs. Murray bother turning around as she spoke, but delivered her comments to the wainscoting.

  Davina stared after her, realizing that war had just been declared.

  Theresa Rowle stared down at the note in her hand. She’d taken nearly an hour to compose the silly thing. If she’d left it behind, Davina would have read it in puzzlement. There was little of the flighty woman in the words she’d written.

  That woman truly didn’t exist, but it was necessary to maintain the pose of a female who thought of nothing more serious than her latest dress or her current hairstyle.

  More than once she would have liked to reveal to Davina who she truly was, but it wouldn’t be safe to take anyone into her confidence, not even her niece.

  A tear fell, and Theresa blotted it away with her fingertip so that it didn’t stain the bodice of her dress.

  Would Davina find happiness in her marriage? Only God knew the future, but Theresa had done what she could to protect her. The world was not a kind place at times, but that was knowledge she’d always wanted to spare Davina.

  The silly girl had done something unforgivable, and the resultant scandal had almost ruined her. But by marrying her to the Earl of Lorne, Theresa had done what she could to protect her, and to alter the course of her destiny.

  Dear God, she hoped her instincts had not proven wrong.

  She leaned back against the cushions. The carriage belonged to the Earl of Lorne, and it was far advanced over her own vehicle. The springs prevented her from feeling the stones and unpaved sections of the road. The wheels felt padded, and the gentle swaying movement of the carriage was comforting rather than jarring on the body.

  If she hadn’t been annoyed at the fact that she’d been summoned back to London so precipitously, she might have enjoyed the journey to Waverly Station. But there were times when a person had to reach beyond himself, weren’t there? When a person’s selfish concerns were supplanted by other, greater needs? Marshall Ross understood that, and had demonstrated his patriotism.

  Theresa’s wishes and wants were not, after all, as important as the Empire’s. In her letter, she’d tried to explain to Davina why she was deserting her, that it was important she return to London. But how did she speak of things like sacrifice and duty when she still wore the persona of a vain and selfish woman?

  The Empire must stand. Right must triumph over personal matters. Justice must win. And she must never stop acting the part of fool, not until her task was done.

  Out of sight of her maid, Theresa tore the notes into strips and the strips into pieces, and then placed the pieces in the bottom of the reticule.

  Chapter 9

  The maids arrived after lunch. In the meantime, Davina and Nora occupied themselves with unpacking Davina’s trunks and arranging her possessions.

  Her dresses, shoes, and accessories were placed in the commodious armoire, and her toiletries in the bathing chamber off the bedroom. The rest of the Countess of Lorne’s suite, although similarly decorated in blinding red Chinese silk, was quite spacious, consisting of two additional rooms: a sitting room, and a room that looked to have no discernible purpose.

  “What do you think it was used for?” Nora asked, coming to stand beside her in the doorway.

  “I don’t know,” Davina answered, staring into the empty room. “There’s no mark on the floor where a desk might have been. No shelves, no chairs.”

  “The previous countess used to grow plants,” Nora said. “Do you think she used it for that?”

  Davina glanced at her, surprised. “A conservatory?” Two long windows stretched from a foot above the floor to the ceiling. A narrow door between them led to a small sunny balcony, ideal for growing things. But the room itself? Although the Chinese silk gave the space the impression of being small and enclosed, in actuality the room was spacious.

  “I’ll make it my library,” Davina said. “There must be some extra bookshelves at Ambrose. And if not, surely a carpenter is employed here.”

  “I’ll see to it, Your Ladyship,” Nora said, showing a great deal more initiative than she ever had in Edinburgh. Davina couldn’t help but wonder if Nora had already made the acquaintance of the carpenter. Was he young and handsome?

  Davina had a small desk moved from the sitting room and positioned between the windows. From here she could view the balcony and beyond to the sweeping vista of Ambrose, rolling hills, and, far off into the distance, Ben Hegan.

  When the maids arrived, Davina occupied herself with directing their activities. Each girl took a section of the offending fabric from the wall, rolling it tightly as it came loose. Beneath it was batting that had been glued to the wall. That took a little more time to remove, and resulted in patches of plaster missing.

  “Take the silk, if you wish, and use it in your own rooms,” she told them, and more than one young girl looked enthused at the prospect.

  She wanted nothing to do with the color red or anything Chinese that might remind her of her surrender to Marshall. She knew that a dozen years from now, the sight of Chinese silk would bring her wedding night to mind.

  She could not believe that a man who’d seduced her so ably and made love to her with such gentleness the night before could treat her as a stranger the next morning.

  “What are you going to put there, Your Ladyship?” Nora asked.

  “Paint will do as well as anything,” Davina said. “A very light shade of blue. Like a robin’s egg, I think.”

  Nora looked a little doubtful, but didn’t offer any suggestions. By dusk the walls were stripped and the rooms looked oddly naked. She dismissed the maids with their arms filled with rolls of Chinese silk.

  “Tell the housekeeper that the silk is a gift,” she told Nora. “I don’t want her giving the maids any difficulties if they decide to de
corate their own rooms.”

  Nora looked as if she would say something, but in the end only nodded.

  Davina closed the door behind her maid, wondering if she should simply order a tray from the kitchen as they’d done for their noon meal. Eating alone in her room would certainly be easier than facing Marshall. But dining in solitary would also begin a precedent, and she would not spend the rest of her life hiding from her husband.

  Even if he was content to absent himself from her.

  Marshall had neither invited her to dinner nor come himself to question her dining arrangements. Perhaps he would have been happier if she’d left like the rest of their guests. According to one of the maids, there had been a stream of carriages leaving Ambrose all day.

  Was she supposed to have entertained their guests? Or had their guests been entertained well enough by the fact that neither she nor Marshall had made an appearance?

  Determined, she refreshed herself with a sponge bath and dressed in a sedate peach gown, suitable for the occasion. Her hair was left as it had been all day, and other than donning a pair of earrings given to her by her aunt, she made no other alterations to her appearance.

  She thanked Nora absently, her mind already on the confrontation to come, and left the room.

  The dining room to which she was led by a tall, imposing footman was evidently set aside for small family gatherings. This room was not as magnificent as the receiving room or dining hall. Nor did it possess any Chinese furnishings.

  The room was large and strangely shaped, not quite a square. The fourth wall was curved, and boasted a series of mounted stag heads. The floors were thick wooden slabs, pocked in places. Two stone walls were painted with a mural of a hunting scene, while the remaining wall was filled with mullioned windows now revealing the darkness outside Ambrose. Six carved chairs sat at the oversized wood table, each chair furnished with a crimson pillow tied to the seat and back.

  Marshall was already seated at a table that could accommodate eight easily. At her entrance, he put down his napkin, pushed back the chair, and stood, all in one fluid movement.

  “I’m sorry, am I late for dinner?” she asked.

  “I was told you were ordering a tray in your room.”

  She smiled, her face feeling unnaturally stiff. “Mrs. Murray was wrong.”

  “It is of no great consequence, Davina. The kitchen can provide whatever you wish.”

  He moved to the end of the table and pulled out a chair. She ignored him and went to sit at his right side. There was already enough distance between them; she would not add to it by sitting at the end of the table.

  By the time he reached her, she’d already sat, arranging her skirts around her. She was being rude, but she didn’t suppose it mattered much, one way or another. Marshall had already dictated the tone of their marriage.

  “I realize that you’ve run a bachelor household for some time,” she said with equanimity. “But I am your wife. Would it not be natural for me to be present at meals?”

  He raised one eyebrow but otherwise had no reaction to her question.

  Within a matter of moments, a footman had placed a napkin and silverware in front of her. A moment later a second footman had provided two goblets, an array of plates, and a small covered basket filled with warm bread.

  “Cook prepared quail,” Marshall said. “I recommend it.”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she said.

  He smiled. “I haven’t much of an appetite,” he said. “I’m content enough with soup.”

  “Then the quail will serve nicely,” she said.

  All Marshall had to do was nod at one of the footmen, and the young man disappeared to relay her order.

  “I understand that you’ve been busy,” he said.

  She glanced at him. “You do not object, surely?”

  “You’re the Countess of Lorne. You can do as you wish.”

  “I would not presume upon my title, one that I’ve owned for only a day. Ambrose is your home.”

  “And yours,” he reminded her. “I have no objections.”

  “Do you store furniture? Things that are unused, or not in fashion? Is there an attic where I can look around?”

  “You have my permission to do anything you would like to do, Davina, that would make you feel as if Ambrose is your home as well. Cost is not a factor, and there are numerous craftsmen employed at Ambrose who are at your beck and call.”

  “I have already discovered that,” she said. “A young carpenter who will suit very well.”

  “You’re an organized little soul, aren’t you?” he said, glancing at her and then away.

  “My father used to say the same thing,” Davina said, “but he did so without derision in his voice.”

  “Was I derisive? Forgive me.”

  “I do like to arrange my life in organized little bundles—chores that need to be done immediately, tasks that should be seen to before the day has passed, and projects that are ongoing and take more than a day or so to complete. Each day should count for something. Each moment one is alive should be measured, explored, and lived to the fullest.”

  “Have you always been this way?”

  She considered his question for a moment. “I don’t think so, no. I think my father’s death brought home to me the fact that life was a fleeting thing, not at all certain. We think we’re guaranteed tomorrow, but it may not come.”

  “Very admirable,” he said, and there wasn’t a hint of a smile on his face.

  “I’m not an example for anyone to follow. I’m impatient, and there are often times when I forget to be thankful. Mostly I try to live my life.”

  “And expound that philosophy to anyone who will listen?” he asked.

  “In all honesty, I’ve never spoken of how I feel to anyone else. Another first, Your Lordship.”

  Even if Marshall did not find this relationship disconcerting, she did. How was she expected to be intimate with a man at night when he was a stranger during the day? The same man who’d announced a rule for their marriage.

  That little smile around his lips had the most annoying effect on her.

  “I wish you well in your tasks,” he said.

  Could he be any more dispassionate? He might be addressing a chair. She’d heard the same types of comments in Edinburgh.

  Fine afternoon, isn’t it, Garner? Think it will rain?

  The primroses are lovely, Miss Agatha. The colors are spectacular this year.

  Have you seen the new pencil? Quite an invention with the eraser mounted at the end.

  Dear heavens, she’d uttered the same kinds of statements herself at many a social gathering. She’d also been hideously bored at the time.

  “Please,” she said, gesturing toward his soup. “You mustn’t wait for me. I’d feel much better about interrupting your dinner if you’d continue.”

  “I truly did not expect you.”

  She nodded, accepting that. All the same, she wondered what, exactly, Mrs. Murray had told him.

  “I’m not someone with whom you have to converse endlessly. Silence is a blessed thing in a great many circumstances. I’ve been surrounded by chattering women all day. A little peace would be commendable.”

  A few moments of silence passed between them. Although she was extremely conscious of his presence, the moments were not uncomfortable.

  “I find being married an unnatural situation,” he said finally. “I’m not used to having a wife.”

  “Then pretend I’m a guest in your house,” she suggested.

  An intimate guest, one with whom you might share a bed.

  Would it be possible for them to have such a relationship? Did such a thing like that happen? It must, given human nature and the fact that people find pleasure where they will.

  “Most of the guests have left. My uncle invited them, and he was instrumental in banishing them. Only two remain, and they’ll be gone by morning.”

  “Had you no friends you wished to attend
your wedding?”

  He put his spoon down and regarded her as if she were a troublesome puppy.

  “Then perhaps I shouldn’t be a guest,” she said before he could speak. “Unless, of course, you wish to banish me. Where shall I go? Back to Edinburgh?”

  He didn’t respond. Silence stretched between them, marked only by Davina’s thanks to the footman when he brought her meal.

  Marshall kept her company while she ate, but it was all too obvious, when he pushed his bowl an inch or two away with his thumb, that he had no interest in food.

  “You truly have no appetite, then? Are you ailing?”

  He began to laugh, such a strange reaction that she halted in the act of eating and stared at him.

  When his burst of merriment was done, she commented, “Surely it was not that much of a jest.”

  “On the contrary, lady wife, it is more amusing than you know.”

  She placed the fork on the edge of her plate, blotted her lips with her napkin, and then deliberately took a sip of her wine before speaking again.

  How odd that each gesture seemed slower than usual, as if her body were preparing her for what her mind was about to learn.

  “Are you truly ill, Marshall?” she asked softly. “Is that the reason you wanted to marry me, someone you’ve never seen before?”

  He smiled, that curious half smile she was beginning to know. This time, however, there was a touch of mockery to it.

  “I didn’t feel it necessary to meet you, Davina, because I knew all of the important things about you.”

  “From your solicitor? He doesn’t know me well enough.”

  “I know you are of a certain age, that you are as described, a woman, healthy, and capable of bearing children.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “whether I am insulted, confused, or sad.”

  “There is no reason to be insulted. On the contrary, most marriages are like ours.” He glanced at her. “I forgot, except for your parents’ idyllic union, of course. What a pity that you had to grow up thinking that love was something one found within a marriage.”