Page 20 of Sinful Scottish Laird
I have not yet broached the subject of a supper party with Belinda and Uncle. I think they shall not be favorably inclined.
She touched the handkerchief again, thought of the man who had bandaged her hand. She closed her eyes, imagined him taking her hand that day, pulling her to him, removing her hat and kissing her.
God help you, Daisy. You’re such a little fool, dreaming of intercourse with him when you’ve only months to find a husband.
She opened her eyes, closed her diary. She felt as if a clock were ticking inside her, relentlessly counting the moments until she was under the rule of a man again. She thought of Robert—her memory of him a bit hazy now—and sent up a silent prayer that he would reach London in time to save her.
Her writing finished for the day, Daisy wandered out to the garden to survey it under an overcast sky. It was not a beautiful garden. It was a desolate one, with scarcely any adornment, and a fountain that could not be made to work, no matter what Uncle Alfonso and Mr. Green had tried.
She put her hands to the small of her back and arched backward, closed her eyes and listened to the breeze rustle the treetops. It was so peaceful at Auchenard. So blessedly removed from the bustling world of London, of even Chatwick Hall in Nottinghamshire. How she wished her family would come to see Auchenard as she did, but alas, they did not.
They’d done all that they could to the lodge without benefit of builders and masons. Daisy was proud of the work they’d done, and the idea of the supper party, blurted in a moment in which she’d sought a reason to keep that wretched Arrandale about, had taken firm root in her. Perhaps her family might find Auchenard more to their liking with a bit of society. Daisy would very much like to meet her neighbors. She would like them to see what they’d done to the old lodge.
And she would very much like to see the fine pair of blue eyes of her least hospitable neighbor again.
She brought it up at supper that night, between the fish stew and the cake Mrs. Green had made. “I have an idea,” she said brightly as Rowley cleared their supper plates. “I think we ought to invite our neighbors to dine so that they may see for themselves that Auchenard has been restored.”
Four wide pairs of eyes—Uncle Alfonso, Belinda, Ellis and Mr. Tuttle—turned toward her.
“Oh dear,” said Belinda instantly. “I cannot advise invitingScotsmeninto your home. They are not the sort of company you should entertain, Daisy. They scarcely speak English! And so many of them areJacobites,” she whispered.
“The few we’ve met speak English,” Daisy said. “They are our neighbors, Belinda. Their complaint with England is not with me, and I should like to extend the welcome. I don’t mean to invite the entire glen, but only those from neighboring estates.”
“What neighboring estates?” Uncle Alfonso asked. “There is scarcely anyone about, love. There is Balhaire and Killeaven, but those are at a distance.”
“There is also Arrandale,” Daisy pointed out.
“That estate is inhabited by only one man.”
“He is our neighbor nonetheless,” she said, looking down at her soup and avoiding her uncle’s shrewd gaze. “Perhaps we might go farther afield if the lack of immediate neighbors concerns you?”
“What, then, just ride about until we happen on something other than a croft or hovel?” Uncle Alfonso shook his head. “It doesn’t seem prudent.”
“Why must prudence be the measure of things? Life is not meant to be lived prudishly!” Daisy complained. “Coming to Auchenard wasn’t prudent, either, but we’re here, are we not? And look what we’ve done. Look at all we’ve accomplished! I’ve rather enjoyed the weeks we’ve spent here.”
Everyone avoided her gaze.
What an intractable lot.Daisy sat up straighter. “Look here, we can’t hold ourselves out as superior. Isn’t it better to know our neighbors than to fear them? These lands were once the most desired hunting grounds in the Highlands. I should think our neighbors would welcome the idea that it’s been restored.”
Belinda grimaced and glanced around the table. “We might expose Ellis to some very primitive people.”
Sometimes Daisy wanted to slap words from Belinda the Doomsayer’s mouth. As if she would endanger her own son! As if the world outside London was unfit for humans. Why was it that Belinda saw only the worst possible outcome in every situation? How did one live in eager anticipation of calamity?
And yet, when Belinda wasn’t predicting disaster, she was an extraordinary help to Daisy, particularly with Ellis. She was also quite artistic. She had created some of the most beautiful paintings and pieces of pottery Daisy had ever seen, many of which graced Chatwick Hall. It was quite odd that a woman who created such beauty could find it in her to gloomily remark on every aspect of Daisy’s life, unwilling to let pass any opportunity to predict disaster. Even more curious was that Belinda was never the least bit put off by the fact that her predictions of doom never came true. Daisy’s mother had once said that Belinda’s tutor was a Christian man who had struck the fear of God in her sister’s children, but he seemed to have struck the art of pessimism in Belinda.
Before Daisy could say something she might regret—a soundshut upseemed in order—her uncle said thoughtfully, “Perhaps that is precisely what the boy needs. He should be acquainted with different people and situations. One day, he will rule his estate and will have cause to encounter many different persons.”
Belinda looked horrified. “Uncle! Need I remind you that the Reverend Cosgrove and his wife exposed their young daughter to savages in the islands, and she engaged in an illicit affair with one of them?”
Ellis looked up from his plate at that. “What’s an illicit affair?” he asked.
“It means...it’s something like when Cousin Belinda admires the butcher beyond what is reasonable,” Daisy said.
“What?” Belinda asked, confused.
“Now, what do you think, Ellis? Shall we meet our neighbors?”
Ellis looked around at the other adults. “Have they any children?” he asked timidly.
