Page 36 of The Last Debutante
Itwaspreposterous. What would she do if she managed to escape the walls and the village? Wander the woods? No, her escape would have to be more ingenious than that. She would have to persuade someone to aid her. The only problem with that idea was that the Campbells were an unreasonably close and wordless lot. She never knew what they were thinking!
Her attempts to see the laird were expertly thwarted by Duff. “He’s got the business of the clan,” he said brusquely when she asked why she couldn’t speak to him.
“But my grandmother is undoubtedly sick with worry. And I should very much like to know if my letters were delivered to Edinburgh and my grandmother’s house.”
“Aye, they were.”
“Did you speak with my grandmother? Is she well?”
“I did no’ take it, lass. But your grandmamma is fine. The letter was delivered two days past and tacked to her door.”
“Tacked to her door! Why did you not just hand it to her?”
“Because she wasna within, lass,” Duff said impatiently. “But the letter was delivered, aye?”
Daria didn’t know what more to say, so she continued on. She walked the small rose garden, visited a schoolroom where a few children were learning their Gaelic letters and clearly understood when the instructor pointed out who she was, since the five students all turned their little heads and stared at her as if she were the devil himself.
“That’s right,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’mEnglish.Would you like to learn an English song?”
The children did want to learn an English song. So as the teacher stood by, looking confused and suspicious, Daria taught them one. Not the one about a devilish Scottish sailor who left his love behind, which was the first one to come to mind, but a jaunty tune about maypoles and spring.
The children liked it. They particularly liked dancing around a pretend maypole.
As Daria’s path became more familiar to her, she worked harder in her attempts to curry favor with anyone who might be inclined to help her—maids, footmen. The butler, whose name was Young John, to distinguish him from Old John, who was at least ten years younger than Young John. Young John wasn’t shy about showing his vexation with her, shooing her away with some cryptic mention that the laird needed this or that, and then speaking more strongly to Duffson in their language. He seemed to take great umbrage when Daria rearranged some vases of hothouse flowers in the great hall one afternoon.
And then there was Geordie Campbell, whose handsome countenance was marred by his perpetual scowl. She’d felt sorry for his muteness and wanted to help him, to be a friend. But he’d made it quite clear that he was determinednotto be her friend, given the injustice done to his uncle Hamish. Or at least that was Daria’s interpretation of the things he’d scrawled on that wretched slate of his, things that she thought any self-respecting Englishwoman should find insulting. However, she could not be entirely certain, as the man’s spelling bordered on indecipherable.
Daria had found no one who was even remotely inclined to indulge her, save a young deaf boy with an impish smile, who couldn’t hear her when she complained that she’d been unfairly imprisoned. Apparently he was the only one who hadn’t heard about her. His name was Peter, Dougal said, and he’d been the only sunshine in her week. They’d begun communicating slowly using hand signals. Peter’s mother, who had tried very hard to keep from befriending her, began to soften as her son seemed to open up to Daria.
After several days in captivity, as thick clouds rolled in over Dundavie, Daria was delighted to notice Duffson chatting up some girl with a basket of bread braced against her hip. Daria stepped out of sight as he preened for the young girl, then hurried down a narrow mews, looking for someplace to hide before Duffson discovered he’d lost her in the one moment all week he’d been careless enough to turn his back.
She heard Duffson’s shout a moment later and opened the first door she came to, jumping inside and whirling about to pull the door shut. She stood a moment with her heart racing, listening for any sign that Duffson had found her. But the voices seemed to be moving away.Good.
With a sigh of relief, she turned around to see where she was and started. The laird was standing in the middle of the room, in a shaft of gray light from a row of low windows. He was dressed like a gentleman, in a coat of blue superfine and a dark brown waistcoat. His neckcloth was tied to perfection, and his hair was combed back, brushing against his shoulders. He looked fully... recovered.
Daria’s heart scudded across her chest, slammed into her ribs, and squeezed the breath from her. She had to remember to smile, and for heaven’s sake, to stop gaping. But how could she? If she hadn’t known what had happened to him, she would never suspect he’d been shot in the last fortnight. The only evidence of it was a cane he gripped in one hand. He looked every inch a lord. Every blessed inch. But an unrefined lord, and that, more than anything, Daria breathlessly realized, was dangerously exciting.
“Miss Babcock,” he said, as if he were expecting her.
“I beg your pardon!” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t know anyone was within.”
“Obviously.”
She noticed then that he was standing between two long wooden benches filled with plants in various stages of growth.
“And why are you here?” he asked. “Seeking an escape, perhaps?”
She laughed. “No, of course not. I was having a bit of fun with Duffson.”
“Who?”
“Duff’s son,” she clarified. “I don’t know his real name, as he has declined to acknowledge he is shadowing me, or even give me his name.”
He nodded as if that somehow made sense. “Why do you feel the need to escape him?” he asked as he moved forward, his cane before him.
“I meant only to... to divert myself.” Another inward wince for sounding childish.
“Mmm,” he said, still moving forward with one deliberate step after the other. “You will no’ be surprised that I donna believe you are merely seeking a diversion, will you?”
