Page 33 of To Wed an Heiress
Ruthie wasn’t a Macrory servant, but he wasn’t sure that Connor would be allowed to call on her once she was feeling better. Not that anything good could come from the situation, but just because Lennox was a hermit didn’t mean Connor had to be.
The fresh, moist breeze blew Mercy’s hair back from her cheeks, bathing her skin with the scent of morning in Scotland. This, this is what she’d wanted when she left home. A sense of peace. Moments in which she could be alone, be herself, perhaps even discover who she was down deep.
She’d escaped Macrory House with a sense of desperation.
Flora had followed her around for most of the past week engaging Mercy in conversation at every possible juncture. She’d heard the girl’s plans for her trip to Edinburgh, her hopes to meet with a famous seamstress and milliner, not to mention all the entertainments planned for her by Douglas, who seemed not only a fond grandfather but an indulgent one.
Not once had Flora asked her a question. Mercy served as a listener and only that. If she responded to a remark Flora made, the girl simply ignored her comment like it was so much wind and nothing else.
Macrory House was a stage on which Flora performed. The other inhabitants were merely ancillary characters of little importance to her cousin. Even Douglas, doting as he was, merely acted to satisfy Flora’s wishes and wants.
The other woman would probably be surprised to discover that Mercy considered her exceedingly boring. The only topic Flora wanted to discuss was herself. Or, when she was coaxed to talk about something else—like the history of Macrory House or the Macrory clan—she did so only until she could turn the conversation back to her plans, her wardrobe, or her hairstyle.
“I can’t believe you came all that way from America by yourself,” Flora said just this morning. “I would have been terrified.”
“I wasn’t actually by myself,” Mercy said. “I had Ruthie with me.”
“I would still be terrified. And to think you had an accident when you were almost here. I would have been terrified about that, too. Not to mention having to deal with the Earl of Morton.”
“He was very nice to us,” Mercy said.
“My grandfather thinks he’s quite daft.”
She hadn’t had a rejoinder to that, but her participation was rarely required in a conversation with Flora.
“Just think, my mother would have been a countess if they’d lived. I would have been the daughter of a countess.”
She stared at Flora, amazed that the girl had been able to make Robert and Mary’s deaths about her, too.
“I am sorry,” she finally said. “It must have been awful to lose your mother.”
Flora’s smile slipped. “It was. She was the loveliest person, Mercy. Always laughing or smiling. She shouldn’t have died that way.”
Mercy expected Flora to speak further about her mother, but her cousin only shook her head, causing her red curls to tumble over her shoulders, then paused in front of a mirror they were passing.
“Oh, well, grieving is not good for the complexion, is it?” she asked, smiling at herself. “Grandfather says I have the most beautiful complexion. Don’t you think it’s lovely?”
Mercy murmured something appreciative, enough to appease her cousin.
Unfortunately, Flora was the only person who made an appearance in the morning hours. Aunt Elizabeth remained in her room until afternoon, telling Mercy that she preferred to work on her needlework, a task that required concentration.
Seanmhair preferred her room in the morning as well, never venturing out until the day was well advanced.
Thankfully, their paths never crossed.
However, her grandmother held court at dinner, pronouncing her opinions on a variety of topics. For someone who kept to herself every day, she was extraordinarily conversant with what happened at Macrory House.
When she could escape Flora, Mercy headed for the kitchen or the housekeeper’s office, either spending time with Ruthie or Mrs. West or both of them with the addition of Irene from time to time.
Unlike her conversations with the rest of her Scottish family, these talks were often lively, filled with laughter, and questions and answers from both sides.
Ruthie was feeling better, to the extent that she had begun quoting superstitions once more. She told Mrs. West that burning two lamps in the same room was a bad omen—someone would die by the second night. A whistling woman pushed away good fortune.
Mercy had heard them all and more. Mrs. West, thankfully, had a kind heart so she never lectured Ruthie about the foolishness of her beliefs. Her only comment was that the Irish had as many sayings as the Scots.
It was Mrs. West who pushed Mercy outside this morning.
“It’s a fair and lovely day, Miss Mercy. Go and take a walk through the glen, see the wildflowers. Greet the sun with a smile and Ben Uaine with a nod.”
