Page 25 of To Wed an Heiress
But there would have been raucous laughter as well, music played by fiddlers and pipers to celebrate one of life’s milestones.
Now there was only silence broken by the cawing of birds or the soughing of the wind around the castle. Occasionally, an adventurous squirrel would scramble over the roof he’d repaired, the sound loud enough to wake a dozen ghosts.
He was like a spirit himself, the sole product of all those Caithearts who stretched back four hundred years. Had they any idea that their bloodline would narrow until only one of them would be left?
That was a thought he didn’t wish to have and he walked faster, reaching the kitchen with a feeling too much like relief.
Chapter Twelve
“I hope you will express your displeasure to him,” Ailsa said. “The man mustn’t be allowed to escape the consequences of his actions.”
At first Mercy thought her grandmother was talking to her, but then realized that Seanmhair was speaking to Uncle Douglas.
From the conversation around her, she gathered that the families didn’t communicate. Even if Douglas unbent enough to talk to Lennox, it might well be a wasted effort. She didn’t think that Lennox would care what the older man had to say.
Although he hadn’t expressed any regret that the accident had happened, he’d treated Ruthie and her with care and had loaned his carriage to them. He didn’t have to do any of that. In fact, he’d been charming for long stretches of time. However, it didn’t seem wise to mention that to her family.
“How did the accident happen, lass?” Uncle Douglas asked.
She gave them all a quick account, eliminating certain details from her explanation such as calling Lennox’s airship a dragon. How foolish that sounded now.
“He set Ruthie’s arm and tended to my head,” she added. He should get credit for that, at least.
“As well he should,” Seanmhair said. “The man is a menace.” She directed her attention to Flora. “You’ll be wiser than my granddaughter, my dear. Don’t go anywhere near Duddingston Castle.”
“I didn’t know where I was when the accident happened,” Mercy said in her own defense. “I didn’t know anything about your feud with the Caithearts, either.”
“It isn’t a feud, lass,” Douglas said.
It sounded like a feud. Lennox couldn’t tolerate her presence because she was a Macrory. Douglas acted as if there was something unclean about the Caithearts. What was it, if not a feud?
She looked to Elizabeth for support, but her aunt was busying herself with her napkin, staring down at her lap as if it held the most interesting view. Mercy had often done the same at home, especially when her mother and father were arguing.
If her father was firm about a topic and her mother disagreed, it didn’t mean that Fenella remained silent. Occasionally, her father would appear to goad her mother into speaking her mind, almost as if he wanted to be challenged. There were plenty of times when she heard her mother do exactly that.
According to her grandmother, who had adopted many of the ways of Southern women, a proper female never raised her voice in anger. The frontal assault, as she termed it, was never preferable and made a woman look less than gracious.
It seemed to Mercy that the frontal assault was the only way for a woman to survive in Scotland.
“I’ll not have your parents thinking that you have a haven here, Hortense. I’ve already written them, telling them I’ve no liking for the situation.”
Mercy looked at her grandmother. She hadn’t expected anything less of this new Ailsa.
It was obvious that there was nothing she could say that would soften Seanmhair. She certainly wasn’t going to explain that she’d wanted a little freedom from her situation at home. Ailsa would only frown at that explanation and tell her that she was acting in an unladylike manner. Nor would she tell anyone that the prospect of marriage to Gregory was like a huge black cloud on the horizon.
The Rutherford-Hamilton wedding was planned for the next spring and was going to be ostentatious. She wouldn’t be surprised if a parade down Fifth Avenue was arranged. It wasn’t so much a rite of passage as an announcement to the world that James and Fenella Rutherford’s only daughter was marrying. For that, all of New York needed to stop, if just for a moment, to acknowledge the day.
She’d already seen the white carriage that would carry her to the church. The frame, roof, and wheels of the vehicle were gilded. The interior was upholstered in tufted white silk. No doubt it would be pulled by two pairs of magnificent matched horses.
The bridal gown had been ordered from Worth. The flowers had also been reserved in advance in such quantities that blooms would probably be picked from all over the country and shipped to New York.
In other words, if money was no object then anything was possible.
She truly hadn’t come to Scotland to hide. Nor had she envisioned her grandmother’s ancestral home as a permanent refuge. The journey here, the journey back, the days—or weeks—she would remain at Macrory House only constituted a temporary respite, a short stint of freedom before she returned to the life already carefully mapped out for her.
“Do you understand what your grandmother is saying, lass?” Uncle Douglas asked in his booming voice. “We can’t be seen to agree with your foolishness.”
“I do,” Mercy said calmly.
