Page 40 of Some Like It Scot
PS: Two of your gowns should be in today.
The green gown? The one that was much too tight around my upper cello? Sigh. Well, this should be... uncomfortable.
At least my scandalous calves would be covered.
I dashed off a few lines to Dave, letting him know I’d received the pages he wanted me to edit, before checking to see how the post Mark had mentioned was doing. As soon as I opened the screen, I groaned.
World on a Pagehad titled the article about my initiation into the experience at Craighill as “Falling for a Scot.” My shoulders slumped. Oh, my readers were going to have a field day with this. They’d been trying to cyber-match me for years.
I read through my own words, grinning a little at my turns of phrases and the hint of exaggeration in the description of theparrot-stair-railing incident. Then my highly complimentary and exaggerated description of the Scot who “caught” me.
Hmm... well, maybe not too exaggerated. He was handsome in a rugged, salt-of-the-earth sort of way. And the size of his arms served to advertise his work ethic... and strength. I cleared my throat. And he really shouldn’t have eyes so soul-searching. Every time we’d made solid eye contact while we walked from the village back to the manor house, my brain stumbled on my next words.
Which probably meant I sounded like a complete imbecile.
But there was something about his direct look—I felt that he could see all the way back to my broken childhood. Maybe it was a magical Scottish thing passed down by the faeries or something, because his mom had the same ability.
To see me.
Except Mirren’s stare hadn’t shaken my pulse.
I rolled my gaze heavenward and pushed back from my chair. What was wrong with me? You’d think I’d never looked deeply into a handsome man’s eyes before.
I paused on the thought. Had I really?
Like the soul-searching kind of look?
Maybe that came with falling in love, which I may have partially done while watchingThe Lord of the Ringsfor the first time, but I’m pretty sure it’s not the same thing.
A knock at my door pulled me from my strangely hypnotic thoughts about Graeme the Grump’s eyes and arms.
Emily greeted me with a smile and a good morning. As an undergrad student pretending to be a lady’s maid for this Edwardian Experience, Emily seemed a pretty normal young woman. A history major at the University of York, she’d taken on this job for the solid pay, the research, and the chance to summer in Scotland. All tabs on her wish list.
To be honest, so far summering in Scotland fit my wish list too. A strange realization, actually. For some reason, I’d always equated “summering somewhere” with Italian villas or beachfront condos. Maybe that’s why I’d never really summered anywhere before—because none of those places fit my preferences. Despite my mom’s unswerving belief that I was an extrovert like my sister, I wasn’t.
I enjoyed people in controlled doses, but I recharged in the quiet of my room or the solitary world of nature. Traveling matched me surprisingly well. I navigated my social requirements and then cocooned away to write my thoughts and make my reels. Though, as my career had grown over the past two years, I’d been more in the public eye than I’d originally wanted.
No one really talked about how being a “rising star” can burn you out, especially when the favorite part of my job was the story part. I enjoyed listening to stories and then re-creating them in my own way in my articles or inventing them from my own imagination like myKatie on the Flyseries.
“I s’pose you read Mrs. Lennox’s note?” Emily asked, entering the room with a garment bag in her arms.
I nodded. “Even though it means I’ll shock the masses with my attractive ankles.”
Emily’s laugh burst out as she pulled the summer confection of lace and satin from the bag and grinned, her brown eyes twinkling. “I wouldn’t be surprised if nations haven’t crumbled over the look of a pair of fine ankles.”
Yep. Emily was definitely the best lady’s maid for me.
Forty-five minutes later, I slowly (being the operative word here) made my way to the drawing room since the hobble skirt style restricted my movements to baby steps. At least the color looked fine on me and brought out my hair and eyes, as Emily said. Which provided some consolation for the fact that running, dancing, and maybe evenbreathing were going to be in short supply. Attractive ankles couldn’t save me from mummification.
I felt like a silk and lace burrito.
“My Morning as an Edwardian Burrito.” Perfect title for an article.
With my Chicago-pizza-sized hat tilted to a “fashionable” slant—the food references just wouldn’t stop—my ridiculousness was complete.
So much for Clue classiness.
Bring on Monty Python.
