Page 43 of A Scot's Pride
By now, she imagined dinner was over, and her family and their unwanted house guest would have gone into the drawing room for Molly to play something on the pianoforte for them. Arthur had already told them he wasn’t a fan of plays, so their family’s favorite after-dinner activity of acting out their own plays or scenes from books would be on hold until he finally left. Just another thing to add to his boring list. It wasn’t as if they’d make him act out anything if he didn’t want to. But who didn’t enjoy a bit of fun?
When he arrived, he had said he’d be there for a few days. Freya was certain it was too much to hope he meant an overnight. And from the size of the trunk he brought with him, she wouldn’t be surprised if by a few days, he intended for a month. His trunk was larger than the one she’d packed from their London house to the country. What in the world did he have in there?
What a slimy little slug he was. His hair was slicked back with pomade, and his face was mostly clean-shaven, except for a tiny sprouting of hair over his upper lip that she guessed was supposed to be a mustache but looked as if he had gotten something on his face and hadn’t wiped it off.
A wave crashed onto the shore a little harder than the others, reaching the tips of her boots, and so she stood, shaking off the sand from her skirt and starting to make her way back up the hill toward the house. She was halfway there when the sun finally set, and for a split second, she worried she might be locked out and forced to sleep in the stables. It was an irrational fear, of course, because all she had to do was knock.
Golden candlelight streamed from the windows, and the sound of the pianoforte tinkled out of the house. The front door was off-limits if she wanted to remain unnoticed, so Freya skirted to the back. If she walked in the front door, everyone would see her, and then her mother would lock her in her room until she agreed to marry Arthur.
At the rear of the house, one of their housemaids was tossing some of the rubbish from the kitchen into a compost pit.
“Good evening,” Freya said.
The maid let out a startled yelp.
“I’m so sorry.” Freya smiled sheepishly. “I felt the need for a little air, and well, I don’t want to disturb anyone.”
“Say no more, dear.” She smiled at Freya with a wink as if to say it was their secret and nodded for her to go inside.
Freya thanked her and rushed into the kitchen and up the back stairs.
But when she opened the door to her bedroom, her mother was already there, waiting patiently on the chaise with one of Freya’s books propped open on her lap.
Her mother set the book down and stared at Freya. If one could feel their blood turning cold, this would be one of those moments, for Freya’s fingertips and toes seemed to chill, and gooseflesh rose along her arms and legs.
They stared at each other for several beats, a silent battle over who was going to speak first. Freya normally would, but she was too stunned by her mother’s presence and the look in her mother’s eyes. She’d never seen her so…determined before. Her mother was indeed stubborn and opinionated, but there was something different, almost domineering, in her gaze now that Freya didn’t recognize. Quite frankly, it was a little frightening.
“I can see you’re not going to say anything, so perhaps I should do all the talking,” her mother said.
It was on the tip of Freya’s tongue to say, “You normally do all the talking, anyway,” but she held back.
“I know you’re unhappy with our current circumstances, and that you harbored some kind of fantasy that a man like Lord Lovat would ask for your hand.” Her mother poked and waved at the airs as if she were popping the imaginary bubble of Freya’s dreams and then whooshing them all away. “But it is clear he is not going to ask.”
Not any clearer than Lord Ashbury, Freya thought, but she kept her mouth shut.
The baroness stood to her full height, which was still an inch or two shorter than Freya, but that strange look in her eyes made her seem to tower toward the ceiling. “You are going to marry Cousin Arthur.”
Freya did open her mouth then to protest, but her mother held up her hand. “Do not even attempt to dissuade me, as the decision has already been made, and Arthur is currently speaking to your father about it.”
“Without first talking to me?” Freya was aghast. She fisted her hands at her side and nearly stomped on the floor in her anger. Of course, men always asked the father’s permission, but there was also the courtesy of seeing that the woman as the subject was interested, was there? After all, this was not the medieval era.
“Why would he, dear?” The baroness rolled her eyes. “We invited him here to see if he’d have you to wife.”
Freya took a step back, her knees feeling as though they might buckle at her mother’s admission. “I don’t want to marry him.”
The baroness stood and walked toward the door. “We don’t always get what we want, Freya. You, of all people, should know that.”
Freya wasn’t sure what the baroness meant by that, and it was too late to ask as she’d vacated the room and shut the door behind her.
16
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Husbands prefer wives who support their interests. If your prospective beau enjoys a certain activity, you should adopt an affinity if it is appropriate for a woman to participate. If it is not a female activity, your job is to support his efforts. For example, if he likes horse racing, then you should learn all there is to know about the sport. On the other hand, if he enjoys gambling, a woman must never participate and should feign ignorance.
When Freya woke the following morning, nothing had changed.
They were due to go to a country dance that evening, and Leila was beside herself with joy over it because she’d heard from one of her friends that there would be numerous eligible bachelors in attendance.
