Page 83 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
Chapter Eighteen
Gripping her wineglass,Clara gazed about the great hall. She had always believed that a Society ball was where she felt most out of place.
Until tonight.
Earlier that evening the great hall had looked warm and welcoming—a fire blazing in the hearth, plaid ribbons adorning every surface, and garlands of fir and heather that Clara had spent the past day fashioning under Elspeth’s gentle tutelage.
Then the people arrived.
Some of them spoke in thick accents, which, though musical in their articulation, were as incomprehensible to her as if they’d spoken in Latin. She could only ask them to repeat themselves so many times before their cordiality turned into hostility.
“Cursed Sassenachs,” she heard one guest say.
Others were less hostile, but they made no attempt to disguise the fact that in taking an Englishwoman for a wife, Murdo had acted against the good of the clan.
“I daresay ye must think our festivities extraordinary compared to yer English Society parties,” a voice said.
Clara turned to see the woman who’d been introduced to her earlier as “the McCallum’s wife.” On their introduction,she’d given Clara a polite smile, then pulled Murdo into an embrace and kissed him warmly on both cheeks, declaring how much she wished for their two families to be united—while her prettier, more elegant daughter stood by her side. The McCallum himself hadn’t deigned to speak to Clara, merely giving a nod of acknowledgment before clapping Clara’s father-in-law on the back and steering him toward the edge of the hall to indulge in a glass of whisky.
“Extraordinary in appearance only, Lady McCallum,” Clara said.
“But our Society here must be very different to that in England.”
“In essentials, I believe it’s the same.”
“I cannot accept that,” the woman said. “What say ye, Shona?” She turned to her daughter standing beside her.
“Yes, Mama.”
“Shona always agrees with me.”
Her daughter blushed. The poor girl likely understood the consequences ofnotagreeing.
“All societies are the same,” Clara said. “At the top sit those who set the rules by which everyone else must abide—what to say, how to behave, whom it’s acceptable to associate with. In the center are those who abide by the rules, acquaintances seeking to maintain their position. And at the bottom are the outsiders, newcomers or those who don’t conform to the rules. They are treated with suspicion merely because they’re different.”
“What an extraordinary notion!” the woman said. “It’s as if ye’re describing a herd of deer, not men and women.”
“We’re all animals, aren’t we?”
The woman wrinkled her nose. “What a dreadful notion—where did ye gain such an opinion?”
“From my mother,” Clara said, recalling Mama’s advice the night of Lady Cholmondeley’s ball.
“And yer mother is…?”
“The Duchess of Pittchester.”
“Oh!” Lady McCallum’s hostility seemed to drain from her. “Is she here tonight? And…the duke?”
“They’re in England, Lady McCallum.”
“What a shame! I’d have liked to meet them. Wouldn’t ye, Shona?”
“Yes, Mama.”
The girl cast her gaze down, and Clara suppressed her smile at Lady McCallum’s sycophancy. How might the woman have reacted if Clara said she was the illegitimate daughter of a doxy?
Then her stomach churned as she spotted her father-in-law striding toward them, his eyes already glazed.
