Page 4

She had made the journey south not just as a daughter, but as an emissary, one who must tread carefully between expectation and her own resolve. Alastair Court was not merely a waypoint. It was a threshold, and whatever came next, she would face it on her terms.

And yet… the needs of her clan clung to her, heavier and more inescapable than she wished to admit.

Duty had always come at a cost. Lord Alastair had long standing business dealings with her father. Lady Alastair had become a good friend. Though their circumstances were vastly different, there was a quiet understanding between them that had always made Bridget feel comfortable.

And that comfort was rare. Precious. Invaluable in a place that expected her to shape herself to fit its mold.

Marjory’s husband, Mark Alastair, was another matter.

Though polite and amicable, he had always struck Bridget as a man whose mind was often elsewhere.

He was the sort to immerse himself in his own pursuits, leaving the daily concerns of the household to his wife.

Bridget had never thought much of it. There were plenty of men of his station who did the same.

If anything, she had admired the quiet competence with which Marjory managed everything.

It gave Bridget hope. Hope that women might still carve out influence in a world ruled by men.

This visit, this carefully arranged stay, was not merely for her own benefit.

Lord and Lady Alastair, actually Marjory, were to introduce her to suitors with no obligations.

She would have the final word on who she accepted as well as the terms for the marriage agreement.

She was determined to prove her worth beyond mere beauty and heritage, to find a way to honor her family without losing herself in the process.

Doing what’s necessary to protect those we care about, even if it means making sacrifices .

Footsteps echoed down the hall, pulling her from her thoughts. She squared her shoulders and prepared for whatever came next. Bridget smiled warmly the moment she saw Marjory coming down the hall.

“Bridget! Good heavens, you’re soaked through. What a wretched night for travel!”

She was grateful for the warmth of Marjory’s welcome. To her father’s point, perhaps not all English people were uncaring or adversaries.

“Aye.” She glanced down at her mud-stained skirt. “The weather wasn’t kind. I apologize for my state.”

Marjory gracefully waved off her apology.

“Besides,” Marjory teased, “if you hadn’t arrived like a shipwrecked sailor, I’d hardly believe you’d come from Scotland at all.

How many times have Mark and I come to you in no better condition?

I’ll have a hot bath prepared for you.” Marjory turned toward the hallway she had exited. “Mrs. Simmons.”

The housekeeper hurried to Marjory.

Where had the housekeeper been lurking that she appeared so quickly? In London, it took an entire five minutes for someone to reply.

“Bring Lady Bridget some warm towels and have a bath drawn for her.” Marjory turned back to Bridget.

A downstairs maid appeared from the same place as Mrs. Simmons.

“My lady.” She dipped a quick curtsey as she handed Bridget a towel, then proceeded to clean the floor with the other one she had in her hand.

Marjory took Bridget’s arm with an easy familiarity, though a fleeting hesitation passed over her features. If Bridget had not known her so well, she might not have noticed it at all.

“You must be exhausted. I’ll have a tray of hot tea with supper brought up to your room. You rest. We can talk in the morning.” They climbed the staircase. “I’m so glad you’re finally here.”

“Thank you, Marjory. It’s good to see you.” Bridget’s smile came without effort. Despite her reservations, she was genuinely happy to see her friend. “It seems the weather followed me all the way.”

“It will be relatively dry by the morning. I think you’ll enjoy being in Sommer-by-the-Sea more than London.” Marjory leaned in with a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “I certainly do. You’ll find country house parties far less… rigid than London soirees and galas.”

Marjory chatted animatedly about the preparations for the weekend’s events.

“The ballroom has never looked lovelier,” Marjory said, adjusting the drape of her sleeve as she spoke. “The chandeliers have been polished until they sparkle, and I had the house staff bring in extra candelabras.”

Bridget smiled faintly as she listened to Marjory continue, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm.

“I had the staff arrange the drawing room differently this time,” Marjory went on.

“Last year’s gathering was far too cramped, and I cannot bear to see another guest practically wedged into the corner with no hope of escape.

And the flowers, oh, Bridget, you must see them!

Fresh from the hothouse, in the most stunning arrangements.

Roses, lilies, even a few exotic blooms for the ballroom.

I thought we would use flowers from our garden as centerpieces for the dining table. ”

Bridget chuckled as they reached the landing, where the scent of baking pastries drifted from the kitchens below.

“The menu is set,” Marjory continued. “Pheasant, trout, roasted lamb with that spiced glaze everyone raved about last year. And the desserts! I told the cook to prepare an array, but I suspect the lemon tarts will vanish first. They always do.”

“You’ve certainly thought of everything,” Bridget said, taking in the energy in Marjory’s voice.

“I had to,” Marjory replied, smoothing her skirt as they walked toward the parlor. “The guest list is not as simple as it was last year. There are more, shall we say, strong personalities attending this time.”

Bridget nodded, but her mind had begun to drift. The evening’s events still clung to her thoughts, refusing to be dismissed.

She could still see him, those steady blue eyes, the quiet authority in his stance. The way he’d looked at her… as if he saw more than a stranger on the roadside. As if she wasn’t merely passing through his day.

“Bridget? You’ve gone quiet.”

Bridget’s heart did a somersault at the sound of her name. For a fleeting moment, she felt as if she’d been caught practicing with her small blade, something her mother forbade her to do.

Marjory placed her hand on Bridget’s arm. “You seem a bit distracted.”

“I’m fine, just a bit more tired than I thought.” Bridget forced a smile, though her mind was elsewhere. The man’s determination and quiet strength had left an impression on her, one she couldn’t easily dismiss. The memory hovered, uninvited and unshakable.

“There’s still much to be done,” Marjory continued. “I’d welcome your company as I make the final arrangements.”

“Of course,” Bridget replied, grateful for something else to focus on.

Marjory led her up the sweeping staircase, the mahogany banister smooth beneath her hand. At the top, they arrived at the landing, a circular space adorned with a plush rug and a vase of fresh roses atop a marble pedestal. “Your room is just down this hall.” Marjory gestured to the left.

“Thank you for understanding my late arrival.”

Marjory gave her a knowing look, a hint of mischief in her eyes.

“Well, it’s not every day a Scottish lass turns up at my door looking like a drowned rat. Now, let’s get you settled.”

She exhaled, and the tightness in her chest eased. Relief, unexpected, but welcome, settled over her. Marjory’s teasing grounded her, pulling her back from where her thoughts had strayed.

“Here we are.” Marjory opened the door. “Now, get yourself warm and settled. We shall speak in the morning.”

Bridget hesitated at the threshold. “I would ask you to have tea—”

Marjory’s expression shifted, a flicker of sorrow crossing her face. “Perhaps tomorrow,” she said softly. “There are a few things I need to take care of tonight with Mark.”

She reached for Bridget’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Then she gently kissed her cheek and was gone.

Bridget stood in the quiet, the offer still lingering on her tongue. She hadn’t needed tea. She’d just wanted not to feel quite so alone.

Bridget stepped into her room and let the silence settle around her. She had to admit that despite the disappointment, she was grateful for time to herself.

Warmth wrapped around her the moment she stepped inside, a stark contrast to the wind that chilled her skin. Soft candlelight revealed delicate floral wallpaper in muted tones of cream and blue on the walls. It was the sort of room meant to soothe, not impress, and it was a welcome change.

A four-poster bed draped with lacy curtains that slightly billowed in the draft dominated one side of the room.

The linens were crisp and white, accented with embroidered pillows that added a touch of elegance without being fussy.

The intricate quilt pattern reminded her of the ones back home that lay at the foot of her bed.

Her throat tightened, unexpectedly and unwelcome.

A homesick sigh pushed through her lips.

The fireplace opposite the bed crackled softly, the flames casting shadows that flickered across the polished wooden floor.

Above the mantel hung a simple mirror framed in dark wood, its surface slightly warped with age.

To one side of the fireplace stood a comfortable armchair upholstered in deep burgundy fabric.

A small table stood beside it with a vase of fresh wildflowers whose subtle scent mingled with the faint aroma of burning wood.

Heavy velvet drapes framed a large window that overlooked the estate’s gardens.

Though the night obscured most of the view, she could make out the silhouettes of neatly trimmed hedges and the gentle sway of trees still dripping from the rain.

A writing desk sat beneath the window, an inkwell and quill at the ready atop a neat stack of parchment.