Page 43 of Somewhere Along The Way (Mackinnon #3)

“Overtake what? Why can’t you be a little more exact? I think myself capable of understanding the rules of courtship.”

“You’ve been taught them, yes, but it is unfortunate that the young and inexperienced have a tendency to seek refuge with a wolf when fleeing a fox.

” She peered at Bella for a moment to see if any of this was making any sense to her.

Judging from the blank expression on her daughter’s young face, Lady Anne knew this latest attempt at explanation had gone completely over Annabella’s bonnet.

“Dear child, I am not a veritable walking storehouse of knowledge, but I do know a woman has a tendency to swallow anything, as long as it has been spiced with flattery. I can only say that some men have a way about them—a certain familiarity that breeds attempt.”

Seeing her mother’s pinking face, Annabella wondered why it was that questions never seemed to be as embarrassing as the answers.

It also occurred to her, because of the way her mother stuttered and stammered, all the while wringing her hands, that her mother didn’t know much more about this sort of thing than she did.

Her mother went on to say, “I am only telling you these things, you understand, because you are to be married soon. It is important for you to remember that your betrothal has already bound you to your future husband in many ways, Bella. And once you are married, your body will be his to dispose of as he sees fit.”

“Dispose of?” asked Annabella in a horrified tone.

The duchess quelled that look with one of her own.

“I am not speaking of murder, child. I am simply trying to point out how our lovely Queen Victoria and her handsome Albert have given us such a splendid union to follow. Once you are married, you will understand. There is nothing more sublime than to be taken to the heart of your beloved husband, to share his counsel, to be the chosen companion of his joy and suffering.” With her hand clapped across her breast, an expression of sublime awe upon her face, the duchess said, “It is no wonder a woman has such a time deciding whether modesty or gratitude should preponderate.”

“Well, I for one shan’t have any difficulty deciding,” Bella said.

“I want nothing to do with either.” No wonder, indeed .

Annabella wanted to throw up. In no form or fashion could she imagine herself being the companion of Lord Huntly’s joy—in truth, she doubted he had any.

As far as modesty or gratitude went, she would have no trouble being modest around him.

The more clothes the better. Layers of them. With lots of buttons.

Her mother held up a pair of cotton drawers and gave them a vigorous shake before folding them in a neat square.

“All in all, Bella, it would serve you better if you spent more of your time bent over your embroidery frame and less time languishing over Lord Mackinnon.” The duchess cast a quick eye in Annabella’s direction.

“I don’t think Lord Huntly is such a bad-looking chap, do you? ”

“No, he is really very much a handsome man.”

“Yes, I suppose he is,” said her mother thoughtfully.

“If only he could be persuaded not to wear that ghastly coat of goose-turd green. Really. A nice bottle green would suit him much better, or even one in that popinjay blue all the London dandies seem to favor.” Her look turning wistful for a moment, she added, “Perhaps he will, once you’ve married, for then you will be his chief ornament. ”

Annabella felt new resentment flare. She didn’t want to be Lord Huntly’s chief ornament. She didn’t want to be anyone’s chief ornament. If a woman had to be an ornament, why not be the only one? Chief ornament. Was that what drove women to while away their hours gluing bugle beads to mirror frames?

About this point in time, Annabella decided it might be best to do as she frequently did after a question-and-answer session with her mother, and simply stop trying to puzzle out the duchess’s train of thought.

For the next hour, while her mother busied herself with packing and admonishing, Annabella looked longingly out the window, past the pines that lined the narrow lane just before it dipped down into an open glen where an old stone bridge, overgrown with lichen and moss, spanned a narrow brook.

Only yesterday she had stood on that bridge, gazing down at the water that vanished beneath her, as if some giant mouth had opened and swallowed it.

In some ways her life was a lot like that little stream—running down a predestined path and vanishing before her eyes into a yawning mouth where, when she looked, there was only darkness beyond.

Her mind spun backward to her childhood, a time when her life was her own, a time when she was indulged and had a will of her own.

Surely this was why they called it the springtime of youth, for as she grew older, the seasons of her life had changed to fall and now to threatening winter.

She shivered, feeling herself being hurled forward into a cold and bleak time.

And like winter, something cold and hard settled within her, something she could not force away, something brittle and unfruitful as a seedpod encased in a layer of cold, unforgiving ice.

The next morning the world was covered in mist, the dampness cold and wet enough to be called rain—or so Annabella thought.

Feeling as miserable as the weather, Bella climbed into the coach behind her mother.

The Mackinnon was there to say goodbye, and Percy, too, but the one person she hoped to see most was strangely absent.

Feeling as low as the coach wheels that dug into the wet road, she settled back into the coach and prepared for a long, long ride.

The coach jostled its way north, following the muddy Kishom road that did not by any stretch of the imagination resemble a road—not even faintly.

Trees grew in abundance—aspen, rowan, wych elm, bird cherry, goat willow—all interspersed with wild roses, a scene Annabella would have enjoyed more if the sun had been shining.

The wheels slid and squished their way across high conies, through Bealach na Ba, the pass of the cattle, toward Applecross.

It was a mountain of such grandeur that it made Annabella feel a small, insignificant part of creation.

“Upon my word,” said the duchess, her knuckles white from gripping the upholstery to keep from sliding, “I don’t remember telling this coachman I wanted to soar with eagles.

” She poked her head through the window for a hasty look and gasped, then promptly drew it back.

“I have never been up this high in my life.”

Annabella, who had promised herself to remain closemouthed for the entire journey, would have found the horrified look on her mother’s face worthy of a laugh—if she had been in the mood for laughing, which she was not.

She did decide to speak, however, after flipping over several pages of the book in her hand until she located the place she was looking for.

“It says in my travel journal that we are crossing the nesting territory of the ptarmigan —commonly called white-winged grouse.”

The duchess said, “Crossing their nesting territory, you say? Hmmmm…” Then, with a knowing look directed at Bella, she added, “I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.” She rested her head against the back of the seat with a sigh.

“I do hope the way down isn’t as bad as the way up.

All of these sharp turns are unsettling to my constitution. ”

They forgot to notice whether the way down was as bad as the way up, for the breathtaking views of Skye on their precipitous descent showed them everything from the stony sandstone uplands to the coastal woods of Applecross—a view too magnificent and wild for them to think of anything else.

Once the driver stopped and Annabella poked her head out in time to see three red deer spring down the side of the mountain.

“How lovely they are,” she called up to the driver.

“That they are, lass, but you’ll never see a sight anywhere like the wildcat that lives in these parts. They’re as haughty and elusive as a pretty woman, with the greenest eyes this side of heaven. Eyes much the same color as yours.”

“Oh, I’d love to see one. Do you think we shall?”

“I doubt that, miss. Shy creatures, they be.”

Annabella pulled her head back inside the coach as it lurched forward.

“What else does that travel journal of yours say?” the duchess asked.

“About which area?”

“Wester Ross,” the duchess said with a tone of exasperation, “since that’s where we’re headed and what primarily concerns us.”

Annabella had been staring at the lovely green satin bow on her mother’s bonnet, but pulled her attention away to search for her wicker basket, where she had tucked the slender volume entitled A Ladies’ Guide to the Scottish Countryside.

Opening the book, Annabella looked at her mother. “You know, it surprises me that you, being a native Scot, don’t already know everything that’s written in this book.”

“You will remember that I was a very young bride and have not lived in Scotland since. Besides, my home was near Loch Awe. No one but the men in my family ever ventured up here. Until my first visit, I always thought of Wester Ross as an austere place of brooding landscapes—not much of a place a lady would choose to visit.”

“I’m glad your visit changed your mind.”

“It didn’t. It’s still an austere place, but bonny just the same.”

Annabella opened the journal and began to read to her mother about the sights it recommended for a lady to see.

The duchess made it a point to tell her that she had no intention of stopping anywhere along the way and thus prolonging the journey.

“Although I do find it pleasant to hear about such things,” she said.