Page 62 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #3)
‘And you, Lady Rachel,’ he said. ‘You look blooming. “Bonnie” – is that not the correct, Scottish word?’
‘Perhaps,’ Rachel said cautiously. She didn’t want to accept anything from this man, not even a compliment.
‘At all events, I am glad to see in you no fatigue from your exertions in London. You are not pale and weary.’
‘Not at all, thank you. I’m surprised to see you here,’ she went on, managing a touch of hauteur – she had observed for years how her mother crushed pretensions. ‘I did not know you ever came to Scotland.’
‘Scotland is very like Germany in so many ways. One feels at home. I do not care very much for the shooting of the stag,’ he said, letting go her hand at last. She dropped it to her side and tried surreptitiously to wipe it on her skirt.
‘But the fishing – that is ausgezeichnet . Lord Eassie most kindly made the invitation to come and fish, and I was hasty to accept. But when I heard also that you and your mother were staying close by, ah, then I was to come with much joy, um Sie besser kennenzulernen .’
He smiled, a dreadful sight to Rachel, and she gave him a tight and ghastly one in return, murmured an excuse, and slipped away to lose herself in the crowd.
It was easy enough to avoid him among so many (easy to miss Angus too, it appeared – was he avoiding her?).
The prince was not seated near her at the table, which was a blessing.
But when they all gathered after dinner in the baronial hall for the musical performances, she saw him seek out her mother and engage her in private conversation.
Their heads were close together, Rachel noted gloomily.
She hoped they weren’t talking about her – but what else could he have to say to Mama?
To be a princess would be agreeable, but not at any price.
Rachel was called to the piano early to play and sing, and knowing her limitations she chose a simple Scottish folk song, well within her range.
She had hoped that Angus would come and turn for her, but Henry Eassie rushed into the breach before anyone else could move.
She couldn’t even see where in the room Angus was standing.
At the end of the song she was asked politely for an encore but she declined gracefully.
Among the Eassie party were Sir Philip and Lady Huntley and their daughter Diana, and when she went to the piano, Angus suddenly appeared and took up station beside her.
Rachel supposed, a little miffed, that he was to turn for her, but it was worse.
He announced that they were to sing a duet, ‘The Braes o’ Balquhither’.
There was a murmur of approval – it was a very popular song.
Diana Huntley was an unusually good-looking girl – masses of dark hair, and dark eyes, and a proud, sculpted sort of face – and she certainly sang well. The tune demanded strong voices, and Angus’s fine baritone twined confidently with her accomplished soprano. He looked at Diana as they sang:
Let us go, lassie, go
To the braes o’ Balquhither,
Where the blaeberries grow
’Mang the bonnie Highland heather . . .
Rachel felt a pang of something – was it jealousy?
The song was about the wild thyme and heather blooming on the hills, and she thought of the picnic, and sitting beside Angus looking out over the view from the crag.
It should be to her that he made the appeal, will ye go, lassie?
– not to the undeniably beautiful Diana Huntley.
Did she have a large dowry ?
Now the summer is in prime,
Wi’ the flowers richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
A’ the moorlands perfuming;
To our dear Native scenes
Let us journey together . . .
The song was poignant, longing. Rachel felt the pang again – something both sweet and painful.
And now as he sang, Angus looked at her.
His eyes found her among all the faces, as though he had known all along exactly where she was.
She felt a delicious shiver that ran from her scalp all the way down her body, and she remembered with sudden, piercing clarity how the year before he had kissed her in the orangery at Alvie Castle, remembered the riot of feelings that had romped through her.
He had asked her to marry him then. But they had both been children, she hadn’t yet had her Season, and of course it wasn’t a proper proposal, not without going through their parents.
It had just been a bit of excitement, an urge of the moment . . .
Did Diana Huntley have a large fortune?
Lady Huntley was wearing a magnificent ruby collar, so they were probably rich.
The song ended, and there was real, sincere applause. Angus took Diana’s hand to raise her to her feet for them both to bow; and then he lifted the hand to his lips and kissed it flamboyantly, raising increased applause and approving laughter.
There was no more pleasure in the evening for Rachel.
Ashmore Castle had been built halfway up the valley side, not only for the view but for the fresher air.
But now even the expected breeze had failed, and August hung heavy and humid over everything, so that breathing seemed an effort, as if the air had turned to cloth.
Kitty wandered from room to room, standing at one open window after another, feeling the truth of the phrase, heavy with child .
She was all alone. Even the dogs had abandoned her – they were outside somewhere, lying in whatever shade was the deepest. Alice, who had been her most constant companion, had gone out riding – Kitty had insisted she must have a break.
‘You’re getting quite pale, shut in here with me all day.
’ And Giles, of course, was somewhere about the estate, probably supervising a harvest – wheat, wasn’t it, in August?
She was having to learn these things. The heaviness of the weather suggested a storm was brewing, so they would want to get the wheat in before it got wet.
Richard was in London, on business, and Uncle Sebastian had gone to Henley for a few days to meet friends. He had seemed low for months now, and she was glad that he was going to have some society, hoped it would cheer him up.
Hatto found her. ‘Beg pardon, my lady, but Nanny was wondering if you’d care to have his little lordship out in the garden for a bit. The sun’s off the gravel walk, and it would do him good to get some fresh air.’
Kitty almost smiled. It was a blatant ploy. Nanny would never voluntarily suggest her charge leaving her sight. It must be a kind thought on Hatto’s part that, her mistress having been left all alone, a walk with Louis would cheer her up.
It did. In the last few weeks his walking had improved so much he no longer resorted to all fours and, stronger every day, he was showing a marked propensity to climb.
The shadow of the house lay over one end of the walk that bordered the parterre, so it was a degree cooler, and she strolled slowly, thinking about how she would make a proper garden here when she was out of confinement.
Louis ran about eagerly on his sturdy little legs and climbed on low walls and benches.
He was talking much more, too, and his favourite phrase was ‘What dat?’ accompanied by a pointing forefinger.
She was quite well aware that he mostly asked just to hear her talk, but it pleased her to tell him the names of things, and to imagine some of them might stick.
But even in the shade it was stifling. There were roses, in shades of red and pink and coral, their scent heavy on the air, the hot colours jangling on her senses.
Their petals were falling fast in the heat, scattered over the walk underfoot.
Louis picked up one and presented it to her, with a beaming smile that displayed the kernels of his new teeth.
Then he picked up another, deep crimson, and pressed it onto his nose, where it stuck to his damp skin. It looked like blood.
After the baby had come, when she was out and about again, she would send for Sir Reginald Blomfield and begin her pleasure garden, and there would be roses, she decided, but only white ones, cool and refreshing to the eyes against the green of the background.
Perhaps she would have nothing but white flowers in the beds nearest the house – roses and lilies and phlox and white delphiniums, and those tall daisies for gaiety, and noble white iris like spears.
White paeonies with creamy hearts full of heartbreaking scent.
White foxgloves for the bees. Was there such a thing as white lavender?
Louis had reached the end of the walk and came running back.
He had stuck petals on his forehead and cheeks, and she had a sudden horrid image of him stumbling and falling and cutting his precious face.
‘Be careful! Don’t run!’ she called – but, of course, he ran, full of the new joy of mastering his body.
White flowers would gleam in the summer dusk, as though they were phosphorescent .
‘Louis!’ He stumbled, fell on hands and knees, but was up again instantly, beaming at her.
The crimson on his face was not blood. White roses – they must be white .
‘What dat?’ Louis said, pointing at the ground by her feet.
Red. A lot of it. She felt the disagreeable sensation of wetness under her skirts. Then a pain whipped through her, doubling her up.
‘Mama?’
She tried to straighten, gasping, and bent over again, then sank to her knees. Despair gripped her heart. No, no – please no!
‘Louis,’ she said. Oh, God, he was so young! If he were even a year older . . . She couldn’t get up. Grinding pain. ‘Run to the house.’ What to tell him? ‘The first person you see, say to them, “Help Mama.” Can you remember that? Say, “Help Mama”.’
He stared at her for an agonising moment, his mouth bowed down, tears threatening like a summer storm.
‘Don’t cry, Louis. Run to the house. Say “Help Mama.” Run!’
And then he ran.