“I don’t want Sir Hugh, either,” she said firmly. “I should infinitely prefer to choose my own husband.”
“But you don’t know any other suitable men,” Mairi said. “Had Father taken you to Glasgow, or to Edinburgh or Stirling, I warrant many men more suitable than Reid is would have paid court to you, for you are beautiful, wealthy, and—”
“Have mercy!” Jenny interjected, striving to keep her voice from carrying to anyone but Mairi and Fiona. “It is too late even to be thinking of such a course. Moreover, whilst I do not count my worth low, Mairi, my looks are not at all what fashion decrees. At least, so Phaeline has told me. And she, you know, takes good care always to know about such things.”
“That is true, Mairi,” Fiona said. “Mam does know what people like. You recall that she said only yesterday that she fears one reason you have not yet contracted a marriage is that men consider your fairness unfashionably insipid.”
Mairi smiled. “My coloring won’t matter a whit if your mam fails to produce a son, dearling. As for Jenny’s beauty, although she counts it low, others will not. Had your mam not decided to wed her to your uncle Reid before anyone else could clap eyes on her, Jenny would find many eligible young men eager to admire her.”
Desiring to change the subject, Jenny said, “Reid will return shortly, and I do not want him near my bedchamber, so I think I must go before he gets back.”
“Sakes, Jenny, you cannot leave your own betrothal feast!” Fiona protested.
“I am feeling very decisive tonight,” Jenny said. “So I think I will.”
“Then we should go, too,” Mairi said. Before Fiona could protest, she raised her voice a little and said to Lord Dunwythie, “Forgive me, sir, but Jenny would like to retire now. I think Fiona and I should go, too, if you will excuse us all.”
Jenny glanced toward the lower hall, half fearing to see Reid Douglas already lurching drunkenly toward her between the trestles. She did not see him, but when she looked at her uncle, she realized that he had been watching her.
“D’ye want to seek your chamber now, lassie?” he asked.
“Aye, sir, I do.”
He nodded and observed the lower hall for a long moment before turning back to meet her gaze again. “I’ll see that ye’re not disturbed then.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said with deep sincerity as she made her curtsy.
Hurrying from the hall with Mairi and Fiona, she cast one more wistful glance at the minstrels and wondered again what it would be like to be one.
Hugh was bored, so when the play ended, he lost no time in bidding his host goodnight. He did not want to spend the next hour exchanging polite phrases with other guests, most of whom were doubtless as eager to be away as he was if they lived near enough to go home, or to seek their chambers if they did not.
The hour was still early, and he was not yet ready for bed, especially as he was sharing his brother’s chamber. So he went outside for fresh air instead, taking care to avoid the forecourt, where other guests would be taking their departure.
The air was crisp, the moon high, and he could hear the surf in the distance, for Annan House sat atop a hill overlooking Solway Firth. By walking a short distance, he obtained a fine moonlit view of the water. The tide was surging in.
He stood there until he grew chilly. Then, reluctantly, he went to his brother’s room, found it still empty, and went to bed, expecting Reid to disturb him on his return. Instead, he slept deeply until a clamorous knocking at the door awoke him.
As he opened his eyes, his host entered and said abruptly, “Jenny’s gone. Your brother is still in a stupor in the lower hall where he passed out last night. Not that I would send him after her even if he were sober. The lad lacks discretion.”
Sitting up, Hugh said, “Where would she go?” “Heaven knows,” Dunwythie said. “No one saw her leave.”
“But why do you come to me?”
“I cannot go after her without creating the devil of a stir, and your brother would create a worse one. Nor can I send any of my men. You’ll have to go.”
“Sakes, sir, but this is no concern of mine,” Hugh said firmly.