It Happened in the Highlands
It Happened in the Highlands
May McGoldrick
Prologue
London, May 1802
"A child's birth should be a moment of joy, not misery." The words cut through the busy hum of chatter in the dress shop, reaching the young woman in the adjacent fitting room.
"This girl's origins are the most miserable, and the most abhorrent," a second woman trumpeted. "Our society has no place for those with such sordid beginnings, if you ask me."
The voices coming from beyond the curtained doorway cut Jo Pennington deeply, pricking open the wound that had been bleeding for her entire life. As she stared into the mirror, she had no doubt the two women knew she was within earshot. They had intentionally dispensed with any façade of courtesy. The volume and pitch of their conversation underscored their words.
"Indeed," the first woman agreed. "I have it on the best authority that the girl's mother was a baseborn courtesan!"
The seamstress pinning the lace to Jo's sleeve was pretending not to hear, but her flushed face spoke of her embarrassment.
"‘Courtesan' is too fine a term," the second woman replied. "I know what happened. I've tried to put the memory from me, but I was there. And I can tell you the girl's mother was from the lowest dregs of existence. I hesitate to use such disgusting expressions, but we must see the world for what it is, even though it shocks those of us with refined sensibilities. The woman was a slatternly doxy wallowing in a ditch. A stale and shiftless vagrant adding to the world's burden. To use the words of Dr. Johnson, she was ‘a decayed strumpet.'"
Jo squeezed her eyes shut. She knew only too well the identity of the second woman, though she struck a different pose in the presence of any member of the Pennington family. Lady Nithsdale had indeed been a guest at Baronsford's Summer Ball when the rain-soaked Countess Aytoun carried a hungry, mewling infant into the midst of society's elite, only hours after Jo's mother died giving birth in the mud beneath the cart of a kindly old woman.
But now Lady Nithsdale, loathsome and hypocritical, stood in the salon adjoining the dressmaker's fitting room, loudly proclaiming all she remembered and even more that she'd invented.
How quickly the clouds blotted out the sun!
Only an hour ago, Jo had been basking in the joys of lively Oxford Street, with its large, bright shops filled with hats and bonnets, slippers and shoes, ribbons and lace. Eyeing the latest fashions in the company of her adoptive mother and sisters, she'd been so happy. While her mind had been on her intended and on her upcoming wedding, eleven-year-old Phoebe and eight-year-old Millie had been cheerfully cajoling Lady Aytoun into the absolute necessity of having matching dresses made for them from the colorful array of fabrics hanging in graceful folds behind the fine, high windows.
And now this. Again. Ten days before the wedding.
Jo forced herself to focus on the image of her fiancé's handsome face. On his dark blond hair, his smile and his contagious laughter. On his broad chest and shoulders within his crisp naval officer's uniform. On his large, warm hands holding hers in the darkness of a carriage. But even that could not blot out the hurtful, penetrating sound of polished malice.
"And yet I hear she's to marry a baronet's son."
The second woman barked out a derisive laugh. "Your ears have not deceived you, my dear. She's to marry Wynne Melfort, a strapping navy lieutenant with more than a few eligible young ladies competing for his attention this Season."
"Melfort must be poor, I imagine. Second sons do need to make their way in the world, and the Penningtons are as rich as Croesus."
"I assure you money is the only motivation for this match," Lady Nithsdale asserted, the sneer in her voice clearly discernable. "The Earl of Aytoun has transformed a pauper child into an heiress worth twenty thousand pounds."
Waves of shame washed through her, leaving her cold and ill. The young seamstress continued as quickly as she could, pinning the lace to the silver-hued wedding dress. As Jo stared into the mirror, unshed tears welled up, clouding her vision, and the delicately embroidered shells and flowers blurred.
"I heard they managed to have her presented at court, and as Lady Josephine Pennington," the first woman continued. "I recall a day when money couldn't buy that."
Jo had been haunted by similar whispers since being presented in her first introduction to London society. Today's assault was only different in its openness and intensity.
Before this year, her parents had successfully deterred her from attending the salons and ballrooms of the Season. Knowing that her obscure parentage would surely be a topic for the gossipmongers of London, they'd never wanted to expose Jo to society's cruelty. Year after year, they'd persuaded her to stay at their estate in Hertfordshire or at Baronsford, the family home in the Scottish Borders. But at twenty-one years of age, with dreams of finding a husband, she'd won their anxious approval.
And then, immediately, she found Wynne. Or, he found her. Perhaps his initial attraction to her had been her dowry, but immediate sparks had flown between them. She knew they both felt it. Within a month Jo realized her weak-kneed reaction to the young naval officer was only partly due to his good looks and the intense blue eyes. Their minds were in harmony. Their trust complete. The ability to bare their souls, reveal the long-buried aches, and celebrate the victories joined their hearts as one. And then there was his protectiveness.
The memory of their walk in Kensington Gardens this past Saturday came back to her. They'd been watching the military bands when Jo became aware of the feminine whispers. The voices made no mention of names, but it was perfectly clear that the topic of the conversation could only be Jo Pennington.
Recognizing her discomfort, Wynne had grown angry. Hints and vague innuendo and subsequent denial notwithstanding, he'd been ready to call out one of the husbands. During the few weeks of their engagement, she'd become more aware of his growing frustration. He was willing to confront and challenge anyone in defense of her honor.
But she couldn't allow it. It was not in Jo's nature to let him make a scene. Idle talk, she'd told herself over and over. It would go away. The gossips would find a new target. She didn't need any additional notice. And she'd rather die than have anything happen to him.
"Of course, what else should one expect of the Penningtons?" Lady Nithsdale scoffed. "The earl and his wife are no strangers to scandal. That family is quite fortunate that anyone in polite society recognizes them at all. You've surely heard the shocking tales of their first marriages."
"Tell me."
As the vile woman proceeded to expound on the Penningtons' family history, Jo's lip quivered. The pain cutting through her was sharper than anything the previous comments had inflicted. The lifetime of love and kindness she'd received at the hands of her parents, the affection she felt for her four brothers and sisters, as well as the extended family, made her wish she had the strength to tear down those curtains and claw the faces of the two women on the other side.
Her chin sank to her chest. Why couldn't they just go away?
"I'm not feeling well, I'm afraid," Jo said to the seamstress. "Pray, help me out of this and into my dress again."
"But, mistress, the modiste wishes to see you in it."
"I'll come back in a day or two to finish the fitting," Jo told her, retrieving a coin from her reticule and putting it into the young woman's hand.
A few moments later, she slipped through the curtained doorway. Refusing to look in the direction of Lady Nithsdale and her confidante, Jo could not escape hearing the snickers of the two women as she fled.
"Why, there she goes."
"Lady Josephine."
She didn't slow down as she passed a clutch of seamstresses standing around a bolt of scarlet silk, and went out into the front room of the shop. Since childhood Jo had been taught that life was hard enough and that there was no place in it for such malevolence. But these women had grown up in a different school. Lady Nithsdale and her lot had no souls.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?"
Jo looked up at her mother waiting in the front of the shop with her two younger sisters. She'd promised to show them the dress once the lace was pinned to the sleeves.
"Where is the dress?" Lady Aytoun didn't wait for an answer. "Something has happened to upset you."
May McGoldrick
Prologue
London, May 1802
"A child's birth should be a moment of joy, not misery." The words cut through the busy hum of chatter in the dress shop, reaching the young woman in the adjacent fitting room.
"This girl's origins are the most miserable, and the most abhorrent," a second woman trumpeted. "Our society has no place for those with such sordid beginnings, if you ask me."
The voices coming from beyond the curtained doorway cut Jo Pennington deeply, pricking open the wound that had been bleeding for her entire life. As she stared into the mirror, she had no doubt the two women knew she was within earshot. They had intentionally dispensed with any façade of courtesy. The volume and pitch of their conversation underscored their words.
"Indeed," the first woman agreed. "I have it on the best authority that the girl's mother was a baseborn courtesan!"
The seamstress pinning the lace to Jo's sleeve was pretending not to hear, but her flushed face spoke of her embarrassment.
"‘Courtesan' is too fine a term," the second woman replied. "I know what happened. I've tried to put the memory from me, but I was there. And I can tell you the girl's mother was from the lowest dregs of existence. I hesitate to use such disgusting expressions, but we must see the world for what it is, even though it shocks those of us with refined sensibilities. The woman was a slatternly doxy wallowing in a ditch. A stale and shiftless vagrant adding to the world's burden. To use the words of Dr. Johnson, she was ‘a decayed strumpet.'"
Jo squeezed her eyes shut. She knew only too well the identity of the second woman, though she struck a different pose in the presence of any member of the Pennington family. Lady Nithsdale had indeed been a guest at Baronsford's Summer Ball when the rain-soaked Countess Aytoun carried a hungry, mewling infant into the midst of society's elite, only hours after Jo's mother died giving birth in the mud beneath the cart of a kindly old woman.
But now Lady Nithsdale, loathsome and hypocritical, stood in the salon adjoining the dressmaker's fitting room, loudly proclaiming all she remembered and even more that she'd invented.
How quickly the clouds blotted out the sun!
Only an hour ago, Jo had been basking in the joys of lively Oxford Street, with its large, bright shops filled with hats and bonnets, slippers and shoes, ribbons and lace. Eyeing the latest fashions in the company of her adoptive mother and sisters, she'd been so happy. While her mind had been on her intended and on her upcoming wedding, eleven-year-old Phoebe and eight-year-old Millie had been cheerfully cajoling Lady Aytoun into the absolute necessity of having matching dresses made for them from the colorful array of fabrics hanging in graceful folds behind the fine, high windows.
And now this. Again. Ten days before the wedding.
Jo forced herself to focus on the image of her fiancé's handsome face. On his dark blond hair, his smile and his contagious laughter. On his broad chest and shoulders within his crisp naval officer's uniform. On his large, warm hands holding hers in the darkness of a carriage. But even that could not blot out the hurtful, penetrating sound of polished malice.
"And yet I hear she's to marry a baronet's son."
The second woman barked out a derisive laugh. "Your ears have not deceived you, my dear. She's to marry Wynne Melfort, a strapping navy lieutenant with more than a few eligible young ladies competing for his attention this Season."
"Melfort must be poor, I imagine. Second sons do need to make their way in the world, and the Penningtons are as rich as Croesus."
"I assure you money is the only motivation for this match," Lady Nithsdale asserted, the sneer in her voice clearly discernable. "The Earl of Aytoun has transformed a pauper child into an heiress worth twenty thousand pounds."
Waves of shame washed through her, leaving her cold and ill. The young seamstress continued as quickly as she could, pinning the lace to the silver-hued wedding dress. As Jo stared into the mirror, unshed tears welled up, clouding her vision, and the delicately embroidered shells and flowers blurred.
"I heard they managed to have her presented at court, and as Lady Josephine Pennington," the first woman continued. "I recall a day when money couldn't buy that."
Jo had been haunted by similar whispers since being presented in her first introduction to London society. Today's assault was only different in its openness and intensity.
Before this year, her parents had successfully deterred her from attending the salons and ballrooms of the Season. Knowing that her obscure parentage would surely be a topic for the gossipmongers of London, they'd never wanted to expose Jo to society's cruelty. Year after year, they'd persuaded her to stay at their estate in Hertfordshire or at Baronsford, the family home in the Scottish Borders. But at twenty-one years of age, with dreams of finding a husband, she'd won their anxious approval.
And then, immediately, she found Wynne. Or, he found her. Perhaps his initial attraction to her had been her dowry, but immediate sparks had flown between them. She knew they both felt it. Within a month Jo realized her weak-kneed reaction to the young naval officer was only partly due to his good looks and the intense blue eyes. Their minds were in harmony. Their trust complete. The ability to bare their souls, reveal the long-buried aches, and celebrate the victories joined their hearts as one. And then there was his protectiveness.
The memory of their walk in Kensington Gardens this past Saturday came back to her. They'd been watching the military bands when Jo became aware of the feminine whispers. The voices made no mention of names, but it was perfectly clear that the topic of the conversation could only be Jo Pennington.
Recognizing her discomfort, Wynne had grown angry. Hints and vague innuendo and subsequent denial notwithstanding, he'd been ready to call out one of the husbands. During the few weeks of their engagement, she'd become more aware of his growing frustration. He was willing to confront and challenge anyone in defense of her honor.
But she couldn't allow it. It was not in Jo's nature to let him make a scene. Idle talk, she'd told herself over and over. It would go away. The gossips would find a new target. She didn't need any additional notice. And she'd rather die than have anything happen to him.
"Of course, what else should one expect of the Penningtons?" Lady Nithsdale scoffed. "The earl and his wife are no strangers to scandal. That family is quite fortunate that anyone in polite society recognizes them at all. You've surely heard the shocking tales of their first marriages."
"Tell me."
As the vile woman proceeded to expound on the Penningtons' family history, Jo's lip quivered. The pain cutting through her was sharper than anything the previous comments had inflicted. The lifetime of love and kindness she'd received at the hands of her parents, the affection she felt for her four brothers and sisters, as well as the extended family, made her wish she had the strength to tear down those curtains and claw the faces of the two women on the other side.
Her chin sank to her chest. Why couldn't they just go away?
"I'm not feeling well, I'm afraid," Jo said to the seamstress. "Pray, help me out of this and into my dress again."
"But, mistress, the modiste wishes to see you in it."
"I'll come back in a day or two to finish the fitting," Jo told her, retrieving a coin from her reticule and putting it into the young woman's hand.
A few moments later, she slipped through the curtained doorway. Refusing to look in the direction of Lady Nithsdale and her confidante, Jo could not escape hearing the snickers of the two women as she fled.
"Why, there she goes."
"Lady Josephine."
She didn't slow down as she passed a clutch of seamstresses standing around a bolt of scarlet silk, and went out into the front room of the shop. Since childhood Jo had been taught that life was hard enough and that there was no place in it for such malevolence. But these women had grown up in a different school. Lady Nithsdale and her lot had no souls.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?"
Jo looked up at her mother waiting in the front of the shop with her two younger sisters. She'd promised to show them the dress once the lace was pinned to the sleeves.
"Where is the dress?" Lady Aytoun didn't wait for an answer. "Something has happened to upset you."