Hastily Cousin Isobel put in: “Now, Fiona dear—”
She was interrupted by Janet Reid as a servant, refilling her champagne glass, misjudged the speed at which he poured and the frothy liquid overflowed, dripping onto the hem of her soft woolen pelisse. “Fool! Get away from me at once!”
Apologizing profusely, he stepped back, and another servant quickly came forward with a cloth to dab at the hem.
“It was but an accident,” said Alasdair Penhallow, pleasantly, and Janet smiled at him, saying with unshaken self-confidence:
“Oh, indeed, laird, but Mother says one has to be firm with the servants, or they’ll try to take advantage. Drinking up the spirits and thieving from the larder, you know.”
“On the other hand,” interpolated Fiona, in that same reflective manner, “one may, it’s said, catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Or is that only your philosophy with the opposite sex, dear Miss Reid?”
Janet narrowed her green eyes, but before she could reply her mother said proudly, “My Janet is as clever as can be, laird! Once she caught a maid with a roll in her apron pocket and dismissed her on the spot—with such an authoritative air for one so young!”
Janet’s father added, with a fond twinkle in his eye, “She’s a brave one too, laird! Not the least bit afraid of bugs. Always squashing them, as bold as you please!”
“And so lively!” Mrs. Reid went on. “She insisted on making her debut at fifteen, and argued her case so convincingly, how could we refuse her?”
“Never saw such a girl who could hold her breath for so long without passing out,” said Mr. Reid, smiling at Janet.
“Oh, Papa, do stop boasting! It’s dreadfully embarrassing, and I simply loathe putting myself forward. The last thing I want is to make the other young ladies feel inadequate.”
“No use hiding your light under a bushel, puss.”
“It’s very true,” Isobel said judiciously, “but speaking of bugs, it seems only right to mention that they are all too often found living in bushels. Or would it be more accurate to say bushel baskets?”
“Well, if we’re to talk of bugs,” said Wynda Ramsay, “it’s outré to squash them, in my opinion.”
Fiona took another wedge of shortbread, and bit into it. She considered pointing out that certain types of spiders, for example, were actually very useful and ought not to be harmed, but why inject a note of dull common sense into this diverting conversation?
“And yet, Miss Ramsay,” Janet said sweetly, “what would you do if someone dropped a bug down the front of your gown?”
Wynda looked amazed. “A lady would never permit such a thing. Mon doo! It would be very poor form.”
“Then let us hope it never happens to you.”
“Now, Janet, I know your playful nature,” said her mother, laughing. “It’s so delightful! But surely you wouldn’t . . .”
“Oh, Mama, of course not,” replied Janet at once, demurely. Too demurely, and Wynda said, losing a little of her stateliness:
“At Miss Eglinstone’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, one of my acquaintances attempted to apple-pie my bed, and was very sorry afterwards.”
“And while we’re on the subject of apples, I once bit into one and found a worm,” Isobel said, with the air of one determined to steer the conversation into less controversial channels.
“Half a worm?” immediately inquired Duff MacDermott.
She glared at him. “An intact worm.”
“Lucky for the worm.” He laughed.
Then, rather to Fiona’s regret, Mairi said in a small, piteous voice:
“Laird, I’m getting cold. Please may we go?”
“You’re cold?” Janet swung around. “But it’s so delightfully warm up here in the sun, Miss MacIntyre!”
“Yes, but I’m delicate, you see, and very sensitive to the weather.”
“What an affliction you must find it,” Janet said, looking at Mairi as if she were a clump of thistledown about to blow away in the wind and scatter into a thousand little pieces of fluff. “I never feel the cold,” she added casually, but rather spoiled the effect by turning her glance meaningfully on Alasdair Penhallow.
She might as well have declared, thought Fiona, something like: Only a robust young lady will do for the wife of the great Penhallow!
Alasdair stood up. “Of course, Miss MacIntyre, we’ll leave at once,” he said courteously, and extended his big hand to her to help her up, her small white one seeming to disappear within it.
Lithe as a spring doe, Janet Reid jumped to her feet, shaking out her skirts, and said dulcetly, “Laird, do send a servant to assist Miss Douglass to stand. She’s not as young as she used to be, I fear.”